scene I describe; many a cold blast of the world's breath has blown on

my heart and chilled, one by one, the spring flowers of hope that grew there; but the blossoms of love thy image nurtured, were gathered into a garland to hang on thy tomb, and the tears of memory have preserved its freshness. Cousin Caroline!--she was the loveliest creature on whom beauty ever set its seal. Reader, my feeling towards her was not what is called love; at least, not what I have since felt for another. My judgment of her excellence was not biassed by passion. She was most beautiful. I cannot describe her.

"Who has not proved how feebly words essay, To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray."

It were vain to talk of her "hyacinthine curls," her "ruby lips," her "pearly teeth," her "gazelle eye." These, and all the etceteras of description, define not beauty. It belongs to the pencil and not to the pen, to give us a faint idea of its living richness. But had your eyes glanced round a crowded room, crowded with beauty too, they would have rested in amazement there; amazement, that one so lovely should be on earth, and breathe among the creatures of common clay. Alas! it could not be so long. No, I did not love her in manhood's sense of love; for, at the time I speak of, I was but fourteen, and Caroline was in her eighteenth year; but I loved her as all created things that could love, loved her; from the highest to the lowest, she was the darling of the household. The servants, indoor and outdoor, young and old, and the crossest of the old, loved her. None so crabbed her smile would not soften; none so stern her mildness would not subdue. Oh, what a creature she was. I never saw Caroline angry, though I have seen her repel, with dignity, intrusion or impertinence. I never saw her cross. But this theme will lead me too far; and, perhaps the reader thinks I might sum up my estimate of her qualities in one word--perfection. Not so; but as near to it as the Creator ever suffered his creature to attain. Well, we were sitting round the fire in the manner I have described. Caroline was amusing me with a description of the pleasures of the town, for she had just returned from a visit to a relation residing in the city of ----, when the sound was heard of a carriage coming up the avenue. What a bustle! Father bounced up, dropping the paper and his spectacles; Mother stopped wondering about Patsy Woods, to wonder still more who this could be. Pussy remained quiet, but Carlo prevailed upon himself to stretch and yawn, and totter to the door, to satisfy his curiosity. Sister looked up. Caroline looked down; and then sister looked at her very archly, though I could not tell why, and said, "go brother Harry, ask the gentleman in."

"Why do you know who it is, my dear, that is coming to see us at this late hour?" said my father. It was but eight o'clock; but remember we were in the country. I went out of the room, and did not hear the answer. I was met at the hall door by a gentleman, whom I ushered in. My father accosted him, and was very proud and very happy to see Col. H----d. He was then introduced to the members of the family; "and this lady I think you are already acquainted with," continued my father, as he presented cousin Caroline, who had hung back. The Colonel smiled,--Caroline blushed, but she smiled too. What is all this about, thought I. "Come, sir, be seated," quoth my father. The Colonel bowed, thanked him, and placed himself forthwith in my chair, right beside Caroline. Now it is true Caroline had two sides, and her left side was as dear to me as her right; but then that side was next to the wall, and she sat so near to it that there was no edging a chair in without incommoding her. So I was fain to look out for other quarters, and found them next to my mother, whence I looked the colonel right in the face. He was not a handsome man, but a very noble looking one. He was rather above the common height, somewhat thin, but his carriage very erect. His complexion was dark, but ruddy dark, the hue of health and manliness; his forehead broad; so much so as to make the lower part of his visage appear contracted, and rather long. The expression of his features when at rest, was stern, and even haughty; perhaps from the habit of command, for his _had_ been a soldier's life, and his title was won on the battle field; but when in conversation, there was an air of great good nature over his whole countenance, and his smile was very winning. Cousin Caroline thought it so.

"The road to your farm is rather intricate, my good sir," said the colonel, as he took his seat, "and though I had a pretty good chart of the country, (here he looked at Caroline and smiled one of those winning smiles, but Caroline did not, or would not see him,) I was so stupid as to miss the way, for when I reached the cross roads, instead of taking the right I directed the servant to the left, and moved on some time in the wrong direction without meeting a human being of whom to make inquiry. At length I had the good fortune to encounter a gentleman on horseback, who corrected my error, adding the satisfactory assurance, that I had gone at least four miles in the opposite direction to that which I desired to go; so that, though I set out betimes, it was thus late before I reached here."

"Well, I wonder!" cried my mother.

"Then colonel you must be sadly in want of refreshment," said my father. "My dear"--

"Not at all so, my dear sir. I beg you will give yourselves no trouble on my account. I assure you"--

"Sit still, colonel, I beg of you," interrupted my father, as the former rose to urge his remonstrance.--"Sit still, sir; trouble indeed; we'll have supper directly, and I don't care if I nibble a little myself."

So the colonel gave up the contest, but when he reseated himself, he perceived Caroline was gone; she had slipped out of the room with my mother. The colonel had a very nice supper that night, and he did it justice. Who prepared it, think you? my mother? No, for she returned to the room in two minutes after she left it. I knew who prepared it, and so did the colonel, or he made a shrewd guess; for, when Caroline returned, he gave her a look that spoke volumes of thankfulness, and of such exquisite fondness that it made the blood mount to her very forehead.

A week passed away, and colonel H----d remained a constant guest at my father's; and though I could not but like and admire him, his conduct was a source of great annoyance to me, for no sooner did Caroline make her appearance in the breakfast room in the morning {48} than he posted himself next to her; and then they took such long walks together, and would spend so many hours in riding about the country, and they never asked me to accompany them, so that Caroline had as well have been in town again, for the opportunity I had of conversing with her. The result of all this is, of course, plain to the reader; and it was soon formally announced that on the third day of the succeeding month Caroline was to become the bride of the wealthy and gallant Colonel H----d, and accompany him forthwith to his distant home, for his residence was in the state of Georgia. I wept bitter tears, and sobbed as if my heart would break as I laid all lonely in my bed that night on which this latter piece of intelligence had been communicated by my father, until sleep, the comforter of the wretched, extended to me the bliss of oblivion. "Blessings on the man who invented sleep," says friend Sancho--blessings, aye blessings indeed, on all bountiful nature who, while she gives rest to the wearied body bestows consolation on the grieving heart, lulls into gentle calm the storm of the passions, plucks from power its ability and even its wish to oppress, and hushes in poverty the sense of its weakness and its degradation. My fate has not been more adverse than that of the generality of men, but "take it all in all," the happiest portion of my existence has been spent in sleep. Why did I weep? The being whom I loved best on earth was about to be wedded to the worthy object of her choice,--a choice that affection sanctioned and reason might well approve; and even to my young observation it was apparent that while she gave, she was enjoying happiness. There was pleasure in the beaming of her sparkling eyes, there was joy in the dimples of her rosy smile. The very earth on which she trod seemed springing to her step, and the air she breathed to be pure and balmy. Could she be happy and I feel miserable? and that misery growing too, out of the very source of her happiness. Yes; even so unmixed, so absorbing was my selfishness. _My_ selfishness! the selfishness of humanity; for even as the rest of my fellow men so was, and so am I. I thought of the many hours of delight I had enjoyed in her presence, of the thousand daily kindnesses I had experienced at her hand. She alone was wont to partake of my youthful joys, to sympathize with my boyish griefs; it was her praise that urged me to exertion, the fear of her censure that restrained me from mischief. And all this was to pass away, and to pass with her presence too. Never more was my heart to drink in the sweet light of her eyes; never more would her soft voice breathe its music in my ear. I felt that I dwelt no longer in her thoughts; I believed my very image would soon perish from her memory. Such were the bitter thoughts that weighed down my mind.

I go on spinning out this portion of my tale, no doubt very tediously, and my readers will perhaps despair of my ever arriving at the end; but patience, I shall get there by and by. "Bear with me yet a little while." It is that I shrink from what I have undertaken to narrate, that I wander into digression; for whatever effect it may have on others, whose only interest in it will arise from momentary excitement, on me the fearful casualty I shall describe, has imposed "the grief of years." Many a pang has my heart experienced in my pilgrimage through this weary world, and some grievous enough to sustain; time and occupation, however, have afforded their accustomed remedy, and scars only are left to mark where the wounds have been. But this, though inflicted in boyhood's springy days, is festering now; aye now, when the very autumn of manhood is passed, and the winter of age is congealing the sources of feeling and of life.

The wedding day was drawing nigh. One little week remained of the appointed time; and a joyous man, no doubt, was colonel H----d, as hour after hour winged its flight, and each diminished the space that lay betwixt him and his assured felicity. Poor weak creatures that we are, whose brief history is but a record of hope and disappointment, ever deceived by the mirage of happiness that glitters afar in the desert of life, and recedes from before us as we pursue, till outworn, we sink into death with our thirst unslaked, our desires ungratified. One little week remained. What matters the brevity of time when a moment is fraught with power to destroy. Behold the gallant ship with tightened cordage and outspread sails, dashing from her prow the glittering spray as she dances on the leaping wave to the music of the breeze; cheerful faces crowd her deck, for she is homeward bound from a distant land; and now her port is almost reached, a hidden rock has pierced her side, the eternal sea rolls over the sunken wreck. The warrior has charged and broken the foe; the shout of victory rings in his ears, and fancy twines the laurel round his brow; but treachery lurks in his armed array, and the clarion of conquest sounds the note of defeat. The mighty city with its thousand domes, its marble palaces, and its crowded marts, over which ages have urged their onward flight, and still it grew in wealth and strength, has felt the earthquake's shock. Black mouldering ruins and a sullen sulphurous lake are left to mark the spot where once its "splendors shone." And the heart, the human heart, with its high aspirations, and its treacherous whisperings of unmixed joys, its blindness of trust in coming events, its strange forgetfulness of the hours gone by, its sunny morning of boundless hope, its stormy night of dark despair.

My father's house was situated on an elevated spot, commanding an extensive view of the broad Potomac; from its front to the bank of the river, a distance of some hundred yards, the ground descended in a gentle slope terminating in a sheer precipice, and down, down "a fearful depth below," rolled on the rapid waters. The bank was composed of vast masses of rock, between the crevices of which pushed forth gnarled and jagged trees of various kinds, shooting their moss-covered branches in every direction, and hugged in strict and stifling embrace by huge vines, that looked like the monster boas, of a preadamate world. The summit was lined with a dense growth of underwood, that hid from the passer by the awful chasm upon whose very margin he might be unconciously standing. As the main road (which ran parallel to the course of the river) laid upwards of a mile from the rear of the dwelling house, and was, besides being generally in very bad order, very uninteresting in its character, we were in the habit of using for the purpose of visiting some of our neighbors, a path that ran along and was dangerously near to the verge of the precipice, but which had been travelled so long and so often without accident, that we {49} had ceased to think of even the possibility of any occurring. It was a bright sunshiny morning, the blue sky studded with those massy rolling clouds whose purple shades give such strong relief to the fleecy white, and cheat the fancy into portraying a thousand resemblances; ancient castles with frowning battlements, mighty ships resting beneath their crowded canvass, bright fairy isles, where a poet's soul would delight to wander, dark yawning caverns, in whose undreamt of depths the pent up spirits of the damned might be "imagined howling." Pardon, pardon! but sea and sky have always set me raving. It was at the breakfast table that I informed my father I would ride over to aunt Diana's and see if they were all well.--"The weather is so fine, and I have not seen our good aunt for some time. I will ride with you; that is, if you'll let me, cousin Harry," said Caroline, as if it were not a delight to me to have her company. The colonel, too, proposed to join us, and we went to get ourselves in readiness. We were soon on the road, and away we cantered, full of health and youth and spirits. The breeze came fresh and soft from the surface of the waters, and played among Caroline's curls and revelled on her cheek, as if to gather the odors of the rose, where its beauteous hue was so richly spread. We paid our visit, partook of aunt Diana's good things, and set off on our return, amid her protestations against our hurry. Caroline was riding on a nice little mare that had been bred on the farm, and had always been the pet of the family; as gentle and as playful as a lamb, but at the same time full of spirit. We had arrived at a part of the road where the precipice (now on our right hand) was highest. I was in front, Caroline next to and behind me; a hare crossed my path: "take care my boy," cried Colonel H----d, "that, you know, is said to be a bad omen." Scarcely had he spoken when my horse started, and wheeled short round; the mare partook of his fright, swerved half to the left, and reared bolt upright. "Slack your rein and seize the mane, Caroline," I screamed in agony. It was too late; the mare struggled, and fell backwards. Oh, God! A shriek, a rushing sound

* * * * *

I entered the chamber where innocence and beauty had been wont to repose; around me were the trappings of the grave; the cold white curtains with their black crape knots, the shrouded mirror, the scattered herbs--and stretched upon the bed motionless, lay a form--the form of her whose living excellence was unsurpassed. My father came in; he took my hand, led me to the bed, and gently removed the sheet from the marble face. Oh, death, thou art indeed a conqueror!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET,

WRITTEN ON THE BLUE RIDGE IN VIRGINIA.

Gigantic sov'reign of this mountain-chain, Proud Otter Peak! as gazing on thee now I mark the sun its parting splendor throw Athwart thy summit hoar--I sigh with pain To think thus soon I needs must turn again And seek man's bustling haunts! What if my brow No longer wear the signs of sorrow's plough, Doth not my heart its traces still retain, And I still hate the crowd?--Yes! it is so, And scenes alone such as surround me here-- These deep'ning shades--thy torrents loud and clear-- Yon half-hid cot--the cattle's plaintive low-- The raven's cry, and the soft whispering breeze, Have now the pow'r this aching breast to please.

* * *

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STANZAS,

WRITTEN AT THE WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA.

With spirits like the slacken'd strings Of some neglected instrument-- Or rather like the wearied wings Of a lone bird by travel spent; Ah! how should I expect to find Midst scenes of constant revelry, A solace for a troubled mind, A cure for my despondency?--

There was a time when mirth's glad tone And pleasure's smile had charms for me-- But disappointment had not strown My pathway then with misery: Health then was mine--and friends sincere-- Requited love--and prospects bright-- Nor dreamt I that a day so clear Could ever set in such a night!

* * *

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ---- OF THE U. S. NAVY.

Tell me--for thou hast stood on classic ground, If there the waters flow more bright and clear, And if the trees with thicker foliage crowned, Are lovelier far than those which blossom here?

Say is it true, in green unfading bowers, That there the wild bird sings her sweetest lay? And that a light, more beautiful than ours, Lends richer glories to expiring day?

Wooed by Italian airs, does woman's cheek With purer color glow, than in our land? Or does her eye more eloquently speak, Or with a softer grace her form expand?

Does music there, with power to us unknown, Breathe o'er the heart a far diviner spell? And with a sweeter, more entrancing tone, The thrilling strains of love and glory swell?

Tell me if thou in thought didst dearer prize Thy home, than all that Italy could give? Didst thou regret that her resplendent skies Should smile on men as slaves content to live?

Didst thou, when straying in her cities fair, Or in her groves of bloom, regret that here No perfumes mingle with the passing air? And was thine own, thy native land, less dear?

Or didst thou turn where proudly in the breeze America's star-spangled flag was flying? The flag that o'er thee waved on the high seas; With conscious heart exultingly replying,

"No slothful land of dreaming ease is ours, Her soil is only trodden by the free-- Less rich in music, poetry, and flowers, Still, still she is the land of all for me!"

E. A. S.

_Lombardy, Va._

{50}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MUSINGS II--_By the Author of Vyvyan_.

The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets Ebbing and flowing.--------_Rogers_.

I loved her from my boyhood--she to me Was as a fairy city of the heart, Rising like water columns from the sea. _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. Stanza xviii.

There is, far in a foreign clime, Alas! no longer free-- A city famed in olden time As queen of all the sea; Still fair but fallen from her prime-- For such is destiny.

There motley masque and princely ball Make gay the merry carnival, And all the night some serenade Steals sweetly from the calm Lagune, While many a dark eyed loving maid Is wooed in secret neath the moon.

And swiftly o'er the noiseless tide Gondolas dark, like spectres, glide Neath archways deep and bridges fair, Temples and marble palaces, Adorned with jutting balconies, And dim arcades of beauty rare.

There's naught that meets the wondering eye, From the wave that kisses the landing stair To the sculptured range in the azure sky,[1] But wears a wild unearthly air, And every voice that echoes among Those phantomlike halls, breathes the spell of song.

The rudest Barcarolli's cry, Heard faint and far o'er Adria's waves, Might cheat the listener of a sigh-- So sad the farewell which it leaves, When sinking on the ear it dies Along the borders of the skies.

Oh! Venice! Venice! couldst thou be Still wond'rous fair and even as free! How peerless were thy regal halls!-- How glorious were thy seagirt walls!-- But foreign banners flaunt thy tide, And chains have tamed thy lion's pride.

Thy flag is furled upon the sea, Thy sceptre shivered on the land, And many a spirit mourns for thee Beyond the Lido's barren strand: Better thy towers were sunk below The level of Old Ocean's flow.

Fair city of the fairest clime, Sad change hath come o'er thee-- The spirit voice of olden time Is wailing o'er thy sea; And matin bell and vesper chime Seem knelling for the free Who reared thy standard o'er the wave And spurned the chains that now enslave.

[Footnote 1: The tops of many of the buildings are ornamented with a range of statues.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE GENIUS OF COLUMBIA TO HER NATIVE MUSE.

A parent's eye, sweet mountain maid, Hath seen thee rise in Sylvan shade; And patient, lent attentive ear Thy first, wild minstrelsy to hear: And thou hast breathed some artless lays, That well deserve the meed of praise; For, nursed by spirits bold and free, Thy notes should breathe of Liberty. Yet some who scan thy numbers wild, Inquire if thou art Fancy's child, Or some impostor, duly taught To weave with skill the borrow'd thought. Then list, my child! Experience sage May well direct thy guileless age.

Breathe not thy notes with spirit tame, Nor pilfer, from an honor'd name, The praise that crowns the sons of fame. Be not by imitation taught, To blend with thine, the vagrant thought, From Britain's polish'd minstrels caught. Full oft my mountain echoes tell, How Byron's genius fram'd a spell, Which reason vainly seeks to quell: Did not his spirit cast a gloom On all who shared his adverse doom, E'en from the cradle to the tomb? With intellectual treasures bless'd, With misanthropic thoughts possess'd, Their sway alternate fired his breast. He pour'd the lava stream alone, In torrents from that burning zone, Which girt his bosom's fiery throne. Enough! on his untimely bier Affection shed no hallow'd tear-- He claim'd no love--he own'd no fear.

And she,[1] whose light poetic tread Scarce sways the dewdrop newly shed Upon the rose-bud's infant head; Most meet to be the tender nurse Of virtue, wounded by the curse Of passion's fierce and lawless verse, Whose dulcet strain, with soothing pow'r, Can calm the soul in sorrow's hour, And scatter many a thornless flow'r: The thoughts that breathe in each soft line, Seem spirits from a purer shrine Than earth can in her realms confine. Yet mayst thou not, in mimic lay, Such lofty arts of verse essay? 'Twere but a vain and weak display. Be Freedom's bold, unfetter'd child, And roam thy native forests wild, Where, on thy birth, all nature smil'd; Dwell on the mountain's sylvan crest, Where fair Hygeia roams confest, Bright Fancy's ever honor'd guest: Mark the proud streams that onward sweep, And to old Ocean's bosom leap-- Majestic offspring of the deep. Their inspiration shall be thine, And nature, from that mighty shrine, {51} Shall prompt thee with a voice divine! When thy free spirit is reveal'd, The spells within its depths conceal'd Will soon a golden tribute yield. In numbers free, by nature taught, Breathe forth the wild poetic thought, And let thy strains be Fancy fraught.

Enough! my child! a parent's voice Would fain direct thy youthful choice To themes, majestic and sublime, The fruits of Freedom's favor'd clime. Enough! For thee has nature thrown O'er the wild stream a curb of stone, Whose pendant arch in verdure dress'd, Binds the tall mountain's cloven crest.[2] For thee the volum'd waters sweep Through riven mountains to the deep.[3] For thee the mighty cataract pours In thunder, through opposing shores; And rushing with delirious leap, Bursts the full fountains of the deep; A billowy phlegethon--whose waves Rend the strong walls of Ocean's caves.

C.

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Hemans.]

[Footnote 2: The Natural Bridge.]

[Footnote 3: Harper's Ferry.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DEATH AMONG THE TREES.

Death walketh in the forest. The tall Pines Do woo the lightning-flash,--and thro' their veins The fire-cup darting, leaves their blacken'd trunks A tablet, where Ambition's sons may read Their destiny. The Oak that centuries spar'd, Grows grey at last, and like some time-scath'd man Stretching out palsied arms, doth feebly cope With the destroyer, while its gnarled roots Betray their trust. The towering Elm turns pale, And faintly strews the sere and yellow leaf, While from its dead arms falls the wedded vine. The Sycamore uplifts a beacon-brow, Denuded of its honors,--while the blast That sways the wither'd Willow, rudely asks For its lost grace, and for its tissued leaf Of silvery hue.

I knew that blight might check The sapling, ere kind nature's hand could weave Its first spring-coronal, and that the worm Coiling itself amid our garden-plants Did make their unborn buds its sepulchre. And well I knew, how wild and wrecking winds May take the forest-monarchs by the crown, And lay them with the lowliest vassal-herb; And that the axe, with its sharp ministry, Might in one hour, such revolution work, That all earth's boasted power could never hope To reinstate. And I had seen the flame Go crackling up, amid yon verdant boughs, And with a tyrant's insolence dissolve Their interlacing,--and I felt that man For sordid gain, would make the forest's pomp Its heaven-rear'd arch, and living tracery A funeral pyre. But yet I did not deem That pale disease amid those shades would steal As to a sickly maiden's cheek, and waste The plenitude of those majestic ranks, Which in their peerage and nobility, Unrivall'd and unchronicled, had reign'd. And then I said, if in this world of knells, And open graves, there lingereth one, whose dream Is of aught permanent below the skies, Even let him come, and muse among the trees, For they shall be his teachers,--they shall bow To their meek lessons his forgetful ear, And by the whispering of their faded leaves, Soften to his sad heart, the thought of death.

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Con. Sept. 10, 1834_.

ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.

AMIR KHAN, AND OTHER POEMS: the remains of Lucretia Maria Davidson, who died at Plattsburg, N. Y. August 27, 1825, aged 16 years and 11 months. With a Biographical Sketch, by Samuel F. B. Morse, A. M. _New York: G. & C. & H. Carvill_--1829.

We believe that this little volume, although published several years since, has but recently found its way to this side of the Potomac. Our attention has been attracted towards it by some notice of its contents in the Richmond Enquirer, whose principal editor we will do him the justice to say, has always manifested a lively interest in the productions of American genius. Mr. Ritchie is entitled to the more praise for his efforts in behalf of domestic literature, not only on account of his active and absorbing labors as a political writer, but because, also, we are sorry to add, the subject is one in which southern taste and intelligence have, for the most part, evinced but little concern. It is but too common for our leading men, professional as well as others, to affect something like a sneer at every native attempt in the walks of polite literature. Their example, we fear, has imparted a tone to the reading circles generally, and has served to beget that inordinate appetite for every thing _foreign_ which has either obtained a fashionable currency abroad--or occasioned some _excitement_ in that busy, noisy, gossipping class of society, whose merit is so vastly disproportioned to its influence. We have often known the sentimental trash and profane ribaldry of some popular Englishman eagerly sought after, and as eagerly devoured, whilst the pure and genuine productions of native genius have remained neglected on the bookseller's shelf, and quietly surrendered to oblivion. That this does, in some measure, proceed from an unenlightened and uncultivated public taste, we do not doubt; but it is much more the fruit of a slavish and inglorious dependence upon accidental circumstances,--a spiritless, and we might add, a cowardly apprehension of appearing _singular_--that is, of not chiming in with the shallow, vain and heartless tittle-tattle of the self-styled _beau monde_ and _corps elite_ of society. It is not the fault of the bookseller. The undertaker, who prepares the coffin and shroud, has as little participation in the death of the person for whom they are intended. The bookseller is but the caterer of the public palate; and if that palate is diseased, he is no more answerable for it, than the milliners and mantuamakers who are busily occupied in deforming the fairest part of creation, are censurable for the false taste of their customers.

We did not intend by the foregoing observations, to bespeak any extraordinary share of public favor {52} towards the poems of Miss Davidson. What we have said in relation to the neglect of American talent, was designed to have a general and not particular application. Notwithstanding we hear that the poems before us have been extravagantly praised beyond the Atlantic, we are not so intoxicated by a little foreign flattery as to believe that they are destined to immortality. Some may console themselves, if they please, for the whole ocean of obloquy and contempt cast upon us from the British press, by regarding with favorable eyes this little rivulet of praise bestowed upon the juvenile efforts of a lovely and interesting girl. We are not of that number; we shall endeavor to decide upon the work before us, unbiassed by trans-atlantic opinion--and we shall render precisely that judgment which we would have done if that opinion had been pronounced in the usual tone of British arrogance and contumely.

Regarding the volume before us as a literary production merely, and supposing it to have been the offspring of a matured mind, we do not think that it possesses any considerable merit. Estimating its contents, however, as the first lispings of a child of genius,--as furnishing proofs of the existence of that ethereal spark which, under favorable circumstances, might have been kindled into a brilliant flame, we do consider it as altogether extraordinary. We do not say that these poems are equal to the early productions of Chatterton, Henry Kirke White, or Dermody, those prodigies of precocious talent,--but we entertain not a shadow of doubt if Miss Davidson had lived, that she would have ranked among the highest of her own sex in poetical excellence. In forming a correct judgment upon the offspring of her muse, her youth is not alone to be considered. She had also to contend with those remorseless enemies of mental effort,--poverty, sorrow, and ill health; and it is, perhaps, a circumstance in her history not unworthy of notice, that possessing a high degree of personal beauty, and being on that account the object of much admiration and attention, she did not suffer herself to be withdrawn from the purer sources of intellectual enjoyment. Love indeed, seems to have found no permanent lodgment in her heart. It might have stolen to the threshold and infused some of its gentle influences, but she seems to have been resolved to cast off the silken cord before it was too firmly bound around her. Thus in the piece which bears the title of _Cupid's Bower_, written in her fifteenth year.

"Am I in fairy land?--or tell me, pray, To what love-lighted bower I've found my way? Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild.

And is this Cupid's realm?--if so, good by! Cupid, and Cupid's votaries, I fly; No offering to his altar do I bring, No bleeding heart--or hymeneal ring."

The longest, most elaborate, and perhaps best of her poems, is that which gives the principal title to the volume. _Amir Khan_ is a simple oriental tale, written in her sixteenth year, and is worked up with surprising power of imagery for one so young. The most fastidious and critical reader could not fail to be struck with its resemblance to the gorgeous magnificence of Lalla Rookh; a resemblance, to be sure, which no more implies equality of merit than does the brilliancy of the mock diamond establish its value with that of the real gem. We give the opening passage from the poem as a fair specimen of the rest, and from which the reader may form a correct opinion of the style and composition.

"Brightly o'er spire, and dome, and tower, The pale moon shone at midnight hour, While all beneath her smile of light Was resting there in calm delight; Evening with robe of stars appears, Bright as repentant Peri's tears, And o'er her turban's fleecy fold Night's crescent streamed its rays of gold, While every chrystal cloud of heaven, Bowed as it passed the queen of even. Beneath--calm Cashmere's lovely vale Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale; The amaranth and tuberose, Convolvulus in deep repose, Bent to each breeze which swept their bed, Or scarcely kissed the dew and fled; The bulbul, with his lay of love; Sang mid the stillness of the grove; The gulnare blushed a deeper hue, And trembling shed a shower of dew, Which perfumed e'er it kiss'd the ground, Each zephyr's pinion hovering round. The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow Glitter'd beneath the moon's pale glow; And wide the plantain's arms were spread, The guardian of its native bed."

We venture to assert that if Thomas Moore had written Amir Khan at the age of sixteen, there are thousands by whom it would be read and admired who would hardly condescend to open Miss Davidson's volume; and that too, without being able to assign any other or better reason than that Moore is a distinguished and popular British bard, whereas the other was an obscure country girl, who lived and died in the state of New York.

The lines to the memory of Henry Kirk White, which were composed at thirteen, are much superior to many elegiac stanzas written by poets of some reputation at twenty-five or thirty. Of all her minor pieces however, those which were written at fifteen seem to us to possess the greatest merit, if we except the _Coquette_, a very spirited production in imitation of the Scottish dialect, composed in her fourteenth year. The following are the two first stanzas:

"I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest, My Ellen's lost for aye; My heart is sair and much distressed, I surely soon must die.

I canna think o' wark at a', My eyes still wander far, _I see her neck like driven snaw, I see her flaxen hair._"

The image of the snowy neck and flaxen hair of the beautiful but unkind fair one, presented so strongly to the rejected lover, as to prevent his performing his daily work, strikes us as highly poetical and true to nature, as we doubt not all genuine lovers will testify. Burns wrote many, very many verses, which were much superior, but Burns wrote some also, which were not so good. _Ruth's answer to Naomi_, must be allowed, we think, to be a good paraphrase of that most affecting passage of scripture. We must give the whole to the reader.

"Entreat me not, I must not hear, Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear; Thy answer's written deeply now On this warm cheek and clouded brow; {53} 'Tis gleaming o'er this eye of sadness Which only near _thee_ sparkles gladness.

The hearts _most_ dear to us are gone, And _thou_ and _I_ are left alone; Where'er thou wanderest, I will go, I'll follow thee through joy or wo; Shouldst thou to other countries fly, Where'er thou lodgest, there will I.

Thy people shall my people be, And to thy God, I'll bend the knee; Whither thou fliest, will I fly, And where thou diest, I will die; And the same sod which pillows thee Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me."[1]

[Footnote 1: We subjoin the passage of scripture paraphrased by Miss Davidson, and also another paraphrase which has been ascribed to the Hon. R. H. Wilde of Georgia. Our readers can compare and decide between them.

"And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go: and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried."

Nay, do not ask!--entreat not--no! O no! I will not leave thy side, Whither thou goest--I will go-- Where thou abidest--I'll abide.

Through life--in death--my soul to thine Shall cleave as fond, as first it clave-- Thy home--thy people--shall be mine-- Thy God my God--thy grave my grave.]

We present an extract from a piece called "_Woman's Love_," as a specimen of Miss Davidson's management of blank verse, a form of poetic diction which Montgomery thinks the most unmanageable of any. The fair authoress might not herself have experienced that holy passion, but she certainly knew how deep and imperishable it is when once planted in the female bosom.

"Love is A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart, When felt, as only woman love _can_ feel! _Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower_ _Sinks on spring-flowers; deep, as a cave-locked fountain;_ _And changeless as the cypress' green leaves;_ _And like them, sad!_--She nourished Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed A passion unconfessed, till he she loved Was wedded to another. Then she grew Moody and melancholy; one alone Had power to soothe her in her wanderings, Her gentle sister;--but that sister died, And the unhappy girl was left alone, A _maniac_. She would wander far, and shunned Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt Was that dead sister's grave: and that to her Was as a home."

We have italicised such of the lines as we think breathe the air and spirit of genuine poetry. The snow flake has often been used as the emblem of purity; but the snow flake reposing on beds of vernal blossoms, is to us original as well as highly poetical. The "cave-locked fountain" too, with its lone, deep, and quiet waters, seems to us to express with force that profound and melancholy sentiment which the writer intended to illustrate.

We shall conclude our selections with the one addressed _to a lady whose singing resembled that of an absent sister_.

"Oh! touch the chord yet once again, Nor chide me, though I weep the while; Believe me, that deep, seraph strain Bore with it memory's moonlight smile.

It murmured of an absent friend; The voice, the air, 'twas all her own; And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.

And days and months have darkly passed, Since last I listened to her lay; And sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast, Since then, across my weary way.

Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear, Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathing; Hush, busy memory,--sorrow's tear Will blight the garland thou art wreathing.

'Tis sweet, though sad--yes, I will stay, I cannot tear myself away. I thank thee, lady, for the strain, The tempest of my soul is still; Then touch the chord yet once again, For thou canst calm the storm at will."

We beg the reader to bear it in mind that these are the productions of a young, inexperienced, and almost uneducated girl, and that they are not to be tried by the tests which are usually applied to more matured efforts. In conclusion, we will say in the language of Dr. Morse, her biographer, "that her defects will be perceived to be those of youth and inexperience, while in invention, and in that mysterious power of exciting deep interest, of enchaining the attention, and keeping it alive to the end of the story; in that adaptation of the measure to the sentiment, and in the sudden change of measure to suit a sudden change of sentiment, in wild and romantic description, and in the congruity of the accompaniments to her characters, all conceived with great purity and delicacy, she will be allowed to have discovered uncommon maturity of mind; and her friends to have been warranted in forming very high expectations of her future distinction."

We are pleased to learn that it is in contemplation by Miss Davidson's friends, to publish a new and improved edition of her works, with various additions from her unpublished manuscripts.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE; by the author of Pelham, Eugene Aram, &c. _New York: Published by Harper & Brothers_--1834.

Mr. Bulwer's novels have acquired no inconsiderable degree of popularity in the circles of fashionable literature. Whether they are destined to survive the temporary admiration bestowed on them, is at this time a subject of speculation; but in the next generation, will become matter of fact. We are among those who think that they will quietly glide into that oblivious ocean, which is destined to receive a large proportion of the ever multiplying productions of this prolific age. We do not say this either, in disparagement of many of those labors of the mind which even intrinsic excellence cannot save from perishing. Great and valuable as some of them undoubtedly are, such is the onward march of intellect, and such the endless creations which fancy and genius are continually rearing for man's gratification and improvement,--to say nothing of the almost illimitable progress of science, that posterity will find no room for the thousandth part of our present stock of literature. We do not anticipate that {54} Mr. Bulwer's writings will be among the select few which will outlive the general wreck; because, unless we are much mistaken, he is one of those authors who write more for present than permanent fame. This is emphatically the age of great moral and mental excitability. It is a period of incessant restlessness and activity; and he who would expect to command much attention, must seek to gratify the appetite for novelty and variety, even at the expense of good sense, sound morality and correct taste. We incline to the opinion that Mr. Bulwer has forgotten, that society in the aggregate, frequently resembles the individual man; and that whilst it often experiences paroxysms of unnatural excitement, there are long lucid intervals of returning reason and sober simplicity. The volume before us is not calculated, we think, to leave any lasting impression, either of good or evil. Whilst it certainly abounds in felicitous language, and contains passages of fine sentiment, it is grossly defective both in plot and machinery; and if it were worth while to descend to minute criticism, it would be easy to point out many examples of false morality as well as false taste. Mr. Bulwer seems to have been aware, in his preface, that he was making a bold experiment upon popular favor, and accordingly he claims the reader's "indulgence for the superstitions he has incorporated with his tale--for the floridity of his style, and the redundance of his descriptions." As if somewhat apprehensive, however, that that indulgence might not possibly be granted, he assures the public that "various reasons have conspired to make this the work, above all others that he has written, which has given him the most delight (though not unmixed with melancholy,) in producing, and in which his mind, for the time, has been the most completely absorbed." A popular writer, thus bespeaking the public approbation in advance, by stamping his last production with his own decided preference, could not expect to be treated uncourteously by his readers. In the first sentence of the second chapter too, the author declares as follows: "I wish only for such readers as give themselves heart and soul up to me: if they begin to cavil, I have done with them; their fancy should put itself entirely under my management." Now whether it proceeded from a spirit of perverseness or not, we cannot tell; but we resolved when we read this passage, neither to surrender our heart, fancy or judgment to Mr. Bulwer's guidance. On the contrary, we determined to read the book and decide on its merits, in the spirit of perfect impartiality and entire independence. The story upon which the work is founded--at least that part of it which treats of mortal affairs, consists of the simplest materials. Trevylyan, a gentleman of "a wild, resolute and active nature, who had been thrown upon the world at the age of sixteen, and had passed his youth in alternate pleasure, travel and solitary study," falls in love with Gertrude Vane, a young girl, described as "the loveliest person that ever dawned upon a poet's vision." A fatal disease, "consumption in its most beautiful shape," had set its seal upon her, and yet Trevylyan loved with an irresistible passion. With the consent, rather than by the advice of the faculty and her friends, the young and interesting invalid, attended by her father and lover, goes upon a pilgrimage up the beautiful and romantic Rhine. From that pilgrimage she never returned; but in one of those wild and legendary spots which impart such interest to that celebrated stream--a spot selected by herself as her last grassy couch, she breathed out her gentle spirit, and quietly sunk to her lasting repose. Such is the simple thread upon which Mr. Bulwer has contrived to weave a variety of German legends and fairy fictions, having no necessary connection with the main story, except that the principal episodes were suggested by some remarkable scenery or some castellated ruin on the banks of the Rhine. The _underplot_, if it may be so called, or the adventures of Nymphalin, queen of the fairies, and her Elfin court, is altogether unworthy of Mr. Bulwer's genius. It is rather a bungling attempt to revive the exploded machinery of supernatural agency; and we moreover do not perceive any possible connection or sympathy between these imaginary beings and the principal personages of the tale. Apart from other considerations, the actions and conversations of these roving elves are destitute of all interest and attraction; and nothing in our eyes appears more preposterous than the introduction of the Lord Treasurer into Queen Nymphalin's train. We always thought that the fairies were mischievous spirits--sometimes a little wicked, and often very benevolent; but never before did we suspect that this ideal population of the world of fancy, manifested any concern in the dry subject of finance, or in the _unfairy-like_ establishment of a regular exchequer. The story of "The Wooing of Master Fox," related for the amusement of Queen Nymphalin, making every allowance for the author's design in introducing it, is to our taste unutterably disgusting and ridiculous.

We have no objection to the occasional use of the fairy superstition in tales of fancy; no more than we have to the frequent classical allusions to heathen mythology which distinguish the best writers. They are pleasing and beautiful illustrations, when happily introduced. But we do protest against lifting the veil from the world of imagination, and investing its shadowy beings with the common place attributes, the vulgar actions and frivolous dialogue of mere mortals. It is in truth dispelling the illusion in which the spirit of poetry delights to indulge. It takes away the most powerful charm from the cool and sequestered grotto, the shady grove or moonlit bower. It vulgarises the world of romance, and reduces the region of mind to a level with brute sense, or even coarser matter.

Condemning as we do, in perfect good faith, these exceptionable portions of Mr. Bulwer's volume, we take pleasure in awarding due praise to some of the legends and stories introduced into the work, and which are for the most part related by Trevylyan for the amusement of Gertrude. Of these, we give the decided preference to "The Brothers" and "The Maid of Malines." The latter indeed, strikes us as so finished an illustration of some of the noble qualities of woman kind, that we have determined to present it entire for the benefit of our readers.

THE MAID OF MALINES.

It was noonday in the town of Malines, or Mechlin, as the English usually term it: the Sabbath bell had summoned the inhabitants to divine worship; and the crowd that had loitered round the Church of St. Rembauld, had gradually emptied itself within the spacious aisles of the sacred edifice.

{55} A young man was standing in the street, with his eyes bent on the ground, and apparently listening for some sound; for, without raising his looks from the rude pavement, he turned to every corner of it with an intent and anxious expression of countenance; he held in one hand a staff, in the other a long slender cord, the end of which trailed on the ground; every now and then he called, with a plaintive voice, "Fido, Fido, come back! Why hast thou deserted me?" Fido returned not: the dog, wearied of confinement, had slipped from the string, and was at play with his kind in a distant quarter of the town, leaving the blind man to seek his way as he might to his solitary inn.

By and by a light step passed through the street, and the young stranger's face brightened--

"Pardon me," said he, turning to the spot where his quick ear had caught the sound, "and direct me, if you are not by chance much pressed for a few moment's time, to the hotel _Mortier d'or_."

It was a young woman, whose dress betokened that she belonged to the middling class of life, whom he thus addressed. "It is some distance hence, sir," said she, "but if you continue your way straight on for about a hundred yards, and then take the second turn to your right hand--"

"Alas!" interrupted the stranger, with a melancholy smile, "your direction will avail me little; my dog has deserted me, and I am blind!"

There was something in these words, and in the stranger's voice, which went irresistibly to the heart of the young woman. "Pray forgive me," she said, almost with tears in her eyes, "I did not perceive your--" misfortune, she was about to say, but she checked herself with an instinctive delicacy. "Lean upon me, I will conduct you to the door; nay, sir," observing that he hesitated, "I have time enough to spare, I assure you."

The stranger placed his hand on the young woman's arm, and though Lucille was naturally so bashful that even her mother would laughingly reproach her for the excess of a maiden virtue, she felt not the least pang of shame, as she found herself thus suddenly walking through the streets of Malines, alone with a young stranger, whose dress and air betokened him of a rank superior to her own.

"Your voice is very gentle," said he, after a pause, "and that," he added, with a slight sigh, "is the criterion by which I only know the young and the beautiful." Lucille now blushed, and with a slight mixture of pain in the blush, for she knew well that to beauty she had no pretension. "Are you a native of this town?" continued he. "Yes, sir; my father holds a small office in the customs, and my mother and I eke out his salary by making lace. We are called poor, but we do not feel it, sir."

"You are fortunate: there is no wealth like the heart's wealth, content," answered the blind man mournfully.

"And Monsieur," said Lucille, feeling angry with herself that she had awakened a natural envy in the stranger's mind, and anxious to change the subject--"and Monsieur, has he been long at Malines?"

"But yesterday. I am passing through the Low Countries on a tour; perhaps you smile at the tour of a blind man--but it is wearisome even to the blind to rest always in the same place. I thought during church time, when the streets were empty, that I might, by the help of my dog, enjoy safely, at least the air, if not the sight of the town; but there are some persons, methinks, who cannot even have a dog for a friend."

The blind man spoke bitterly,--the desertion of his dog had touched him to the core. Lucille wiped her eyes. "And does Monsieur travel then alone?" said she; and looking at his face more attentively than she had yet ventured to do, she saw that he was scarcely above two-and-twenty. "His father, his _mother_," she added, with an emphasis on the last word, "are they not with him?"

"I am an orphan," answered the stranger; "and I have neither brother nor sister."

The desolate condition of the blind man quite melted Lucille; never had she been so strongly affected. She felt a strange flutter at the heart--a secret and earnest sympathy, that attracted her at once towards him. She wished that heaven had suffered her to be his sister.

The contrast between the youth and the form of the stranger, and the affliction which took hope from the one, and activity from the other, increased the compassion he excited. His features were remarkably regular, and had a certain nobleness in their outline; and his frame was gracefully and firmly knit, though he moved cautiously and with no cheerful step.

They had now passed into a narrow street leading towards the hotel, when they heard behind them the clatter of hoofs; and Lucille, looking hastily back, saw that a troop of the Belgian horse was passing thro' town.

She drew her charge close by the wall, and trembling with fear for him, she stationed herself by his side. The troop passed at a full trot through the street; and at the sound of their clanging arms, and the ringing hoofs of their heavy chargers, Lucille might have seen, had she looked at the blind man's face, that its sad features kindled with enthusiasm, and his head was raised proudly from its wonted and melancholy bend. "Thank heaven," she said, as the troop had nearly passed them, "the danger is over!" Not so. One of the last two soldiers who rode abreast, was unfortunately mounted on a young and unmanageable horse. The rider's oaths and digging spur only increased the fire and impatience of the charger; he plunged from side to side of the narrow street.

"_Gardez vous_," cried the horseman, as he was borne on to the place where Lucille and the stranger stood against the wall; "are ye mad--why do you not run?"

"For heaven's sake, for mercy sake, he is blind!" cried Lucille, clinging to the stranger's side.

"Save yourself, my kind guide!" said the stranger. But Lucille dreamt not of such desertion. The trooper wrested the horse's head from the spot where they stood; with a snort, as he felt the spur, the enraged animal lashed out with its hind legs; and Lucille, unable to save _both_, threw herself before the blind man, and received the shock directed against him; her slight and delicate arm fell shattered by her side--the horseman was borne onward. "Thank God, _you_ are saved!" was poor Lucille's exclamation; and she fell, overcome with pain and terror, into the arms which the stranger mechanically opened to receive her.

"My guide, my friend!" cried he, "you are hurt, you--"

"No, sir," interrupted Lucille, faintly, "I am better, I am well. _This_ arm, if you please--we are not far from your hotel now."

But the stranger's ear, tutored to every inflection of voice, told him at once of the pain she suffered; he drew from her by degrees the confession of the injury she had sustained; but the generous girl did not tell him it had been incurred solely in his protection. He now insisted on reversing their duties, and accompanying _her_ to her home; and Lucille, almost fainting with pain, and hardly able to move, was forced to consent. But a few steps down the next turning stood the humble mansion of her father--they reached it--and Lucille scarcely crossed the threshold, before she sank down, and for some minutes was insensible to pain. It was left to the stranger to explain, and to beseech them immediately to send for a surgeon, "the most skilful--the most practised in town," said he. "See, I am rich, and this is the least I can do to atone to your generous daughter for not forsaking even a stranger in peril."

He held out his purse as he spoke, but the father refused the offer; and it saved the blind man some shame that he could not see the blush of honest resentment with which so poor a species of remuneration was put aside.

The young man staid till the surgeon arrived, till the arm was set; nor did he depart until he had obtained a promise from the mother, that he should learn the next morning how the sufferer had passed the night.

The next morning, indeed, he had intended to quit a {56} town that offers but little temptation to the traveller; but he tarried day after day, until Lucille herself accompanied her mother to assure him of her recovery.

You know, or at least I do, dearest Gertrude, that there _is_ such a thing as love at the first meeting--a secret and unaccountable affinity between persons (strangers before,) which draws them irresistibly together. If there were truth in Plato's beautiful phantasy, that our souls were a portion of the stars, it might be, that spirits thus attracted to each other, have drawn their original light from the same orb; and they thus but yearn for a renewal of their former union. Yet, without recurring to such ideal solutions of a daily mystery, it was but natural that one in the forlorn and desolate condition of Eugene St. Amand, should have felt a certain tenderness for a person who had so generously suffered for his sake.

The darkness to which he was condemned did not shut from his mind's eye the haunting images of ideal beauty; rather, on the contrary, in his perpetual and unoccupied solitude, he fed the reveries of an imagination naturally warm, and a heart eager for sympathy.

He had said rightly that his only test of beauty was in the melody of voice; and never had a softer or a more thrilling tone than that of the young maiden touched upon his ear. Her exclamation, so beautifully denying self, so devoted in its charity, "Thank God, _you_ are saved!" uttered too, in the moment of her own suffering, rang constantly upon his soul, and he yielded, without precisely defining their nature, to vague and delicious sentiments, that his youth had never awakened to till then. And Lucille--the very accident that had happened to her on his behalf, only deepened the interest she had already conceived for one who, in the first flush of youth, was thus cut off from the glad objects of life, and led to a night of years, desolate and alone. There is, to your beautiful and kindly sex, a perpetual and gushing _lovingness to protect_. This makes them the angels of sickness, the comforters of age, the fosterers of childhood; and this feeling, in Lucille peculiarly developed, had already inexpressibly linked her compassionate nature to the lot of the unfortunate traveller. With ardent affections, and with thoughts beyond her station and her years, she was not without that modest vanity which made her painfully susceptible to her own deficiencies in beauty. Instinctively conscious of how deeply she herself could love, she believed it impossible that she could ever be so loved in return. This stranger, so superior in her eyes to all she had yet seen, was the first out of her own household who had ever addressed her in that voice, which by tones, not words, speaks that admiration most dear to a woman's heart. To _him_ she was beautiful, and her lovely mind spoke out undimmed by the imperfections of her face. Not, indeed, that Lucille was wholly without personal attraction; her light step and graceful form were elastic with the freshness of youth, and her mouth and smile had so gentle and tender an expression, that there were moments when it would not have been the blind only who would have mistaken her to be beautiful. Her early childhood had indeed given the promise of attractions, which the small-pox, that then fearful malady, had inexorably marred. It had not only seared the smooth skin and the brilliant hues, but utterly changed even the character of the features. It so happened that Lucille's family were celebrated for beauty, and vain of that celebrity; and so bitterly had her parents deplored the effects of the cruel malady, that poor Lucille had been early taught to consider them far more grievous than they really were, and to exaggerate the advantages of that beauty, the loss of which was considered by her parents so heavy a misfortune. Lucille too, had a cousin named Julie, who was the wonder of all Malines for her personal perfections; and as the cousins were much together, the contrast was too striking not to occasion frequent mortification to Lucille. But every misfortune has something of a counterpoise; and the consciousness of personal inferiority, had meekened, without souring, her temper--had given gentleness to a spirit that otherwise might have been too high, and humility to a mind that was naturally strong, impassioned, and energetic.

And yet Lucille had long conquered the one disadvantage she most dreaded in the want of beauty. Lucille was never known but to be loved. Wherever came her presence, her bright and soft mind diffused a certain inexpressible charm; and where she was not, a something was missing from the scene which not even Julie's beauty could replace.

"I propose," said St. Amand to Madame le Tisseur, Lucille's mother, as he sat in her little salon,--for he had already contracted that acquaintance with the family which permitted him to be led to their house, to return the visits Madame le Tisseur had made him, and his dog, once more returned a penitent to his master, always conducted his steps to the humble abode, and stopped instinctively at the door,--"I propose," said St. Amand, after a pause, and with some embarrassment, "to stay a little while longer at Malines; the air agrees with me, and I like the quiet of the place; but you are aware, Madame, that at a hotel among strangers, I feel my situation somewhat cheerless. I have been thinking"--St. Amand paused again--"I have been thinking that if I could persuade some agreeable family to receive me as a lodger, I would fix myself here for some weeks. I am easily pleased."

"Doubtless there are many in Malines who would be too happy to receive such a lodger."

"Will you receive me?" said St. Amand, abruptly. "It was of your family I thought."

"Of us? Monsieur is too flattering, but we have scarcely a room good enough for you."

"What difference between one room and another can there be to me? That is the best apartment to my choice in which the human voice sounds most kindly."

The arrangement was made, and St. Amand came now to reside beneath the same roof as Lucille. And was she not happy that _he_ wanted so constant an attendance? was she not happy that she was ever of use? St. Amand was passionately fond of music: he played himself with a skill that was only surpassed by the exquisite melody of his voice; and was not Lucille happy when she sat mute and listening to such sounds as at Malines were never heard before? Was she not happy in gazing on a face to whose melancholy aspect her voice instantly summoned the smile? Was she not happy when the music ceased, and St. Amand called "Lucille?" Did not her own name uttered by that voice, seem to her even sweeter than the music? Was she not happy when they walked out in the still evenings of summer, and her arm thrilled beneath the light touch of one to whom she was so necessary? Was she not proud in her happiness, and was there not something like worship in the gratitude she felt to him, for raising her humble spirit to the luxury of feeling herself loved?

St. Amand's parents were French; they had resided in the neighborhood of Amiens, where they had inherited a competent property, to which he had succeeded about two years previous to the date of my story.

He had been blind from the age of three years. "I know not," said he, as he related these particulars to Lucille one evening when they were alone; "I know not what the earth may be like, or the heaven, or the rivers whose voice at least I can hear, for I have no recollection beyond that of a confused, but delicious blending of a thousand glorious colors--a bright and quick sense of joy--A VISIBLE MUSIC. But it is only since my childhood closed that I have mourned, as I now unceasingly mourn, for the light of day. My boyhood passed in a quiet cheerfulness; the least trifle then could please and occupy the vacancies of my mind; but it was as I took delight in being read to,--as I listened to the vivid descriptions of poetry,--as I glowed at the recital of great deeds,--as I was made acquainted by books, with the energy, the action, the heat, the fervor, the {57} pomp, the enthusiasm of life, that I gradually opened to the sense of all I was forever denied. I felt that I existed, not lived; and that, in the midst of the Universal Liberty, I was sentenced to a prison, from whose blank walls there was no escape. Still, however, while my parents lived, I had something of consolation; at least I was not alone. They died, and a sudden and dread solitude--a vast and empty dreariness settled upon my dungeon. One old servant only, who had nursed me from my childhood, who had known me in my short privilege of light, by whose recollections my mind could grope back its way through the dark and narrow passages of memory, to faint glimpses of the sun, was all that remained to me of human sympathies. It did not suffice, however, to content me with a home where my father and my mother's kind voice were _not_. A restless impatience, an anxiety to move, possessed me; and I set out from my home, journeying whither I cared not, so that at least I could change an air that weighed upon me like a palpable burthen. I took only this old attendant as my companion; he too died three months since at Bruxelles, worn out with years. Alas! I had forgotten that he was old, for I saw not his progress to decay; and now, save my faithless dog, I was utterly alone, till I came hither and found _thee_."

Lucille stooped down to caress the dog; she blest the desertion that had led to a friend who never could desert.

But however much and however gratefully St. Amand loved Lucille, her power availed not to chase the melancholy from his brow, and to reconcile him to his forlorn condition.

"Ah, would that I could see thee! Would that I could look upon a face that my heart vainly endeavors to delineate."

"If thou couldst," sighed Lucille, "thou wouldst cease to love me."

"Impossible!" cried St. Amand, passionately; "however the world may find thee, _thou_ wouldst become my standard of beauty, and I should judge not of thee by others, but of others by thee."

He loved to hear Lucille read to him; and mostly he loved the descriptions of war, of travel, of wild adventure, and yet they occasioned him the most pain. Often she paused from the page as she heard him sigh, and felt that she would even have renounced the bliss of being loved by him, if she could have restored to him that blessing, the desire for which haunted him as a spectre.

Lucille's family were Catholic, and, like most in their station, they possessed the superstitions, as well as the devotion of the faith. Sometimes they amused themselves of an evening by the various legends and imaginary miracles of their calendar: and once, as they were thus conversing with two or three of their neighbors, "The Tomb of the Three Kings of Cologne" became the main topic of their wandering recitals. However strong was the sense of Lucille, she was, as you will readily conceive, naturally influenced by the belief of those with whom she had been brought up from her cradle, and she listened to tale after tale of the miracles wrought at the consecrated tomb, as earnestly and undoubtingly as the rest.

And the Kings of the East were no ordinary saints; to the relics of the Three Magi, who followed the Star of Bethlehem, and were the first potentates of the earth who adored its Saviour, well might the pious Catholic suppose that a peculiar power and a healing sanctity would belong. Each of the circle (St. Amand, who had been more than usually silent, and even gloomy during the day, had retired to his apartment, for there were some moments, when in the sadness of his thoughts, he sought that solitude which he so impatiently fled from at others)--each of the circle had some story to relate equally veracious and indisputable, of an infirmity cured, or a prayer accorded, or a sin atoned for at the foot of the holy tomb. One story peculiarly affected Lucille; the narrator, a venerable old man with gray locks, solemnly declared himself a witness of its truth.

A woman at Anvers had given birth to a son, the offspring of an illicit connexion, who came into the world deaf and dumb. The unfortunate mother believed the calamity a punishment for her own sin. "Ah, would," said she, "that the affliction had fallen only upon me! Wretch that I am, my innocent child is punished for my offence!" This idea haunted her night and day: she pined and could not be comforted. As the child grew up, and wound himself more and more round her heart, its caresses added new pangs to her remorse; and at length (continued the narrator) hearing perpetually of the holy fame of the Tomb of Cologne, she resolved upon a pilgrimage barefoot to the shrine. "God is merciful," said she, "and he who called Magdaline his sister, may take the mother's curse from the child." She then went to Cologne; she poured her tears, her penitence, and her prayers, at the sacred tomb. When she returned to her native town, what was her dismay as she approached her cottage to behold it a heap of ruins!--its blackened rafters and yawning casements betokened the ravages of fire. The poor woman sunk upon the ground utterly overpowered. Had her son perished? At that moment she heard the cry of a child's voice, and, lo! her child rushed to her arms, and called her "mother!"

He had been saved from the fire which had broken out seven days before; but in the terror he had suffered, the string that tied his tongue had been loosened; he had uttered articulate sounds of distress; the curse was removed, and one word at least the kind neighbors had already taught him, to welcome his mother's return. What cared she now that her substance was gone, that her roof was ashes; she bowed in grateful submission to so mild a stroke; her prayer had been heard, and the sin of the mother was visited no longer on the child.

I have said, dear Gertrude, that this story made a deep impression upon Lucille. A misfortune so nearly akin to that of St. Amand, removed by the prayer of another, filled her with devoted thoughts, and a beautiful hope. "Is not the tomb still standing?" thought she; "is not God still in heaven? He who heard the guilty, may he not hear the guiltless? Is he not the God of love? Are not the affections the offerings that please him best? and what though the child's mediator was his mother, can even a mother love her child more tenderly than I love Eugene? But if, Lucille, thy prayer be granted, if he recover his sight, _thy_ charm is gone, he will love thee no longer. No matter! be it so; I shall at least have made him happy!"

Such were the thoughts that filled the mind of Lucille; she cherished them till they settled into resolution, and she secretly vowed to perform her pilgrimage of love. She told neither St. Amand nor her parents of her intention; she knew the obstacles such an annunciation would create. Fortunately, she had an aunt settled at Bruxelles, to whom she had been accustomed, once in every year, to pay a month's visit, and at that time she generally took with her the work of a twelve-month's industry, which found a readier sale at Bruxelles than Malines. Lucille and St. Amand were already betrothed; their wedding was shortly to take place; and the custom of the country leading parents, however poor, to nourish the honorable ambition of giving some dowry with their daughters, Lucille found it easy to hide the object of her departure, under the pretence of taking the lace to Bruxelles, which had been the year's labor of her mother and herself; it would sell for sufficient at least to defray the preparations for the wedding.

"Thou art ever right, child," said Madame Le Tisseur; "the richer St. Amand is, why the less oughtest thou to go a beggar to his house."

In fact, the honest ambition of the good people was excited; their pride had been hurt by the envy of the town and the current congratulations on so advantageous a marriage; and they employed themselves in counting up the fortune they should be able to give to their only child, and flattering their pardonable vanity with the notion that there would be no such great {58} disproportion in the connexion after all. They were right, but not in their own view of the estimate; the wealth that Lucille brought was what fate could not lessen,--reverse could not reach,--the ungracious seasons could not blight its sweet harvest,--imprudence could not dissipate,--fraud could not steal one grain from its abundant coffers! Like the purse in the fairy tale, its use was hourly, its treasure inexhaustible!

St. Amand alone was not to be won to her departure; he chafed at the notion of a dowry: he was not appeased even by Lucille's representation, that it was only to gratify and not to impoverish her parents. "And _thou_, too, canst leave me!" he said, in that plaintive voice which had made his first charm to Lucille's heart. "It is a second blindness."

"But for a few days; a fortnight at most, dearest Eugene!"

"A fortnight! you do not reckon time as the blind do," said St. Amand, bitterly.

"But listen, listen, dear Eugene," said Lucille, weeping. The sound of her sobs restored him to a sense of his ingratitude. Alas, he knew not how much he had to be grateful for. He held out his arms to her; "Forgive me," said he. "Those who can see nature know not how terrible it is to be alone."

"But my mother will not leave you."

"She is not you!"

"And Julie," said Lucille, hesitatingly.

"What is Julie to me?"

"Ah, you are the only one, save my parents, who could think of me in her presence."

"And why, Lucille?"

"Why! She is more beautiful than a dream."

"Say not so. Would I could see, that I might prove to the world how much more beautiful thou art. There is no music in _her_ voice."

The evening before Lucille departed, she sat up late with St. Amand and her mother. They conversed on the future; they made plans; in the wide sterility of the world, they laid out the garden of household love, and filled it with flowers, forgetful of the wind that scatters and the frost that kills. And when, leaning on Lucille's arm, St. Amand sought his chamber, and they parted at his door, which closed upon her, she fell down on her knees at the threshold, and poured out the fulness of her heart in a prayer for his safety, and the fulfilment of her timid hope.

At daybreak she was consigned to the conveyance that performed the short journey from Malines to Bruxelles. When she entered the town, instead of seeking her aunt, she rested at an auberge in the suburbs, and confiding her little basket of lace to the care of its hostess, she set out alone, and on foot, upon the errand of her heart's lovely superstition. And erring though it was, her faith redeemed its weakness--her affection made it even sacred. And well may we believe, that the eye which reads all secrets scarce looked reprovingly on that fanaticism, whose only infirmity was love.

So fearful was she, lest, by rendering the task too easy, she might impair the effect, that she scarcely allowed herself rest or food. Sometimes, in the heat of noon, she wandered a little from the road-side, and under the spreading lime-tree surrendered her mind to its sweet and bitter thoughts; but ever the restlessness of her enterprise urged her on, and faint, weary, and with bleeding feet, she started up and continued her way. At length she reached the ancient city, where a holier age has scarce worn from the habits and aspects of men the Roman trace. She prostrated herself at the tomb of the Magi: she proffered her ardent but humble prayer to Him before whose son those fleshless heads (yet to faith at least preserved) had, nearly eighteen centuries ago, bowed in adoration. Twice every day, for a whole week, she sought the same spot, and poured forth the same prayer. The last day an old priest, who, hovering in the church, had observed her constantly at devotion, with that fatherly interest which the better ministers of the Catholic sect (that sect which has covered the earth with the mansions of charity) feel for the unhappy, approached her as she was retiring with moist and downcast eyes, and saluting her, assumed the privilege of his order, to inquire if there was aught in which his advice or aid could serve. There was something in the venerable air of the old man which encouraged Lucille; she opened her heart to him; she told him all. The good priest was much moved by her simplicity and earnestness. He questioned her minutely as to the peculiar species of blindness with which St. Amand was afflicted; and after musing a little while, he said, "Daughter, God is great and merciful, we must trust in his power, but we must not forget that he mostly works by mortal agents. As you pass through Louvain in your way home, fail not to see there a certain physician, named Le Kain. He is celebrated through Flanders for the cures he has wrought among the blind, and his advice is sought by all classes from far and near. He lives hard by the Hotel de Ville, but any one will inform you of his residence. Stay, my child, you shall take him a note from me; he is a benevolent and kindly man, and you shall tell him exactly the same story (and with the same voice) you have told to me."

So saying the priest made Lucille accompany him to his home, and forcing her to refresh herself less sparingly than she had yet done since she had left Malines, he gave her his blessing, and a letter to Le Kain, which he rightly judged would insure her a patient hearing from the physician. Well known among all men of science was the name of the priest, and a word of recommendation from him went farther, where virtue and wisdom were honored, than the longest letter from the haughtiest Sieur in Flanders.

With a patient and hopeful spirit, the young pilgrim turned her back on the Roman Cologne, and now about to rejoin St. Amand, she felt neither the heat of the sun nor the weariness of the road. It was one day at noon that she again passed through LOUVAIN, and she soon found herself by the noble edifice of the HOTEL DE VILLE. Proud rose its Gothic spires against the sky, and the sun shone bright on its rich tracery and Gothic casements; the broad open street was crowded with persons of all classes, and it was with some modest alarm that Lucille lowered her veil and mingled with the throng. It was easy, as the priest had said, to find the house of Le Kain; she bade the servant take the priest's letter to his master, and she was not long kept waiting before she was admitted to the physician's presence. He was a spare, tall man, with a bald front, and a calm and friendly countenance. He was not less touched than the priest had been by the manner in which she narrated her story, described the affliction of her betrothed, and the hope that had inspired the pilgrimage she had just made.

"Well," said he, encouragingly, "we must see our patient. You can bring him hither to me."

"Ah, sir, I had hoped--" Lucille stopped suddenly.

"What, my young friend?"

"That I might have had the triumph of bringing you to Malines. I know, sir, what you are about to say; and I know, sir, your time must be very valuable; but I am not so poor as I seem, and Eugene, that is Monsieur St. Amand, is very rich, and--and I have at Bruxelles what I am sure is a large sum; it was to have provided for the wedding, but it is most heartily at your service, sir."

Le Kain smiled; he was one of those men who love to read the human heart when its leaves are fair and undefiled; and, in the benevolence of science, he would have gone a longer journey than from Louvain to Malines to give sight to the blind, even had St. Amand been a beggar.

"Well, well," said he, "but you forget that Monsieur St. Amand is not the only one in the world who wants me. I must look at my note-book, and see if I can be spared for a day or two."

So saying he glanced at his memoranda; every thing {59} smiled on Lucille: he had no engagements that his partner could not fulfil, for some days; he consented to accompany Lucille to Malines.

Meanwhile cheerless and dull had passed the time to St. Amand; he was perpetually asking Madame Le Tisseur what hour it was; it was almost his only question. There seemed to him no sun in the heavens, no freshness in the air, and he even forbore his favorite music; the instrument had lost its sweetness since Lucille was not by to listen.

It was natural that the gossips of Malines should feel some envy at the marriage Lucille was about to make with one whose competence report had exaggerated into prodigal wealth, whose birth had been elevated from the respectable to the noble, and whose handsome person was clothed, by the interest excited by his misfortune, with the beauty of Antinous. Even that misfortune, which ought to have levelled all distinctions, was not sufficient to check the general envy; perhaps to some of the dames of Malines blindness in a husband was indeed not the least agreeable of all qualifications! But there was one in whom this envy rankled with a peculiar sting; it was the beautiful, the all-conquering Julie. That the humble, the neglected Lucille should be preferred to her; that Lucille, whose existence was well-nigh forgot beside Julie's, should become thus suddenly of importance; that there should be one person in the world, and that person young, rich, handsome, to whom she was less than nothing, when weighed in the balance with Lucille, mortified to the quick a vanity that had never till then received a wound. "It is well," she would say, with a bitter jest, "that Lucille's lover is blind. To be the one it is necessary to be the other!"

During Lucille's absence she had been constantly in Madame Le Tisseur's house--indeed Lucille had prayed her to be so. She had sought, with an industry that astonished herself, to supply Lucille's place, and among the strange contradictions of human nature, she had learned, during her efforts to please, to love the object of those efforts,--as much at least as she was capable of loving.

She conceived a positive hatred to Lucille; she persisted in imagining that nothing but the accident of first acquaintance had deprived her of a conquest with which she persuaded herself her happiness had become connected. Had St. Amand never loved Lucille, and proposed to Julie, his misfortune would have made her reject him, despite his wealth and his youth; but to be Lucille's lover, and a conquest to be won from Lucille, raised him instantly to an importance not his own. Safe, however, in his affliction, the arts and beauty of Julie fell harmless on the fidelity of St. Amand. Nay, he liked her less than ever, for it seemed an impertinence in any one to counterfeit the anxiety and watchfulness of Lucille.

"It is time, surely it is time, Madame Le Tisseur, that Lucille should return. She might have sold all the lace in Malines by this time," said St. Amand one day, peevishly.

"Patience, my dear friend; patience, perhaps she may return to-morrow."

"To-morrow! let me see, it is only six o'clock, only six, you are sure?"

"Just five, dear Eugene shall I read to you? this is a new book from Paris, it has made a great noise," said Julie.

"You are very kind, but I will not trouble you."

"It is any thing but trouble."

"In a word, then, I would rather not."

"Oh! that he could see," thought Julie; "would I not punish him for this!"

"I hear carriage-wheels; who can be passing this way? Surely it is the voiturier from Bruxelles," said St. Amand, starting up, "it is his day, his hour, too. No, no, it is a lighter vehicle," and he sank down listlessly on his seat.

Nearer and nearer rolled the wheels; they turned the corner; they stopped at the lowly door; and--overcome,--overjoyed, Lucille was clasped to the bosom of St. Amand.

"Stay," said she, blushing, as she recovered her self-possession, and turned to Le Kain, "pray pardon me, sir. Dear Eugene, I have brought with me one who, by God's blessing, may yet restore you to sight."

"We must not be sanguine, my child," said Le Kain; "any thing is better than disappointment."

To close this part of my story, dear Gertrude, Le Kain examined St. Amand, and the result of the examination was a confident belief in the probability of a cure. St. Amand gladly consented to the experiment of an operation; it succeeded--the blind man saw! Oh! what were Lucille's feelings, what her emotion, what her joy, when she found the object of her pilgrimage--of her prayers--fulfilled! That joy was so intense, that in the eternal alterations of human life she might have foretold from its excess how bitter the sorrows fated to ensue.

As soon as by degrees the patient's new sense became reconciled to the light, his first, his only demand was for Lucille. "No, let me not see her alone, let me see her in the midst of you all, that I may convince you that the heart never is mistaken in its instincts." With a fearful, a sinking presentiment, Lucille yielded to the request to which the impetuous St. Amand would hear indeed no denial. The father, the mother, Julie, Lucille, Julie's younger sisters assembled in the little parlor; the door opened, and St. Amand stood hesitating on the threshold. One look around sufficed to him; his face brightened, he uttered a cry of joy. "Lucille! Lucille!" he exclaimed, "It is you, I know it, _you_ only!" He sprang forward, _and fell at the feet of Julie!_

Flushed, elated, triumphant, Julie bent upon him her sparkling eyes; _she_ did not undeceive him.

"You are wrong, you mistake," said Madame Le Tisseur, in confusion; "that is her cousin Julie, this is your Lucille."

St. Amand rose, turned, saw Lucille, and at that moment she wished herself in her grave. Surprise, mortification, disappointment, almost dismay, were depicted in his gaze. He had been haunting his prison-house with dreams, and, now set free, he felt how unlike they were to the truth. Too new to observation to read the wo, the despair, the lapse and shrinking of the whole frame, that his look occasioned Lucille, he yet felt, when the first shock of his surprise was over, that it was not thus he should thank her who had restored him to sight. He hastened to redeem his error; ah! how could it be redeemed?

From that hour all Lucille's happiness was at an end; her fairy palace was shattered in the dust; the magician's wand was broken up; the Ariel was given to the winds; and the bright enchantment no longer distinguished the land she lived in from the rest of the barren world. It was true that St. Amand's words were kind; it is true that he remembered with the deepest gratitude all she had done in his behalf; it is true that he forced himself again and again to say, "She is my betrothed--my benefactress!" and he cursed himself to think that the feelings he had entertained for her were fled. Where was the passion of his words? where the ardor of his tone? where that play and light of countenance which her step, _her_ voice could formerly call forth? When they were alone he was embarrassed and constrained, and almost cold; his hand no longer sought hers; his soul no longer missed her if she was absent a moment from his side. When in their household circle, he seemed visibly more at ease; but did his eyes fasten upon her who had opened them to the day? did they not wander at every interval with a too eloquent admiration to the blushing and radiant face of the exulting Julie? This was not, you will believe, suddenly perceptible in one day or one week, but every day it was perceptible more and more. Yet still--bewitched, ensnared as St. Amand was--he never perhaps would have been guilty of an infidelity that he strove with the keenest remorse to wrestle against, had it not been for the fatal contrast, at the first moment of his gushing enthusiasm, {60} which Julie had presented to Lucille; but for that he would have formed no previous idea of real and living beauty to aid the disappointment of his imaginings and his dreams. He would have seen Lucille young and graceful, and with eyes beaming affection, contrasted only by the wrinkled countenance and bended frame of her parents, and she would have completed her conquest over him before he had discovered that she was less beautiful than others; nay more--that infidelity never could have lasted above the first few days, if the vain and heartless object of it had not exerted every art, all the power and witchery of her beauty, to cement and continue it. The unfortunate Lucille--so susceptible to the slightest change in those she loved, so diffident of herself, so proud too in that diffidence--no longer necessary, no longer missed, no longer loved--could not bear to endure the galling comparison of the past and present. She fled uncomplainingly to her chamber to indulge her tears, and thus, unhappily, absent as her father generally was during the day, and busied as her mother was either at work or in household matters, she left Julie a thousand opportunities to complete the power she had begun to wield over--no, not the heart!--the _senses_ of St. Amand! Yet, still not suspecting, in the open generosity of her mind, the whole extent of her affliction, poor Lucille buoyed herself at times with the hope that when once married, when once in that intimacy of friendship, the unspeakable love she felt for him could disclose itself with less restraint than at present,--she should perhaps regain a heart which had been so devotedly hers, that she could not think that without a fault it was irrevocably gone: on that hope she anchored all the little happiness that remained to her. And still St. Amand pressed their marriage, but in what different tones! In fact, he wished to preclude from himself the possibility of a deeper ingratitude than that which he had incurred already. He vainly thought that the broken reed of love might be bound up and strengthened by the ties of duty; and at least he was anxious that his hand, his fortune, his esteem, his gratitude, should give to Lucille the only recompense it was now in his power to bestow. Meanwhile, left alone so often with Julie, and Julie bent on achieving the last triumph over his heart, St. Amand was gradually preparing a far different reward, a far different return for her to whom he owed so incalculable a debt.

There was a garden behind the house, in which there was a small arbor, where often in the summer evenings Eugene and Lucille had sat together--hours never to return! One day she heard from her own chamber, where she sat mourning, the sound of St. Amand's flute swelling gently from that beloved and consecrated bower. She wept as she heard it, and the memories that the music bore softening and endearing his image, she began to reproach herself that she had yielded so often to the impulse of her wounded feelings; that, chilled by _his_ coldness, she had left him so often to himself, and had not sufficiently dared to tell him of that affection which, in her modest self-depreciation, constituted her only pretension to his love. "Perhaps he is alone now," she thought; "the tune too is one which he knew that I loved:" and with her heart on her step, she stole from the house and sought the arbor. She had scarce turned from her chamber when the flute ceased; as she neared the arbor she heard voices--Julie's voice in grief, St. Amand's in consolation. A dread foreboding seized her; her feet clung rooted to the earth.

"Yes, marry her--forget me," said Julie; "in a few days you will be another's and I, I--forgive me, Eugene, forgive me that I have disturbed your happiness. I am punished sufficiently--my heart will break, but it will break loving you"--sobs choked Julie's voice.

"Oh, speak not thus," said St. Amand. "I, _I_ only am to blame; I, false to both, to both ungrateful. Oh, from the hour that these eyes opened upon you I drank in a new life; the sun itself to me was less wonderful than your beauty. But--but--let me forget that hour. What do I not owe to Lucille? I shall be wretched--I shall deserve to be so; for shall I not think, Julie, that I have imbittered our life with your ill-fated love? But all that I can give--my hand--my home--my plighted faith--must be hers. Nay, Julie, nay--why that look? could I act otherwise? can I dream otherwise? Whatever the sacrifice, _must_ I not render it? Ah, what do I owe to Lucille, were it only for the thought that but for her I might never have seen thee."

Lucille staid to hear no more; with the same soft step as that which had borne her within hearing of these fatal words, she turned back once more to her desolate chamber.

That evening, as St. Amand was sitting alone in his apartment, he heard a gentle knock at the door. "Come in," he said, and Lucille entered. He started in some confusion, and would have taken her hand, but she gently repulsed him. She took a seat opposite to him, and looking down, thus addressed him:--

"My dear Eugene, that is, Monsieur St. Amand, I have something on my mind that I think it better to speak at once; and if I do not exactly express what I would wish to say, you must not be offended at Lucille; it is not an easy matter to put into words what one feels deeply." Coloring, and suspecting something of the truth, St. Amand would have broken in upon her here; but she, with a gentle impatience, waved him to be silent, and continued:--

"You know that when you once loved me, I used to tell you, that you would cease to do so, could you see how undeserving I was of your attachment? I did not deceive myself, Eugene; I always felt assured that such would be the case, that your love for me necessarily rested on your affliction: but, for all that, I never at least had a dream, or a desire, but for your happiness; and God knows, that if again, by walking bare-footed, not to Cologne, but to Rome--to the end of the world, I could save you from a much less misfortune than that of blindness, I would cheerfully do it; yes, even though I might foretel all the while that, on my return, you would speak to me coldly, think of me lightly, and that the penalty to me would--would be--what it has been!" Here Lucille wiped a few natural tears from her eyes; St. Amand, struck to the heart, covered his face with his hands, without the courage to interrupt her. Lucille continued:--

"That which I foresaw has come to pass: I am no longer to you what I once was, when you could clothe this poor form and this homely face with a beauty they did not possess; you would wed me still, it is true; but I am proud, Eugene, and cannot stoop to gratitude where I once had love. I am not so unjust as to blame you; the change was natural, was inevitable. I should have steeled myself more against it; but I am now resigned; we must part; you love Julie--that too is natural--and _she_ loves you; ah! what also more probable in the course of events? Julie loves you, not yet, perhaps, so much as I did, but then she has not known you as I have, and she, whose whole life has been triumph, cannot feel the gratitude I felt at fancying myself loved; but this will come; God grant it! Farewell, then, for ever, dear Eugene; I leave you when you no longer want me; you are now independent of Lucille; wherever you go, a thousand hereafter can supply my place;--farewell!"

She rose, as she said this, to leave the room; but St. Amand seizing her hand, which she in vain endeavored to withdraw from his clasp, poured forth incoherently, passionately, his reproaches on himself, his eloquent persuasions against her resolution.

"I confess," said he, "that I have been allured for a moment; I confess that Julie's beauty made me less sensible to your stronger, your holier, oh! far, far holier title to my love! But forgive me, dearest Lucille; already I return to you, to all I once felt for you; make me not curse the blessing of sight that I owe to you. You must not leave me; never can we two part; try me, only try me, and if ever, hereafter, my heart {61} wander from you, _then_, Lucille, leave me to my remorse!"

Even at that moment Lucille did not yield; she felt that his prayer was but the enthusiasm of the hour; she felt that there was a virtue in her pride; that to leave him was a duty to herself. In vain he pleaded; in vain were his embraces, his prayers; in vain he reminded her of their plighted troth, of her aged parents, whose happiness had become wrapped in her union with him; "How, even were it as you wrongly believe, how in honor to them can I desert you, can I wed another?"

"Trust that, trust all to me," answered Lucille; "your honor shall be my care, none shall blame _you_; only do not let your marriage with Julie be celebrated here before their eyes; that is all I ask, all they can expect. God bless you! do not fancy I shall be unhappy, for whatever happiness the world gives you, shall I not have contributed to bestow it?--and with that thought, I am above compassion."

She glided from his arms, and left him to a solitude more bitter even than that of blindness; that very night Lucille sought her mother; to her she confided all. I pass over the reasons she urged, the arguments she overcame; she conquered rather than convinced, and leaving to Madame Le Tisseur the painful task of breaking to her father her unalterable resolution, she quitted Malines the next morning, and with a heart too honest to be utterly without comfort, paid that visit to her aunt which had been so long deferred.

The pride of Lucille's parents prevented them from reproaching St. Amand. He did not bear, however, their cold and altered looks; he left their house; and though for several days he would not even see Julie, yet her beauty and her art gradually resumed their empire over him. They were married at Courtroi, and, to the joy of the vain Julie, departed to the gay metropolis of France. But before their departure, before his marriage, St. Amand endeavored to appease his conscience, by purchasing for Monsieur Le Tisseur, a much more lucrative and honorable office than that he now held. Rightly judging that Malines could no longer be a pleasant residence for them, and much less for Lucille, the duties of the post were to be fulfilled in another town; and knowing that Monsieur Le Tisseur's delicacy would revolt at receiving such a favor from his hands, he kept the nature of his negociation a close secret, and suffered the honest citizen to believe that his own merits alone had entitled him to so unexpected a promotion.

Time went on. This quiet and simple history of humble affections took its date in a stormy epoch of the world--the dawning Revolution of France. The family of Lucille had been little more than a year settled in their new residence, when Dumouriez led his army into the Netherlands. But how meanwhile had that year passed for Lucille? I have said that her spirit was naturally high; that, though so tender, she was not weak; her very pilgrimage to Cologne alone, and at the timid age of seventeen, proved that there was a strength in her nature no less than a devotion in her love. The sacrifice she had made brought its own reward. She believed St. Amand was happy, and she would not give way to the selfishness of grief; she had still duties to perform; she could still comfort her parents, and cheer their age; she could still be all the world to them; she felt this, and was consoled. Only once during the year had she heard of Julie; she had been seen by a mutual friend at Paris, gay, brilliant, courted, and admired; of St. Amand she heard nothing.

My tale, dear Gertrude, does not lead me through the harsh scenes of war. I do not tell you of the slaughter and the siege, and the blood that inundated those fair lands, the great battle-field of Europe. The people of the Netherlands in general were with the cause of Dumouriez, but the town in which Le Tisseur dwelt offered some faint resistance to his arms. Le Tisseur himself, despite his age, girded on his sword; the town was carried, and the fierce and licentious troops of the conqueror poured, flushed with their easy victory, through its streets. Le Tisseur's house was filled with drunken and rude troopers; Lucille herself trembled in the fierce gripe of one of those dissolute soldiers, more bandit than soldier, whom the subtle Dumouriez had united to his army, and by whose blood he so often saved that of his nobler band; her shrieks, her cries were vain, when suddenly the reeking troopers gave way; "the Captain! brave Captain!" was shouted forth; the insolent soldier, felled by a powerful arm, sank senseless at the feet of Lucille; and a glorious form, towering above its fellows, even through its glittering garb, even in that dreadful hour remembered at a glance by Lucille, stood at her side; her protector, her guardian! thus once more she beheld St. Amand!

The house was cleared in an instant, the door barred. Shouts, groans, wild snatches of exulting song, the clang of arms, the tramp of horses, the hurrying footsteps, the deep music, sounded loud, and blended terribly without; Lucille heard them not; she was on that breast which never should have deserted her.

Effectually to protect his friends, St. Amand took up his quarters at their house; and for two days he was once more under the same roof as Lucille. He never recurred voluntarily to Julie; he answered Lucille's timid inquiry after her health briefly, and with coldness, but he spoke with all the enthusiasm of a long pent and ardent spirit of the new profession he had embraced. Glory seemed now to be his only mistress, and the vivid delusion of the first bright dreams of the revolution filled his mind, broke from his tongue, and lighted up those dark eyes which Lucille had redeemed to day.

She saw him depart at the head of his troop; she saw his proud crest glancing in the sun; she saw that his last glance reverted to her, where she stood at the door; and as he waved his adieu, she fancied that there was on his face that look of deep and grateful tenderness which reminded her of the one bright epoch of her life.

She was right; St. Amand had long since in bitterness repented of a transient infatuation, had long since discovered the true Florimel from the false, and felt that, in Julie, Lucille's wrongs were avenged. But in the hurry and heat of war he plunged that regret--the keenest of all--which imbodies the bitter words, "TOO LATE!"

Years passed away, and in the resumed tranquillity of Lucille's life the brilliant apparition of St. Amand appeared as something dreamt of, not seen. The star of Napoleon had risen above the horizon; the romance of his early career had commenced; and the campaign of Egypt had been the herald of those brilliant and meteoric successes which flashed forth from the gloom of the Revolution of France.

You are aware, dear Gertrude, how many in the French as well as the English troops returned home from Egypt, blinded with the ophthalmia of that arid soil. Some of the young men in Lucille's town, who had joined Napoleon's army, came back, darkened by that fearful affliction, and Lucille's alms, and Lucille's aid, and Lucille's sweet voice were ever at hand for those poor sufferers, whose common misfortune touched so thrilling a cord of her heart.

Her father was now dead, and she had only her mother to cheer amid the ills of age. As one evening they sat at work together, Madame Le Tisseur said, after a pause--

"I wish, dear Lucille, thou couldst be persuaded to marry Justin; he loves thee well, and now that thou art yet young, and hast many years before thee, thou shouldst remember that when I die thou wilt be alone."

"Ah cease, dearest mother, I never can marry now, and as for love--once taught in the bitter school in which I have learned the knowledge of myself--I cannot be deceived again."

"My Lucille, you do not know yourself; never was {62} woman loved, if Justin does not love you; and never did lover feel with more real warmth how worthily he loved."

And this was true; and not of Justin alone, for Lucille's modest virtues, her kindly temper, and a certain undulating and feminine grace, which accompanied all her movements, had secured her as many conquests as if she had been beautiful. She had rejected all offers of marriage with a shudder; without even the throb of a flattered vanity. One memory, sadder, was also dearer to her than all things; and something sacred in its recollections made her deem it even a crime to think of effacing the past by a new affection.

"I believe," continued Madame Le Tisseur, angrily, "that thou still thinkest fondly of him from whom only in the world thou couldst have experienced ingratitude."

"Nay mother," said Lucille, with a blush and a slight sigh, "Eugene is married to another."

While thus conversing, they heard a gentle and timid knock at the door--the latch was lifted. "This" said the rough voice of a commissaire of the town--"this, monsieur, is the house of _Madame Le Tisseur_, and--_voila mademoiselle!_" A tall figure, with a shade over his eyes, and wrapped in a long military cloak, stood in the room. A thrill shot across Lucille's heart. He stretched out his arms; "Lucille," said that melancholy voice, which had made the music of her first youth--"where art thou, Lucille; alas! she does not recognize St. Amand."

Thus was it, indeed. By a singular fatality, the burning suns and the sharp dust of the plains of Egypt had smitten the young soldier, in the flush of his career, with a second--and this time, with an irremediable--blindness! He had returned to France to find his hearth lonely; Julie was no more--a sudden fever had cut her off in the midst of youth; and he had sought his way to Lucille's house, to see if one hope yet remained to him in the world!

And when, days afterward, humbly and sadly he re-urged a former suit, did Lucille shut her heart to its prayer? Did her pride remember its wound--did she revert to his desertion--did she say to the whisper of her yearning love--_"thou hast been before forsaken?"_ That voice and those darkened eyes pleaded to her with a pathos not to be resisted; "I am once more necessary to him," was all her thought--"if I reject him, who will tend him?" In that thought was the motive of her conduct; in that thought gushed back upon her soul all the springs of checked, but unconquered, unconquerable love! In that thought she stood beside him at the altar, and pledged, with a yet holier devotion than she might have felt of yore, the vow of her imperishable truth.

And Lucille found, in the future, a reward which the common world could never comprehend. With his blindness returned all the feelings she had first awakened in St. Amand's solitary heart; again he yearned for her step--again he missed even a moment's absence from his side--again her voice chased the shadow from his brow--and in her presence was a sense of shelter and of sunshine. He no longer sighed for the blessing he had lost; he reconciled himself to fate, and entered into that serenity of mood which mostly characterizes the blind. Perhaps, after we have seen the actual world, and experienced its hollow pleasures, we can resign ourselves the better to its exclusion; and as the cloister which repels the ardor of our hope is sweet to our remembrance, so the darkness loses its terror when experience has wearied us with the glare and travail of the day. It was something, too, as they advanced in life, to feel the chains that bound him to Lucille strengthening daily, and to cherish in his overflowing heart the sweetness of increasing gratitude; it was something that he could not see years wrinkle that open brow, or dim the tenderness of that touching smile; it was something that to him she was beyond the reach of time, and preserved to the verge of a grave (which received them both within a few days of each other,) in all the bloom of her unwithering affection--in all the freshness of a heart that never could grow old!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONG--_By the Author of Vyvyan_.

On the brow of the mountain The grey mists darkle-- On the wave of the fountain Star images sparkle-- Wild lights o'er the meadow Are fitfully gleaming-- In the hill's dark shadow A spirit is dreaming. The birds and the flowers With closed eyes are sleeping, All hushed are the bowers Where glow-worms are creeping-- There's quiet in heaven, There's peace to the billow-- A blessing seems given To all--save my pillow. Alas! do I wonder I too cannot sleep, Like the calm waves yonder, And dream all as deep?-- There's beauty beside me, A love-heaving breast-- Ah! my very joys chide me, And rob me of rest.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES ON FINDING A BILLET FROM AN EARLY FRIEND AMONG SOME OLD PAPERS.

I gaze on this discolored sheet Which time has tinged with many a stain, And sigh to think his course should bring To nought, that friendship nursed in vain. Here in your well known hand I see My name, with terms endearing traced, And vows of firm fidelity, Which other objects soon effaced. Strange does it seem, that in these words A dead affection I should find, As if some early buried friend Resumed his place among his kind. Yes--after many a chilling year Of coldness and of alter'd feeling, This tatter'd messenger is here, Worlds of forgotten thought revealing. As once my faith was purely thine, For thee my blood I would have pour'd As freely as the rich red wine We pledged around the jovial board. It seem'd that thou wert thus to me, Loyal and true as thou didst swear: I knew not then, as now I know, That oaths are but impassion'd air. And even now, a doubt that they Were falsehoods all, will cross my brain: That thought alone I seek to quell, That thought alone could give me pain. To be forgotten has no sting-- For friendships every day grow cold; But 'tis a wounding thought, that I Have purchased dross, and paid in gold. Tho' thou hast changed, as worldlings change Amid the haunts of sordid men, I cannot bid my feelings range-- But cling to what I deem'd thee _then_.

S.

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For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE CEMETERY.--_From the Russian_.

FIRST VOICE.

How sad, how frightful the abode, How dread the silence of the tomb! There all surrounding objects speak The haunt of terror and of gloom-- And nought but tempests' horrid howl we hear, And bones together rattling on the bier!

SECOND VOICE.

How peaceful, tranquil is the tomb! How calm, how deep is its repose! There flow'rets wild more sweetly bloom, There zephyr's breath more softly flows; And there the nightingale and turtle-dove Their notes pour forth of happiness and love.

FIRST VOICE.

Against that dark sepulchral mound, Funereal crows their pinions beat; There dens of ravenous wolves are found, And there the vulture's foul retreat; The earth around with greedy claws they tear, Whilst serpents hiss and poison all the air.

SECOND VOICE.

There, when the shades of evening fall, The sportive hares their gambols keep; Or, fearless of the huntsman's call, Upon the verdant herbage sleep; While midst the foliage of the o'erhanging boughs The feathered tribe in slumbers soft repose.

FIRST VOICE.

Around that dank and humid spot A noisome vapor ever clings, Exhaled from heaps which there to rot Death with untiring labor brings; Devoid of leaves the trees their branches spread, And every plant seems withering, or dead.

SECOND VOICE.

In what soft accents whispers there The evening breeze about the tomb, Diffusing through the balmy air Of countless flowers the rich perfume, And speaking of a place of peace and rest, Where e'er mid breathing fragrance dwell the blessed!

FIRST VOICE.

When to this dismal vale of tears, The pilgrim comes with weary pace, O'erpowered by appalling fears, In vain his steps he would retrace; Urged onwards by a hand unseen, unknown, He's headlong in the wreck-strewed torrent thrown.

SECOND VOICE.

Worn out by life's sad pilgrimage, Man here at length his staff lays down-- Here feels no more the tempest's rage, Nor dreads the heav'ns impending frown-- Reposes from his toil in slumbers deep, And sleeps of ages the eternal sleep!

EDITORIAL REMARKS.

We flatter ourselves that our patrons will not be displeased with the feast which we have set before them in the present number of the Messenger. We have not commenced with the egg and ended with the apple, (_ab ovo usque ad malum_,) according to the ancient custom; nor placed the substantials before the dessert, as in modern entertainments; but have rather chosen to mingle them without order or arrangement,--that our guests may partake as their respective tastes and inclinations may dictate. The scientific reader will be attracted by the communications of Dr. POWELL, and PETER A. BROWNE, Esq. of Philadelphia. By the former gentleman, who is now actively engaged in geological and antiquarian researches in the western country, we are kindly promised occasional aid; and, to the latter distinguished individual, we owe our thanks for the warm interest he has evinced in our infant enterprize.

Of Mr. WIRT'S letter, it would be superfluous to speak, more especially as it is accompanied by some excellent remarks by a highly intelligent friend,--himself destined to become an ornament to the profession of which he speaks.

The general reader cannot fail to be pleased with many, if not all the communications which are inserted. In the article headed "_Example is better than Precept_," he will recognize an elegant and vigorous pen;--and, in the "_Recollections of Chotank_," it will not be difficult to perceive that the hand employed in describing the generous customs and proverbial hospitality of that ancient portion of our state,--is one of uncommon skill in the art and beauty of composition. The article from the Petersburg Intelligencer, entitled an "_Extract from a Novel that never will be published_," (but which we hope _will_ be published)--though not expressly written for the "Messenger," will be new to most of our readers. If we mistake not, the writer has furnished strong evidence of talent in a particular department of literature, which needs only to be cultivated in order to attain a high degree of success.

The poetical contributions, which are entirely _original_ in the present number, whilst they do not need our eulogy, we cannot permit to pass without some special notice at our hands. The "_Power of Faith_" will not fail to attract the lover of genuine poetry, especially if his heart be warmed with christian zeal. It is written by a gentleman whose modesty is as great as his merit; and whose writings, both in prose and verse, will do honor to his native state. The sprightly effusion among the prose articles which is headed "_Sally Singleton_," is from the same hand. Of "_Death among the Trees_," it would be unnecessary to speak, as it will be readily recognized and admired, as the production of a distinguished female writer already known to fame. We take pleasure in placing in the same company two other charming effusions, by writers of the same gentle sex, whose assistance in our literary labors we shall always be proud to receive. We allude to the "_Address of the Genius of Columbia to her Native Muse_," and the "_Lines to an Officer of the United States Navy, by E. A. S._" The "_Sonnet, written on the Blue Ridge_," and the "_Stanzas, composed at the White Sulphur Springs of Virginia_," are both the productions of the same superior mind. There is not only decided power, but a most attractive pathos and bewitching melancholy in the two {64} productions referred to. We hope that the author will continue to adorn our columns with the offspring of his gifted muse. The author of "_Lines on a Billet from an Early Friend_," will always be a welcome guest at our literary table. We know him as a gentleman of fine taste and varied endowments. The "_Cemetery_" is from the pen of a young Philadelphian of fine talents. He need not at any time apprehend exclusion from our columns.

If we have chosen to speak last of the author of "_Musings_," it is not because he is least in our estimation. On the contrary, we sincerely esteem him as among the favored few, to whom it is given,---if they themselves will it,--to reach the highest honors, and the most enduring rewards, in the empire of poesy. The beautiful and graceful picture of Venice, presented in our present number,--of Venice despoiled of her ancient glory--yet still glorious in ruin,--will command, if we mistake not, general admiration. Successful as the author always is, in his light and fugitive pieces, he gives evidence of a power to grasp the highest themes, and to sport with familiar ease in the least accessible regions of fancy. Why does he not seize the lyre at once, and pour forth a song which shall add to his country's honor, and insure for himself a chaplet of renown? Why does he not at once take rank with the HALLECKS, the BRYANTS and PERCIVALS, of a colder clime? He is every way qualified to do it.

To our numerous correspondents and contributors, whose favors have not yet appeared in print,--we owe our acknowledgments, and in some instances an apology. Our space is exceedingly disproportioned to the quantity of matter which we have on hand; and, of course, we are driven to the painful, and rather invidious task of selection. We have many articles actually in type, which we are necessarily obliged to exclude from the present number. Among them may be enumerated "_A Scene in Genoa, by an American Tourist_," the "_Grave Seekers_," and other fine specimens of poetry. The "_Reporter's Story, or the Importance of a Syllable_," "_The Cottage in the Glen_,"--the poems from Louisa and Pittsylvania, and from various other quarters, shall all receive the earliest possible attention. The high claims of our correspondents in Mobile and Tuscaloosa in the state of Alabama, shall also be attended to; and, we hope that others in distant states, will not deem themselves slighted if not now particularly enumerated.

The "_Eulogy on Lafayette_," transmitted from France, and handed over to us by a friend, shall appear in the next number.

We have read with pleasure, the love tale composed by an accomplished young lady in one of the upper counties; and, whilst we do not hesitate to render a just tribute to the delicacy of sentiment and glowing fancy which distinguish her pages, candor compels us to urge one objection, which we fear is insurmountable. The story is wrought up with materials derived from English character and manners; and, we have too many thousands of similar fictions issuing from the British press, to authorize the belief that another of the same class will be interesting to an American reader. We should like to see our own writers confine their efforts to native subjects--to throw aside the trammels of foreign reading, and to select their themes from the copious materials which every where abound in our own magnificent country.

For a similar reason, our friend from Caroline must excuse us for declining to insert his sketches. We have no "_dilapidated castles_," nor any "_last heirs of Ardendale_," in our plain republican land.

Neither can we insert in our pages (though we should like to oblige our Essex correspondent,) any thing which bears the slightest resemblance to a _fairy tale_. We prefer treading upon earthly ground, and dealing with mortal personages.

To our highly respected correspondent, who addressed a letter to the publisher in June last, from Prince Edward, we take this opportunity to say, that our columns shall be freely open to discussions in behalf of the interests of education. We conceive that the cause of literature is intimately connected with it; and we have it in contemplation to present ere long, to the public, some candid views, in regard to the policy heretofore pursued in the Councils of our State, on this interesting subject. We are enemies to every system founded upon favoritism and monopoly; and we are advocates for the equal application of those pecuniary resources which the bounty of the state has dedicated to the cause of education. We have no idea that the Literary Fund, the common property of us all, ought to be so managed as to defeat the purposes of its founders; in other words, that it should be so wrested from the original design of its creation, as to benefit only two classes of society--the highest and the lowest,--the extremes of wealth and indigence,--whilst the great mass of the community are excluded from all advantages to be derived from it. This system may suit particular individuals, and may subserve particular ends; but it is at war with the best interests of the state, and ought to be exposed, so far as the honorable weapons of truth and justice shall be able to expose it.

The suggestions of our highly intelligent friend from South Carolina, who we presume is a temporary resident in one of the northern states, are entitled to much respect and consideration. We quote the following just sentiments from his letter:

"American literature, although increasing, is still at an immense distance in rear of that of England, and Germany and France. And why? It is owing entirely to the _divided attention_ of our literary characters. However profound and capacious their minds--and however great their powers of thought, and brilliant and forcible those of expression, it is impossible for them to succeed, at the same time, in every department of knowledge. No man can distinguish himself in any one pursuit, when his mind is applied to a dozen. Let him bend his faculties upon a single object; and with industry and perseverance, he will assuredly secure its attainment. Among us, we have no professed students, whose lives are devoted to the acquisition and development of learning. All men of talents rush early into the absorbing pursuits of politics; and together with providing the means of support, continue in them for life. So long as this is the case, it cannot be expected of us to present eminent men, in any way calculated to compete with those of the Old World.

"It would be a useful and an ennobling task for some one, well qualified to examine the subject in all its bearings, to offer an expose of the various causes for the low ebb at which our national literature now stands, and the means by which they might be subverted."

We should be much gratified if some one of our many intelligent subscribers would furnish us an essay upon this interesting subject. None would be more likely to present it, in some of its strongest lights, than the writer of the letter from which we have quoted.

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SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.] RICHMOND, NOVEMBER 1834. [NO. 3.

T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.

The _Publisher and Proprietor_, has made such arrangements for the management of the _Editorial Department_, as he hopes will be satisfactory to his patrons. If the circulation of the "Messenger" continues to increase, he has it in contemplation not only to secure regular able contributions, but also to embellish some of his monthly numbers with handsome lithographic drawings and engravings; but the cost cannot be prudently incurred without an enlargement of his list. He therefore hopes that such of his friends as feel an interest in the successful prosecution of this first serious attempt to establish a literary periodical south of the Potomac, will aid him in extending its circulation--as the best means of ensuring its continuance and utility. _If each of his subscribers would only procure an additional one_, the work would not only be _firmly established_ but greatly _increased in value_. The Publisher avails himself of this opportunity to inform the correspondent of the Portland Advertiser that the latter is mistaken in respect to the place of his nativity. The Publisher did once reside in the city of Boston, and can freely bear testimony to the high character, the generous feelings and the noble accomplishments of its citizens--but he was only a sojourner among them; having been born, and for the most part reared in the Ancient Dominion. If he were not a full blooded Tuckahoe Virginian, he would like to be a Bostonian.

All communications of every kind must be addressed to T. W. White, _Publisher and Proprietor_.

The issuing of the present number has been delayed in consequence of the change to a _monthly_ instead of a semi-monthly publication. The Publisher hopes that the change will be agreeable to his patrons. He is firmly persuaded of its expediency in various respects.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

And Present Condition of Tripoli, with some accounts of the other Barbary States.

No. I.

_Washington City, November, 1834_.

Agreeably to my promise, I send you the sheets containing _Sketches of the History and present condition of Tripoli, with some account of the other States of Barbary_ which may perhaps be found worthy of insertion in the "SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER." They are the fruits of researches made for my amusement, into the history of those countries, and to which I was led by information accidentally obtained respecting the present condition of affairs in Tripoli.

The north of Africa has so long remained in comparative obscurity, exercising little or no influence in the grand game of national contests, which forms the subject of our most interesting modern histories, that works relating to it are few in number, and generally bear unequivocal marks of the ignorance or prejudice of the writers. For this reason, it is difficult to obtain a correct statement of facts, and almost always impossible to arrive at motives; persons therefore who estimate the propriety of labor, by calculating the value of its produce, would easily be diverted from such researches, although they might not object to profit by their results.

I have endeavored to arrange into a regular series, the facts thus collected, passing lightly over those which are the most generally known, and introducing occasionally a few observations, which will not I hope be considered obtrusive. Yet I fear that I shall not succeed in communicating any interest to the pages of your periodical; the details of selfish intrigue, murder and treachery, never relieved by incidents springing from generous motives, which constitute the history of the north African nations, are, I must confess, more likely to excite disgust than pleasurable emotions; still they exhibit man as he is, without the light of civilization, or the restraints of moral duty; and may serve to attach us still more strongly to those social and political institutions, without which a similar state of things might exist among ourselves.

I am, sir, &c. R. G.

The countries lying on the southern shore of the Mediterranean, and usually denominated the Barbary States, have for many ages been almost forgotten by the christian world, or only remembered as the abode of pirates and ruffians. The maritime powers of Europe seem however at length to have recollected, that at a short distance from them, are territories of great extent and fertility, capable of producing most of the articles now obtained, by means of long and dangerous voyages, from the East and West Indies, and offering every facility for commercial intercourse, with the countless nations inhabiting the vast continent of Africa. These territories are, it is true, already inhabited by people living under acknowledged governments; but a continued course of misconduct, which experience has shewn to be incorrigible, has caused them to be regarded as completely out of the pale of civilization; and if they retain their independence much longer, it will be rather from jealousy among their powerful neighbors than from any respect for their claims to nationality.

The French have already set the example, by the conquest of the principal places on the coast of Algiers, and although they have as yet penetrated but a short distance into the interior, there can be no doubt that steady and well directed efforts, such as they are now pursuing, must eventually secure to them the possession of a large and valuable tract. The British have indeed protested strongly against the retention of these conquests, but never, that we have heard, on the grounds of injustice to the vanquished party.

Tunis, the next in power as in situation to Algiers, would be even a more important acquisition in a political or commercial point of view, than Algiers; but it would not probably be reduced without an immense expenditure of blood and treasure; for its resources are comparatively great, and its government efficient and well organised. Besides which, it has not of late afforded any cause for dissatisfaction, having yielded with a good grace to the necessity of abandoning piracy, and evinced a disposition to seek for wealth, by the surer means of industry and commerce.

Tripoli, the other and least important of the States of Barbary, had, until lately, pursued a course similar to that of Tunis, and its condition was highly prosperous; it was in fact the first to desist from piratical cruises, for which the world is indebted in a great measure to the efforts of the United States, during the years 1803 and 4. But dissensions in the family of the sovereign have at length produced a civil war, in which the foreign residents suffer as well as the natives; and thus have motives, at least specious, for foreign interference, been given to the two powers which divide between them the empire of the Mediterranean. The French, as usual, took the lead, by sending a squadron to Tripoli, which in 1828 dictated the terms of the redress to be made to their citizens; and they have since that period, by the aid given indirectly to one of the contending parties, obtained a degree of ascendancy which has excited the jealousy of Great Britain.

These circumstances induced inquiries into the present condition of Tripoli, which naturally led to others respecting its past history and that of the neighboring states; and the results being considered interesting, have been thrown together in the following form.

* * * * *

The north-western part of the African continent is traversed by a lofty and extensive mountain range, which is known to us by its classic name of ATLAS. On the northern and western sides, these ridges extend to the sea, forming by their projections numerous capes and promontories, which have been the dread of navigators in every age. On the south, they in many places disappear as abruptly in the great ocean of sand called _Zahara_, or the Desert, which stretches across the continent, from the Atlantic to the valley of the Nile, and the shores of the Mediterranean; the descent is, however, generally gradual, leaving tracts of productive soil between the steeps and the desert; these tracts, though not adapted for the growth of grain, are so highly favorable to the Palm, that they are known by the name of Bilad-oul-jerrid, or the Country of Dates.

The mountains are highest and most continuous in the west; towards the east they become gradually lower, and there are many breaks in the chain, through which the sand makes its way from the desert; at length they disappear entirely beyond the great bend which the coast of the Mediterranean makes to the southward near Tripoli; and the sand having no barrier to check its advances, is rolled by the prevailing southerly winds to the shores of the sea.

Thus bounded and cut off from other habitable countries by sea and by sand, the region of the Atlas may be considered as one vast island; and these circumstances of its situation should ever be borne in mind, in moral or political speculations concerning it. Hence it was, that civilization did not gradually overspread it from the east, and that it could only be colonized by maritime powers; that neither the Egyptians, the Persians, nor the Macedonians effected its conquest, as they neither possessed adequate fleets, nor troops accustomed to the peculiar difficulties and dangers of the desert; and that the Arabs alone, a people bred among trackless wastes of sand, ventured to invade it without assistance from the sea. Indeed the little that is known of the geology of northern Africa, encourages the supposition that at some past period this country was encircled by water; and ingenious attempts have been made to prove that it was in reality the famed island of Atlantis, which was vainly sought by the ancient navigators in the ocean beyond the Pillars of Hercules.

The climate and soil of these countries are various, as may be suspected from their situation and the inequalities of their surface. Of the interior we know but little, and deductions from facts must supply the place of observation. On some of the mountains the snow remains during nearly the whole year, while the valleys and plains have yielded sugar, coffee and other productions, which require regular and intense heat. Grain is raised abundantly in the west, and the olives, grapes and figs of Barbary have been celebrated at all times. Of its general fertility, the immense population which it formerly supported is a sufficient evidence, while the athletic forms of the inhabitants prove its salubrity. But few rivers flow from the interior into the sea, and the largest streams are said to proceed from the southern sides of the mountains, whence they are discharged into lakes or dispersed in the sand.

The coasts, as already observed, are precipitous and dangerous, particularly in autumn, during the prevalence of northerly winds; they are however free from shoals and other hidden difficulties, and have many ports which are safe and easy of access, while others might be rendered so by art. It is likewise certain, that many of the existing obstacles to the navigation would disappear, if a proper survey were made, and lighthouses were established where requisite; for the charts now in use are very defective, and no provisions whatever are made by the governments of the country; this, however, there is reason to believe, will ere long be corrected.

The superficial extent of Barbary cannot be as yet calculated; we know that it has coasts of five or six hundred miles on the Atlantic, and of about fifteen hundred on the Mediterranean; but the breadth between the sea and the desert varies considerably, and is no where correctly laid down. It is probably greatest in the vicinity of the Atlantic and in Tunis, where it may be one hundred and fifty miles; in Algiers, Shaler considers it generally to be about sixty miles; but Tripoli is merely a narrow strip of soil, on the Mediterranean, in many places traversed by rocky spurs from the mountains, and tracts of sand from the desert.

The materials for the early history of this country are very imperfect; we possess no works of ancient native writers, and the accounts from which all our information must be drawn, appear in the form of episode, in those of Greek and Roman historians. It seems to have been originally inhabited by fierce and intractable tribes, of which those most advanced in civilization, had only reached the pastoral state. Herodotus gives us the names of many of these tribes, which it is now useless to enumerate; those of the eastern part were comprehended by the Greeks under the general name of _Nomades_, or wanderers, which, unknown among themselves, was afterwards converted by the Romans into _Numidians_, and became their distinctive national {67} appellation; the _Mauri_ occupied the western part, and this term, (in English, _Moors_,) is now applied by Europeans to all the natives of Barbary.

The enterprising Greeks and Phoenicians did not allow the advantages offered by northern Africa to be neglected, and they established colonies on its coast, which attained a high degree of prosperity. The Greeks made their settlements on the sterile shore now forming the eastern part of Tripoli, and lying immediately south of Peloponnesus, where the Mediterranean forms a gulf anciently called the Great Syrtis. As the surrounding country is by no means productive, these colonies could only have been supported by trade with the interior of Africa; and were probably the resort of caravans bringing gold, gums, spices, ivory and other precious articles, to be exchanged for the manufactures of Greece and Asia. Such a traffic, we know from the accounts of late travellers, is still carried on from Tripoli; and the part of the desert lying south of it is better adapted than any other for that purpose, on account of the many _oases_, or islands of cultivable soil, which are scattered through it, offering rest, and a supply of food and water to the caravans while on their march. By these means, the Greek cities acquired great wealth, and became the seats of luxury, refinement and science; and stupendous ruins, the haunt of the jackal and hyæna, still remain to attest the former splendor of Cyrene and Apollonia.

The more adventurous Phoenicians made their settlements farther westward, in the fertile region now composing the states of Algiers, Tunis and a small part of Tripoli; they flourished even more than those of the Greeks, and became the principal seats of commerce in the western Mediterranean. Of many of these colonies, history has preserved to us the names, and nothing more; one of them, however, far outshone the rest, and its struggle for supremacy with Rome, forms the subject of one of the most interesting portions of ancient history. Of Carthage, perhaps it might be as Sallust conceived, "_melius silere quam parum dicere_," better to say nothing, than only a little; yet a few remarks on its political system and the results of that system, will serve to illustrate the condition of northern Africa during this early period.

The situation of this celebrated city near the narrow streight which separates Sicily from Africa, was admirably adapted for commerce with either division of the Mediterranean; its rivals, Agrigentum and Syracuse, possessed indeed the same advantages of site; but Carthage, besides a soil equally fertile, had the superiority in her intercourse with the central parts of the continent. Of her constitution we know too little to be able to judge what share her government may have had in her advancement; there is every probability, however, that wealth had great influence in her councils, and that its acquisition was at first the great end of individual and national enterprise. The first object of her statesmen seems to have been, to extend her dominion over the territory at home; this was attempted by means of colonies judiciously placed, which by amalgamation with the native tribes, and by the example of the advantages to be derived from fixed habits, and a respect for rights to landed property, were gradually subduing and civilizing the rude aboriginals; these could not from their habits be easily extirpated, as they might retire to the mountains, or if there pressed, find a safe retreat in the _land of dates_ behind; they were moreover valuable as soldiers, and as carriers across the desert. The other Phoenician colonies, though many of them were never subject to Carthage, yet all acknowledged her as the head of their league, and she relied upon their support, in case of invasion from abroad. But they too were to be reduced, and gradually incorporated into the Carthaginian empire; things were rapidly advancing towards this consummation when Carthage fell.

The other grand object of their policy was the subjection of the whole country surrounding the western half of the Mediterranean, which was to be carried on by the quiet and sure means of trading colonies, established at convenient places on the coast. Thus, was the African shore to the streights of Gibraltar, that of Spain, the south of Gaul and the neighboring islands, dotted with colonies from Carthage, each of which had a territory behind, constantly increasing in extent. To support these establishments fleets were necessary, which could be easily manned by a nation having so extensive a trade by sea, while the native tribes of the interior furnished the hardiest soldiers.

Yet with all this apparent strength, the feet of the Carthaginian colossus were of clay; the wealth which enabled her to carry on this system made offices venal, narrowed the minds of her citizens and debased their character, while it excited the cupidity of her neighbors. Mercenary troops she could hire, and was sure of their fidelity while she paid them punctually; and with such, a general who should succeed in gaining their confidence, might effect immense results; but a succession of generals capable of doing this was not to be expected; and a single defeat was likely to be attended by depression and disorganization. She had, comparatively speaking, but few citizens in her armies; but few persons who could be urged by patriotism or interest in the public glory; and without such a class, no nation can long sustain itself against extraordinary difficulties. These defects would have ceased in time, when her possessions at home had been consolidated, and the other cities had been reduced under her government; but she was not destined to arrive at this point.

The prosperity of the north African nations, did not fail to excite the jealousy and cupidity of surrounding powers, and accordingly we find that all the great conquerors of the East formed plans for their subjection. The Persians after conquering Egypt sent an army which took and plundered Cyrene, but retired without proceeding farther. But another project was formed against their independence by a conqueror the most sagacious and successful who has ever yet appeared. Among the commentaries left by Alexander of Macedon, as recorded by Diodorus Siculus, (_Book_ xviii. _Chap._ 1.) was found a project for the "invasion and subjection of the Carthaginians, and others dwelling on the coasts of Africa, Spain and the adjacent islands; for which a thousand ships were to be built, in the ports of Phoenicia, Syria, Cilicia and Cyprus, larger than those of three tiers of oars; with directions for carrying a straight and easy road along the shore of the Mediterranean, from Egypt to the Pillars of Hercules." With such an armament, and such a leader, it is highly probable that the project could have been carried into effect; the Grecian colonies already acknowledged his power, he was {68} therefore secure of finding friends in the most difficult part of the country, either for naval or land operations; and the efficiency of his political arrangements in all other cases, does not permit us to doubt, that he would have founded in north Africa, a permanent and substantial empire. But this was not to be; Alexander died in the early summer of life, and of those who shared his dominions, no one was alone able to carry such a project into effect, and each was too much engaged in securing his own part, for any operation to have been conducted in concert.

While the designs of Carthage were advancing towards fulfilment, she was gradually becoming a military state. Her fleets covered the sea, often transporting a hundred and fifty thousand combatants, and her armies of mercenary troops, led on by one of the most persevering and ingenious leaders of whom we have any account, overran an immense extent of territory, surmounting natural obstacles of the most appalling character, and overthrowing enemies celebrated for their skill and courage. But her commerce suffered, and the expenses of the war exhausted her treasury. Of the other African cities, many had declared and acted in favor of her enemies, while others were ready to desert her when a favorable opportunity should offer. The native tribes had acquired civilization sufficient to unite them, and to make them aware of their own importance; their chieftains had become ambitious, and Rome made offers to them which Carthage could never have advanced.

In this conjuncture, her long absent and long victorious army was recalled, to meet the enemy on her own shore; but Hannibal had grown old, and was routed at Zama; during his absence a generation had arisen which knew him not, and banishment succeeded his defeat. The once proud republic had lost all, and consented to a treaty, the ruinous terms of which she was forced to receive as a boon, and did not dare infringe. Her navy being destroyed, Spain and her other conquests soon fell into the hands of the Romans, and at length the decree went forth "Carthago delenda est." The fate of this renowned city is well known. Within a century from the day on which Hannibal sent home the spoils taken at Cannæ, the banished Roman Marius sought refuge among the desolate ruins of Carthage.

The other Phoenician as well as the Greek colonies, submitted to the conquerors on favorable terms; the chieftains of the wandering tribes who had adhered to Rome, were rewarded by the titles of kings; and enjoying the semblance of sovereignty over territories named by a majority of the Roman Senate, served to keep each other, and the cities, in check. In process of time, even this last shew of independence disappeared, and the region of the Atlas finally became one Roman province, under the appellation of Africa.

As a part of the Roman dominions, Africa reached its highest state of civilization; the cultivation of the land was carried to so great an extent, that it was considered the granary of the Mediterranean, and the cities on its coast were the depots of a most extensive trade with the interior of the continent. Carthage arose with additional splendor from her ruins, and for more than eight hundred years continued to be the capital of the province. The inhabitants retained their former characters; those of the coast were ingenious and industrious; fond of luxury and not celebrated for their good faith or moral character; the mountaineers kept up their reputation for courage, and we read of few battles gained by the Roman arms without the assistance of Numidian archers, or Mauritanian cavalry. Nor were the Africans excluded from office, for we find three of them successively filling the Imperial throne. They embraced christianity with the rest of the empire under Constantine, and churches innumerable marked the fervor of their devotion. Their religious zeal was farther shown in the bloody controversy between the orthodox and the Donatists, which desolated the country during the fifth and sixth centuries of our æra, and nearly extinguished the light of civilization. The invasion of the Vandals soon after inflicted another blow upon its prosperity; these barbarians were however soon reduced to submission by Belisarius, and Africa continued under the government of the emperors of Constantinople, until the commencement of the eighth century. At this period the followers of Mahomet every where successful in the East, turned their arms towards the setting sun, and traversing the Desert which separated the Roman province from Egypt, appeared before the frontier cities, presenting to their astounded inhabitants the alternative of the Koran or the sword.

Tripoli was the first country in the African province invaded by the Saracens,[1] and in order that its subsequent history may be better understood, it will be necessary to make a few observations on its ancient condition, which could not well have been introduced before.

[Footnote 1: It should here be noticed that the followers of Mahomet were at first merely termed Arabians, but when their conquests extended over Syria, Egypt, Mesopotamia, and other adjacent countries, they were known by the more general name of Saracens, or _people of the East_, from the Arabic and _Sharak_--meaning _East_. Africa was and still is called by Asiatics, _El Magrab_, or the West; though in Barbary the term is strictly confined to the Empire of Morocco. When Africa had been overrun, and the same conquerors had passed into Spain, they were termed Moors by Europeans, as coming from the ancient country of the Mauri, although the generals, and probably the greater part of the troops, were natives of Arabia.]

In the narrow tract between the Mediterranean and the desert, westward of the celebrated gulf called the Great Syrtis, and adjoining the proper territory of their republic, the Carthaginians had at an early period established several colonies, of which three, Leptis, Oea and Sabrata acquired great importance as commercial stations under the Romans, and the district containing them was called Tripolis, or the Three Cities. Of these Leptis was the most eastern; and extensive ruins still remain as evidences of its former greatness, in the little town of Lebda, about seventy miles from Tripoli. Sabrata was at the western extremity of the district, on the spot now occupied by a village called Old Tripoli.

Oea was situated between these two, on the western side of a small bay, formed by the projection of a rocky point of land into the sea. A triumphal arch dedicated to the emperors Marcus Aurelius, and Lucius Verus, and considered the finest monument of that kind remaining, with several other ancient relics, give reason to suppose that it may have been a splendid city; and it is mentioned as such by Pliny, Strabo, and some other writers of the latter days of the Roman empire. We however learn nothing from them respecting its history; and in the year 647 of the Christian æra, when {69} the Saracens invaded Africa, Leptis and Sabrata had sunk into comparative insignificance, while Oea had appropriated to itself the name of the whole district, and was a large, wealthy and strong city. The seat of government of the Roman, or rather Greek dominions in Africa, continued to be Carthage, where resided the emperor's Prefect or lieutenant; Utica, Hippo, and other ancient places were still flourishing, and several had grown up to importance, whose names do not appear in the pages of Roman history; of these the principal were Sufetala, Bugia, and Tingi or Tangiers.

The Saracens appeared before Tripoli in number forty thousand, under Abdallah, governor of Egypt, and Zobeir a distinguished soldier; but the strength of its walls baffled the attempts of enemies totally unacquainted with the art of besieging, and enabled its inhabitants to remain secure, until an immense army had been collected by the Prefect for its relief. It at length appeared, and actions daily took place, in which nothing was decided in favor of either party. Gregory the Prefect fought with gallantry, attended in the field by his daughter; yet this example was not sufficient to encourage his troops, although they far outnumbered their enemies; and as a last effort, he proclaimed that his daughter's hand with a hundred thousand pieces of gold, should be the reward for the head of the Saracen general. Thus excited, the African youths took courage, and Abdallah considering his own person as too important to be exposed to such dangers, remained during the ensuing action in his tent; but he was soon shamed from this retreat by the fiery Zobeir, who insisted upon his replying to Gregory's proclamation, by promising the lady and a similar reward for the head of the Prefect.

This promise restored to the Saracens their former courage and vigor, and in another action Gregory was slain by Zobeir, in his daughter's presence, and she herself became a prisoner. Thus far we have materials for the commencement of a romance, but the sequel throws a doubt over the charms of the lady, or the gallantry of the hero; for Zobeir received her and her dowry with ascetic coldness, declaring that "he labored for a recompense far above the charms of beauty or the riches of this transitory life." The Africans dispirited by these losses, at length gladly purchased a precarious peace and the retreat of the Arabs, at the price of a sum equal to about six millions of dollars.

This act of submission on their part, brought upon them the ire of their despotic masters at Constantinople, who instead of assisting them to repair their forces in anticipation of another attack, loaded them with taxes, as a penalty for their pusillanimity. By such treatment they were reduced to despair; and when in 668 the Arabs again crossed the Desert under Bashar, they were hailed as deliverers; and the great mass of the inhabitants threw off not only the government, but the religion of their Greek oppressors, and submitted to those of the Caliph of Damascus. Africa had suffered severely in the religious wars occasioned by the schism of Donatus; and since those sectarians had been put down, or rather extirpated, the utmost tyranny had been exercised in affairs of religion by the haughty and unrelenting hierarchy. From this circumstance perhaps, their creed hung but lightly on the lower orders, being associated in their minds with stripes and fines; otherwise it is difficult to account for so sudden and extensive a change, of which history no where else offers an example. Thus favored, the march of the Saracens was a continued triumph: a reinforcement arrived, and under the command of the energetic Akbah, nearly the whole country was subdued. Carthage was besieged, they having by this time learnt the use of engines and the art of mining; Tripoli, Utica, Sufetala, Bugia and the wealthy Tangiers were stormed and plundered; and the fierce conqueror rushed into the Atlantic, crying, "This sea alone arrests my progress."

The christian powers of Europe beheld the conquests of the Mahometans with dread, and a combination was formed among them for the recovery of Africa. Expeditions were sent from Constantinople, Sicily and Spain, which united under the command of John the Patrician, a renowned Captain, proceeded to the relief of Carthage. Before they arrived, that city had fallen; they however recovered it, and instantly gave battle to the enemy, under the walls of Utica. The christians were totally defeated, and the small remains of their army took refuge in the ships, and abandoned the country. The Roman power was every where overthrown; Carthage, retaken by the Arabs, was razed to the ground; and fifty miles south of it was founded a new city, called Kairuan, which was long the capital of Africa, the seat of Mahometan splendor and learning in that quarter.

But the invaders received a new check from a direction whence it was least to be expected. The sea coast as we have observed, although much reduced in point of wealth and refinement, by the excesses of the Vandals and the religious wars, was still a cultivated region, supporting a numerous population, the descendants of the Greeks, Phoenicians and Romans. But the mountains and the country behind them remained in possession of the aboriginal race, who under the name of Berbers, retained their old pastoral and predatory habits, and were a constant source of trouble to the foreign rulers of the province. Among these people appeared a female named Cahina, of extraordinary courage and address, who persuaded them that she was inspired, and that an opportunity was offered for regaining possession of the country. An immense multitude were thus speedily assembled under her banner, equally daring and enthusiastic with the Saracens, who were attacked with an impetuosity never before displayed against them in Africa. Success encouraged the mountaineers, and in an incredibly short space of time the invaders were driven into Egypt. This being effected, the prophetess proposed to take away all inducement for their return, by laying waste the country. Her proposal was readily assented to by persons who had no property but their tents, flocks and horses; and dreadful were the consequences of this determination. The fertile territory was made desolate, and the splendor of civilization, already much dimmed by the fury of Vandals and religionists, was entirely obscured. The unfortunate inhabitants of the coast, thus pressed on all sides, in their despair, invited the Saracens to return, and aided by them, made head against their savage destroyers. In the first battle the Berbers were totally routed, and their queen slain; this bond of union being destroyed, they were soon dispersed, or reduced to slavery.

{70} The Arab power was now undisputed; in a very short period there were no more christians to be taxed. The few remaining churches became mosques; all traces of former manners and institutions disappeared; and a torrent of Asiatics overflowed the country, establishing in every part their own customs and language. Of the Arabs many betook themselves to the Desert, where their descendants still wander, scarcely distinguishable from their brethren of the Arabian sands. The others gradually amalgamated with the natives, and at the present day, the fixed inhabitants of Barbary form one race, differing but little among themselves in appearance, habits or language, and known to Europeans by the general name of Moors. The mountains and the borders of the Desert are still possessed by tribes speaking a language totally distinct from all others known--nominally professing the Mahometan religion, but regardless of its precepts--dwelling in tents, and wandering from pasture to pasture with their flocks and herds--displaying the same fierce and indomitable character which distinguished the aboriginals, from whom they are in all probability descended. The most powerful of these tribes are the Kabyles, who principally inhabit the territory of Algiers, where by their impetuous inroads, they present the greatest bar to the establishment of the French.

Africa was scarcely possessed by the Saracens, ere those restless conquerors passed over to Spain. Their character seems however to have been already softened; for we no longer find among the Moorish invaders of the peninsula, the fierce barbarism of the early followers of Mahomet; and the kingdoms which they founded in that delightful land, were celebrated for the industry, ingenuity and cultivation of their inhabitants. The Moors of Spain soon threw off their allegiance to the Caliphs in the East; and two independent kingdoms were also founded in Atlantic Barbary. In 790, Edris-ben Abdallah, governor of Almagrab, _or the West_, which name was applied to the ancient Mauritania, assumed the title of Sultan of Fez, from his capital city; his successors ruled supreme over Western Africa, until the middle of the eleventh century, when the Almoravides, a fanatic sect, obtained possession of the southern part, and established the kingdom of Maraksh, or Morocco. These two principalities now form the empire of Morocco. Eastern Barbary in the gradual dismemberment of the Arabian dominions, first became one kingdom under a family of sovereigns called the Aglabites, who for some time reigned with great splendor at Kairuan, they were overthrown in 909, by an expedition from Sicily, then a Saracen province, and the country was for nearly six hundred years after, ruled or ravaged by various dynasties.

At length, towards the commencement of the sixteenth century, the Moorish kingdoms in Spain were overthrown, and a rage for conquests in Africa pervaded the Peninsula. Eastward of Morocco and Fez, Barbary was at that time divided into a number of small principalities, each consisting of a strong town with as much of the surrounding country as it could keep in subjection; the principal of them were Algiers, Bugia, Oran, Tunis, Telemsen and Tripoli. Against these places numerous expeditions were sent out from Spain which generally proved fruitless; however, some places on the coast were taken, among which was Tripoli, or Trablis, as it was then called. It fell into the hands of Ferdinand, the Catholic, in 1510; but his more politic successor, the emperor Charles the Fifth, probably not knowing what else to do with places so inconvenient, surrendered it twelve years afterwards, with the adjacent island of Malta, to the knights of St. John, who had just then been expelled from Rhodes by the mighty Sultan Solyman. Malta was a barren rock, and Tripoli had sunk from its former greatness, little remaining but its walls, its castle and its port. Both places were however capable of being strongly fortified, and the knights required nothing else; they therefore accepted the assignments, and applied all their energies to render their new habitations capable of resisting the shocks to which they would soon inevitably be exposed.

The Turkish power was at this period in the zenith of its prosperity, and Europe again trembled as in the days of the immediate successors of Mahomet. The Mediterranean was swept by innumerable cruisers under its flag, commanded by daring and ferocious captains, who completely destroyed the commerce of christians in that sea, and made frequent descents on the coasts of Italy, Spain and the islands, which they plundered, carrying off the inhabitants for the purpose of extorting a ransom. Of these the most famous were Urudsch or Horuc, and his brother Chaireddin, successively dreaded in their day by the appellation of Barbarossa, or the _red beard_.

Urudsch being anxious to have some port in the Western Mediterranean, to which he could at intervals retire with his booty and prisoners, offered his assistance to the prince of Algiers, who was endeavoring to regain his possessions from the Spaniards; and no sooner had he effected this, than he seized upon the city, murdered his confiding ally, and declared the country subject to the Porte. On his death, which soon after happened, his brother Chaireddin assumed the command and succeeded in expelling the Spaniards from a small island, close to the city called Algesr or _the island_ which they had for some time held; he then connected it with the main land by a causeway, and thus formed the present port of Algiers, which takes its name from the island. He was afterwards regularly invested by the Porte, with the title and powers of a Pasha, or viceroy; and obtaining large additions to his army, composed entirely of foreigners, he reduced the country to subjection.

This being effected Chaireddin turned his attention to the neighboring state of Tunis, against which he prepared a powerful armament, nominally for the purpose of reinstating its exiled prince Alraschid; under this pretence, he easily gained the capital, which he instantly declared to form a part of the Turkish empire. Alraschid died a prisoner in Constantinople; but Muley Hascem, whom Barbarossa had driven out, applied for assistance to Charles the fifth, which was readily granted, and that emperor himself commanded the expedition against Tunis. It appeared before the city on the 19th of July, 1535, consisting of five hundred vessels, bearing thirty thousand veteran troops. Barbarossa was not taken unawares, and the conflict was terrible; the celebrated fortress of the Goletta, which commands the entrance into the bay of Tunis, was defended with great bravery, by Sinan a renegade Jew, but it soon fell before the artillery of the fleet, and Tunis lay {71} exposed. Chaireddin assembled his forces, and gave battle to the invaders; but he was totally defeated, and the outbreak of ten thousand christian captives from the prisons of the city, increased the confusion; the Turkish army fled to Bona, and Tunis was instantly stormed by the imperial troops. Muley Hascem was restored to his throne, on terms most favorable to the christians; but in a few years more, we find the Turkish power again established, and this country continued to be governed by Pashas, from Constantinople, until 1684, when a certain Hassan-ben-Ali obtained sovereign possession, and his family have ever since held the crown under the title of Bey, paying however a tribute to the Sultan.

Charles the fifth was so much elated by his success at Tunis, that he led another expedition in 1541, against Algiers, which was governed by Hascen Aga, Barbarossa having been elevated to the office of Capoudan Pasha, or High Admiral. The imperial troops landed at a short distance east of the city; but immediately after there arose one of those terrific storms of wind and rain, to which that coast is subject in the autumn; the troops unprovided as yet with tents, were drenched in rain, their ammunition was spoiled, and they were thrown into confusion at the first onset of the Turks. The ships were many of them lost, others dismasted or driven on shore, and the Emperor, after great personal hardships, made his escape with a small remnant of his gallant force.

The unfortunate issue of this attack probably contributed more than any other circumstance to the long impunity enjoyed by Algiers, which continued until within a few years past to insult the rest of the world by its piracies, and had come to be considered as absolutely impregnable. It was governed at first by a Pasha, appointed from Constantinople in the same manner with other parts of the empire; but in time, the garrison were permitted to elect their own chief, subject however to the confirmation of the Porte, which was never refused as the request was always accompanied by a present. The garrison and all the officers of the government were foreigners; no native even though the son of Turkish parents, being eligible to any; and no where else probably in the world would have been found such a collection of abandoned miscreants. The chief was in reality a Pasha of three tails, or viceroy of almost unlimited powers--his peculiar appellation being derived from his enjoying the right of having three horse-tails borne before him in public. In the christian world he was usually known by the appellation of _Dey_, which word however means _uncle_ in Moorish, and was perhaps originally a nickname; it was never applied in Algiers. No prince or officer ever held his place by a more precarious tenure; seldom has one died a natural death, and it is certain that the ex-Dey, Hussein, who surrendered the city to the French, is the only one who could have said "I was once Pasha of Algiers."

Tripoli remained in possession of the knights of St. John until 1551, when they were attacked by a Turkish army under the command of the same Sinan, who had defended the Goletta against Charles the fifth, aided by the squadron of Dragut a noted captain, in character similar to the Barbarossas. The besieged conducted their defence with great gallantry, but the town being burnt, they were forced to take refuge in the castle, which they continued to hold out in hopes of relief from Europe. But none came; the Seigneur d'Aramont, while on his way as ambassador to Constantinople from Henry the second of France, stopped at Tripoli and endeavored to obtain a suspension of the siege, until some arrangement could be made with the Porte; but this proposition was rejected by Sinan, who was sure of his prey; and all, that the ambassador succeeded in procuring, was a capitulation on more favorable terms, which being accepted, the governor John de Vallier surrendered the castle, on the 16th of August, 1651, and retired to Malta. Dragut took possession of the place which he rebuilt and strengthened; and having been declared Pasha, established a system of government, similar to that of Algiers; it was however more dependant on the Porte, the chief being always appointed from Constantinople.

The states of Barbary thus became reduced in number to four, viz: the independent empire of Morocco in the west, and the regencies, as they are termed, of Algiers, Tunis and Tripoli, under the suzerainty of the Sultan. Several places were taken and held at different periods by Spain; for instance Oran, which was surrendered to Algiers in 1792, after having been held since its capture in 1510 by the famous cardinal Ximenes; and Ceuta a strong place nearly opposite Gibraltar, which is still subject to Spain, and serves chiefly as a place of imprisonment for political delinquents.--These states occasionally carried on some commerce among themselves, or with Europe and Asia; but their principal support was derived from piracy. Their cruisers were generally small vessels, crowded with desperate ruffians, who succeeded chiefly by boarding, either directly from the decks, or by the aid of boats; thus their prizes were but little injured, and were sold profitably in Barbary, whilst the crews were retained in slavery, unless redeemed at a high ransom. To preserve their citizens from this horrible fate, many commercial nations were obliged to pay enormous sums as presents to the governments of these countries, which regarded no treaties while this was neglected. It is, however, to the honor of the United States, that our government opposed these demands, as soon as it was in a condition to render resistance effectual; and it was while successfully employed in humbling these audacious pirates, that our cannon were first heard in the Mediterranean.

The length of this article renders its entire insertion in this number impossible,--it will however be concluded in our next.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DYSPEPTIC MAN.

MR. WHITE,--I am so unfortunate as to be the wife of a dyspeptic man, and shall find some relief if you will permit me to spread my complaints upon the pages of your Messenger. Men are "_April when they woo, December when they wed_," as I have found to my cost. My husband was once as tender and affectionate as I could wish, but poor man he is now totally changed; I suppose it is owing to his having the dyspepsia. He is so peevish and fretful I hardly dare speak to him;

"He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin;"

{72} and it is impossible to keep pace with the endless variety of his aliments. If I happen to make a mistake and inquire after the wrong pain, he flies into a violent passion and reproaches me for a want of sympathy in his sufferings. It was but yesterday I happened to say, my dear how is the pain in your back? [I had forgotten it was his side.] This was enough; he cursed matrimony and swore it was the vilest of all institutions; that a wife was nothing more than a legalized tormentor; that if he were single, he would not marry any woman under the sun--no, not if she had a bulse of diamonds torn from a Begum's ear, and much more in the same strain; and at last cooling down, he asked me if I did not remember that his last pain was a pain in the side, and then entered into such a history of his malady, that I sorely regretted I had opened my lips upon the subject. What right have we to worry other people thus with our maladies? I never tell mine to any but the doctor, because I know that nobody else listens, and I doubt very much whether _he_ does half his time. If any one gives my husband the common salutation of how d'ye do? oh dear, he begins at the beginning of his disease, [like an old gentleman of my acquaintance who always begins at the Revolution,] and traces it down through all its variations for the last five years--tells all the remedies he has used and their effects, until you may see a half suppressed smile lurking about the lips of the interrogator, which increases at length to so broad a grin, that I am in agony for the consequences. He has tried in turn every remedy of every quack upon earth, and has gone so far as to punch himself almost to death with his _own fists_, by the advice of one Halsted. At first he is always pleased with the medicine, but at the end of two or three days he protests that he is worse, much worse; and vents his spleen upon the physic, the inventor, and upon me for permitting him to use such vile trash. Sometimes he comes to me and tells me exultingly that he has at last found out the panacea--the grand catholicon for all his sufferings. "My dear B----," he will say, "let me explain to you the philosophy of this matter. When food is taken into the human stomach, if it cannot undergo a proper digestion it goes through the putrefactive process; just such a process as would take place in animal or other substances, if exposed to the action of heat and moisture in the open air: a quantity of carbonic acid gas is disengaged, and this gas filling the stomach acts by mechanical pressure, and thus produces the pain I feel. Now I have discovered that in consequence of my habit of eating fast, my food is not sufficiently _triturated_, and of course the gastric juice [heaven help me!] cannot act upon it; and I am exactly in the situation of the sheep or any other ruminating animal, who swallows the herbage whole, and then _regurgitates_, that it may undergo a better mastication. Well what then is the remedy? I will tell you; I will make John pound my food in a mortar, which will supply the necessary trituration, and thus I shall be a well man." He sent off immediately to a druggist and purchased a nice little wedge-wood mortar, and there stood John every day behind his chair, pounding his meat, bread and vegetables, into a revolting mass, until my poor ears were well nigh deafened with the shrill din of the pestle against the sides of the mortar. Was ever woman so beset? At the end of a week, finding himself no better, he threw the mortar, pestle and all at John's head, and would certainly have pounded _him_ to death but for a fortunate dodge, which permitted the mortar to come in contact with my china press, where it made sad havoc among my most valuable ware. He was very glad he said, because I had no business to let the press stand there. It was on the tip of my tongue to say, "bray a fool in a mortar," &c., but I checked the impulse, and mildly said, I was very sorry indeed that he could get no relief. This somewhat mollified him, and the next day he came to me and apologized for what he had done, and promised to repair the damage by making me a handsome present; but this calm was of short duration, for he soon relapsed into gloom--and as he sat by the fire smoking his pipe, he all at once declared that it must have been the cursed tobacco which had poisoned his existence; that during the combustion of the tobacco an oil was disengaged, which mixing with the saliva, was taken up by absorption into his lungs, and had eaten them to a honeycomb. John was immediately called: "Here," said he, "John, take this pipe, and d'ye hear sir, hide it--hide it where I never can find it again." John accordingly took the pipe, but struggled in vain to choke his laughter. Before he could escape from the room, he burst out into such a loud, distinct, irrepressible ha! ha! that there was no mistaking the thing, and he was soundly caned for his involuntary breach of decorum. About three days after this, in the evening after tea, my husband's favorite time for smoking, I observed him very restless indeed; he rose, walked about the room, sat down, whistled, hummed a tune, and rose again. At last he began to rummage about the wainscoat and mantlepiece, and behind the book case, and suddenly turning round he called John in a softened voice; "John, my good fellow, where is my pipe? I must have left it in the study; do go and look for it." John hesitated and grinned.--"What the devil is the fellow laughing at? Begone sir, and bring my pipe immediately." John speedily vanished. Turning to me, you see, said my husband, my unhappy condition; my very servants turn me into ridicule, and you do not reprove them for it. I could not reply, but felt anxious to point out to him that he could never hope to be well, because he would not adhere for a space of time sufficiently long to any plan whatever. His scheme now is to eat nothing but cold bread. It must be set away in a pure place to _ripen_, as he calls it. Hot bread just from the oven he says is giving out carbon continually, and has not imbibed a sufficiency of oxygen to make it wholesome. Can you forbear smiling my friend? Now I know that there is nothing of literature in all this, unless the chemical disquisitions of my wretched husband may be so considered; but nevertheless I flatter myself you will give me a place in your Messenger, because many a victim of dyspepsia may look in this mirror and see himself.

BELINDA.

BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT FROM LACON.

Posthumous fame is a plant of tardy growth, for our body must be the seed of it; or we may liken it to a torch, which nothing but the last spark of life can light up; or we may compare it to the trumpet of the archangel, for it is blown over the dead: but unlike that awful blast, it is of earth, not of heaven, and can neither rouse nor raise us.

{73}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE REPORTER'S STORY,

OR THE IMPORTANCE OF A SINGLE SYLLABLE.

How much may depend on a single syllable! What direful consequences may be produced by the suppression of even the smallest component part of a word!--Gentle reader, be as patient as you are gentle, and the perusal of the following _true_ story will convince you of the correctness of these exclamatory positions.

Late in the autumn of 1826, I left the city of New York in a steamboat for Philadelphia, on my way to Washington, where I was to perform the arduous, if not very dignified duty, of reporter of debates in the Senate of the United States, for the leading journal of that metropolis. My wife accompanied me, and on stepping on board the Swan, (so was our steamboat justly called,) we found ourselves elbowed and jostled by a throng of travellers from various parts of the Union, wending their way, in most instances, to the capitol.

When the steamer had left the wharf, and the haste and bustle of the moment had ceased, I had time to inspect the countenances of the crowd, and recognized with much pleasure, the single familiar face of an officer of the treasury department, with whom I had formed a partial intimacy during a former visit at Washington. We met with much cordiality, and soon became engaged in recalling our recollections of past events.

My friend, it appeared, was personally and officially known to several individuals of our company; and without the formality of introduction, I soon found myself on easy travelling terms with four or five genteel looking men. Among these, the only persons necessary to mention, were a member of the House of Representatives from Massachusetts, whom I choose to designate as Mr. C.; another from a neighboring state, who will be sufficiently known to the reader as Mr. D.; and a young naval officer, whose name, if he had one, I have forgotten.

A free and easy, gossiping conversation was kept up with considerable vivacity by this group of strangers, the topics of which were various. Politics and theatricals predominated--New York was then, as she is now, the focus of both. The election of De Witt Clinton for the last time, as governor of the state, over a young and popular candidate, supported by the fragments of several exploded parties--the rising importance of the anti-masonic party--the Italian Opera, and Signorina Garcia, then in great vogue--the last appearance of Edmund Kean, after his fatal frolic in Canada, and the first appearance of Macready, who had just then made his debut on the American stage, to surprise and puzzle the people by a style as new as it was polished and severe. Such subjects beguiled the hours--and as I had long been almost as conversant with the green room as the editor's closet, I was enabled to contribute my full share to the gossip of our little coterie.

My Massachusetts acquaintance was a stout, well built, middle-aged man, with a bold and open countenance, which expressed good humor, and not a little self complacency. It seemed as if one could read on that face the conviction of its owner, that he was born to be a member of congress, a great man, and a clever fellow. A travelling cap, worn carelessly, or rather with a careful affectation of negligence, on one side of his head, and a slight rattan, which he twirled with a practised hand, evinced a determination on his part to appear to the very best advantage. Without these, and other affectations, which I observed in Mr. C., no one could have mistaken him for other than a well bred gentleman. His attempts to enforce the acknowledgment of the character by aping the airs of fashionable folly, might cause a momentary doubt, whether the whole was not affected. We often perceive similar mistakes in ambitious men brought up in seclusion--but in the present instance, a stranger was soon undeceived by the conversation of Mr. C., which gave assurance of a cultivated mind, and the habit of associating with the learned and the intellectual.

The characteristics of the other lawgiver to whom I have alluded, were less complicated. His was a face as black as night. His beard, whiskers, hair and eyes were coal black--the latter small and piercing. No other feature was worth noticing, and the whole taken together, formed, if not an _ugly_ countenance, one which came very nearly up to that epithet. His dress was a pepper-and-salt frock, vest and trowsers, and his hat had evidently passed its prime. In manners he was the opposite of Mr. C. There was a bluntness in his remarks, and a sharpness and brevity in his replies, entirely unaffected, but not altogether pleasing. On a partial acquaintance, you had such doubts of him as you would entertain of a partly tamed _bruin_.

The young naval officer was like all _young_ naval officers, with a dash of spirit which he seemed solicitous to display--a stiffness of deportment which evinced that the thoughts of discipline could not easily be shaken off, and an apparent consciousness of the admiration to which his profession and his _dress_ entitled him from people of every degree. Nevertheless, he was agreeable, and condescended, most benevolently, to mingle in the conversation with those around him.

Passing the time between these companions, and an occasional peep into the ladies' cabin to see that nothing was wanting to the comfort of my wife, (who was deterred by the chilliness of the atmosphere, from joining me on deck) the journey was uncommonly agreeable, until we reached Philadelphia. At that city my treasury friend left us, not so much regretted as he deserved to be, because his place was supplied by the new companions to whom I have alluded.

We were shortly transferred to another steamboat, in which, after about two hours' delay, we proceeded to New Castle. A change of considerable extent had taken place in our company. We had lost many faces to which we had been familiar during the morning--and we had gained many others which wore the first gloss of newness. I have already said that I had not been formally introduced to the gentlemen whose acquaintance had been pressed upon me--yet we had learned each other's names, and used them with freedom. Probably I was the only _incognito_ among them--the only man whose profession was unknown, and therefore the only one liable to doubt or misconception. But of such a chance I did not then dream.

Among the new passengers were two ladies, one quite young, although the mother of two or three children. She was pretty, and, as I afterwards found, very talkative. The other was a matron more advanced in years, and with a still larger number of children. Her dress was half mourning, her manner grave and lady-like. {74} With these ladies I perceived that my wife had entered into conversation on their first arrival on board, and my occasional visits to the cabin shewed me that their gossip, was kept up with much spirit. Returning from one of these calls, a strange gentleman addressed me, and asked if my name was S----; I replied in the affirmative, and after a very civil preface, he requested, (as I was the only gentleman with a lady on board,) that I would give my protection to a female acquaintance of his and her family, who were on their way to Washington. He observed that he should go no farther than Baltimore, and from that place he would be obliged to me to take charge of them. I readily assented: we went to the ladies' cabin, where I was introduced with all due form, to Mrs. M., the elder and graver of the two ladies already mentioned. She had made herself acquainted with my wife, and all parties seemed pleased with the arrangement.

On going above, I found my friends, the two members of congress and the naval officer, laying plans for a game of whist on board the Trenton steamboat, which was to take us from Frenchtown. I was asked to make one of the party, and assented. A few hours brought us to New Castle, where stages were in readiness to transport us across the isthmus, to Frenchtown--for it must be remembered, that there was then neither canal or rail road between the two points.

As the oldest passengers, I presume, my wife and I were seated in stage No. 1, with a motley group of persons. Not one of our newly formed acquaintances were with us, and in our carriage there was not an individual with whom five minutes conversation could be sustained. I made repeated efforts to arouse our fellow passengers, but after receiving each time a monosyllabic rebuff,--a crusty yes or no, as the case might be,--I relinquished the attempt, and confined my endeavors to make myself agreeable to my good woman, who gave me an amusing detail of a conversation while on board the steamboat, between herself and the younger of the two ladies to whom I have already referred. Mrs. R., as my wife informed me, had favored her with a detailed history of her family, her husband, children and herself, with all things thereunto appertaining, even down to the fashion of her last new bonnet. Having thus exhausted herself by this unsolicited confession, or as the Scotch say, having "made a clean breast," she remained silent, apparently expecting a similar display of frankness from her auditress. But my wife did not readily recognize the principle of reciprocity in such cases--and accordingly gave the conversation a different turn. This, however, failed to meet the views of the communicative lady. Nothing short of mutual confidence seemed to tally with her notions of politeness to strangers. And finding that my wife still hung back, she proceeded to cross-examine her upon her domestic affairs, family connexions, and most closely on my objects and pursuits in life, and purpose in visiting the capitol at this season. To all these questions my wife answered briefly, but truly, although with reluctance.

I was much diverted at this novel specimen of female curiosity, and the tactics observed in its gratification. It appeared to me uncommonly _equitable_--for what could evince greater fairness than to prelude an investigation of the private affairs of your neighbor, by a voluntary detail of your own.

About eight in the evening, we reached Frenchtown, where our supper was waiting on board the Trenton. Having despatched the meal with a good appetite, and the ladies having withdrawn for the evening, the engagement for a game of whist occurred to me. I had not, up to that time, observed any one of our party, and I set out to collect them together for our match.

I first encountered Mr. C. pacing up and down the cabin with great gravity. Walking up to him, I reminded him of the game of whist, proposing that we should collect our party. To my great surprise, the manner of the man towards me was entirely changed. He gave me a glance which looked exceedingly like contempt--replied to my question with a rude and hasty negative, and turned upon his heel.

I was astonished, as well I might be, at receiving a cut direct from a man, who but a few hours before had lavished upon me so large a share of familiarity and attention. I was chagrined at his contemptuous manner, and I was puzzled to divine its cause. Indeed, my perplexity was far greater than my chagrin.

While I was pondering the matter, I caught a glimpse of my other congressional friend Mr. D., at some distance from me. I went to meet him, and put to him the same question I had addressed to Mr. C. As I spoke, he wheeled partly round, fixed his small black eye upon me for a moment, with a scrutinizing glance, and without vouchsafing one word in reply, wheeled back into his former position, and walked from me with a stateliness and decision of step, which precluded any farther conference. There could be no mistake in this. It was the _ne plus ultra_ of _cutting_. It was more than the cut direct--it was the _cut_ irrevocable, immutable, eternal!

Good heavens, said I internally--what can this mean?

Is it the moon ---- That comes more near to us than she was wont, And makes men mad?

If, thought I, the young "Middie" plays me the same game, it will be evident that they act in concert. It is worth testing--and _apropos_ to the thought, he just then passed quite near me. I assumed as much ease as the circumstances of the case would permit, (for it will not be thought remarkable that I had been considerably disconcerted)--and reminded him of our contemplated game of whist. He looked at me with cool indifference, as though he had never seen me before in his life, observed that a party could not be made up, and, waiting no further question, passed me, whistling some naval air, and looking in another direction.

This last rebuff completed my indignation and perplexity. But it was an evil which must be borne,--for however annoying I might find such treatment--the caprice of strangers in being at one moment as familiar as old friends, and withdrawing their familiarity at the next, was not good argument for a quarrel. I could have no claim for satisfaction or explanation, on an individual to whom I had not been formally introduced, and with whom my intimacy was of less than twelve hours standing, for choosing

-------- "to face me out of his acquaintance, And grow a twenty years removed thing While one could wink."

I had schooled myself to patience under these undeserved inflictions, and was preparing to retire, when I was called to the door of the ladies' cabin by the {75} waiting maid--and met there my wife, who seemed in a state of tribulation not inferior to my own. She said that since our arrival on board the steamboat, the two ladies who had been previously so kind and social, had scarcely noticed her, and had repelled every attempt at a renewal of former civilities; in truth, that she had been treated by her companions in much the same manner as I had been by mine. This was an additional mystery. How could it happen that contumely and disrespect were cast upon us from parties who were strangers, having no connexion with each other? The mystery seemed unfathomable, and after wearying myself with vain endeavors to conceive some adequate cause for the altered conduct of our fellow travellers, I fell asleep, and dreamed of myriads of self-important members of congress, and self-admiring naval officers.

We found ourselves at the wharf at Baltimore in the morning, and in the scramble to disengage our baggage from the mass heaped upon deck, (to which every traveller is premonished by the oft-repeated advertisement that "baggage is at the risk of the owner")--I met my whilom friends, but without the slightest token of recognition on either side. The talkative lady looked grave when I approached her, and was silent, ("an excellent thing in woman")--the older matron, to whom I was to act as protector for the remainder of her journey, shrunk from me as I advanced with the salutation of the morning; and when all was prepared for our departure from the steamboat, she declined my proffered arm, as I conducted her to the carriage. To my wife she was equally distant,--nor did a sumptuous breakfast at Barnum's, break the ice of her reserve, or rather, her aversion. Certainly, thus far, our society did not promise to be agreeable on either side. The lady kept as far aloof from us as circumstances would allow, avoiding every opportunity of conversation--and we were soon as silent as she, from a mingled feeling of pride and resentment. We embarked in a stage about mid-day--the roads was infamous, the weather chilly and obscure. We had the carriage to ourselves, and the ride was therefore the more gloomy, as among a promiscuous party we might have found some one willing to cheer the way by conversation: but as we were situated with our taciturn companion, excepting in an occasional colloquy with the driver, our organs of speech were unemployed, and during the greater part of our journey, we might have been taken for a party of mutes. As we drew near to Washington, this reserve wore away in a measure. Whether the lady's tongue became impatient of so long a period of inaction, or whether her assumed dignity gave way under a requisition upon it too great for its power--I know not. Certain it is, that she occasionally deigned a remark, and sometimes condescended to put interrogatories to me, relative to the distance to the city, and similar grave matters.

It was dark when we arrived. I had ordered the coachman to set me down at Brown's--but I was informed that there was not a vacant room in the house, and also that every other hotel in the city was full. This overflow of company as I afterwards ascertained was caused by the assemblage at Washington of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal Convention, adding some hundreds to the ordinary visiters of the period. To add to the discomfort of wanting lodgings, it was raining with great violence, and I dreaded a drive through the interminable streets of the federal metropolis. Our lady companion had observed that she was to be dropped at the residence of some relative, and moreover stated that it was a boarding house. But she avoided proposing that we should quarter with her; and not until I had seen her safely within the house, and was returning to the stage, did she mention our plight to her relative. The latter was immediately urgent that we should remain at her house, declaring that she had several unoccupied rooms, which were entirely at our disposal.

This new position of affairs was highly gratifying, and we anticipated all the comforts of a good supper, and comfortable lodgings, with a satisfaction which can best be conceived by those to whom those commodities have, at times, been wanting. My wife was safely seated in the well warmed dining room, the baggage deposited in the hall,--and I took the opportunity afforded by a delay in the appearance of supper, to step across the street, and inform the gentlemen with whom I was engaged, of my arrival, which was a day or two later than they had anticipated. On my return to the boarding house, to my utter astonishment, I saw my wife standing at the street door, in her bonnet and cloak, while my trunks were piled upon the steps.

Hey dey, said I, what does all this mean--why are you not warming yourself at the fire, instead of standing here muffled up, as if your journey was now to commence instead of being ended?

We cannot remain, said she, in a tone of chagrin.

Cannot! What is the reason? Are the people mad here, as well as on the road?

It would seem so. I had scarcely been five minutes in the house, when the landlady, who was at first so eager that we should lodge with her, changed her mind, and informed me that she could not accommodate us.

But she will not turn us out supperless, I hope, such a night as this?

I am not so certain of that. She appears to be infected with the same disease under which all our travelling companions have labored. People seem actually to avoid us as though we carried the plague about in our garments. She bowed me out of the dining room with as little ceremony as she would have shewn to a mendicant.

Well, well, said I, come in out of the air, and I will reason with her. So saying I led the way to the principal apartment in the house, which served as parlor, drawing room, and dining room--where the landlady soon made her appearance. She was a small, thin-faced woman, her form wiry and attenuated; her motions rapid and nervous; countenance much wrinkled, and of most forbidding expression, and a voice from which no art could have extracted a sound bearing the remotest relationship to harmony. Her dress was evidently suited to the season, when members of congress are seeking quarters for the winter, and when those who have them at disposal, are interested in putting the best possible face on every thing appertaining to their establishments. Her costume was, a silk frock, stretched upon her bony frame, and a yellow gauze turban, of monstrous size, decked with crimson ribbons, perched upon the top of her head, which thus seemed enveloped in "fire and brimstone:"--These awkwardly worn habiliments betrayed the fact that the lady had passed the day in attending the calls of the law-givers of the land, {76} with the laudable design of enhancing the value of her accommodations, in the eyes of some rustic Solon, but newly caught, by the genteel appearance of their mistress.

I addressed this formidable figure, with an inquiry whether we could not remain with her for the night, referring to the state of the weather as rendering it almost impossible to make search for lodgings that evening.

The lady eyed me with great scrutiny, and there was an elevation of her nasal organ, while looking at me, which distorted to a more hideous expression than was natural, her weather-beaten visage.

"Indeed," said she, "you can't stay, and that's all about it. Three _members_ have just sent down to say that they would take the rooms what they look'd at this morning, and that they must be fix'd up this very night. So you see you can't stay. It a'nt my fault--and so I can't say no more about it."

"Then we _must_ look for other lodgings. But you can give us supper. The members of Congress have not bespoken _that_ also, I presume."

"Well--no. You _can_ eat your suppers here I spose."

"And this lady can remain here until I can obtain other quarters."

"Well, I've no particular objection to her sitting here awhile."

Just then supper was served, and we partook of it. Our travelling companion was at the table, but scarcely recognized us, and the landlady was barely civil. When the meal was over, I requested the latter to allow a servant to accompany me in my search, as I was ignorant of the location of the principal boarding houses. Her son, a pert lad of about thirteen, volunteered to pilot me, and without delay we sallied out.

It occurred to me as we passed up Pennsylvania avenue, that I had forgotten to deliver a message of some importance to my employers, when I called to announce my arrival, and I turned a little out of my way to the office of the N---- I----, where, while I was closeted for a few moments with one of the editors, my juvenile guide remained in the clerk's office.

On leaving the office, I was surprised at the altered tone of the lad.

"You had better go back," said the manakin: "it is too late to get lodgings to-night. My mother can keep you as well as not."

"But she has refused to do so, and insists that it is out of her power."

"Never mind that. Go back with me--I'll work the old woman over. See if I don't tell you the truth."

"You are a promising lad," said I, "but a little too forward. Let us go on."

Finding me determined to prosecute the search, he yielded, and we called at several houses; but all were full. Against my will, I was forced to return, with the resolution of making good my quarters for the night, at any rate, with or without the consent of the lady of the house. My guide assured me that he could "manage the old woman," and told me to give myself no uneasiness on the subject.

After a dreary walk, we reached the house. There sat my wife with her bonnet still on, for no one had asked her to remove it--and there sat the lady in the brimstone turban, and fiery ribbons, in whose ugly visage the words "_turn out_" seemed written, in characters not to be mistaken. As we entered, the boy motioned his mother, who joined him at the door, where they held a whispering colloquy for a few moments. While they were thus engaged, I learned from my wife that there had been no change in the sentence of exclusion, altho' no new lodgers had made their appearance.

The whispering ceased, and the landlady approached me. What was my astonishment at perceiving that the gorgon face, before so hideous with frowns, was puckered into the queerest attempt at a smile that was ever before witnessed on the human countenance.

But this was not all. Not only did her face exhibit these convulsive efforts, but the form approached us, curtseying with a most unhappy imitation of grace.

The devil is in the hag--said I internally. What new trick is to be played now? I was not long in suspense. The boy had kept his promise it seemed, for he or some one else, actually had "worked the old woman over." She affirmed that she had just received messages from the three _members_, stating that they were not in haste for the rooms--and she assured us they were entirely at our service.

We knew that this was a fiction; but we were fatigued, and disposed to take the good the Gods provided for us, without much question. We were shewn to our apartments and slept soundly, forgetting all the vexations of the day.

The next morning, after having exhausted ourselves in wonderment at the freaks which had been played off upon us, I left my wife, to make some calls in the city. I had not been long absent, when she received a visit from Mrs. M., our travelling companion, who, after the usual salutations had passed, seemed struggling to suppress a disposition to laugh, which my wife took to be another mad freak, to be classed with those she had previously witnessed.

The propensity at length overcame her, and she burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, which lasted for many minutes.

Indignant as my wife was disposed to be, at such an unexpected explosion of mirth, from a lady who had for two days treated her with haughty reserve, if not absolute contempt, she bore it with patience, and awaited in silence the conclusion of her visiter's merry humor, and such explanation of its cause as she might choose to give.

Every thing must have an end--and the lady at length ceased her laughter, from absolute exhaustion.

"My dear madam,--she gasped out--my dear madam--this is very rude--very rude indeed. You must be surprised at such conduct, and I beg your pardon but"----

"It would be an unnecessary dissimulation, to say I am not surprised; but I presume I shall soon learn to be surprised at nothing."

"You really then, think you have been associated for the last few days, with persons little better than bedlamites."

"I have certainly been exposed to strange conduct."

"Well, I have come to explain the whole mystery. Do not be offended at my mirth. I could not resist it. The laugh was more against myself than you--and the whole affair is so ridiculous, that you will laugh too, when you know the truth."

"I own that I have a strong curiosity to be acquainted {77} with the cause of the strange treatment we have met with. I presume it arose out of some mistake."

"Entirely, entirely--and then a blunder so ridiculous--so uncommon! Excuse me, but really I must laugh--ha, ha, ha. But I will keep you in suspense no longer; besides, I wish you to laugh _with_ me, and therefore I will tell you my story. Listen. You remember that at Newcastle, you and your husband took one of the first stages. Myself and children were seated in another, in company with Mrs. R., (the pretty, talkative woman with light hair,) two members of Congress, and a young naval officer. We had scarcely started, when Mrs. R. commenced with her usual volubility, running over the various persons who had fallen under her observation in the steamboat. At last your turn came to be criticised: 'Did you observe Mrs. S.,' said she, 'the lady with black hair and blue eyes--rather pretty, and at first I took her to be quite a genteel personage.' Yes, I replied, I had been introduced to you, and was to place myself under the protection of your husband, from Baltimore to Washington."

"'Did you ascertain any thing of their standing and character,' said Mrs. R."

"Not a word said I. My friend Mr. H. told me they were genteel people, and their appearance warrants his opinion."

"'Well, really,' said Mrs. R., 'how easy it is to be deceived by people that one knows nothing about. You would not believe it--I am sure I would not, if Mrs. S. had not told me with her own lips--I say, otherwise, I would not have believed that Mr. S. was going to Washington in such a _menial capacity_.'"

"What!" said I.

"'_Menial capacity?_' said one member of Congress."

"'_Menial capacity?_' echoed the other member."

"'I took him for a gentleman,' said the naval officer--'Confound the fellow's impudence.'"

"But, said I, you must be mistaken, I'm sure. I am to go to Washington with him."

"'There must be some mistake,' said the two members of Congress, and the young naval officer, all in a breath."

"'Why we have engaged to make up a game of whist with him this evening,' said the latter."

"'Certainly!' said one member of Congress."

"'Certainly!' said the other member of Congress. 'Oh, there must be some mistake, my good madam. _Menial capacity!_ Impossible!'"

"'No mistake at all,' retorted Mrs. R., with some asperity. 'I tell you I had it from Mrs. S's own mouth, and she owned it after a good deal of hesitation and reluctance. I put twenty questions to her before I could get an answer.'"

"Well, said I, if you are so well satisfied that you are right, we are interested to know who and what these people are. I do not choose to travel under the protection of a man of _menial capacity_."

"'Yes, yes,' said the naval officer, '_what_ the deuse is the fellow. I should not wonder if he were a pick-pocket, or a black-leg, to judge by his easy impudence.'"

"'Very likely,' said one member of Congress."

"'I have not a doubt of it,' said the other member. 'But let us know, if you please madam, what he is.'"

"'As I said before, I would not have believed it if Mrs. S. had not told me herself,' said Mrs. R., hesitating."

"'Oh, no doubt you are right,' said the naval officer: 'but please let us know who it is we have been so familiar with.'"

"'Well,' said Mrs. R. 'Mrs. S. told me that her husband was going to Washington to be _Porter_ to the Senate.'"

Here my wife interrupted Mrs. M. with a fit of laughter almost equal to that with which Mrs. M. had indulged herself in the outset.

"So," said the former, "Mrs. R. mistook the word _Re_porter, for that of _Porter_,--an important omission."

"So it would seem," rejoined Mrs. M. "But let me go on."

"'_Porter to the Senate!_' exclaimed every voice."

"'A fellow who runs errands for the Senators, fetches and carries bundles, &c., I suppose,' said the naval officer."

"'I can't conceive what station he is to fill,' said one of the members of Congress, 'unless it is that of _old Tobias, the black man_, who kindles fires, and carries messages.'"

"'That is it I dare say,' said the other member."

"'We must cut him,' said the naval officer."

"'To be sure.'" "'To be sure.'"

"So it was settled by all present that you were to be cut without benefit of clergy."

"I should not have consented to place myself under your protection, continued Mrs. M., but that I had no choice. Knowing no other person with whom I could travel, I reluctantly accompanied you; and I trust," said she, laughing, "that on the road, I shewed a very laudable aversion to the contaminating society of a _Porter_ and his wife."

"No one can deny you that merit," said my wife.

"Well, I cannot ask your pardon for it. There was no malice in the mistake, and I am almost as much annoyed at it as you can be. After you arrived here last night, the landlady insisted on knowing what business brought your husband to Washington; and I reluctantly told her what I had heard. At the bare idea of lodging a _Porter_, her feathers bristled up like those of a Barbary hen. Her yellow turban looked blue at the idea of such an indignity. She protested that she would have no _Porters_ in her house, nor no such rapscallions as had the impudence to go about dressed like decent people, to take in the flats. And so, my dear madam, you were turned out without much ceremony, and might have spent the night in the street, but for the information obtained by the boy at the office of the N---- I----, which, by giving another syllable to the profession of your husband, shewed beyond a doubt that you were entitled to christian treatment. You know the rest, and I trust we shall all of us when we remember these blunders, acknowledge the IMPORTANCE OF A SINGLE SYLLABLE."

S.

Extracted from a Virginia Newspaper, Printed in 1775.

ON SLEEP.

O sleep! what though of death thou art To be an image said, I wish thee still with all my heart, The partner of my bed.

Thy company, soft sleep, then give, While in thy arms I lie; How sweet! thus, without life, to live! Thus, without death, to die!

{78}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE COTTAGE IN THE GLEN.

In traversing that region of country in the wilds of Maine, that borders one of her finest rivers, if you look carefully on your right hand as you pass through the town of ----, by the post-road, you may observe a cart-path leading directly into a thick wood, where the trees tower in majesty and beauty to the very clouds, and look as if they had thus stood ever since the day when "the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them." Were it not for this same cart-path, with its three ridges of bright greensward, and its four lines of dusky brown, you might doubt whether the silent grandeur of the forest had ever echoed to the voice or the footstep of man.

There is something truly grand and impressive in forest scenery. The lofty trees stretching high toward heaven; the graceful and majestic waving of the branches, breathing nature's own soft music, which scarcely removes the impression of profound silence--or which, to parody the words of Milton, "just makes silence audible;" the deep, and seemingly "boundless contiguity of shade," and the awful solitude, make man shrink into himself, and feel that he is in the presence of the Eternal. The weak spirit of a creature frail as man, is soon overpowered, if it give itself up to the impressions naturally produced by contemplating, in solitude, the grandeur of creation. The first feeling is delight,--next admiration,--then wonder,--then awe,--and then oppression;--and when it arrives at this point, the sight of such a little cart-path as I have mentioned, is a great relief to the feelings: for it shows that a being having passions, and feelings, and sympathies like his own--as short lived, as dependant, as insignificant as himself, is, or has been near. The deep shade has been penetrated; the solitude has been interrupted; and an unbroken and eternal silence has not forever reigned in the forest.

If the reader wishes, we will follow this path, and see whither it will conduct us. Its course is a little devious, probably to avoid the trunks of the trees, for not one appears to have been felled to shorten the distance, which is about three fourths of a mile, under the unbroken shade of the same noble woodland. Now the path begins to descend a little, and by almost imperceptible degrees, you arrive in a valley lying between two lofty ridges, that become more and more abrupt as you advance; and when you have proceeded about the fourth of a mile, they seem nearly perpendicular on either side. And their summits being crowned by the lofty trees of the same far stretching forest, adds much to the apparent depth of the valley, and you feel as if verging towards the centre of the earth. That little ripling stream in the valley, beside which we have been walking, now begins to widen, and presently expands itself into a mimic lake, restrained on the one hand and on the other by the mountain side, leaving just room enough on the left for the unbroken cart-path. Your ear is now assailed by the sound of rushing waters, and a roof appears beyond the lake--so that a habitation of man is near. No, it is a mill; the dwelling house is sixty rods below: there it lies, on a beautiful swell in the narrow valley, made, it would seem, on purpose for its site--and the again diminished stream is softly murmuring by its side. That is the Cottage in the Glen. If you please, we will descend, and take our station in front of it. Before we turned that angle to attain this spot, you were about to exclaim, "This is the very home of solitude, shut out from the rest of creation." But look straight down the valley, and far--far off, see the picturesque and busy village of ----, and the sparkling waters of the river. The valley is so straight and narrow, and widens so gradually towards its mouth, and the banks on either side are so precipitous, that it produces the same effect on the scene beyond, that a tube does in viewing a picture. Is it not beautiful! Now if you will climb with me to the foot of that tree that stands part way up the bank, we will be seated in the shade, and I will give you a sketch of the inhabitants of the cottage.

* * * * *

Mr. Kirkwood, a native of Massachusetts, and head of the family, is now upwards of seventy-five years of age; and until verging towards sixty, was decidedly a man of the world. He was educated at Harvard University, and at the age of twenty-eight, when he married, was a good scholar, a finished gentleman, and a successful lawyer.

"There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune."

Mr. Kirkwood seized the favorable moment, and his wealth rapidly increased. He wished to be rich; not to hoard his wealth--but that he might be enabled to procure all the indulgencies and elegancies of life, and move at the head of society. His wish was gratified. He became rich; lived in splendid style; and his house was the favorite resort of the wealthy, the elegant, and the fashionable. His wife was a model of good housewifery, propriety and politeness; and his only child, a son, was all that the heart of a man of the world could wish. Highly gifted by nature, and favored with every advantage for the cultivation of his talents, young Kirkwood was ushered into society, elegant in person, elegant in mind, and correct in morals. It was generally conceded that whoever obtained him, would gain a first rate prize in the matrimonial lottery. Of course, there was no little competition among mothers who had daughters to dispose of; and young ladies who wished to dispose of themselves. But the lovely, well educated, and retiring Mary Bust, engaged his affections without seeking them; and in winning her heart, and securing her hand, he insured his own earthly felicity. Gentle by nature, polished and enlightened by education, unblemished in reputation, and thoroughly well principled, through the assiduous care and unwearied instructions of wise and pious parents,--she was all a man could wish for as a wife, companion and friend; all he could wish for as the mother of his children. The son's choice gave perfect satisfaction to his parents; and when in the course of a few years, the young wife gave successively to the arms of her husband, three sons and a daughter,--there seemed to be around this family, a confluence of all that constitutes the felicity of earth.

But, alas, in the tide of men's affairs, there is an _ebb_ as well as _flood_; and this the Kirkwood family now began to experience. The elder Kirkwood had just begun to discover that his affairs were in some confusion, when his wife was suddenly snatched away by death. It was a heavy blow, and he felt it as such. But men seldom {79} die of grief! Millions have buried the wife of their youth, and been very comfortably supported under the bereavement; and so was Mr. Kirkwood. Indeed he had little time to spend in unavailing sorrow, or in brooding over the memory of the departed one; for the clouds of adversity became more and more dense about him, and he soon found that the combined energies of himself and son, could not avert the storm. Poverty seemed coming upon them "like an armed man." In the meantime, two of the blooming grandsons were in quick succession conveyed to the tomb; and just as the storm burst upon them in all its fury, the younger Kirkwood followed his mother and his two children to the world of spirits. After this tempest of adversity, Mr. Kirkwood stood like an oak, scathed by the lightning,--its verdure blasted, and its branches scattered abroad. He sunk, overwhelmed, and gave way to the most hopeless despondency.

There is a spirit in woman that will sustain her under circumstances which will drive man to despair. And when that spirit is moulded, guided, and strengthened by religion, it is invincible. Soft as the harp-tones of the "sweet singer of Israel," did Mary's voice now breathe on the ear of her disconsolate father.

"'Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil,' my father? Let us endeavor to say, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, and blessed be his name!' Arise, my father, and call upon our God. He 'hears the young ravens when they cry,' and will he not give his children food? He clothes the lilies of the field, and will he not clothe us? He binds up the broken heart; will he not then console ours?"

"Alas, my daughter," cried the old man, "He is thy God, but not mine. In the hour of prosperity I forgat him; in the hour of adversity I dare not approach him. May he, indeed, feed, and clothe, and console thee, and thy remaining little ones. For me--his vengeance alone will pursue me. Would I could hide me from his avenging hand, and lay my head in the grave!"

The despondency of her father added not a little to the load of sorrow that pressed on Mary's heart; but she had no time for idle lamentation. She had duties to perform; duties to him, herself, and her children; and laying herself low before the throne of mercy, she spread her sorrows and her wants before her Father in Heaven, and taking fast hold of Almighty strength, she went forward.

"My father," said Mary, "'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth;' and, 'like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'"

"But I have not feared him, Mary,--therefore he does not pity me. And his chastening is the chastening of an offended judge--in vengeance--not the chastening of a father."

Mary despaired not, though her father thus repelled all consolation; and when he sat absorbed in melancholy, and she scarcely dared intrude upon his thoughts, she would move about the room, just breathing the lines,

"Come ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, Come, at the shrine of God, fervently kneel; Here bring your wounded hearts; here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal;"

and at the same time raise a fervent prayer, that his sorrow might not ultimately prove to be that "sorrow of the world that worketh death," but the "sorrow that worketh repentance unto salvation." Her prayer was heard; her efforts were successful. It was not long ere with heartfelt gratitude, she heard him say, "'It is good for me that I have been afflicted.' 'The Lord gave,' but I have abused his gifts; and he 'hath taken away,' and blessed be his name for thus bringing an erring son near to himself." When this happy change first took place in the feelings of her father, Mary felt as though she had scarcely a care or a sorrow left. A future world, uncorroded by cares, unstained by tears, unblemished by sin, and unvisited by sorrow, opened on the eye of faith,--and all was peace within. But their pilgrimage was not yet accomplished; this home was not yet attained; and in the meantime, something must be done. Scarcely a wreck of their fortune remained; and Mr. Kirkwood, verging towards sixty, with the energies of his mind crushed by misfortune, felt it impossible to begin again his career as a lawyer. The remaining pride of his heart, rendered it extremely painful to remain amidst his former associates, with whom he could no longer, on equal terms, hold intercourse; and where every scene called back the visions of former splendors, and buried friends, with a sickening influence.

"Let us fly far from hence, my daughter," said he; "elsewhere I may recover something of my energy, and be capable of making some effort; _here_ I can do nothing. Let us fly from the world, and hide ourselves in seclusion. My soul needs repose. A withering blast has swept over it, to tear away its idols. The work is done--but the wounds are still bleeding: and though, I trust, the great physician is at work, there needs time to perfect a cure. Let us fly from hence, and in some new and humble occupation, strive to support ourselves for the remainder of life's journey, and rear these little ones for immortality."

So that she could be with her father, and her children, to receive the blessing of the one, and the caresses of the others, it mattered little to Mary what spot on earth she called home. She was a "_widow indeed_." The long, bright vista, through which she had looked on years of future happiness, with the husband of her love, was closed by death; and what mattered it, where she fulfilled the remaining duties of life, so they were but faithfully discharged?

Through the agency of a friend, the Cottage in the Glen, with the mill that appertained to it, and a few acres of ground, were purchased. Mary collected together the few articles that remained of former abundance; and with the feelings of a woman of cultivated mind and literary taste, and with all the providence of a mother, foreseeing the future wants of her children, did she most carefully gather up all the books that remained of the once large and well selected library. All things finally arranged, they removed hither.

A complete revolution had taken place in Mr. Kirkwood's views. He felt that nothing is really degrading that is not sinful; and he resolved, as far as practicable, to do his own labor with his own hands. But, until he could learn the art himself, he was constrained to hire an assistant, to take charge of his little mill; once familiar with the business, it was his own employment. {80} The family were very comfortable, and soon became very happy. Though the furniture of the cottage was scanty, it was arranged with so much taste, and kept in such perfect order, that it wore the air of gentility; and a profusion of wild flowers in the summer, and a blazing fire in the winter, gave an additional cheerfulness to its appearance. The mill supplied them with bread, and many other comforts of life, beside paying a poor man for a day's labor now and then on their little enclosure of potatoes. They procured an honest and faithful maid servant, who milked their two cows, prepared the butter and cheese, and spun the wool of their half a dozen sheep, beside doing all the more laborious work of the family. No human eye was upon them that had seen them in former days, and they were fast forgetting a world, by which they were already nearly forgotten. No real want of nature remained unsatisfied, and their Heavenly Father was as near them here, as in any other place. Glorious and consoling idea! that his children can be carried to no spot in creation, where he will not be present to sustain and comfort them! How glorious the idea of an Omnipotent God!

Nothing, under the power of religion, served so much to console the heart of Mr. Kirkwood, as the presence and the happiness of his grandchildren. Frederic was eight, and Clara three years old; and they were as happy at the Cottage in the Glen, as they would have been in the palace of the Thuileries. From his heart, he could adopt the language of Paley: "I seem to see the benevolence of the Deity more clearly in the pleasures of young children, than in any thing else in the world. The pleasures of grown persons may be reckoned partly of their own procuring; but the pleasures of a healthy child are so manifestly provided for by another, and the benevolence of the provision is so unquestionable, that every child I see at its sport, affords to my mind a kind of sensible evidence of the finger of God."

"These children are happy, Mary," he would say; "they feel no regrets for the past--no fears for the future, but enjoy the present with zest. Our wants are scarcely greater than theirs. Let us, then, not regret the past; let us not be anxious for the future; but in performing present duty, and being grateful for present good, let us trust our heavenly father, without fear or misgiving."

Neither Mr. Kirkwood nor his daughter found any leisure for idle repinings. The indispensable labors of each day, with the care and instruction of the children, occupied them fully. Frederic was sent to the district school, there to acquire what he could of education; but he was an intellectual and thinking boy, and soon began to call on his grandfather to assist him through the difficulties he encountered, as his mind rapidly developed. The education of Clara, Mrs. Kirkwood considered her own peculiar business. And when the little girl was old enough to go to school, she still preferred pursuing the task herself, as she dreaded lest her daughter should breathe other than a pure moral atmosphere.

Next to religion, the abundant means of education is undoubtedly the glory and bulwark of New England. And the district school, where the son of the town pauper may obtain the foundation of an education that will render him intelligent and useful, is an incalculable blessing. But wherever human nature is, there is depravity; and where human beings mingle together, this depravity is called into exercise. Even young children are not the innocent creatures some persons appear to suppose; but in almost every school may be found the _germ_ of almost every vice. So thought Mrs. Kirkwood; and it led her to educate her daughter entirely at home.

Time rolled on; and the children at the cottage increased in wisdom and stature: the parent and grandparent in meetness for the kingdom of heaven. Industry and economy, both of time and goods, was the order of the house; and the children cheerfully followed the example set them by their superiors. Frederic was always diligently employed, when not engaged with his books; and the healthful and joyous little Clara was the assistant of each one, as circumstances required, from her grandfather in the mill, to the servant girl at the washing tub. Permission to play in the open air, was a holiday to her heart; and she was light and joyous in spirit as the warblers of the grove. Content and peace reigned in the family. With each returning sun, their orisons were duly offered on the family altar; and when the shades of evening closed around, their thanksgivings and praises ascended to the throne of the Eternal.

"A holy incense--sweeter, richer far Than that upon the golden altar shed In Judah's sacred fane."

No change of any moment took place in their circumstances, and nothing in futurity was looked forward to with peculiar interest, until Frederic attained his fifteenth year. Then, one evening, after having been unusually thoughtful and silent, he suddenly looked up, and said,

"I want to be a minister of the gospel, and I want to go to college, grandfather."

Both the grandfather and the mother looked up in some astonishment; but they listened patiently to his plans, and heard him declare what efforts he was willing to make--what deprivations to endure.

"Dear grandfather--dear mother," said the eager boy, in conclusion, "do listen to me kindly. It will do me no harm to make the attempt. You, grandfather, and our good pastor, will help fit me for college; and I doubt not, that by my own industry, and what you can conveniently do for me, I shall some how or other get through. I feel that I can do nothing without an education."

"We will think on the subject, my son," said his grandfather, "and in due time let you know the result of our deliberations. Meantime, attend to your present duties, and 'take no _anxious_ thought for the morrow.'"

The important subject was not mentioned again for the evening; but it engrossed Mrs. Kirkwood's mind, and kept her waking many hours of the night. From her son's birth, she had consecrated him to the service of her Heavenly Father, though she knew not in what way that service might be demanded. Now she hoped he had consecrated himself; and that what seemed so aspiring in a youth in his situation in life, was an impulse from above, rather than the natural workings of an ambitious mind. But she was helpless in herself, and could only ask to be directed by Him who is {81} perfect in wisdom; to be provided for by Him who is infinite in riches. What needed she more!

The next day Mr. Kirkwood and his daughter held a consultation on the subject; and when, toward evening, Frederic saw his mother searching over a chest of old books, his eyes sparkled, and his heart throbbed with feverish impatience to ascertain if his conjectures were accurate. His joy was complete, when he saw the necessary books and grammars come forth; some in a mutilated state, it is true,--but no matter, so the important parts were but entire. He went about his task like one in earnest; his progress was rapid; and in due time he was admitted at college.

The years of his collegiate life passed rapidly away. The vacations of spring and autumn he spent in the bosom of his family, giving delight to the hearts of all by his improvement; assisting in their labors,--and superintending with deep interest, and assiduous tenderness, the education of his sister. But the long winter vacation was devoted to school-keeping,--the most lucrative employment to which he could, for such limited periods, devote himself. Once he was so highly favored as to get a school in the neighborhood of the Glen; and then his labor was a delight, rather than a task, as he could be with his beloved friends, and direct his sister in her studies. The family at the Glen, it is true, had to practice more than wonted frugality, to help in defraying his unavoidable expenses; but no self-denial was hard, when one so dear was to be benefitted--no sacrifice painful that was made for so important an object. Clara was by no means the least efficient in her endeavors to aid her darling brother. As soon as she completed her thirteenth year, at her earnest and reiterated entreaties, the servant girl was dismissed, and she cheerfully took her labors on herself, that Frederic might have the considerable sum thus saved to the family.

Meanwhile, Clara's own education progressed, notwithstanding her situation seemed so unfavorable for study. But she was a rigid economist of time; and when that is the case with any one, great things may be accomplished. Although her hands were busily employed a large portion of the time, a mind, thirsting for knowledge, surmounted all difficulties. She could not, indeed, touch the keys of a piano, or the strings of a harp; the spinning wheel and other domestic machines demanded too large a portion of her time, to have permitted the acquisition of skill on these instruments, even had she possessed them. But she knew who Dugald Stewart was, and what he thought of the "active and moral powers of man;" with Smellie she was intimately acquainted; and Rollin, Hume, Gillies and Gibbon were her daily companions. The works of Pascal and Massillon she could read in the language in which they were written; and with Virgil she could converse in his native tongue. Above all, she had studied the volume of inspiration, and had learned the way of eternal life.

Never had the family at the Glen been happier than when Frederic returned home, bearing his parchment roll, duly adorned with the riband, and the imposing seal; and, after some preamble, running thus:

Notum esto, _quod nos, consentiendibus honorandis admodum ac reverendis collegii antedicti_ Inspectoribus, _anno Christi_ MDCCC--_admisimum_ Fredericus Kirkwood _ejusdem alumnum, ad gradum_ Baccalaurealem _in_ Artibus; &c. But when he joined the domestic circle, authorized to preach the everlasting gospel, their joy was of a deeper, holier character. Would I could show you a picture of the group, as they encircled the blazing hearth on that happy evening. I will even make the attempt. There sits the venerable grandfather, in his large arm-chair, his white hairs smoothly parted from off his ample forehead, with every feature speaking of passions subdued, and a heart full of gratitude, content and love. Next the mother, with something like the bloom of youth stealing over her matron cheek,--while her eye moves in a tear that rises from that deep fountain of mingled feeling, known only to a _pious mother's_ heart, as she looks on the son of her love, and that son a _believer!_ Between these two sits Frederic, comely in manly strength, his whole countenance expressing heart-felt benevolence to all mankind--and peculiar love, gratitude and veneration for those by whom he is encircled. Last, and the darling of all, is Clara, seated on her brother's knee, with one arm around his neck, while her other hand is sometimes clasped in his,--sometimes straying amid his dark luxuriant hair. She is not exactly beautiful, but she is lovely. Her stature is rather below than above the medium size; and fresh air and healthy exercise have given elasticity to her limbs, and a bloom to her cheek, that rivals the richness of the peach. If her features are not regular, they defy criticism; for her whole face has such a glow of love and happiness, that the delighted beholder cannot seek for defects. Thus they all sat, enjoying the full tide of domestic happiness; and each might have said to the other, with Galatee,

"Tu me demandais ton bonheur, Et c'etait moi que tu rendais heureuse."

Even the knowledge that Frederic was soon to leave them, to enter on the duties of his vocation, could scarcely moderate their joy.

He has now entered on his holy calling; and though far removed from those who loved him so tenderly, nurtured him so carefully, governed him so wisely, and made such personal sacrifices to fit him for usefulness, they are happy still. Far from selfishly regretting that at the moment he was fitted for action, and capable of making some return for all their kindness, they are obliged to resign him altogether,--in the benevolence of their hearts they rejoice that they have been used as instruments to prepare him for a life of usefulness in the world; and their most fervent prayer for him is, that he may "turn many to righteousness," and then "shine as a star forever."

Yes, the family at the Glen are happy still. The aged grandfather is "waiting patiently his appointed time till his change come," with a "hope full of immortality." The mother, patient, gentle, subdued, serene, in fulfilling her quiet and unostentatious duties, is carefully laying up treasure, where "neither moth nor rust corrupt nor destroy." And the lovely Clara is the sunshine in the path of both. She hushes the sighs,--wipes the tears,--soothes the pains, and lightens the cares of each. Her voice is music to their ears; her presence brings gladness to their hearts; and they both pronounce her blessed.

But you inquire,--is she who breathes such fragrance around, forever to be immured in this sequestered {82} valley? No--she will move in a wider sphere; yet it is doubtful whether she elsewhere tastes such pure and peaceful happiness as she has tasted here. She may find more luxuriant roses, but then she must encounter the thorns; and what she may gain in untried sources of happiness, will be counterbalanced by unknown cares and sorrows. Yet she will, by and by, run the hazard: for her brother's dearest college friend once begged an invitation to spend a vacation at the Cottage; and when he left it, he left his heart behind him. Clara could do no less than give her's in exchange; and so she has promised, at some future day, to become his wife.

And now, as I have finished my sketch, we will leave the valley.

Do you further inquire what is the secret of their happiness? and whether she who has been so eagerly sought through the wide world, has chosen this for her favorite residence? I will give you the answer Mr. Kirkwood gave to Clara, when she asked him a question of similar import.

"Happiness, my daughter, has, on earth, no local habitation. She _may_ dwell in the palace or in the cottage; with the rich, or with the poor; with the learned, or with the ignorant. Her seat is in the soul,--and its security does not depend on external circumstances. A _peaceful conscience_, and a _humble_, _contented_ heart, grateful for blessings bestowed, and feeling no craving desire for those that are withheld, are the pillars of her throne. But there are two classes of persons that she will never deign to visit, be their rank or station what it may. Neither the _idle_ nor the _vicious_ are ever happy."

S. H.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PICTURE OF OLD VIRGINIA.

Look here upon this picture--and on this, The counterfeit presentment.--_Hamlet_.

Virginia had been beautiful And owned a lovely land; Her sons, who were so dutiful, Went with her heart and hand; They raised her to the highest seat, By talents and by worth, And sent her name in accents sweet, Far ringing through the earth.

But lately she had fallen off; Her beauty was impair'd; Her younger sons were heard to scoff-- _They_ might at least have spared. 'Twas said that she was growing blind, Was lazy and supine, And that she weakly lagged behind Her sisters, grown divine.

That all her days were spent, forsooth, In one eternal chime About her deeds of early youth-- "Resolves" of former time. Naught could be said and nothing told But she more devils spied; "_More devils than vast hell could hold_--" Or all the world beside.

And strangers[1] did her land deride-- With wagging tongue, reviled; Wild beasts, they said, had multiplied In that most barren wild; Her houses were untenanted-- The fox[2] had _manned_ her walls; And "_rank grass_" waved around his head, As in old Ossian's halls!

Her moral strength and physical,[3] Aye, both of them were gone, And every man seem'd phthisical, Or like to tumble down; Her talents all were buried deep, Or in some napkin hid, Or with the mighty dead, did sleep Beneath the coffin lid.

But far! oh far beyond all these, She had displeased her God; _Inter dolosos cineres_, She on volcano trod; She could not get o' nights her rest; At midnight bell for fire, She hugged her infants to her breast, Prepared for fun'ral pyre.

Virginia roused herself one day And took her picture down; And as she gazed, was heard to say-- Am I thus hideous grown? And am I stupid--lazy--blind-- A monomaniac too! Relaxed in body and in mind? Oh no! it is not true.

There lies outstretched my glorious land, With her capacious bay; My rivers rush on every hand, With sail and pennon gay; My mountains, like a girdle blue, Adorn her lovely waist, "_And lend enchantment to the view_," As in "_the distance_" traced.

I'll hie me straight to Richmond town, And call my liege men there; And they shall write these libels down, Or fill me with despair. I have a friend, who'll make some stir, And take my work in hand; I'll send him forth my "MESSENGER"-- To "_spy out all the land_."[4]

That Messenger went gaily forth Throughout her old domain, And there found many men of worth Would snatch their pens again; {83} And since their mothers' blood was up-- To cast her odium by, Would shed--of ink--their latest drop T' inscribe her name on high.

The land which he went out to sift, _No milk and honey floods_-- _It takes not two her grapes to lift_--[5] But grapes festoon her woods. No want of food, for beast or man, There met his eager gaze; Find better bacon!--greens!--who can? Or finer fields of maize![6]

Her Tuckahoes 'tis true, are slim, And of a bilious hue; But then he found the Anakim Beyond the mountains blue: Some men he found in safety chains-- All crossed upon the breast-- _They_ seem'd indeed to have no brains: But these all lands infest.

The women look'd so passing fair, How shall their charms be told? By their Iachimo's[7] they were Like brilliants set in gold. Of such _pure water_ was each maid; So sparkling unto view-- No wonder that it should be said They never could turn _blue_.

No foxes here, peep'd windows through; But oft at early morn They're seen to brush the glittering dew, Pursued by hounds and horn: Her "_hounds are of the Spartan breed_"-- "_So sanded and so flew'd_,"-- All "_dewlap'd_" _they, and all_ "_crook-kneed_"-- As Cadmus e'er halloo'd.

In short, all zealots are run mad T' abuse this pleasing sod; Where people sleep as sound, egad, As in the land of Nod: What! colonize old coachman Dick! My foster brother Nat! My more than mother, when I'm sick! "_Come, Hal, no more of that._"

NUGATOR.

[Footnote 1: See Col. Benton's description of Virginia, done into verse, beginning thus:

"As Benton jogg'd along the road, 'Twas in the Old Dominion, His thoughts were _bent-on_ finding food, For preconceiv'd opinion," &c.]

[Footnote 2: "The fox peeped out of the window, and the rank grass waved around his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina--Silence is in the house of her fathers."--_Ossian_.]

[Footnote 3: Man's strength is gone, his courage--zooks! And liberty's fine motions, &c.--_Benton_.]

[Footnote 4: And Moses sent them to spy out the land of Canaan.]

[Footnote 5: And they came unto the brook of Eshcol and cut down from thence a branch with one cluster of grapes, and they bare it between two upon a staff, ... and they told him, and said we came unto the land whither thou sentest us and surely it floweth with milk and honey, and this is the fruit of it.]

[Footnote 6: In old Virginia stint of food Diseases have engender'd-- The mind is gone--to want of blood Good morals have surrender'd.

Houses are fallen--fences down-- And men are now much scarcer-- Wild beasts in multitudes are known, That every day get fiercer.

Flee gravel--grit--and heartless clay-- Nor corn nor oats will grow there-- To westward hie--away--away! No heartless Clay you'll know there.--_Benton_.]

[Footnote 7: The yellow iachimo.--_Shakspeare_. [Cymbeline.]]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A LEAF FROM THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG AMERICAN TOURIST IN ITALY.

The "sable goddess" had been seated for some time upon her "ebon throne," when we passed through the ponderous gate and rattled along the principal street of Genoa the Proud. It was a beautiful night. The firmament was studded with sparkling gems, and the silver queen rode steadily in the heavens, diffusing that pure and hallowed illumination which prompted the ancients to worship her as the goddess of chastity, and uninterrupted by any of those envious clouds whose intervention between her face and the earth furnishes poets with so favorite a figure to express the idea of virtue obscured and oppressed with misfortune. It was not, however, a night in which "creation sleeps,"--or, to use the pompous phrase of Racine, in which "tout dort, et les vents et Neptune,"--for the wind was tempestuously high, and the waves evinced all their usual restlessness at being roughly visited by the subjects of old Æolus. As we whirled along, nothing like an animated being was to be seen; not even a mouse was stirring; and the rush and whistling of the wind through the street, seemed to bring out the solemn stillness which otherwise prevailed, into the strongest relief. How we strained our eyes to catch glimpses of the glorious palaces which have so filled the trump of fame, and to which the city is indebted for her magnificent title! And how impressive, how imposing was their appearance in the partial development and mellowed effect of their splendor, afforded by the beams of the moon! The whole street was one consecutive, uninterrupted row of princely buildings,--and exquisite indeed was the effect of light and shade there exhibited--"leaving that lovely which was so, and making that which was not."

We had given directions to be taken to the Hotel of the Cross of Malta--_L'Albergo della Croce di Malta_, and when the carriage stopped, we got out with the expectation of being at our destined domicil. No sign, however, of a hotel was visible, and one of our party began to make an accompaniment to the noise of the wind by storming a little at the postillions for not obeying his orders,--when the courier informed us that we were as near as the vehicle could get to the house, as it was located in a street hard by, too narrow for any but pedestrians. This position of one of the principal hotels of a city denominated _la superba_, appeared singular enough, and with our ideas of its superbness somewhat diminished, we followed the man a short distance up a lane in which two persons could scarcely walk abreast, until we reached the door of the establishment, whose aspect was not particularly inviting, in despite of its towering altitude. Our fears, however, as to the manner in which we might be accommodated, or rather unaccommodated, were soon put to rest, when we mounted the spacious stairway, and were ushered into a suite of apartments which to the simplicity of an American, republican eye, wore an air of absolute magnificence.

What a difference there was between the first aspect of things in this our Hotel of the Cross of Malta, and that which is presented in the places of entertainment for man and horse in the United States. Instead of being ushered into a bar-room filled with the fumes of whiskey and tobacco, crowded with boots to be blackened, decorated with "tintanabulent appendages" innumerable, {84} and affording palpable evidence in every way that the establishment is as much entitled to the motto, "e pluribus unum," as the government of the country itself, we were received at the portal by a single domestic and conducted to our rooms without seeing or hearing the slightest indication that any other "mortal mixture of earth's mould" besides ourselves, was in the house. And then the difference in the appearance of the apartments! The recollection of the closets or pigeon holes, styled chambers by the courtesy of our mother tongue, so limited in their dimensions, that like the cell of the poor Hibernian, in which he "did nothing but walk up and down," you cannot "stand in them at all," furnished with a bed, a wash-stand, two chairs, and a looking glass, in which you may see one moiety of your face at a time, if you exert yourself with sufficient industry, did not certainly excite any very lively regrets, as we gazed on the spacious apartments glittering with mirrors, the walls and ceiling frescoed and gilded _ad unguem_, mantles supported by sculptured goddesses, chairs and lounges covered with damask, and beds so richly curtained and attired, that it seemed as if one could scarcely sleep in them, for thinking of the luxury in which he was reposing. The hotel was formerly a palace, whose glories, in part, it still retains. Yet, to tell the truth and shame a certain nameless gentleman, before my head had been long laid upon the pillow, I would willingly have exchanged the grandeur and the spaciousness of the room in which I was courting the sweet restorer of tired nature, for the plainness and contractedness of any of the closets to which I have alluded. Verily I paid for my magnificence. Never did I suffer from cold as on that night--the very exercise which I took in shaking and shivering ought to have induced perspiration, but in spite of a respectable quantity of bed-clothes, with the addition of all my habiliments piled on top of them, I could not make myself warm enough to allow the god of sleep to exercise his balmy influence upon my eyes for an instant. Italian dwellings, unfortunately, as I thought then, are constructed much more in reference to the weather of the torrid than of the frigid zone. Every method is devised of letting in as much of the coolness of the external atmosphere as possible, and of adapting the materials of the apartments to the nullification of all caloric; and the one in which I was quaking, was in no way an exception to the prevalent custom. The marble floors and unpapered walls, notwithstanding the warmth of the colors with which the latter were filled, created a resistless disposition to chilliness in themselves; the wind came pouring through several windows, reaching almost from the ceilings to the floor, whose looseness provided it with abundant facility for ingress; no fire-place offered its aid for combating the power of the blusterer; and the bed in which I lay, curled up into a heap, to prevent the "genial current" from entirely freezing, was of amplitude commensurate with the dimensions of the chamber. Napoleon, with his whole staff, might have been accommodated in it, when he visited Genoa. Whenever I attempted to make a change of position, I might as well have fallen into an ice-house. What joy when the morning's light dawned upon my eyes! Never did I observe the maxim with regard to early rising with so much good-will, as when I left the inhospitable couch, determined not to entrust myself to it again. By the time I had dressed I was as near congelation as I well could be; the only thing that kept my blood in circulation was the prospect of an exhilirating fire in the sitting-room, and there I steered with all possible speed; but alas, for human expectations! On opening the door my optics were immediately filled with smoke, and as they are not of that "nice" character which are requisite "to see what is not to be seen," I could discern nothing like a blaze. The badly constructed hearth manifested the most invincible repugnance to permit the wood to ignite, but kindly enabled us to obtain all the warmth we could from fumigation. I confess I became somewhat dispirited. One of my motives in coming to Italy was to escape the cold of the winter at home, and here on my very entrance into its mild and genial atmosphere, as it is always called, had I suffered more chattering of the teeth than I ever did before for the same length of time. This may be an escape thought I, but if it is, it is one amazingly like that of Lieutenant O'Shangnessy, who _escaped_ from the field of battle into the ranks of the enemy.

W.

NEW ENGLAND.

The place from which the following letter is indited, can be forgotten by no one that has ever seen it. A fine view of _Northampton_ may be had from the top of the _Mansion House_, where the visiter commonly abides; but whoever ascends _Mount Holyoke_, is rewarded for his pains, with a prospect of surpassing beauty. In _Virginia_, we may have from our summits, a view of mountains on the one hand, and on the other a country comparatively level, with occasional spots of cultivation; but there is seldom any greater variety. Nothing else is afforded by the _Peaks of Otter_. _Mount Holyoke_, furnishes a combination of beauties. The spectator beholds mountains and lowland; a country wild and rugged in one direction and in the highest state of cultivation in another. He has before him the lovely village of _Northampton_, with others not far distant. And the _Connecticut_, is seen winding its way, amongst its fertile meadows, in so circuitous and yet so regular a manner, as to make the country on its banks resemble a beautiful parterre. The water prospect gives to the scene its chief source of interest. _Mount Holyoke_, rises not so high as _Catskill_; nor is the _Connecticut_ so distant from it, as the _Hudson_ from the latter. And it is owing to this, that the water view, is finer from its summit, than from the _Pine Orchard_. The distance is sufficient to "lend enchantment to the view"--not so great as to prevent a spectator from seeing any beautiful object that a nearer view would embrace, with all the distinctness that is desirable. A Virginian, who has high authority for supposing that a visit to _Harper's Ferry_ is worth a trip across the Atlantic, may ask if _Mount Holyoke_ surpasses this famous _Virginia_ scene. State pride must yield to candor, and acknowledge that it does. The prospect from what is called the _Eagle Rock_, two miles distant from Harper's Ferry on the Loudoun side, is certainly very fine, and calculated to remove in some degree that disappointment, which one who has read Mr. _Jefferson's_ description is apt to feel, when the scene from the _Jefferson Rock_ is first beheld by him. But the view of the streams at Harper's Ferry, beheld from any point, cannot compare in beauty with the Connecticut at Northampton. And, in other respects, Harper's Ferry must {85} yield to Mount Holyoke. It will not do to put the workshops of the former against the beautiful villages seen from the latter. Harper's Ferry cannot in any way obtain pre-eminence, until the spectator becomes conscious of the justness of _Mr. Jefferson's_ opinion as to the mode in which the water first passed through the Blue Ridge. And, to be able to acknowledge the correctness of that opinion, must be a work of some difficulty after looking at the _Potomac_ and _Shenandoah_, and seeing how small a power is produced by the two streams combined.

The author of the letter, in speaking of the ladies of _New England_, repudiates what he terms a leading argument for slavery. The individual who is led by a perusal of the letter to make the following remarks, is certainly not an advocate of slavery; but his own observation, has brought him to some conclusions, from which he inclines to think, the intelligent gentleman by whom that letter was written, will scarcely dissent. Whoever has travelled in a stage or steamboat in Virginia, and travelled also in stages and steamboats in the non-slave-holding states, must have perceived that more deference and respect are shown towards female travellers with us, than in the northern and eastern states. In a southern steamboat, men will not be seen scrambling for seats at table, before the ladies are provided with places; and, in a southern stage, a female traveller will always be offered that seat which it is supposed she would prefer. If more consideration be shown for female travellers, in the slave-holding than in the non-slave-holding states,--the next inquiry is, whether slavery be the cause of the difference. It may be admitted, that in the southern states, the men who travel are for the most part gentlemen; while to the north, a large proportion of those who are perpetually moving about, are persons who have never been accustomed to any good society, and have very little idea of good breeding. Again--it may be admitted, that our steamboats are generally less crowded, and there is consequently less inducement to be guilty of that indelicacy, which is so often seen in a northern boat. Do these facts explain the cause of the difference above alluded to? They do not. For we find to the south, that a theatre, or a place for the delivery of a public speech, may be filled by citizens, without any distinction of persons; and yet respectable females coming to a place thus crowded, would be treated with more consideration than would be shown towards them at the north under similar circumstances. There must be some other cause for the difference; and slavery is in a great degree that cause. To the north, in consequence of the absence of slavery, many females, even in respected ranks of life, perform duties which here would devolve upon our slaves. Nor do the duties which they perform consist merely of unseen employments within doors. A very large proportion of the sex engage in the business of buying and selling, and travel about unattended. Thus embarking in what with us would be regarded as the proper offices of men, the consequence is that they are treated with not more respect than is shown towards men. This remark is applicable, as before stated, to a large proportion--to so large a proportion, that the general rule of deference towards the sex, which prevails to the south--can scarcely be said to prevail, in the northern states; but those by whom, and to whom that deference is there shown, are rather to be regarded as exceptions. A gentleman to the north, will treat one whom he _knows_ to be a lady, with courtesy and respect. To the south, this previous information, is not so indispensable. We act upon a general presumption in favor of the sex. A female with us, is treated with courtesy and respect, unless something be known as to her character, or be apparent in her conduct, which justifies the conclusion that she is not entitled to be so treated.

C.

From the Fredericksburg Arena.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.--NO. 1.

BY A VIRGINIAN.

_Northampton, Mass. July 24, 1834._

And you will positively "excommunicate" me if I do not send you "some _first impressions_" of Yankee-land? Have at you then; though, really, my time has been so filled with seeing and hearing, that hardly a scrap remains to write down a hundredth part of the curious or striking things that meet my eyes and ears.

Unusual opportunity has been afforded me for seeing various lights and shades of Yankee character. In stage and steamboat, in jersey wagon and on foot, on highways and by-ways, in farm houses and city palaces, I have seen and chatted with all sorts of people, from the ---- of the ---- down to the tavern porter and the country laborer. Five days I have spent in a pedestrian stroll, calling often at the country houses to get a draught of water, rest myself, and talk with the farmer or his wife. These gossipings, you may well suppose commonly produced amusement and frequently solid information, at least solid materials for reflection; and, considering that it is only a little more than three weeks since my entry into New England, methinks I have a pretty exact measure of Jonathan's foot. Yet for all this preface, do not expect any very astounding revelations. From the thousand incidents that, unitedly, make my tour extremely interesting to myself, it is not certain that any one, or any dozen can be selected, which will materially interest another person.

In the _visible_ face of Massachusetts and Connecticut, the features which, by their novelty or beauty, most strike a Virginian eye, are the small farms, usually of from fifty to two hundred acres; the small fields in proportion, there being sometimes fifteen or twenty in one farm; the stone fences, rendered necessary and numerous in many places by scarcity of timber, and by the troublesome superabundance of stone; the universality of _hay_ crops, on hills as well as in meadows; the almost entire absence of wheat, (the only grains generally cultivated being corn, rye and oats,) the clustering of habitations together in villages, instead of having them dispersed at intervals of a mile over the country; the white painted village churches, all with stately spires, visible for miles around, having gilt vanes, and clocks of hands so large and stroke so loud, that I have repeatedly seen and heard the hour half a mile off.--The country is more hilly, or _rolling_, as our farmers would say, than the lower half of Virginia; and the hills have, generally, a smaller base and a more gracefully swelling, dome-like top, than our hills. These rotundities, with their concomitant hollows, traversed by numberless stone fences, with here and there patches of woodland and detached white farm houses, half imbosomed in elms and fruit trees; while, perhaps, two {86} or three villages, with steeples piercing the sky, are at once within the view, exhibit everywhere landscapes of a beauty unknown to eastern, or indeed, to western Virginia. Here is not a hundredth part of the appearance of abject, squalid poverty, that our state presents. I have not seen a log house in New England; and nine-tenths of the ordinary farm houses are painted. Brick and stone buildings are not common, except in the cities. This village, the most lovely to the eye in all the north, and Worcester, (take care to call it _Wooster_) having respectively, 3000 and 4 or 5000 inhabitants, contain, both together, hardly more than one hundred and fifty brick and stone houses.

But the _morale_ of New England, the character of her people, their tone of thought and feeling upon some important subjects, their social and political institutions, regulations, and usages, have interested me far more than her physical lineaments.

Would that time and space were mine to explain the road, pauper, and school systems of Massachusetts and Connecticut. (They and Rhode Island are the only states of New England which I have visited.) But that would require too much detail. Their felicitous organization may be inferred from their effects.

The common roads are all, or nearly all, _ridged up_, turnpike fashion, and fully as good as our turnpikes. I do not mean such as a certain one not far from ----, which the traveller knows to be a turnpike only by the tolls and the jolts, but those in the valley, and near Richmond.

There is probably not a beggar by trade (except solicitors for pious charities and subscriptions) in New England. The needy are sent to a poor house, having a farm attached to it, on which they work for the parish, or are let to the lowest bidder for their maintenance, as the people of each township choose. In different townships (or _towns_, as the provincial dialect hath it,) the number of paupers greatly varies. I have been told of five, ten, twenty, and even thirty, or more, upon the list; and, as there are many "towns" in a county, perhaps the number of such pensioners here, equals ours. But mark! the expense here is next to nothing--sometimes absolutely nothing: nay, some "towns" actually derive a revenue from the labors of their parish poor. Salem has thus gained several thousand dollars in a year. All who are able render a fair equivalent, sometimes more, for the relief they receive.

Every person in this state, above four years of age, is entitled to instruction, at the charge of the "town," in the useful common branches of knowledge; and a man or woman who cannot read, is here a prodigy.--Nine-tenths, at least, of the whole population take, or read newspapers. (In Virginia not more than half the white population does so.) Here seems to be not a fourth of the tippling that we have; gambling is even far more rare: there is not a race course in New England; and, considering the density of the population, (eighty to the square mile, ours is only nineteen,) I do not believe there is a fourth so much vice and crime as with us. In moral science, and not least in that branch of it which investigates the texture of a people's character, it is hard to ascertain causes and effects with precision.--What was _effect_, by a sort of reaction frequently becomes _cause_; they give each other reciprocal impulses, like the mutual aid of parent and offspring; sometimes various causes mingle their operations, in unseen, perhaps invisible degrees,--and there is no laboratory, no apparatus for resolving the inscrutable compound into its elements. The moral chemist should, therefore, diffidently ascribe the order, industry, sobriety, thriftiness, and intelligence, which characterise these people, to any one cause, or to any set of causes. But general consent, and the reason of the case, leave little doubt that much, if not most of these virtues, must be attributed to the system of COMMON SCHOOLS. Yet it may be questioned if, in producing social good, the school system has not in these states a _co-efficient_, of equal or superior influence. The road and poor systems--nay, the school system itself, it seems to me, owe nearly all their virtues to the TOWNSHIP SYSTEM.

Each county is subdivided into districts, of no uniform shape or size, though usually four, five, or six miles long and broad. By an impropriety, too fast rooted ever to be eradicated, these are called _towns_; which word is never understood here in its English sense, as opposed to _country_, and meaning an assemblage of houses, but always as signifying one of the _districts_ I have mentioned. Protesting against its lawfulness, I shall yet use it now in the New England sense. Each town is a sort of republic. Its people, in full town meeting, elect a representative, or representatives, in the legislature, _selectmen_, (nearly equivalent to common-council-men) assessor, and collector; decide how the poor shall be kept, schools organized, or roads altered or repaired, and what amount shall be raised by taxes for these and other purposes. A town meeting is held statedly, in the spring, for elections; and two or three others, whenever ten voters request it of the selectmen, in writing. At deliberative meetings, a chairman (here called "Moderator,") is chosen by the assembly; great decorum prevails, and earnest debates arise. The town, as a corporate person, is liable for any damage sustained through neglect to keep a road in repair; and damages have frequently been recovered. It is obliged by law, to support schools enough to educate all its children in the manner prescribed. It is bound to maintain its own poor. And the near interest, the direct agency which every citizen has in the performance of these duties, cause them to be attended to with an exactness and an efficacy which a government less _local_, never would attain. This is the very system which it was the leading wish of Mr. Jefferson's life to see established in Virginia.[1] No one can see its admirable effects without owning that wish to have been one of the wisest which his wise and patriotic mind ever cherished. Such an organization is not only a nursery of statesmen,--it diffuses among the multitude habits of reflection and of action about public affairs,--makes them feel often and sensibly, the dignity of self-government,--and fits them better and better for the exalted task. It is, morally, what a _well disciplined_ militia would be physically. Not the wretched militia that, by our own disgraceful neglect, has now become our own scorn, but that which our forefathers recommended to us as a main "bulwark of our liberties," and "the best defence of a free state."

[Footnote 1: See his letters to Kercheval, in 1816.]

_All the direct taxes in this state are laid by the towns._ The state government is maintained entirely by the {87} interest on some accumulated funds, and by a tax of half of one per cent. on the capital of the state banks. By the by, there are at least one hundred of these in Massachusetts, having a capital altogether, as is computed, of about thirty millions! And this for a state of 7,800 square miles, and 640,000 people. Verily "_incedit per ignes suppositos cineri doloso:_" or, in English, "she _sits_ upon a mine of gunpowder." Perhaps sailing through the air in a car buoyed by bubbles, might be as apt an illustration.

The _common_ schools (so those supported by taxation are called) are not the only ones, for even elementary instruction. Many wealthy persons, unfortunately for the public weal, prefer sending their children to teachers of their own employing: and thus numerous private schools of various grades, and some of these of great merit, are planted over the state. _Unfortunately_ I say, because such persons are often those whose _interested_ countenance and supervision are most essential to the good management of the _common_ schools,--which, deprived of them, lose half their usefulness. Female education is well attended to. Good schools for females, (reputedly so, I have not entered one of them) seem much more numerous than with us, allowing duly for population. And a judgment of the trees by their fruits, would confirm that belief; for in my casual and diversified intercourse, I have met, I think, with a larger proportion of well taught women than would occur in a similar range through our own society. Yet such a comparison is very fallacious, and perhaps not worth making. Of one thing I am satisfied, by personal observation; that the additional work rendered necessary to ladies in New England, by the imperfect and unservant-like "help" which they hire, is not at all incompatible with refined delicacy of mind, manners, and person. That it _is_ so, however, is a leading argument with some of our _philosophers_ for slavery. If memory served me, I would quote for their benefit, a caustic passage from the "Three Wise Men of Gotham," to the effect that "a _genuine philosopher_ is never at a loss for _facts_ to support any theory, however absurd or ridiculous. Having constructed _that_ according to the most approved principles, and upon the most ingenious plan, he goes to work, and either _makes_ all the facts needful to uphold it, or distorts actual facts to suit his purpose."

It has been my good fortune to meet with some admirable female minds in New England. Since the spells of romance were shaken from me, I have never hoped to see more happily exemplified, that trait of a capital heroine of our favorite Miss Edgeworth: "you could discover that the stream of literature had passed over her mind, only by the verdure and fertility you saw there." (I mar the quotation, doubtless, but that is its substance.) No pedantic harping upon books, and authors, and sciences; some cross-examination would be requisite, to find out that she knew their names. But let a subject be tabled, calling for ideas, or for exertions of intellect, to which a conversancy with books, authors and sciences was indispensable--and you might see that she knew them well. Then too she knew much that they--but for fear you should think I am about to fall in love, (which however is impossible,) I will suppress the rest of my encomium.

_Abolition_, if not dead here, is in a state too desperately feeble to give us an hour's uneasiness. Of the many intelligent men with whom I have conversed on this subject in Massachusetts, Rhode Island and Connecticut, there is but a single one who does not reprobate the views of Messrs. Tappan, Cox, Garrison and Co. as suggestions of the wildest, most pernicious fanaticism. Tappan has two brothers in Boston, both ardent colonizationists, and decidedly opposed to his mad notions. Not only do the persons I have talked with, themselves reprobate interference with that painfully delicate and peculiar concern of the south: they testify to the almost entire unanimity of their acquaintance, in the same sentiment. And such multiplied and decisive proofs have I, of the sound state of the public mind on that subject, as leave me not a doubt, that nine-tenths of the votes, and ninety-nine hundredths of the intellect of the country, are for _letting us wholly alone_. You have little idea of the contempt in which Garrison, and his will-o'-the-wisp, the _Liberator_, are held here. I have heard him spoken of as a "miserable fanatic," and "a contemptible poor creature," in companies so numerous and mixed, as to demonstrate--none gainsaying it--that the speakers but expressed the public thought. "There is in this, as in other communities," said a Cambridge Professor to me, "always afloat a certain quantity of moral _virus_, or noxious _gas_, ever and anon imbodying itself in some such form as this, of abolitionism. Not long ago, it was anti-masonry. In two years, abolitionism will be as prostrate as anti-masonry is now. It may, meanwhile, spread fast and boldly: it may create disturbances and alarms: it may prevail so far, in some districts, as to have representatives in Congress, who will there bring forward some scheme of emancipation: but triumph finally, or even extensively, in the north, _it never can_." And all that I saw, or heard, convinced me that Mr. G---- was not widely mistaken.

At Worcester, last year, an apostle of abolition from "some where away down east," delivered a lecture, in the Baptist Church, against slavery; depicting its wrongs and evils, and insisting upon its extirpation. He was heard patiently; but when he closed, the pastor of the church arose, and, to the satisfaction of a numerous audience, completely answered every argument; vindicated the southern slaveholders from all wilful injustice in being such; shewed the impracticability of any but the most cautiously gradual emancipation, and the madness of attempting even that, by officious intermeddling from the non-slaveholding states. Our apostle wanted to lecture again the next day; but the excitement against his doctrine had grown so strong, that he was refused a further hearing, and admonished, by some of the leading citizens, that if he remained longer, he was in danger of tar and feathers. Among the warmest of his reprobators, were the late and the present governors; both residing there. He wisely decamped; and has had no successor in Worcester. The manner in which the New York riots have been spoken of in New England, strikingly shews the bad odor of abolition here. Instead of the leaning towards that side, which I feared would result from sympathy and indignation at its being made the object of a mob's fury, the abolitionists seem to be regarded by the majority as most chargeable themselves, with all the mischief that has been done. It is the common sentiment, that they deserved the treatment they received; and the censure thrown upon the mob is very _gentle roaring_ indeed. I find almost {88} every New Englander readily assenting to the positions,--That two millions of slaves could never be turned loose amongst us and live, while _we_ lived: that the existence of the two _castes_ in the same country, in a state of freedom and equality, is morally impossible: that emancipation, without removal, therefore, is utterly chimerical: that, unjustifiable as slavery is in the abstract, rights of property in slaves have been acquired, which, sanctioned as they are by the constitution, and by a claim prior and paramount to the constitution, cannot be violated without an outrage, destructive at once of our social compact: that, let slavery be ever so wrong, abolition ever so just and easy, it is a matter which concerns _us alone_; and as to which, we are so sensitively jealous of extraneous interposition, that every agitation of the subject in other states is calculated to weaken our attachment to them, and bind faster the chains of slavery.

In a word, the south may be assured, that on this point, New England is sound: at least the three states which I have visited. Colonization is popular here--with those, I mean, who know or reflect at all about it. The majority (like the majority with us,) are without either knowledge or thought on the subject. The abolitionists find fault with colonization, because, say they, its aim is to postpone or prevent emancipation. Our southern _illuminati_ oppose it, on the ground that it _favors_ emancipation! Do not these inconsistent objections neutralize each other, like opposite quantities in Algebra, or opposite simples in Chemistry?

N. P. WILLIS.

We extract the subjoined article from the _Norfolk Beacon_, believing that it will be both new and interesting to most of our readers. That paper has recently passed into the hands of Mr. Hugh Blair Grigsby, a gentleman of fine education and literary taste; and as he has declared himself a neutral in politics, we have a right to expect that the Beacon will be frequently rich in other matter interesting to the general reader. The eulogy upon Willis, or rather his vindication from those ill natured aspersions, which are always cast upon aspiring genius,--is honorable to the feelings of early friendship which dictated it. We have suppressed one or two passages near the commencement of the article, having reason to believe that Mr. Grigsby would not have written them if the circumstance to which he alludes had been better understood. That Willis is a man of genius and an admirable writer both in prose and verse, will not be questioned we think by a large majority of those who are at all familiar with his productions. There are some it is true, who affect a sneer at his pretensions,--and there are others doubtless, who without affectation, do not admire him. The world is infinitely diversified; and there is nothing in which diversity is more strongly exemplified, than in matters of taste. Shakspeare, Milton, Pope, Byron,--nay, almost all the illustrious votaries of the NINE, have occasionally had their revilers,--and it would perhaps be rather an unfavorable indication for any writer, that his works had never been censured or criticised. The unfavorable opinions formed of Willis's reputation, as deduced from his habitual idleness at college--his repugnance to mathematical studies--or his eccentricities either in dress or behaviour--seem to us to rest upon very unphilosophical grounds. What if the merits of the immortal bard of Avon, were to be tested by his diligence in the early acquisition of knowledge! Even Lord Byron was not remarkable either for industry or attainments whilst at school. As to the mathematics,--we dare say that the more bigoted disciples of Euclid and Hutton, would deem it evidence of bad taste, not to be inspired by the beauties and mysteries of the triangle and cone;--but what would they think of the learned and eloquent Gibbon, of whom it is said that so great was his disgust or inaptitude for their favorite science, that he could scarcely be brought to comprehend or demonstrate the three first propositions in Euclid. The truth is, there is an ethereal quality in genius, which disdains to be trammelled by the rules and systems of human invention. That it is so, is perhaps unfortunate,--yet the fact itself cannot be controverted. We commend Mr. Grigsby's article to our readers, not only because it is well written, but because also it is the testimony of a fellow student in favor of a writer who, whatever be his merits or demerits, has acquired acknowledged distinction in the literary world.

* * * * *

"Few men of his age have passed through so fiery an ordeal, and come out of the flame with greater purity, than N. P. WILLIS. It is indeed without a parallel in literature, that a young man of unblemished virtue, of accomplished genius, and of a good heart, should be sought out and hunted down with such an implacable spirit of vengeance.

* * * * *

"To those who knew Willis in his early days, it was evident that he would become, what Edmund Burke said of Townshend, 'a first rate figure in the country.' The first notice that the public had of his budding genius was a little poem in six verses, the two first lines of the first verse being

The leaf floats by upon the stream Unheeded in its silent way.

We cannot recal the whole stanza; but our fair readers may remember that their albums contained some time since, a beautiful vignette representing a lady resting in her bower listening to the notes of a pretty songster perched above her. This engraving was taken from these lines in this poem:

The bird that sings in lady's bower, To-morrow will she think of him?

"This little poem gained the prize awarded by the Mirror, but what the prize was, we really forget. We have not looked over this poem since the morning we first read it, near ten years since; and, with a little effort, we think we could recal it. It was regarded at the time as a very pretty production.

"Some of our readers, who are not wont to frown at the lighter efforts of literature, may remember some poems under the signature of Roy, which were republished in every paper in the United States, and occasionally, it is said, in the British periodicals. Those were from the pen of Willis.

"Every one who has a soul for poetry has read the scripture sketches. Hagar--Absalom--the sacrifice of Abraham--Zepthah's Daughter, are all the productions of a rich imagination. They have their faults, we allow, and so has another piece which he has called 'better moments,' and so with many others; but we will {89} take either and all of these, and will plead the splendor of his genius before any tribunal of taste under heaven. Willis's poems have passed through several editions. He also pronounced a fine poem before Brown University. But the fame of Willis, however proudly it may rest on his poetry, is still more widely diffused by his prose.

"It was a cold morning in the winter of 1824-5, before sunrise, in a division room of Yale College, that Willis gave the first sample of that mellifluous prose which has since attracted such general admiration. He was then commencing his sophomore year; and the student, who had tried a freshman hand on the translations from the classics, was now called to essay an original composition. We were class-mates, but were not in the same division. It was not our good fortune, therefore, to hear his first composition; but we never can forget the merriment which it produced in college. If we mistake not, the theme of his first essay was the dilemma of an old man who had lost his wife; and was in sad perplexity about the plant which he ought to place at the head of her grave. One suggested that an oak sapling was best; but the old man contended that it would not in its infancy protect the grave from the sun and rain; and when it grew up, it would produce no good fruit, and would, moreover, with its spreading branches, _rot the shingles of his house_. Plant after plant, and tree after tree, were mentioned, the merits of which Willis scanned with great felicity of thought and language. At last, after a due reflection on the useful and the becoming, the old man resolved to plant a _cabbage_ on the grave of his wife. The cold blooded critic, who delights to fasten his fangs on rising merit, may pronounce the theme a very unfit subject for merriment; but fellows of eighteen are no philosophers; and we doubt whether any composition read within the walls of old Yale, ever produced such a happy effect as the one we have just noticed.

"It has been urged against Willis that he spent his time idly at College, and was totally unversed in those studies which are supposed to test with the greatest severity the powers of the understanding. If the meaning of all this be that he is not a profound mathematician, we readily admit the charge; and declare that we would confide as little in his judgment, as we would in that of Moore, Rogers or Campbell, in case either or all united should attempt a new edition of the Principia, or a full translation of La Place--but as we never heard of any such intention, we must in candor believe that the objection has some other meaning. If it were to appear, however, that he is not well versed in mathematics, we are willing to assign him any punishment which any one will declare that a boy of seventeen, who has failed to plunge head and ears into the mathematics, ought to receive.

"At the same time we are free to declare that the system of teaching pursued at Yale College, is the most defective the wit of man ever devised. We mean, of course, the tutorial system. A few raw lads, who have passed through the collegiate year, and rusticated for a twelvemonth afterward, are called to preside in the division rooms, and to perform all the most important duties of education. These gentlemen, if they went forthwith to supply their great and glaring defects, and to qualify themselves to perform their delicate and honorable duties with credit to themselves and honor to the university, would command our respect; but no sooner do they accumulate a sum of money, than they bid farewell to the cause of education. And herein rests our chief objection; which is not that the tutors are _young_ but that they are utterly insensible to the dignity and importance of their office, which we deem the most honorable on earth; and merely consider teaching as the drudgery to which they must submit, to obtain money enough for their advancement in their various modes of life. In this aspect the whole system is faulty, and requires thorough amendment. We said that we did not object to the youth of the tutors--we rather deem it an advantage, when teaching is to be the great object and end of pursuit. We think that superannuated generals and professors rank in one and the same degree. The mind, after a certain time, clings to its ancient convictions, and shrinks from the field of experiment. And as the splendid example of Napoleon has opened the eyes of the world on the subject of old generals; so ought the example of Bichat, the younger Gregory and the lamented Fisher, to produce a similar result on the subject of old professors. The spring-time of life is illumined by a warmer sun than ever lights up the breast of the old man. Youth is the time of pure aspirations, of lofty daring and successful achievement. The heart yet untouched with the sickening lusts and cankering cares of the world; alive to the finest impulses of our nature, and glowing with the desire of immortality, is a noble thing; and we verily believe that such a heart is rarely to be found unless in the bosom of youth.

"We have blamed freely the tutorial system of Yale College; but we have given the dark side only. There are advantages accruing from the system; but they are, in our opinion, utterly inadequate to counterbalance its great and ruinous defects.

"While however, we freely denounce the tutorial system of Yale College, we would not be unjust to the able men who preside in the institution. For Doctor Day, Mr. Kingsley, Mr. Goodrich and Mr. Olmstead, we entertain the highest respect; and believe them to be ripe scholars; but we know the influence of ancient habit, and that miserable system is so mixed up with the entire machinery of the institution, that we have barely a hope of seeing it amended by the present administration. Could Willis have found such a tutor as Mr. Jefferson has represented Mr. Small to have been--one whose learning inspired respect, and whose parental kindness melted the heart of the obdurate, and won back the wayward--we should not have heard this grave charge against him; as it was, while his classmates were calculating eclipses, moral and mathematical, he passed with ease from beside them; and assumed an honorable station in the literature of his country.

"But to Mr. Willis as a writer of prose. And one great source of wonder with us is his uncommon acquaintance with the vocabulary of the language. He moves over the spacious field with the ease and grace of the most accomplished scholar. And then his sentences flow so sweetly on, that you liken them to some limpid rivulet from the hill of the muses flowing around and about the rich landscape before you, and if for a moment concealed from the eye, it is only to burst upon you in all its fullness and beauty. So much for the style of Willis, in its mechanical sense. But there is something beyond this; and which is far more important. It is the life of style. And here is the particular forte of Willis. {90} He reverses the rule of the logician; and instead of advancing from general to particular, he paints the species with the minutest care. The letter which we gave yesterday is a happy specimen of the philosophy of his style. His theme is a voyage on the Hudson in the summer season, when all are thronging northward, and to this miscellaneous multitude he seeks to introduce us. He selects a few individuals, and finishes their portraits with the greatest care and the most consummate skill. But first observe the connection of the trip. Whoever has travelled the Hudson in the summer season, will at once recognize the group of passengers who have arrived '_just_ thirty seconds too late;' and the striking description of a steamboat 'built for smooth water, long, shallow and graceful, of the exquisite proportions of a pleasure yacht; and painted as brilliantly and fantastically as an Indian shell.' Then we have the Kentuckian to the life, 'sitting on three chairs;' and the Indian, who does not deign to show the slightest curiosity, unless in eyeing the broad chest and sinewy form of the Kentuckian--detecting with characteristic skill the hardy dweller of Kentucky in the unnatural disguise of ruffled shirt and fine broadcloth coat 'cut by a Mississippi tailor'--and the Alabamian, whom the common eye would confound with the Kentuckian, and who is a different species altogether; and next, the southern beauty from the interior of Alabama, 'dressed in singularly bad taste;' graceful as a fawn, but untutored in the mysteries of the dance. In fine, the whole scene is painted before us almost with the distinctness of actual life. We pass over the great excellence of this sketch in other respects; but we are sure that he who reads the letter will long retain its striking passages in his memory.

"It will be asked by that race of cynics who set a wonderful value on the fabrics of their own manufacture, but show no admiration of the noble structures reared by the genius of others,--it will be asked by such, what good can such productions accomplish in the business of life? While we heartily repeat the sentiment first uttered by Dr. Johnson, and afterwards endorsed by Sir Walter Scott, that we hate a _cui bono_ man, we will enter the lists in the cause, and declare that they produce a right and proper effect on the general mind. Now we have shown that the leading excellence of the writings of Willis consisted in minute and exceedingly graphic sketches of the natural world in all its varied aspect of mountain, plain, and river, and that still more varied chart of instruction--Man. His pages then reflect like some beautiful stream, with lights and shades, all the rich and stirring variety of nature. And who will deny that nature hath not a voice and eloquence that rightly speak to the bosoms of men? And herein resteth the power of Willis.

"It may with propriety be inquired, if Willis could not select a more extended field of fame? We believe that he might select a theme of higher bearing, and that he is now preparing the path before him. His present sketches are so many notes from which, in riper years, he will strike a nobler harmony. We know that he has a fine ambition; an ambition that looks far beyond the pages of the New Monthly, or the Mirror,--and which stirreth within him a desire of a great and proper poem, which 'men will not willingly let die,' and which will weave his humble name with the destinies of his country."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WASHINGTON AND NAPOLEON.

THE CONTRAST.

----"Urged by a curiosity common to all strangers, Captain Lockerby visited the tomb of Bonaparte. The spot where the tomb stands is only accessible by ticket. It was railed round with green palms, and a sentinel walked round it night and day to prevent approach within the railing."----

Behold what a contrast is here! Two heroes gone down to decay-- The grave of the one, how deserted and drear! While the other is deck'd in its marble array And a sentinel guards it by night and by day.

Oh, what was the life of the first, That in death they have left him thus lone?-- Was the crown of the Tyrant his thirst? And mounting in blood on the steps of a throne-- Had he murdered his thousands to aggrandize one?

Of grandeur of soul was there none In that bosom, transform'd to the clod; The end of its government done, To abandon the lictor, the axe, and the rod, When it look'd on its nothingness--thought of its God?

But see what a far different scene! The tomb of the valiant and wise! Encompass'd secure by its paling of green, And gleaming in white, as those tropical skies Beam down on the waste where St. Helena lies.

Lo! numbers resort to that spot, And beauty bows too at the shrine-- Oh virtue! how envied thy lot! The grave cannot darken thy splendor divine Nor sully thy brightness, but adds to its shine.

Yet CHRISTIAN!--come nearer and read, For conjecture hath led us astray-- Hast thou heard of one, false to his creed? Of a blood loving tyrant--ferocious--whose sway Was supported by rapine, while earth was his prey?

'Tis to him that these honors are paid, And his dust must be guarded--from whom? Are the terrified nations afraid Lest he yet should arise from the curse of his doom, And bursting its cerements, escape from the tomb?

Ah no! he lies powerless now! But thousands would bear him afar: To this Juggernaut, long did they bow, And were abjectly crush'd by the wheels of his car, As triumphant he rode through the red fields of war.

Is virtue then, nought but a name? Let us turn to the spot we have passed-- If guilt can exult in its shame, The good in his grave may be silently cast-- Abandoned--unnoticed--the scene but a waste!

Yes, yes, thou art dumb with amaze-- 'Tis WASHINGTON slumbers below-- Was language too weak for HIS praise?-- Was the grief so profound, that it baffled all show, Or the feeling too deep for the utt'rance of wo?

Let us hope that it was--let us trust That we honor the Friend of Mankind-- That the Corsican despot in dust, His merited meed of abhorrence shall find In the progress of truth and the march of the mind.

{91}

MINERAL WEALTH OF VIRGINIA.

The following interesting communication from Peter A. Browne, Esq. of Philadelphia, was submitted last winter, by the Governor of Virginia, to the General Assembly. It was printed with the documents accompanying the annual message, and bound up with the legislative journals, but has had no other publicity. It is therefore _new_ to nineteen-twentieths, if not to ALL of our readers. We confess we feel somewhat mortified, that the valuable hints and suggestions thrown out by an intelligent and scientific stranger, should have failed to attract the attention of our public functionaries. We are not without hope, however, that a subject of such vital importance as a geological survey of the state, will claim the earnest and speedy consideration of the people, as well as their representatives. It is one of those subjects upon which all parties, however divided by sectional jealousies or other adverse views, may meet on common ground, and unite in harmonious action. There is no portion of the commonwealth which is not deeply interested in the development of its mineral wealth--none which ought not to lend its hearty sanction to a scientific survey of the country by a skilful geologist. To say nothing of the noble example of other states--among them some of our youngest sisters--our interests are too deeply involved in the proposed undertaking, longer to defer it. Agriculture,--commerce,--the arts,--are alike concerned in the successful prosecution of a work which promises to each such essential benefits. The people of Virginia have been too long ignorant and unmindful of their own vast resources. Who would have dreamed a few years since, that a vein of precious gold, which, for two centuries, had escaped observation, actually enriched our soil? Who now can form an adequate conception of the various hidden treasures which science and enterprise may bring to light. Can the paltry consideration of a few thousand dollars expense, outweigh the magnificent advantages which are likely to result? Shall the present generation fold its arms in supineness, and leave every thing to be done by posterity? We earnestly exhort our legislators to take the subject into serious consideration.

The writer of the subjoined communication will be pleased to learn that the mineral springs of the state, (which might in themselves be made a source of boundless wealth,) have been subjected to careful analysis during the past summer, by an able chemical professor in one of our colleges. It is understood that the results of his observation will in due time be laid before the public.

_Philadelphia, Sept. 30, 1833._

SIR,--Although I have not the honor of a personal acquaintance with you, I have no hesitation in making the present appeal to your patriotism and wisdom, not doubting but that I shall find in the great and growing interest of the subject to the country at large, and particularly to that portion of the Union over which you preside with so much dignity and discretion, a sufficient apology for occupying so much of your valuable time, as will enable you to give the present communication an attentive perusal.

I have recently returned from a _geological_ excursion to Virginia. I entered the state near the head waters of the Potomac, passed thence to Winchester, followed the course of that fine valley to the Natural bridge; retracing my steps, I turned westwardly at Staunton, crossed the mountain at Jennings's gap, and visited the justly celebrated medicinal springs in that region; returning, I went from Staunton through Charlottesville to Richmond, and down the James to its mouth. When this tour is taken in connection with a former visit to Wheeling, it will be conceded that I have seen enough of the state, to enable me to form a rough estimate of its geological and mineralogical importance; and I do assure you, sir, that although my anticipations were far from being meager, I was astonished at the vastness and variety of interesting objects in that department of natural history, that were constantly developing themselves, inviting the mind of man to reflection, and his hands to industry, and displaying at every step the wisdom and beneficence of the great Creator.

I determined upon respectfully suggesting to your excellency the expediency of a topographical, geological, mineralogical and oryctological survey of Virginia. Should the enlightened representatives of the freemen of your state concur in this opinion, it will redound to the honor of all concerned, by the encouragement it will give to the study of the natural sciences--by the enhancement in value of lands in the interior, thereby enriching the state and its citizens, and giving a very proper check to unnatural migrations to the extreme west, by bringing to light and usefulness innumerable valuable crude materials, thereby not only enlarging the field of manufactures and the useful arts, but furnishing carrying for the canals and roads already constructed, and assisting in new internal improvements in locations of equal importance. That I may not appear to be too enthusiastic, pardon me for pointing out some of the most obvious features in the geology of Virginia. Whether we consider the comfort and convenience of our species, or the industry and prosperity of a state, there is no mineral production that can outvie in importance that of _coal_. In this country, where we have hitherto always had a superabundance of fuel, owing to the vast extent of our natural forests, the importance of a constant and abundant supply is not felt, and we are too apt to neglect properly to appreciate its value, but it is not so elsewhere, and a moment's reflection will shew that it ought not to be so _here_. Without fuel, of what use would be to us the metallic ores? for instance iron, which is now moulded, drawn and worked into thousands and tens of thousands of useful instruments, from a knife, to the complicated machinery of a steam engine, would forever remain an indissoluble and useless mass of matter without the aid of fuel--even the steam engine itself, that colossus of modern machinery, without the assistance of fire would be inactive and impotent.

The Rev. Mr. Conybeare, an eminent English geologist, speaking of the coal veins (or coal measures, as they are there called,) of his country, thus expresses himself:

"The manufacturing industry of this island, colossal as is the fabric which it has raised, rests principally on no other base than our fortunate position with regard to the rocks of this series. Should our coal mines ever be exhausted, it would melt away at once, and it need not be said, that the effect produced on private and domestic comfort would be equally fatal with diminution {92} of public wealth; we should lose many of the advantages of our high civilization, and much of our cultivated grounds must be again shaded with forests, to afford fuel to a remnant of our present population. That there is a progressive tendency to approach this limit, is certain, but ages may yet pass before it is felt very sensibly; and when it does approach, the increasing difficulty and expense of working the mines of coal, will operate, by successive and gradual checks, against its consumption, through a long period, so that the transition may not be very violent; our manufactures would first feel the shock; the excess of population, supported by them, would cease to be called into existence, as the demand for their labor ceased; the cultivation of poor lands would become less profitable, and their conversion into forests more so."

Where is the state in this union--I might, perhaps, safely ask, where is the country in the world, that can surpass Virginia in the variety of position and abundance of supply of this valuable combustible? She possesses, not only in common with her sister states, a liberal quantity of bituminous coal in her western and carbonaceous regions, where, according to geological calculations, bituminous coal might be reasonably expected to be found; but in the eastern division of the state, within a few miles of the tide water of a majestic stream, which empties its ample waters into the Atlantic ocean, in a geological position, where bituminous coal never would have been sought after, because bituminous coal could not there have ever been expected to have been found, bituminous coal of a good quality, and apparently in great abundance, has been found; nature seeming, as it were, in this instance, to enable her to favor an otherwise highly favored land, to have defied all her own rules, and baffled the skill of the gravest geologist, by depositing bituminous coal upon the naked and barren bosom of the uncarbonaceous granite! I have often wondered why this anomaly did not strike the capacious and highly gifted mind of Jefferson, and why he, or some other of the many reflecting men of Virginia, was not led by it to inquire, what else there might be in store for the good people of that state? By neglecting to seek for them, we ungratefully reject the proffered kindness of our Creator; the laws of inanimate matter are, in this respect, in unison with those that govern animated nature; we are furnished with the material and means, but in order to stimulate us to useful and healthful industry, we must labor in their appropriation. God gives us the earth and the seed, but we must plough and sow, or we can never reap; so he has bountifully placed within our reach innumerable valuable rocks, minerals and combustibles, but to enjoy them, we must delve into the bowels of the earth--and having found them, we must, by various laborious processes, render them fit for our use. To those who are accustomed to regard these things, it is difficult to determine which causes the most painful sensations, to observe how few coal mines, in comparison to what might be, are opened in the neighborhood of Richmond, or the want of skill exhibited in the selection and working of those recently opened. Nor is the deposite of the bituminous coal upon the granite, the only geological anomaly of this quarter. Proceeding from Charlottesville towards Richmond, almost immediately after you leave the Talcose formation of the Blue Ridge, you are astonished at the fertility of the soil; you can scarcely persuade yourself that you are travelling over a country of primitive rocks. Soon, however, you discover that the fertility is not universal, but confined to patches of a brick-red covering, that overlay the disintegrated materials of the primordial formations, and upon seeking further into this curious matter, your surprise is not a little increased, upon discovering that this brick-red covering owes its existence to the disintegration of a rock, which, in most other places, is exceedingly slow to decompose, and which, when decomposed, forms a cold and inhospitable soil. It is the _hornblende sienite_. Here it is surcharged with iron, which oxidating by exposure to the atmosphere and moisture, the rock freely disintegrates, and the oxide of iron being set at liberty, imparts its coloring to the ground, and fertilizes the soil in an extraordinary degree.

Professor Hitchcock, in his report of a geological survey of Massachusetts, makes the following remarks in relation to the effect of iron upon a soil:

"No ore except iron occurs in sufficient quantity in the state, to deserve notice in an agricultural point of view. In the west part of Worcester county, the soil, for a width of several miles across the whole state, is so highly impregnated with the _oxide of iron_, as to receive from it a very deep tinge of what is called iron rust. This is particularly the case in the low grounds; where are frequently found beds of bog ore. I do not know very definitely the effect of this iron upon vegetation; but, judging from the general excellence of the farms in the Brookfields, Sturbridge, Hardwicke, New Braintree, Barae, Hubbardston, &c., I should presume it to be good. Certainly, it cannot be injurious; for no part of the county exceeds the towns just named, in the appearance of its farming interest--and nearly all the county, as may be seen by the map, is of one formation. It would be an interesting problem, which in that county can be solved, to determine the precise influence of a soil highly ferruginous upon vegetation."

Next in geological and statistical importance, I would place the mineral springs of Virginia; and these would form a legitimate subject of investigation to those who should be appointed to conduct a geological survey.

I am not aware of any portion of country of the same extent, possessing an equal number and variety of mineral springs, as the counties of Bath, Greenbrier and Monroe. This is a subject upon which one might easily compose a book, but I must confine myself to a few lines. The waters are thermal and cold; the former of various degrees of intensity. They hold in solution a variety of metals, earths, acids, and alkalies, combined in various proportions, and suited to relieve the sufferings of invalids from a number of diseases. Mineral springs of less interest than these, have excited the attention of the learned in almost every age and country; and Virginia owes it to her high mental standing, independently of every other consideration, to assist the cause of science, by investigating the causes of the high temperature, and making accurate analyses of these waters. It is the duty of states, as it is of individuals, to furnish their quota to the general stock of information; and this is peculiarly the duty of a republican state, whose happiness, nay, whose very political existence, depends upon an improved {93} state of the minds of its citizens. Mr. John Mason Good, in his "Book of Nature," after describing the barren state of society in the middle ages, says, "we have thus rapidly travelled over a wide and dreary desert, that, like the sandy wastes of Africa, has seldom been found refreshed by spots of verdure, and what is the moral? That ignorance is ever associated with wretchedness and vice, and knowledge with happiness and virtue. Their connections are indissoluble; they are woven in the very texture of things, and constitute the only substantial difference between man and man," and I would add, between state and state.

Has the heat of these waters any connection with volcanic phenomena? Or is the temperature entirely chemical, originating in the decomposition of sulphuret of iron, as I suggested some years ago in a paper published upon the subject? At the Hot Springs, the hot sulphur water and the cold pure water, issue out of the calcareous rock at the base of the Warm Spring mountain, within a few feet of each other. One of these Virginia Springs, makes a copious deposite of calcareous tufa; and at another, you perceive newly formed crystals of sulphate of iron. The White Sulphur Spring takes its name from a rich white deposite, and the Red Sulphur from one of that color. If this is not an uncommon and a highly interesting section of country, calling aloud for investigation, and meriting legislative interference, then have I taken an entirely erroneous view of the subject.

The Warm Spring mountain is white sandstone. The rocks of the valley of the Hot Springs are calcareous, argillaceous and silecious; they are all nearly vertical. At first the two former, and afterwards the two latter, alternate. They have all been deposited in a horizontal position, and between their narrow strata are thin layers of clay covering organic remains.--Those of the lime and slate are principally zoophytes. That of the silecious is the fossil described by Doctor R. Harlan, from a specimen obtained by me in the western part of the state of New York. He supposed it to be a now extinct vegetable fossil of the family fucoides, and he has called it _Fucoide Brongniard_,--in honor of M. Brongniard. But I suppose it to be _animal_, and to belong to the family of the Encrinites.[1]

[Footnote 1: See an essay of Richard C. Taylor, F. G. S. on the geological position of certain beds which contain numerous fossil marine plants of the family fucoides; near Lewistown, Mifflin county, Pennsylvania, in vol. I. part I. of the Transactions of the Geological Society of Pennsylvania, page 1.]

The mountain ranges of Virginia are more numerous, and the valleys consequently narrower, than they are in Pennsylvania; but some of them are very interesting. The great valley, as it is sometimes called, or par excellence, _the valley_, situate between the Blue Ridge and the North and Alleghany Mountain, is by far the most extensive. The rocks often obtrude, rendering the soil rather scanty, but nevertheless this is a fine district of country.

I could find no fossils in this rock. In regard to the metallic ores, I would observe, that I discovered sufficient indications of their existing in Virginia in quantity sufficient to justify a more accurate examination. Iron abounds in almost every part of the western section of the state. Traces of copper, lead, manganese and chrome, have also been discovered near the Blue Ridge; and the gold of Orange County is equal to any found in the Carolinas or Georgia.

I have never seen any thing that exceeds the richness and variety of coloring of the serpentine of the Blue Ridge. This mineral is easily cut, and the fineness and closeness of the grain renders it susceptible of a high polish. At Zoblitz in Saxony, several hundred persons are employed in its manufacture. Besides the minerals belonging to the Talcose formation, and generally accompanying serpentine, are many of them valuable in the arts--for instance, steatite, (soap stone,) talc, chromate of iron, clorite slate, and native magnesia. A geological survey would, most probably, lead to the discovery of most of these minerals.

I could make large additions to this communication, but for the fear of trespassing upon your patience. I will, therefore, close my observations with noticing two instances of want of confidence in the mineral productions of your own state, which I am persuaded that a geological survey would tend to correct. I met many wagons loaded with sulphate of lime (gypsum,) from Nova Scotia, being taken to the interior to be used as a manure; but I did not see one wagon employed to bring carbonate of lime (common lime stone,) from the inexhaustible quarries of the great valley to any other district to be used for the same purpose. In the beautiful and flourishing city of Richmond, I observed the fronts of two stores fitting up in the new and fashionable style with granite (so called,) (sienite,) from Massachusetts, while there exists in the James river, and on its banks, in the immediate vicinity of the town, rocks of a superior quality, in quantities amply sufficient to build a dozen cities.

I have the honor to be, sir, Your obedient servant,

PETER A. BROWNE.

_To his Excellency John Floyd, Governor of Virginia._

LAFAYETTE.

The following tribute to the memory of Lafayette, having been transmitted from Paris for the purpose of being published in some American periodical, the gentleman by whom it was received, has requested that the same may be inserted in the Messenger.

He breathed not the atmosphere of cities at his birth; he was born on the mountain top; he inhaled with the breath of life, the breath of liberty. Though sprung from a lordly race, he was the people's friend; and, under every trial, he displayed the inborn dignity of man.

Rich too he was, but lucre was not his idol; and his liberality was as unbounded, as his heart was generous. At that season of life which, to common men, is a time for pleasure and dissipation, he heard and obeyed the holy call of freedom.

Far off, beyond ocean's bounds, a young and promising nation was struggling for its rights. He felt, as if instinctively, the part allotted to him on the stage of life; and he became America's adopted and beloved son, when in his native land, his name was scarcely known.

On returning to France, he found her laboring under mysterious warnings--of good or evil he knew not--the {94} foreboding pangs of political convulsions; and he put his trust in the cause of humanity, because he judged of other men from himself.

But vain was his boldness and wisdom in council; in vain did he beard in their very den, the infuriate demagogues; a bloody pall was spread over his devoted country; he gave her up in despair, and the dungeon of Olmutz closed upon him as a tomb. When a brighter day arose, his freedom was stipulated as the most glorious trophy of his nation's victories. But the hurricane had swept the ancient fabric from the earth; not a vestige of it remained, so dreadful had been the storm. All the powers of the state were centred in one man; a man of selfishness and pride, who aimed at absorbing all wills in his own. And in sooth he did this, with one sole and great exception. The instinct of freedom, which was as the vital spark in our great citizen, kept him aloof from the man whose empty and ephemeral triumph is stained with the blood and tears of every nation. He retired to his paternal fields; and at a time when the sword ruled paramount, he guided the fruitful ploughshare.

Liberty was no more; and by a hard but just retribution, it was made the rallying word of nations against us. Then fell upon our country unheard of disasters and defeats; after which dawned a milder reign. He now reappears upon the public stage; he comes to heal our wounds, to rekindle in our hearts the love of liberty. He devotes himself to the task with a zeal unceasing, enlightened by long-tried experience, inspired by a pure and upright heart, and animated by a spirit of self denial never equalled. In the prosecution of this noble attempt--he dies!

He was one of those men who, at far and distant intervals, appear in days of degeneracy to arrest the right of proscription against virtue.

He disdained power, he despised riches, he abhorred corruption. He wished that all men should be happy and free.

Yet in the age of barefaced egotism, and under the reign of fraud and knavery, such disinterestedness and candor must inevitably be deceived; therefore is it that our political jugglers sneer at this great and good man--their grovelling minds understand him not.

But his name, pronounced with reverence in both hemispheres, is become the watchword of mankind laboring to be free; and it will stand for ages, as the brightest symbol of humanity.

Thy soul, oh Lafayette! was a pure and glorious emanation from that GOD in whose bosom thou now hast found a resting place. He alone can reward thy manifold virtues, thy constant love of humanity, thy inexhaustible charity, thy piety and truth. Thou art blessed in Christ.

ALEXANDRE DE BOINVILLE.

_Paris, May 1834._

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PINKNEY'S ELOQUENCE.

Hear you this triton of the minnows?--_Coriolanus_.

"Yet Mr. Pinkney is not an eloquent man; he is convincing, to be sure--and that is to be eloquent in one way; but he would be more, and fails." "Nothing can be further from eloquence, if by eloquence be understood any thing that is persuasive, beautiful, dignified or natural, than the declamation or reasoning of William Pinkney." "His best speeches are a compound of stupendous strength, feeble ornament, affected earnestness, and boisterous turbulent declamation." "But God never meant him for an orator; he has no property of mind or body--no not one, calculated to give him dominion in eloquence."

As old Doiley says in the farce, when told that "gold in the balance of philosophy was light as phlogisticated air," this must be deep, for I don't understand a word of it. The above are extracts from a work, in which the author undertakes to deny to Mr. Pinkney the praise of eloquence. No kind of composition confounds me more than criticism, and especially that sort which pretends to develope the characteristics of some distinguished orator. If one

----------------should So get the start of the majestic world

as to "bear the palm alone," we feel a very natural curiosity to know what was his appearance, his manner, and peculiar style of eloquence; but alas! in the hands of the critic, he assumes so many shapes, that the imagination is absolutely bewildered, and we turn away in despair of finding out what the man was like. The critic like the newspaper, contradicts himself at every step. One sentence tells us what another denies; and we rise from the perusal of his sketch jaded and worn out with the variety of contrariant ideas which have passed through our brains. I am no critic, and heaven forbid I should ever belong to that cold hearted fraternity, who more often pervert taste than improve it; but I cannot forbear contesting the truth of this writer's assertions, and declaring that he seems to me to be a Lilliputian about the body of a Gulliver.

It has been said of Demosthenes, "that he has been deservedly styled the prince of orators. His orations are strongly animated, and full of the impetuosity and ardor of public spirit. His composition is not distinguished by _ornament_ and splendor. Negligent of the lesser graces, he seems to have aimed at the sublime, which lies in sentiment. His action and pronunciation are said to have been uncommonly _vehement_ and _ardent_. The Archbishop of Cambray gives him the preference to Cicero, against whom he makes the objection of too much _ornament_." According therefore to this author, if Wm. Pinkney was not an orator, it follows that Demosthenes was none; because their style of eloquence seems to have been alike in almost every particular, except that Pinkney aimed at _ornament_, of which Demosthenes had none and Cicero too much. If speeches, characterized by _stupendous strength_, and _turbulent declamation_, and _convincing argument_, are neither "persuasive, nor dignified, nor natural," then was not Demosthenes persuasive, nor dignified, nor natural, and of course he was no orator according to this definition. If ornament be a fault in Mr. Pinkney, he had it in common with Cicero; but perhaps the author may say that Cicero attained what Pinkney only aimed at. Hear him then again on the subject of ornament, so passionately loved by Mr. Pinkney. "Bring him in contact with a truly poetical mind, and his argument resembles a battery of colored fire-works, giving out incessant brightness and reverberation." It would seem then that ornament is not a common trait of his eloquence, but a {95} glitter which is effected by attrition against poetical minds. It is then that he draws upon the inexhaustible stores of beauty laid up in his mind, gathered from the writings of Shakspeare and others, and retained by the force of a powerful memory. He has no fancy of his own, but uses the fancy of others. Then surely he is so far superior to Demosthenes, whose eloquence was thought to border on the hard and dry; alike impetuous, vehement, stupendous and convincing with him, and superadding a relish for the beauties of poetry; not aiming at any _ornament_ of his own, but contented with what suggested itself in illustration of his argument from the pen of others. Then how is he feeble in ornament? But again; if there be nothing of dignity or nature in Pinkney's _reasoning_, how is it discovered that his mind is "_adamant clamped with iron_," [a poor conception, and suiting the ideas of a blacksmith better than a belles-lettres scholar--for the iron adds nothing to our thoughts of the strength of adamant;] that it is "a colossal pile of granite, over which the thunders of heaven might roll," &c. &c. It is useless to quote the rest of the unmeaning fustian of the sentence.

After all this avowal of stupendous strength of argument, we are told in a subsequent paragraph, that say what we will of Mr. Pinkney's argument, he the author, never saw him yet--no never, pursue his argument steadily for ten minutes at a time. Then how can it be so overwhelming and convincing? Nothing lessens so much the force of argument as a perpetual aberration from the subject. Again; "God never meant him for an orator; he has no property of mind or body," &c. &c. Not to say any thing of the presumption and impiety of determining for God, I would ask what are the _bodily properties_ of an orator? This writer has not condescended to define them, although he dwells at large upon such as he thinks cast discredit upon Mr. Pinkney. It is scarcely necessary to observe that Demosthenes was ungraceful in figure and action; and that not only _orators_, but very wise and learned men, have been repulsive in their persons, their features, and their manners also. Though Cæsar and Cicero were exempt from defect in this respect, as far as I remember Demosthenes stuttered--Socrates was bald and flatnosed--Anthony a rough soldier--Lord Chatham's eloquence was forcible, but uniform and ungraceful--Fox was a fop of Bond street, and wore high heeled morocco shoes. Mr. Pinkney therefore may, without reproach, be a "_thick, stout man, with a red fat English face_," and Mr. Fox will keep him in countenance as a fashionable man. The facetious Peter Pindar has said, that

Love hates your large fat lubberly fellows, Panting and blowing like a blacksmith's bellows;

but I never heard that oratory did.

In the next breath we hear that "Mr. Pinkney has a continual appearance of natural superciliousness and affected courtesy." _Continual_--and yet afterwards "his manner is exceedingly arrogant and unpropitiating;" and his deportment had been already described as "_brutal, arrogant, full of sound and fury, accompanied by the rude and violent gestures of a vulgar fellow_." One moment he is a giant, not only _metaphorically_, but in sober truth, if we may judge from his stentorian lungs, which have caused the author's whole system to jar--and from those violent gesticulations, which indicate uncommon personal strength;--the next, he turns out to be only five feet ten, and a petit maitre, and affectedly courtly and conciliatory; and yet "nothing could make a gentleman of him; he can neither look, act, _speak_, sit, nor _talk_ like one." Notwithstanding all this scurrility and abuse of Mr. Pinkney's person, the author is not yet exhausted, but lavishes more upon his intellect. "The physical powers of Mr. Pinkney," he says, "are to my notion, strictly correspondent with his intellectual ones; both arc solid, strong and substantial, but without grace, dignity or loftiness." Loftiness! the same man who has such "prodigious elevation and amplitude of mind," "and both have _a dash of fat English dandyism_." I confess myself wholly at a loss to comprehend what the fat dandyism of the intellectual powers is. A man's mind might, by a forced metaphor, be said to be dandyish, perhaps; but a _fat mind_, is a solecism in words wholly inadmissible, I think. "His style of eloquence," it is added, "is a most disagreeable and unnatural compound of the worst faults of the worst speakers." "He is said to resemble Lord Erskine as he was in the day of his power: it is a libel on Erskine, who was himself a libel on the reputation of his country as a speaker." "The language of Mr. Pinkney does resemble that of Lord Erskine; his reasoning is about as forcible." If the term style here be the manner of speaking appropriate to particular characters, I have shown that the censure is equally applicable to Demosthenes, the prince of orators, who, in addition to his vehemence, was so ungraceful in his motions, that it was necessary for him to practice with a naked sword hanging over his shoulder; and therefore to compare Demosthenes to Lord Erskine is a libel on Lord Erskine, himself a libel on his country as a speaker--and _argal_, as Shakspeare says, Demosthenes is inferior to English orators. If, again, the word style mean the manner of writing with regard to language, these sentences would involve a contradiction, and Mr. Pinkney is like and unlike Lord Erskine at the same time.

Yet why do I talk of Demosthenes? In the following sentences the author admits that Mr. P. copied too closely after Cicero and Demosthenes. "He desired to be eloquent; he thought of Demosthenes and Cicero, and his heart swelled with ambition. He remembered not that he was to be a lawyer, and that Demosthenes and Cicero were declaimers. He who should look to move a body of Americans in a court of justice by the best thundering of Demosthenes, would only make himself ridiculous." Very true; and this may certainly prove that Mr. Pinkney might have been a greater _lawyer_, by bending the whole force of his mind to that one pursuit; but it has nothing to do with the premises. The ground is here changed; this is not the point to be proved--not the quod erat demonstrandum. The point to be proved is not the _propriety_ of displaying eloquence before a jury, but that Wm. Pinkney was never meant by God for an orator; that he has no property of mind or body to make one. This is assuredly the scope of the extracts. Had Mr. P. not aimed at _ornament_, his ashes might have passed undisturbed by the author, who allows that he was decidedly the greatest _lawyer_ in America, but is very angry that he was not the greatest in the world. In spite of all this, however, Pinkney "pursued his way like a conqueror, and had well nigh {96} established himself as the high priest of eloquence in America." Why, what a stupid, blind, misjudging race we must be, to think of choosing a man for our high priest of eloquence whom God never meant for an orator, and who had no property, not one, of mind or body, for his business--and never to awaken from our folly until this writer tore the urim and thummim from his breast. "The giant," he says, "is gone down like a giant to the household of death," and there should at least have escaped the imputation of baseness which deserved shooting. How _giants_ die, I pretend not to know; but imagine such giants die pretty much like other people; and it seems to me perfectly ridiculous to talk of a man's dying like a giant. At that awful hour, the littleness of the greatest genius is a subject of melancholy reflection. I will only add that I know nothing of this writer. If his object was to guard us against the mischievous effects of a false taste in eloquence, he cannot be angry with me for wishing to guard against the equally bad effects of a false taste in criticism.

NUGATOR.

THE DANDY CHASTISED.

In this metropolis a real, downright exquisite is rarely to be seen. Curiosity may be gratified by a good description of the animal as exhibited in other places. The following communication is from one residing in a city much more fashionable than ours. Its author seems well informed in the science of æsthetics; and it is to be hoped that he will exert himself to correct mistaken impressions as to the beautiful. Further notices by him may be beneficial.

C.

Among the follies and vices of mankind, there is nothing more remarkable or ridiculous than the continual effort, among all classes and kinds of people--savage, civilized, and pseudo-civilized--to increase or impart beauty and comeliness to their forms and features. Through what various and opposite means is this cherished object pursued! This savage tattoos his cheeks--that smooths and oils them, and would esteem the gratuitous tattoonry of the small-pox a graver misfortune than all the pain attendant on the disease.

The Indians on our Western border are wont to assume the character of the bear, the panther, or some "other interesting beast of prey," and place their ambition in enacting the look and conduct of such beast to the life--and "to the death."

The belle of that age is surrounded by a vast circumvallation of hoop--of this, is pinched into a narrow breastwork of steel and whale-bone.

To cramp the feet into unnatural littleness is now the sad task of those who, to be beautiful, are willing to suffer the tortures of the thumb-screw--or the toe-screw, (it matters not.) The fashion changes, and long pointed shapeless boots deform the human foot.

In no age--in no condition, can men and women be persuaded that God Almighty has made them well,--albeit he hath "made man after his own image," and woman much better than man.

They must fall to reforming their forms by some fanciful deformity.

But the innovation stops not here. Thus far it might be borne. The human form cannot be wholly changed by all the ingenuity of vanity and fashion. It must still retain its principal attributes, and lose not all its lustre. Not so with manners. They are more plastic. From fashion and human folly they accordingly suffer most. Fashion is the sworn foe of nature, and in this field there is no natural bound to its triumphs.

On the face of the earth, or in the waters, there is no animal to my feelings so wholly hateful as a modern exquisite: a wretch that has put off his natural aspect to put on a clay mask, hard, ungainly, inflexible, of lifeless mud--which no Prometheus could vivify: a thing which can boast neither the humor of the monkey, nor the fierce respectability of the wild beast,--not the usefulness of the tame--still less the dignity and bearing of a man.

Sometime since, after sauntering an evening through a ball room, in which some such caricatures of men were existing, I went home and vented my rage in the following doggerel:

The Indignant Rhymes of a Natural Proser.

Oh! Muse, assist me in my strain! Your Museship I would entertain With a poetic flagellation: Assist me Muse, to lay the lash on, With pen formed from a dog-wood switch, Fit to chastise a dunce: with pitch For ink, and bull's hide parchment handy; Now aid me, Muse, and we'll chastise a dandy.

That petty, puny, paltry, pretty thing-- In form a wasp, but destitute of sting; Vain as a peacock, soulless as a gnat, Brainless as soulless, finical as flat: Of apes the ape most awkward and most vile-- Jackall of monkeys, and without jacko's wile. The jackall serves none but the noblest beast, But this base thing takes lessons from the least. As Egypt's sons did bow the knee of yore, And worship apes, the eternal God before-- He, in god image framed, with godlike mind, Would be a god--of Egypt's monkey kind. A traveller sage! Europe he hath explored-- His mistress fashion, and an ape his lord. No dignity finds he in native man, Acting and thinking after nature's plan; No wisdom, save in artificial fools-- Nature's apostates--slaves to senseless rules: No beauty sees he, save in gold and lace, A made up figure, and a painted face; And no politeness, save in mere grimace.

Go! thou vile satire on the human race; Go! _on all fours_, and seek thy proper place: Go! thing too mean for any mighty ill-- Go! petty monster, "pay thy tailor's bill."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PLACED WITH A ROSE UPON A LADY'S CHEEK.

Roses on roses I bestow; Bright rose! to brighter roses go-- Bask in the sunlight of her eyes, Nor dread their fires; the dews which rise In pity for a heart that grieves, Will shed reviving coolness on thy leaves.

QUESTUS.

_Norfolk_.

{97}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE ALLEGHANY LEVELS.

The following description of a part of Virginia and Maryland, seldom visited and but little known, may have sufficient interest to deserve a place in the columns of the Messenger.

The country alluded to, is in the northern part of this state, and comprehends that corner of Maryland included between the North Branch of Potomac and a line due north from the Fairfax stone, at the head spring of that stream, to the Pennsylvania line; and also a portion of the territory at present in dispute between the two states; Maryland claiming as her boundaries the South Branch of Potomac and a meridian thence to Mason and Dixon's line,--while the first mentioned limits only are acknowledged by Virginia.

A short notice of the origin of these conflicting titles might, perhaps, be interesting to some readers; but in addition to our lack of complete information, the limits of this sketch will not permit it.

Between Cheat river, at the fertile bottom called the Horse-shoe, and the summit of the mountain which divides the Western from the Atlantic waters, the country is thinly peopled, and only cultivated in the largest tributary vallies: the long spurs of the Backbone being too sterile to serve any other purpose than ranges for cattle and animals of the chase. The approach to the Great Backbone of the Alleghany region is here, as elsewhere on the western side, characterized by a broad and gentle acclivity, covered almost entirely with loose rocks of various sizes, many of them of the species of agglomerated quartz, familiar to the west under the name of country mill-stone, and valuable for the domestic molendinary uses of the simple and hardy race inhabiting those regions.

There is little timber of large size, the growth being chiefly chestnut oak and small moss-grown white oaks, exhibiting upon their blackened roots the scathing effects of flames, which, through the negligence of hunters in firing the dry leaves, have often and fiercely swept down the mountain side. The more recent inroads of fire are denoted by large tracts of underwood, black and denuded of leaves, and so stiffened by scorching as to present vexatious obstacles to progress, independent of the minor, though, in that place, unimportant annoyance of soiled clothes and person.

Large pine and birch trees, and a thicker undergrowth--detached blocks of stratified sandstone, some of them of huge size--and an increasing wildness and desolation in the aspect of the scenery, inform the traveller who may have ventured so far, that he is on the confines of the Alleghany wilderness.

The mountain top, near Lord Fairfax's stone, is crowned with a bold irregular precipice, which the hunters belonging to the exploring party of which the writer of this article was a member, termed the Bear-holeing, from its being the winter abode of great numbers of those animals,--the numerous cavities of the rocks, and the tangled laurel thickets, affording them a secure refuge from foes, whether biped or canine.

We were not without hope of being treated to the novelty of a bear hunt, our guides being veterans of the rifle, and accompanied by fine dogs, one of them as his master informed us, having engaged Sir Bruin more than fifty times.

The perils of this sport may well give a reputation for boldness and hardihood to our western yeomanry, when we consider that these encounters always occur in most intricate thickets of stubborn tangled laurel, in which the bear must have greatly the advantage in progression,--the sharp form of his head, and its close proximity to the ground, making it perform, in relation to his huge muscular body, the office, it might be said, of the coulter to a plough. But few of them are killed without the sacrifice of one or more of man's zealous confederates in this dangerous sport; and the rescue of the faithful brutes, (such is the inexpugnable nature of the foe and his extraordinary vital energy, which seems often to defy even the rifle,) obliges the hunter, with a personal daring not inferior to that of the Roman gladiators, to terminate the conflict with his hunting knife;--he dies invariably biting the ground or whatever else may be within his reach; showing to the very last the propensity to combat, which he exhibits even while a cub.

The range of precipice of which we have spoken, either terminates, or is interrupted for some distance north of this point--whence, for more than thirty miles, the country is totally without human inhabitant, and will probably for a long time, if not always, so remain.

The land may be said to lie in lofty tables, though the vallies are of great depth--the latter circumstance alone reminding the traveller that he has descended a mountain,--the seemingly interminable tract of flat forest land impressing, most forcibly, the idea of a lower situation, though these are without doubt among the very highest lands in Virginia. They are called by the hunters and settlers upon their outskirts, the Alleghany Levels. In them are the principal sources of all the great waters of Virginia. The North and South Branches of Potomac, Jackson's river, and the Shenandoah, Greenbrier and Gauley, Cheat and Tygart's Valley--which flow north, east, west and south, seeking by long and winding courses, the Ohio or the Atlantic Ocean.

The greatest singularity of this country consists in its primeval appearance: the ground is carpeted throughout with an elastic and verdant moss; black spruce and hemlock pines, of dark funereal aspect, tower above the soil like an army of Titans,--the interlacing of their umbrageous arms converting the noonday into seeming twilight. Under its mossy covering, the surface of the ground is completely reticulated with roots of trees--nature seeming to compensate in numbers for the defective character of her supports, as large trees may be often observed whose roots do not enter the ground for some feet below the trunk, being previously contorted and spread out like the arms of a polypous, and clothed in the same mantle of moss which overspreads rocks, trees and earth, in this fantastic region.

This moss may be stripped from the soil in sheets of any desirable size, and, when not previously saturated with rain, affords a most comfortable substitute for a mattrass, as in our bivouacs we more than once experienced.

The underwood is mostly streaked maple or elkwood, (the _Acer Striatum_ of Michaux,) diversified with immense tracts of the _Kalmia Latifolia_ and the large rose-bay-tree, (_Rhododendron Maximum_,) more popularly known as the "little and big laurels." The last {98} named plant, when in flower, is the ornament of the wilderness. Those who have never seen it, may have some conception of its appearance, if they imagine tall bushes, from eight to twenty feet in height, with dark evergreen leaves, (not unlike in form and color to those of the magnolia grandiflora,) bearing clusters of full blown peonies, or large double damask and cinnamon roses, the intensity of the color seeming to vary with situation.

It is to be feared that this beautiful plant cannot easily be naturalized in this climate--an attempt made by the writer of this article, possibly from a too warm or not sufficiently humid exposure, having failed.

The geographical position of these "laurel beds" is a necessary part of the hunter's lore. Frequent instances are narrated of persons bewildered in them many days, and some are said to have perished. A farmer, born and residing on Stony river, five miles north of this wild, by whom we were supplied with provisions, accompanied us to the skirt of the forest, but could by no entreaty be induced to proceed farther.

These laurel thickets are most frequent in approaching vallies, which are as before remarked, of great depth; the descent is sudden, in general by what resembles a rude flight of steps, moss grown and ruined. To casual observation there would appear to be no water at the bottom; but a subterraneous rumbling, and occasional flashes through the interstices of the fragments on which he steps, inform the passenger that a stream of volume and power is beneath him.

The largest streams however, as in other regions, flow in open channels, their waters having a dark ferruginous tinge, derived it is said, from the laurel roots, but more probably from deposites of ore through which they flow.

The wild animals are no doubt many, as well as various, though the noise attending our own operations kept them from our sight. We daily saw tracks of bears, deer and elk; of the latter, a drove of some threescore is said still to inhabit these almost inaccessible wilds. Of birds, we saw none living except a few silent and melancholy snow birds; but our nightly lullaby was the whooping of owls, which here abound in great numbers.

To the reputed wonders of rattlesnake dens, where these reptiles lie in monstrous cumuli, refusing to uncoil until the whole mass has been many times assailed with rifle balls and other missiles, we cannot testify, having never, though very desirous of so doing, the fortune to find one.

The soil is a cold argillaceous loam, unsuited to the production of the nobler grains, but susceptible of becoming, under proper culture, good grazing land, and no doubt proper for rye, oats and potatoes,--the invariable products of the whole mountain region.

The botany of the wilderness proper, is confined chiefly to the two species of pine before mentioned, the hemlock pine (_Pinus Canadensis_,) and the black spruce (_Pinus Nigra_ of Lambert.) Some stately specimens of the wild cherry and scattering patches of red beach complete the list.

On emerging from the wilderness, the customary variety of oak, ash maple and hickory presents itself, mingled with the cucumber tree (_Magnolia Acuminata_,) and that invaluable treasure to western housewives, the sugar tree,--announcing the neighborhood of cultivation.

This dreary expanse of forest terminates on the summit of the Eastern Front Ridge, at the head of the North Fork of Patterson's creek, itself an inconsiderable tributary of Potomac, but deserving celebrity for the grandeur of its scenery. It appears to have cut its way through three lofty mountains in succession, affording a more sublime exhibition of river gap landscapes than I have witnessed in any other part of the state,--the boasted grandeur of Harper's Ferry fading into insignificance when compared with it.

At the first farm east of the wilderness,--in the homely but comfortable dwelling of one of the worthy Dutch farmers, our little party enjoyed the unwonted luxury of beds, and were able to breakfast without performing for ourselves the office, which has occasioned our species to be so properly designated as "cooking animals."

C. B. S.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE CYCLOPEAN TOWERS, IN AUGUSTA COUNTY, VA.

On a fine morning in September 1834, a party of which the writer was one, consisting for the most part of gentlemen who had met together in the town of Staunton from various sections of the Union, resolved on a visit to certain remarkable NATURAL STRUCTURES which lay in the neighborhood of the Augusta Springs, and about twenty miles distant from the place of their departure.

After passing over a hilly and picturesque country, the road opened upon a fertile valley, which though in places narrow, was of considerable length,--and when seen from an elevated position, appeared like the bed of an ancient lake, or as it really is, the alluvial border of a flowing stream. The strata of limestone hills, followed their usual order of parallel lines to the great mountains of our continent, as though a strong current had once swept through this magnificent valley,--forming in its course islands and promontories,--which are now discoverable in numerous short hills and rocky bluffs, that are either naked and barren, or covered with a growth of stately trees. It was at such a projection, that we first descried the gray summits of what seemed a ruinous castle,--resembling those which were raised in feudal times to guard the passes of the Rhine, or like such as are still seen in mouldering majesty on many an Alpine rock. These summits or towers, of which there are seven, lifted their heads above the lofty elms, like so many antique chimnies in the midst of a grove; but, on approaching them nearer, our pleasure was greatly increased, to find them rise almost perpendicularly from the bed of a small stream, which winding around their base, serves as a natural moat to a building not made with mortal hands. The southern front of this colossal pile, presents a wall of about sixty feet elevation, terminating in three towers of irregular height, and perforated at its base by a cavern,--which, by an apt association, was denominated "_Vulcan's Forge_." The tower on the extreme right, was unanimously called "_Cocke's Tower_"--in honor of one of our party who ascended it. On the left, are two other isolated towers,--of which the centre or smaller one was distinguished as the "_Hymenial Altar_,"--a name which {99} had its origin partly in a _jeu d'esprit_, and partly on account of a shady bower in its rear, which seemed an appropriate shade to mantle maiden's blushes. The furthest and tallest, received the title of the "_Tower of Babel_." This is also the most perpendicular of all these rocky structures; an archway passes through it, by which there is an easy ascent to the remaining two, which stand on the acclivity of the hill,--and though of less altitude, are not of inferior beauty to the rest. One of them, which is of a round form, and flat at the top, and on that account received the appellation of the "_Table Rock_"--affords from its summit a splendid view of the whole; the other, and last of the five, we distinguished as "_Shelton's Rock_"--from one of our party.

These rocks in their formation resemble the palisades on the Hudson river--but are more regular in their strata,--which appear to have been arranged in huge masses of perfect workmanship--with projections like cornices of Gothic architecture, in a state of dilapidation. Those who are acquainted with the structure of the Cyclopean walls of the ancients, would be struck with the resemblance,--which suggested the name at the head of this article.

We pause to inquire why these primeval fragments of the world have remained so long unnoticed? Why is it that men are so easily awakened to the liveliest interest in distant objects, and yet neglect those which are nearer and more accessible? "A prophet" it hath been said on high authority, "hath honor save in his own country,"--and to that strange propensity of the mind to contemn whatever is familiar, must be attributed the neglect of many of the richest treasures at our own door, which frequently impart both wealth and distinction to foreign enterprise. For many years these towers have been known in the surrounding country, by the homely appellation of "THE CHIMNEYS,"--but no one has ever stopped to examine them, or to inquire how nature formed so curious a pile in such a spot. Imagination may indeed conceive that this noble structure was once the _Scylla_ of a narrow strait connecting the waters of the north and the south, until their accumulated pressing burst through the blue ridge at Harper's Ferry, and left in their subsidence these towers, as a perpetual memorial of their former dominion.

G. C.

[We do not remember where or when the following _Sonnet to Lord Byron_ was published. All we know is that it has been in print before, and has been ascribed to the pen of the Hon. R. H. Wilde, of Georgia.]

ORIGINAL SONNET TO LORD BYRON.

Byron! 'twas thine alone on eagle's pinions, In solitary strength and grandeur soaring, To dazzle and delight all eyes, out-pouring The electric blaze on tyrants and their minions; Earth, sea and air, and Powers and Dominions, Nature--man--time--the universe exploring, And from the wreck of worlds, thrones, creeds, opinions, Thought, beauty, eloquence, and wisdom storing. O! how I love and envy thee thy glory! To every age and clime alike belonging; Linked by all tongues with every nation's story, Thou TACITUS of song!--whose echoes thronging O'er the Atlantic, fill the mountains hoary And forests with a name which thus I'm wronging.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MUSINGS III--_By the Author of Vyvyan_.

JAMESTOWN.

Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone Til I had bodied forth the heated mind Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind. _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, _Canto_ iv. _Stanza_ civ.

Tawnor nehiegh Powhatan. _Salvage dialect_, _apud Capt. Smith_.

I stand on hallowed ground--the sacred sod Which once an ill-starred people bravely trod In native freedom, ere the wanderer crost The broad Atlantic waters and love lost The fair reward of labor, ill repaid By base desertion--country--friends betrayed-- Misery and exile from a native land, Ending in death upon a foreign strand.

* * * * *

My spirit falls into a deeper mood And thought goes darkly forth to gather food For bitter contemplation;--for I trace Some record of the spoilers of that race Most gallant, wheresoe'er I turn mine eyes,-- While of the exiled--neath their native skies Is scarce a token left--save what belongs To a sad history of unnumbered wrongs. Methinks the very sun's departing rays With melancholy meaning seem to gaze Upon the hostile monuments of yore,-- Yon ruined arch with ivy overgrown-- Those shattered tombs of moss-discolored stone-- That slowly moulder by the silent shore.

* * * * *

Might I the Genius of Old Time invoke, This were the hour--the place--where many an oak Tosses its arms and points to ancient graves Beside the aisleless tower, which o'er the waves Shall no more send its voice upon the air, To call to matin or to vesper prayer. Alone, it stands, like some grim sentinel And in stern silence bids the world farewell!

* * * * *

Lift we the veil of vanished centuries-- Beneath the shade and shelter of these trees The careless Indian smoked his calumet-- (The CHRISTIAN had not crost the ocean yet)-- Without a thought to mar his musing, save To strand his light canoe beyond the wave Or fasten it with sedgy rope secure, Lest the next tide should steal it from the shore. But lo! one evening as he lay beside The margin where his native waters glide, A sight of wonder on his vision broke; And the deep voice of flame in thunder spoke The doom of wo to him and all his race. Yet fear, which might have blanched a paler face, Quenched not the flashings of his dauntless eye, Nor for an instant quelled that bearing high Which best became the warrior of the wild-- The Hunter bold--the Forests' lordly child! Ay! tho' the evil spirit of his sky, For such well might his inexperienced eye Have deemed it, lurked within the snow-white mist That brooded o'er the silent river's breast, {100} And spoke in accents of the dark storm-cloud, From out the folding of its gleaming shroud, He stood prepared to meet the worst--like one Who hath no fear of aught beneath the sun. Methinks I see him watching by the shore, With strained eye, intently gazing o'er The river's course. Well may he clasp his brow In doubt and wonder--is he dreaming now?-- The cloud seems gathering up its folds of snow, And straight spars glitter in the sunset glow, Far loftier than the loftiest pine that rears Its stately crest above its tall compeers: Beneath--a huge dark mass is seen to glide With stealthy motion o'er the heaving tide, Crowded with moving forms of human mould, But of an aspect well might daunt the bold, Gazing the first time on that pallid crew, So foreign and so ghastly in their hue! But hark!--the distant shout that wildly pours Its thousand echoes on the strand, assures-- Swift to the Chiefs he speeds--the wise--the bold In council meet--his tale is briefly told; Then far and near they gathered in their might And 'gainst the invader battled for their right, As valiant men should for the altars reared By their forefathers and the homes endeared By thousand ties and recollections past To which the heart clings warmly to the last. But not to lengthen out a thrice told tale-- The Red Man never yielded to the Pale, Though forced by foreign fire to wander far, Homeless and houseless, neath the evening star. Slowly and sad, the western hills they climb, Yet find no rest beyond for wearied limb And aching heart--no single spot of earth, Of all the wide spread land that gave them birth, Is theirs. They gaze upon the setting sun And feel their course like his must soon be run-- They hear their requiem in the deepening roar Of waves that dash upon the distant shore-- But they must wander on unceasingly So long as space remains for footing free, Til hemmed at last twixt ocean and the foe They turn to bay _once more_ and perish so.

* * * * *

Oh! little dreamed the tender hearted maid, By love and her own gentleness betrayed, That death and desolation's fellest wrath So surely followed--in the very path Of good intent--to whelm her race with woes She would have warded even from her foes. Where yonder temporary structure frail[1] Extends across the strait its slender rail, The shallow waves at flood scarce overflow The sandy bar the ebb reveals below-- 'Twas there the royal daughter crost to save The pilgrim strangers from an early grave. Who that had seen her on that fatal night, Swift gliding, like a startled water sprite, To that lone Island-Fort where calmly slept The dreaming foe, in fancied safety wrapt-- Who could have aimed at such a breast the shaft? Tho' well apprised no other means were left To baffle treason--not as such designed In the simplicity of her guileless mind. Had she been only destined to inherit A portion of that fierce determined spirit And deep prophetic hate--like vestal fire Nursed in the bosom of her royal sire, A nation's doom had not been rashly sealed By mercy thus so erringly revealed-- But it is done--and lo! the love which hurled An ancient race to ruin--GAINED A WORLD!!

[Footnote 1: Alluding to the new bridge erected by Collier Minge, Esq. affording passage from the main land to the island, where a wharf has been built for the accommodation of steamboat travellers.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FATED CITY.

'Twas evening, and the sinking sun Streamed brightly in the sky, And cast his farewell beams abroad, Like smiles of an approving god, O'er plain, and mountain high-- O'er waving fields of floating gold That, round his gorgeous pyre, were rolled, And o'er the city's glistening spires, That flashed beneath his blazing fires.

There lay that city;--wealth and pride Had built their temples there, And swift-winged commerce there had brought, From many a clime, her trophies caught:-- From Indian isles afar, The pearl, the beryl and the gem;-- But treasures, far outvieing them, Were with that city's wealth combined-- The priceless treasures of the mind!

The sun went down, and night came o'er That city's winding walls; The white moon rose along the sky, And looked down calm, and silently, Upon the shouting halls, Where music rang, and laughter went, From lip to lip, in merriment;-- Where all was careless, heedless, light, Besporting on that festal night!

An hour passed on;--what cry was that, Which thrilled that city so? What shrieks are those,--what means yon cloud That wraps the temple, like a shroud, And fills the breast with wo?-- What mean yon flames, that blazing, run Along that mountain dark and dun?-- Why quakes the land,--why heaves the sea-- Why peal the heavens dreadfully?

Night left the earth;--the sun arose, As wont, above the sky, And looked,--not on that city bright, Which he had left before the night, With turrets gleaming high; But on a black and blasted waste, Dread desolation's hand had traced,-- Upon a flood of _lava_, where Once proudly stood POMPEII fair!

A. B. M.

_Tuscaloosa, Alabama_.

{101}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HYMN TO THE STARS.

BY D. MARTIN, _of Mobile_.

Ye burning blazonry of God! Ye glittering lights that never die! That pace the realms by seraphs trod! And hold untiring watch on high! And circling heaven's eternal king, Ye dwell--His glorious fashioning!

Creation saw your timeless birth, When from your own clear sapphire skies, Ye looked upon the virent earth,-- An everlasting paradise!-- And seemed to mock with silent gaze, Nature's green garb and tuneless lays!

Since then ye've read the world's black page, And seen a stream sublime, Roll its dark waters o'er an age Of countless years of time!-- In whose deep, dark, unletter'd caves, Earth hides her mighty as in graves!

Life's wasting--but ye still shine on, And seem to me to be, The lights upon the horizon Of eternity's black sea!-- Pointing to the sun-lit far off west, Where all immortal spirits rest!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO * * * * *.

Believe not that my heart is cold, And feels not friendship's sacred fire, If I sometimes myself withhold, And from thy festive scenes retire.

Oh, no! I love the social bower Where friendship smiles with joyous mirth, And yet to me there is an hour More dear than all those scenes on earth.

'Tis when in pensive mood, the mind, Retires within itself to muse, And some bright dream, long since resigned, With sad though pleasing thought reviews;

Some golden dream of early years, When all the heart was warm and true; And life, unshaded yet with cares, Displayed its best and brightest hue.

'Twas then I dreamed of faithful love, That would o'er time and change prevail-- Food, fairy scenes of pleasure wove-- Bright, verdant spots in life's dark vale.

But time advanced, and at one sweep My air-built castles tore away; And, like a wreck upon the deep, My shattered hopes and prospects lay.

Upon life's ocean still I'm tossed; And tho' the skies are sometimes bright, Yet on the waves again I'm lost, Midst howling storms and pitchy night.

Believe not then my heart is cold, And feels not friendship's sacred fire, If I sometimes myself withhold, And from thy festive scenes retire.

L.

_Pittsylvania_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE GRAVE SEEKERS.

BY R. S. F.

Come part the crowd, and open a way, For those who are seeking the grave; Some are pressing on in the light of day, Some by the moon's obscurer ray, Some on land and some on the wave.

Now come with me to the festive hall, Where in mirth they dance and sing, Till echo is answered by echo's call, As the merry peals ring from one and all; To the grave they swiftly wing.

Again with me, come haste away Where the theatre shines so bright, For there the lamps, with their peerless ray, Have darkness changed into brighter day. They gaze on the stage with delight!

Come follow this crowd which moves as the wave On the gently ebbing sea; With the scenes of the night their bosoms heave, But little they think the next is the grave, Not of the stage--but eternity.

See, reckless youth--maturer age Alike are far from heaven; In festive scenes their time engage-- They idly sport--they madly rage-- While to the grave they are driven.

Ye may trace their path as ye move along The busy crowds of care; In the house of God--in the house of song-- In distant isles--the waves among, To the grave they must all repair.

So part the crowd, and open a way, For those who are seeking the grave; Some are pressing on in the light of day, Some by the moon's obscurer ray, Some on land and some on the wave.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A YOUNG CHILD.

BY D. MARTIN, _of Mobile_.

Thou hast a clear, unsullied brow, A bright and dreaming eye,-- And a spirit free and chainless, As cherubs in yon sky!

The meteor lights of intellect, Glance lightly on thee now, And play like fairy revellers, Upon thy parian brow!

Well, be it so--and may thy life Be like a summer stream, That sparkles into gladness, Beneath the sun's bright beam.

May thy brow ne'er wear the coloring Of passion's stern commotion,-- Which darkens many a God-like one, While on life's stormy ocean!

May the sunny hours of childhood Be the last to pass away,-- And the setting sun of life's dark night, Dawn on a brighter day!

{102}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CUPID'S SPORT.

"Am I in fairy land?--or tell me, pray, To what love lighted bower I've found my way? Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild."

Some where in Virginia, and in a certain year,--but I beg you will not inquire when or where, for you will break the thread of my discourse, and I shall be compelled, like corporal Trim when he was rehearsing the Lord's prayer before my dear uncle Toby, to begin at the beginning, at every interruption,--there lived a young man, in a certain town--

Now my dear reader, do you suppose I intend telling you a story without a single name, date or place in it? If you do, I am afraid you would see me at Kamschatka, or in Simms' hole, before you would make up your mind to travel one inch with me, or listen to one syllable.

Well, then, in a _certain_ place, and at a _certain_ time, as young _Timothy_ was sitting in the cool evening's shade, musing o'er the events that human life befall, and reflecting upon the many ups and downs he must necessarily encounter during the residue of his life, that _old_ heathen god, who, paradoxical as it may appear, is still as _young_ as he was at the day of his birth, I mean sly Cupid, who was, is, and ever will be a boy to all eternity, happened to have been snugly perched upon a branch of the very tree under which our friend was reclining, and the little urchin sat pluming his variegated wings, and feeling the points of his keen feathery arrows, preparing for his evening's sport.

Poor Tim! how little did he dream he was the subject the young god had selected for as merry a frolic as ever fortune smiled upon in her merriest mood. Tim was in his twentieth year,--"a leal light heart was in his breast," he knew not the cares and anxieties of the world, nor had he yet encountered fortune's frowns; he had enjoyed a full portion of her smiles and blandishments, and his life had flitted along like a gay summer's dream. He had yet to learn that all his castles were but air built and fanciful, and it was necessary he should plod a little upon his mother earth. Tim was none of your dashing thorough-going bloods, who soar aloft with the eagles of the day, ever and anon to pounce upon some harmless pigeon,--nor was he one of your gig and tandem boys,--flourish and dash,--tinsel and paint,--who whirl about for a season, and are all the go while the chink or the credit lasts, but who, finally whirl off to jail, or into obscurity and insignificance, nobody knows where, and nobody cares when. He was a mild, pleasant, merry-making fellow. As for his person,--my dear miss, you must excuse me; I know from your looks, you are curious to know whether he had black hair and black eyes,--or light hair and blue eyes,--or red hair and grey eyes,--but, really, I can't tell you,--certain it is, he had eyes and a nose, and

"When he happened to grin, His mouth stood across 'Twixt his nose and his chin."

There he lay, all defenceless, on his right side, (I like to be particular,) with his clean white roundabout, and his waistcoat unbuttoned, both thrown carelessly over his left arm; there lay his heart, gently swelling and subsiding and he unconscious of its undulating flow--while Cupid--I was about to say, while Cupid's keen eyes were penetrating its inmost recesses, and eyeing it as a hawk some sunny perch in a limpid stream,--but, alas for Cupid--the ancients have interdicted the use of his eyes; nevertheless, on the present occasion, it is necessary for my purposes that Cupid should, at least, take the bandage from off his eyes, and the ancients to the contrary notwithstanding, I do maintain that the sly god has as beautiful a pair of eyes as ever were seen,--yes, and he is able to change them at his pleasure. At one time, he appears with the mildest, softest, kindest, clearest, heavenly blue eyes;--at another, with the keenest, blazing, and yet the blackest eyes that ever flashed wit, and eloquence, and expressing all the passions that the heart ever darts through its open portals. All eyes are his, of every hue and every form,--and at this moment, he was using as playful and as devilish a pair, as ever bewitched and enchanted a trembling maiden. He sat quietly selecting the most mortal parts of that defenceless heart, with bow well strung, and barbed arrows, and ever and anon, he placed the winged messenger to the string and twanged his silver bow. Cupid sometimes but tips his arrows' point with a poison, as rapid in its action and as efficacious as the most powerful prussic acid, and wo to the youth or the maid who feels the deadly pang; at other times, he slightly dips the barb, and leaves it to time and circumstances to develop its potent influence. On the present occasion, having smitten poor Tim with a double portion, away he flew, to practise his wiles on other subjects. Gentle reader, you are now introduced to our young friend Tim,--you have seen him in a condition worse than that of Daniel in the lions' den, and whether he is delivered or not your patience will enable you to discover. Would that I could have interposed a shield to protect the youth, but what the fates decree no mortal can prevent,--and you know, what is to be, happens for the best.

Have you ever seen a lady setting her cap for a beau? This is an every day occurrence, and yet how difficult to explain, though ever so easy to perform. It is one of those things that delicate fingers alone can accomplish or pourtray. For my part, I have seen, and heard, and thought, and talked much and often of these caps, that, nine times in ten, are no caps at all, and yet the exact method of setting them is not to be described. Were I to describe the lady's habiliments, you would have not the least idea how her cap was set,--were I to dwell upon the peculiar cut of the cap itself,--its points or its quillings, its trimmings or its laces, and how it was placed, whether on the tip of the head, or down upon the ears, or a little to one side, or square,--or round,--it matters not, you would still be wide of the mark; but yet, when the "cap is set," there is no mistake in the matter.

Good reader, you are not acquainted with my little Mary. She had as happy a knack of setting a cap, as ever a lass had since the days of mother Eve, and on this very evening, she will appear with it set to such advantage, that all the family servants, as she passes them, will utter an involuntary "umph--u--u!"--Can you conceive the peculiar sound here vainly attempted to be embodied--for of all utterable exclamations it is the most exhilirating to a miss in her teens. If you cannot:--know, that it signifies, "I tell you what, young {103} massa, you better steer clear." Little Molly is not the greatest beauty of the age, nor yet the loveliest flower that ever bloomed, but she was pretty enough to make Cupid's little arrows rankle in Tim's susceptible heart, and fate would have it, that they should accidentally meet, some how or other, wherever they went. She had a peculiar way of her own, of fixing on a bonnet,--a little gipsy bonnet,--down the sides of which, hung her long flaxen ringlets, and where she parted her hair on her forehead, there was carelessly pinned a half blooming moss rose, behind which sat Cupid laughing in his sleeve. I say carelessly pinned, because it seemed as though it mattered not whether 'twere there or not, and yet, more care had been used in giving it its particular position, than all the rest of her dress,--and perhaps, after all, this was "setting her cap." Tim had never seen little Molly look half so sweet before, and when his eyes and her's would meet, there was a sensation created that thrilled through his every fibre; to him, that rose bud seemed to be instinct with life and animation, and Cupid's laughing eyes and smiling face made every leaf "a heart quake." Tim had been thought to be brave, his comrades always looked up to him as a leader in daring enterprizes. Men have been known to walk up to the cannon's mouth when the gunner stood with the lighted match within a few inches of the powder, but to storm a rose bud, manned by Cupid, on so polished a brow, required a dare-devil spirit that human nature shrunk from,--and though Tim would have given the world to have touched that bud, he could not have advanced his finger an inch towards it by any possibility. This first symptom of the operation of Cupid's arrows but few have escaped. You would give the world to approach the loved object, and yet a touch would create a shock as violent as that from a Leyden jar, well charged with the electric fluid. Little Molly's was what would be termed a laughing face, her clear blue eyes were lighted up by a mind vivid and playful; cheerfulness and contentment were conspicuous on her brow,--but yet she was one of your real mischievous little imps, who knew a thing or two, and was up to all kinds of tricks,--in truth, she used to say of herself that she had a little devil in her;--now don't be alarmed my good reader; I don't mean the evil spirit who roams about, seeking whom to devour--"that tailed, horned, heartless chiel,--the very deil,"--but, she had a way of practising so many little artful, innocently wicked things, and they were done in so artless a manner, that though you would think from their effects his satanic majesty alone was the guilty perpetrator, yet you could not help loving his highness the more for his misdeeds. Of all things in the world, she seemed to derive most pleasure from practising her playfulness on friend Tim, and at every successive effort, Tim would only exclaim, "surely the devil's in the girl! what in the devil does she mean?" Tim had better have suffered the devil to go about his business--but no, he kept inquiring what in the devil the girl meant, till Cupid had him, head and ears, neck and shoulders, heart and soul, body and life, as safe a prisoner as ever was incarcerated in a dungeon's darkness. Little Molly was perfectly innocent of any intention to entrap our friend; nothing was further from her thoughts; she only intended at the outset to gratify her disposition for fun, and she knew no more the state of her own heart than if she had been deprived of that throbbing, thumping, turbulent member; but when kindred hearts often sport together, and kindred eyes often meet with kindred glances, kindred throbs will beat, awakening kindred feelings, which some little flaxen haired, clear, blue eyed lassies find truly difficult to obliterate.

Reader, dost thou expect me to give thee in black and white my hero's courtship? Of all the things in the world, the most tame and insipid are lovers' courtships,--it may be the most interesting, animating, soul-stirring, thrilling courtship that ever mortal breathed, but canst thou enter into the feelings and go along with the heart in its gentle outpourings? 'Tis not words, sentences, nor ideas, clothed in the dress of fancy, or robed in imagination's best attire. 'Tis the look, the touch, the action, that constitutes the universal language of love none can misunderstand.

I must take thee my good friend, (for we must be friends who are travelling so cosily together,) and place thine eye at a key hole, where "you shall see what you shall see." Alas poor Tim! I have been watching thy movements; thou evidently knowest not what thou doest,--instead of reading as thou wast wont, thou hast been serving thine apprenticeship to that _manufacturer_ Cupid! Of all the epithets that ever were applied to a heathen god, none can be more appropriate, though I say it who should not, than this epithet bestowed by me upon Cupid.--Cupid a manufacturer? Yes, a manufacturer. Whenever you see a poor fellow sweating over the fire, filing, and stretching, and polishing rings, carving hearts and diamonds, and the like, you may set it down that Cupid is teaching his apprentice the first rudiments of his art,--for he is the master workman who superintends the manufacture of all such invaluable tokens, and teaches the how, and the where, and the when, they are to be distributed and bestowed. You are now seated at that key hole; I have told you what has been Tim's employment, make the best use of your eyes, and tell us what you see. Who ever saw a fellow try on a ring in that way before?--putting the ring upon the fore-finger?--the rogue knows as well as you do, that that little ring will not go over the first joint of that finger, but then it is so pleasant to try, the finger is so soft and white. Trying it on the middle finger?--he knows that the ring will not go over the nail, but that finger is so tapering, how could he avoid it. Had it been you or I, we should have placed it at once on the ring finger, and there would have been an end of the matter,--but look! the fellow is trying it upon the little finger--that finger is so little, and some how or other, so lonely, he feels for it a tender compassion. A little finger look lonely when in company with three fingers and a thumb? Aye,--lonely,--and its little nail is so thin you may see the blood circulating under it, and of all things to see the blood flowing fresh from the heart, so delicately tinged, is----The fellow has slipped the ring on, is gently squeezing the whole hand, and "has raised his wistful eyes to heaven,"--and little Molly has gently tapped him on the cheek with her fan, as much as to say "you rogue."

Get away from the door, my good friend, you have now seen as much as we bargained for: and my dear miss, you are curious to know what conversation passed all the while between Tim and little Mary; I'll tell you: {104} there did not pass one solitary word, but two little hearts were in as much of a flutter as ever was made by a flock of partridges, springing from their cover.

By this time Tim had become grave and sentimental, and oh! if you ever heard music!--morning, noon, and night, there was the most incessant fluting,--fluting,--fluting. It was all of that soft die-away kind, you would have thought that Tim's soul was melting away and softly escaping through his flute. His heart, too, had undergone as thorough a change as that of the silk worm transformed into the fluttering moth. His mind was etherealized: instead of the humdrum, commonplace, prosing thoughts he once indulged in, his imagination now soared aloft,--he was dwelling amid the heights of Parnassus, his soul was drinking in the nectar of poesy and revelling in the ambrosia of fancy. You may talk of the pierian spring as the fount of knowledge; you may invoke the muses from their heavenly habitation, and Apollo and Minerva may attend in their train, but unless Cupid's arrows have drank of the heart's blood, tinging the sources of the mind's impressions, poesy will still be steeped in Lethe's wave, and never spring into life's gay morn. Now, every thought is dressed and ornamented, and oh! the fantastic flights!--oh! the soft mellow pastorals,--the country life, the blue vaulted arch unspotted with a cloud--nature, simple and gay; there she is, sweetly clad all beautiful and fresh--aye, and the loved one!--pearls and gems, and diamonds, and roses, and lilies, and stars, and suns, and firmaments in splendor glowing, and "could the busy bee but taste those lips, he'd quit his hollow domes to revel 'mid the sweets upon that hallowed spot."

As for little Molly, she, too, had undergone a metamorphosis, she who was wont to play so many "tricks before high heaven," who loved to play them off upon poor Tim, better than on all others, had grown so shy, you would have sworn she hated the very sight of him. In the company of others, when Tim was present, she scarcely opened her mouth,--to him, she scarcely ever spoke,--of him--no word of remembrance broke from her lips,--you would have thought he was obliterated from her mind; but more could be read by these two in a single glance of the eye, than volumes could express. As for me, I'd rather have the sensation produced by one of those stolen glances than be made a king. In such a situation, I would not be compelled to talk, by all the racks of the inquisition--silence is delight. But at such a time, to be bored with one of your real clatter, clatter, jabbering, never ending, incessant talkers, is the most horrible purgatory. Poor Tim was just in this situation. Little Molly had a noisy, officious cousin, who, he thought uglier than the veriest hag that ever shrank and shrivelled into stringy nothingness, and yet the girl was comely enough. She had taken it into her head, that her cousin Mary hated the aforesaid Tim, and therefore kindly volunteered to rid her of so troublesome a companion; and in consequence of such sage surmises, never failed when Tim paid a visit, to intrude herself among them;--and oh the clatter!--Tim's heart sank within him--he came not to talk!

My dear young miss, whoever thou art, that seest these lines, let me advise thee as a friend, to take thyself to thine own apartment, and remain in solitude the balance of thy life, rather than interfere in these critical moments; for you may rely upon it that thou art hated, contemned, abhorred and despised to a degree that is truly sinful. Thou art cursed with ten thousand more curses than ever Dr. Slop poured upon the head of luckless Obadiah.

Gentle reader, (for thou must be gentle to have travelled with me so far without wincing, and yet have heard so little,) can you tell me how it is that when a man is in love, however rambling and roving his disposition may have been before, as soon as he is fairly caught, he becomes from that moment confined to one solitary route. Let me explain myself,--for I have been carefully noticing our friend Tim. He and little Molly lived in the same town, but at a considerable distance apart, and yet to whatever part of the town Tim was called, he was as certain to pass by little Molly's house as he was to pass out of his own door. For instance, he would go to the post office, and from the frequency of his visits, you would have supposed he had more correspondents than all the merchants of the place put together, and while the post office was up town, little Molly's was down town, and yet he invariably went down town by little Molly's to get up town to the post office. One might suppose that Tim expected to see little Molly at the windows, but she was not one of your starers, who employ themselves in gazing at the comers and goers, and I'll venture to say, that in six months, Tim never saw her once, and yet go in what direction he might ultimately intend, go down town in the first place he must,--and he experienced more pleasure in passing that house than in eating his breakfast or his dinner.--This is a species of hydrophobia that I will leave you to think on and cure.

These incidents had occurred--these symptoms had been made manifest.--In the mean time two years rolled onwards.--Tim was in his twenty-second year, and little Molly in her eighteenth.

One day as Tim stood ready with his hat in his hand to take his leave after an interview,--it had been a long and hopeless one,--looking wistfully at her, he said energetically and in a voice deep toned--"It is the _last_ time I will ask. If you are in earnest, I go forever!" I listened, but could not hear the reply. There was a pause. Perhaps, nothing was said. I thought I heard a kiss. I may be mistaken, but certain I am, that instead of hearing Tim leave the house, I heard him walk rapidly to the table, and throw down his hat. When I again saw him,--the pensive, musing, meditative Tim was the merriest fellow that ever cracked a bottle.

When a man has had his hat in his hand, and with a wo-begone countenance has risen to make a final adieu, under the impression that he is utterly discarded and despised, and suddenly resumes his seat with such evidences of change of purpose; we generally presume he has obtained the liberty of hanging his hat up, which is tantamount to obtaining the liberty of the domicil, and is what I should call the gentleman's setting his hat, in contradistinction to the lady's setting her cap.

Day after day, go when you would, and peep into that passage, you would find Tim's new beaver hanging upon the same hook, and these two young innocents sitting side and side, cheek and joke, feasting on each others' eyes.

Tim would sometimes talk of the future, and develop his little schemes for their mutual happiness; but if ever he touched upon that most delicate of all subjects, the {105} ascertainment of the period when their two hearts were to be linked indissolubly together, all the delicacy of the female character would instantly be aroused, and little Molly, in a playful mood, would sing out "time enough yet, time enough yet."

Matters remained in this unsettled condition, our friend Tim still enduring the same uncertainty, living in that half delightful, half vexatious state which totally unfits a man for any occupation, unless it be "breathing soft music through a mellow pipe." Our friend thought more than once 'twas time these scenes should be ended: accordingly he determined to inform his good mother of his happy prospects, as a prelude to his future movements. Many ineffectual efforts were made, but it was a delicate business. How to commence these soft narrations has puzzled more heads than one. He had given the old lady repeated chances to help him out, by sly hints and inuendoes, but she would never perceive what he was driving at. The truth was, she had selected in her own mind a most eligible match for her son, and she could not believe he was so blind as not to discover its advantages. Money was the foundation upon which that edifice was to be erected; but Tim, poor fellow, belonged to an ill-fated family. Not one of his ancestors had ever married other than a poor girl, from the remotest antiquity, and he had a sentimental notion of such affairs, that would forever exclude the idea of his marrying a rich one, whatever other qualifications she might possess.

At length, Tim succeeded in getting his mother safely cornered, the door shut and no one else present. Walking backwards and forwards for a minute or two, he stopped suddenly, as if he was about to commence. The old lady was knitting away by the fire. Instead of commencing, Tim walked to a chair as if he was about placing it close along side and stating the whole case like a man; but turning about, he deliberately sat the chair in the corner and folded his arms.

"Mother," said Tim, and then he cleared his throat. "What, my son?" "I have been thinking whether it would not be better to have our old house painted?" This was a new idea, one that never had crossed Tim's mind till it was uttered, and as it happened, 'twas not an inappropriate one. "But, my child, it will answer very well as it is, for such an old body as I, and if you begin to paint, you will be compelled to furbish up every thing else." "But, mother, suppose I should think of courting some young body?" "Oh, if you will fall in love with my little favorite, you can afford to paint and furbish too." That was a chord Tim had heard struck before to-day. "Suppose _she_ wont love me, and somebody else will." "Faint heart," said his consoling mother, "never won fair lady." The old lady was off upon the old track; but Tim having fairly begun, was not to be so easily baffled this time--so taking up his chair, he walked deliberately to the fire and seating himself, placed his feet upon the fender.

"Mother," said Tim, "it is time I should tell you that"--rap, rap, rap,--tantarara, bang--rang the old brass knocker at the outer door. "See who is there, my son." Hang all the world thought Tim--shall I never have an opportunity of telling the old lady? Tim took no candle with him to the door. "Who's here?" "Harry, sir." "Well, uncle Harry, what do you want?" "Mass Tim, Miss Mary send her complements, and tell me give you dis letter." Tim ran his hand into his pocket and gave old Harry a bit of silver. "I reckon," said Harry, who began to think Mass Tim and he were old cronies, "I reckon young Missus dont send letters to young Massa for nutting." "Wait for an answer a moment, uncle Harry," said Tim kindly. "Who's at the door, my son?" said the old lady, as Tim returned, holding an open letter in his hand. "A servant, madam," was the reply. "What," said Tim to himself, as he walked to the candle, "does my Mary want?"

Good reader, while old Harry is waiting at the door in the best humor in the world, because he had the good fortune to be the bearer of a _love letter_ as he shrewdly suspected, from his young mistress to so good a young gentleman, and while the good old lady is knitting away and thinking how to induce her son to fall in love with _her_ favorite, if thou wilt follow my example, thou mayst perceive what is going on for thyself. Thou seest that I am about to take a sly peep over friend Tim's shoulder, and if thou wilt peep over the other, thou mayst discover what otherwise thou wilt never have an opportunity of perceiving.

"_Saturday Evening_.

"MR. TIMOTHY WILBERFORCE.

"Can Mr. Wilberforce forgive and forget one who has injured him much? Oh! how I reproach myself for having given you hopes, my friend, that can never be realized. Mr. Wilberforce, you must forget me; and oh, can you not attribute my strange conduct to my youth? I am so young and thoughtless. Indeed, I would not willingly give you pain. Can we not continue friends? I hope we may, but indeed you must forget the promises I have made you, and if possible forgive me. I find I do not love you as I ought. Let us be friends, but nothing more. MARY."

Tim had seen his mother watching his countenance while he was reading: so putting on a smile, "Is that all? Pshaw, I thought it was something important," said he, going to the outer door. "Harry, there is no occasion to wait--no answer is necessary." Slam went the door. The bolt rang with a double turn. The letter was wadded in his breeches' pocket. "Who was that letter from, Tim?" said his mother. "A young friend has asked me to go serenading with him," replied honest Tim. Down he sat, with his feet upon the fender, and his arms folded over his breast. Then seizing the poker,--punch, punch, punch--you would have sworn it was freezing. Every coal was upturned--the room was filled with dust and smoke. "My son, it is not very cold to-night." Tim kept stirring the fire. "Did you desire to have the old house painted, Tim? If you wish it, my son"--"madam?"--"You were saying, Timothy, that you were about to tell me something?" "Did I?" Down went the poker, and Tim paced the apartment.

My good friend, were you in such a situation, what would you do? Only think of that rap at the door at such a moment--of the contents of that _love_ epistle--of that dear uncle Harry! For my part, I shall ever believe as long as I live, that there is something in names, and that none but a very old Harry Scratch himself could have been charged with such a scrawl. What would you have done? Tell the old lady the whole matter? What! with all those contending, conflicting feelings--passions--hopes--blasted and utterly {106} destroyed! As for me, I think a man would be _almost_ excusable if he had walked premeditatedly to his razor case and cut his throat. Tim did no such thing. He walked to--bed.

Will you be so kind as to explain to me, why little Mary--our sweet, innocent, flaxen-haired little Molly, who was as much in love as ever lassie was, should have acted thus strangely? You who pretend to fathom the profundity of human motives and to ascribe proper causes for every action, will you unriddle this enigma? But the day before, she was as kind, as affectionate as usual, and in every way the same to Tim. From this time forward, too, she was as friendly as any other friend; and yet, as indifferent as if their hearts had never beat in unison--as if their eyes had never read the inmost thought of each others soul--as if their lips:--to me and to Tim, it is utterly inexplicable.

Time--old father time--flies with his mowing scythe. This is the account the ancients give of the matter, but I have a notion that we should as well exclaim, time--old doctor time--flies with his healing balm, cicatrizing every wound; for if it was not for doctor time, Cupid might be more appropriately represented with his sickle gathering in his harvest; but time with his "balm of Gilead," or some pleasing draught, manages to cure many a bleeding heart. I thank thee, good doctor, thou hast come "with healing under thy wings," more than once to me.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY CLASSMATES.

By the author of the "Extract from a Novel that will never be published."

There were two among my companions at College with whom my intimacy was particularly close. They differed much from each other, as I did from them, in character and mental powers, but we were from the same state, viz. Virginia, although from different parts of it; and the presence of each of us spoke to the others of our distant homes, and formed a tie that bound us closely together. There is besides, a strong local attachment, separate and distinct from national feeling, (a peculiar one, as far as my observation extends, in our country,) pervading the native born inhabitants of that state, particularly the eastern and southern section of it, which draws them like brothers together when abroad. However reserved a Virginian may be to others, his heart immediately opens to one who possesses the same birthright with himself; and for him, if called upon, he will encounter pecuniary inconvenience and personal risk. I have known many instances of this feeling. But to my tale. The elder of us three, by name Morriss Heywood, was one of those beings on whom has been bestowed the fearful--almost fatal gift of genius. He stood pre-eminent among us all, towering in intellect, piercing the veil of truths hid from our dimmer eyes, revelling in the gardens of imagination barred to our dull and every day capacities. While we with pigmy steps and slow, crept along the paths of knowledge, urging our toilsome way with many a groan, he pressed forward with a giant's stride, and left us a sightless distance in the rear. His disposition too was noble as his mind. Generous beyond the bounds of prudence--brave to the verge of rashness--ever ready to afford assistance to those who required it--to promote their welfare, and to condole with, and partake of their grievances. Like most persons of extraordinary powers, his temper was unequal. At times gloomy and abstracted, shunning all communion, avoiding all recreation, abstaining from exercise and almost from food,--he would bury himself in the seclusion of his chamber, devoting day and night to intense application; then sated for a time with his "deep draught" at "the well spring of science," he would come among us full of life and gaiety, the soul and promoter of every frolic, breathing into us the spirit of his own warm heart, robing common things with the hues of his own bright fancy, and lighting up the very regions of dulness with the quick and brilliant flashes of his wit. The grave professors regarded him with amazement, and some of them even with fear; for sometimes in the spirit of mischief, he would sport with their heavy and useless learning, and puzzle them sadly with the subtleness of his inquiries,--leading them unconsciously into the mazes of metaphysical absurdities, and then leaving them with a quibble or a jest to pick their way out as they could, floundering at every step, and conscious of the ridicule they incurred. My other friend, Charles Drayton, had no peculiar characteristic that calls for present description. He had ordinary intellect, great application, a kind but not a warm heart, and a disposition to submit to legitimate authority; for all which, when we were graduated, he was rewarded with some fifth or sixth rate honor. The busy pursuits of life soon separated me from them after our departure from college. They commenced the study of the law, while I doubting my powers to succeed in the learned professions, and naturally inclined to an active life, turned my attention to commerce, and in the course of business, was called on to leave "my native land" to sojourn in a far distant one, and my return was not until after an absence of many years. During those years of labor and various fortunes, my time and talents devoted to one ruling object, the acquisition of wealth, (but not, I trust, influenced by sordidness, or ever induced to employ unworthy means,) my communications with home had been very rare, and of my early friends I had received no tidings; but often after reposing from the toils of the day, when the bustle of occupation was hushed, and the wearied mind revolted from following up the many schemes of aggrandizement that so constantly taxed it, memory would roll back to those halcyon days of my youth, and the images of Heywood and of Drayton would be mirrored in freshness to my fancy, while I busied myself in conjectures as to their probable fate and fortunes. Were they still among the living? Had Heywood fulfilled the promise of his early youth, and climbed with vigorous step

"The hill, where fame's proud temple shines afar?"

Had the perseverance of Drayton won for him wealth and respectability in his profession? More he could not attain to. And amid their busy struggles, did they ever recur to the friend who was absent, with the same deep feeling that dwelt in his heart for them?

After many efforts, sometimes crowned with success, and often, very often marked by adversity, fortune at last smiled upon them, and placed me in a situation (as I was alone in the world,) of comparative wealth. I {107} wound up my affairs as speedily as possible, and embarked for home. My voyage was prosperous: once more I trod the free soil of the United States of America, and bent my way without delay to the town of ----, where first I drew my infant breath. It was evening when I reached it. I found it much altered, enlarged and improved; but around me were many a memorial of the times gone by;--and as the slanting rays of the setting sun threw their purple and gold on the broad summit of the well remembered hills, and played in ever changing beauty on the ripple of the chrystal stream, I seemed borne back from the present, when Time had furrowed my brow and sprinkled his snows upon my hair, to that past, when the smooth forehead and the curly locks, the long loud laugh, and the joyous leap, were tokens of the happy boy. In passing along the main road leading to the town, I had observed at some little distance from it, a very large and handsome brick edifice, in the midst of highly cultivated grounds, where formerly there had stood a very indifferent wooden building, on a neglected farm, the property of an idle and dissipated gentleman. It was very foolish to do so, and yet I uttered a half sigh at the change; for although the present state of things was infinitely more agreeable to the eye, it struck coldly on my heart and jarred the chord of cherished associations. When I had fairly established myself at the "best inn," and answered as I pleased, all customary inquiries as to who I was, whence from, where going to, and numberless other impertinencies, I commenced querist in turn, and the information I then and subsequently obtained from other quarters, I am now about to lay before the reader. Both of my college friends after obtaining their licenses, had removed to my native town, which then offered the best field in the state for the practice of the law. Heywood had, as I was sure he would, commenced his career at the bar with signal success. His very first appearance, his maiden speech, had given him a station far beyond his youthful competitors, and indeed among the foremost ranks of those who had grown gray in their vocation. He had been entrusted, with others, in the management of a case of great difficulty, and involving property to a large amount; and in the examination of the witnesses, had exhibited a knowledge of human character, and a power to discover and elicit truth, that in one so young and so unpracticed, seemed absolutely marvellous; while his familiarity with the abstruse points and technicalities of the law, appeared as close and intimate as if he had spent years in acquiring it. He was regarded as a prodigy, and indeed he was one. I have seen many men in many climes, but never have I met with Heywood's equal in native genius; and then the godlike mind with which he was endowed, was set forth and enhanced by a corresponding face and figure. His stature was tall and his bulk in proportion, but there was no clumsiness. His limbs were

"Heaped with strength, and turned with elegance;"

His presence was lordly, with his statue-like brow, crested with short dark curls, the Roman nose, the sharp cut lips, and the full large pellucid eye, in which "the lightning played." His was

"A combination, and a form indeed, On which, every god had seemed to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man."

One thus gifted was eagerly sought after, and while business poured on him from all quarters, his society was every where courted. The presence of Heywood was an indispensable requisite to any meeting whose object was pleasure. Nor did he refuse it, or hold himself aloof from the amusements sought after by others. He could be gay with the gay, and sedate with the grave, and without an effort; and even in the midst of what may be termed dissipation, none had cause to complain that their affairs entrusted to his care were not faithfully attended to and ably managed. Thus did he go on increasing in usefulness and reputation, and men looked forward to the time when he would rank among the master spirits of the day, and perhaps reach the highest honors his country could bestow. Indeed a new career had now been opened to him, which promised to lead to such a result. He had been chosen to represent his county in the state legislature, and there as at the bar, his success was immediate and brilliant. To him it truly seemed

----------------"an easy leap, To pluck bright honor from the pale faced moon;"

and, (to follow up the quotation,) he might fairly hope

"To wear without corrival all her dignities."

Such then was Morriss Heywood; in years a youth, a man in wisdom--the possessor of genius, health, reputation and beauty; his career as yet unchecked by a single obstacle--his hopes undimmed by the shadow of a fear. There resided at that period in the county of ---- an individual, who, by a long course of unremitting industry and the most grinding parsimony, together with less honest, if lawful means, had amassed an overgrown fortune; and having money at command, had contrived by lending it to the neighboring farmers, (generally improvident men,) and exacting high interest for its use, taking mortgages on their estates as security, to make himself the real if not nominal owner of half the landed property of the county. Having it at his will at any moment to strip many of their possessions, he was vested with a power that (although in their secret hearts all men detested him, and execrated his very name,) challenged opinion, and made dangerous as regarded him its public expression. It so happened that one of those gentlemen on whom his gripe was fixed, and whose debt, from an originally small sum, had swelled with usury until it covered his whole estate, had been a patron and valuable friend of this man, who was originally his overseer--had established him in the business with which he commenced his career, and aided him both with money and his name. It is a well established maxim, which hard experience has gathered from human intercourse, that you insure yourself an enemy when you bestow a benefit on a bad man. A noble mind may find an obligation burthensome, and be galled by the sense of dependence created by it. This feeling, however, does not destroy gratitude to the benefactor; but the mean and unprincipled hate those who give to them, from the consciousness that there is an utter dissimilarity of character between the giver and themselves. It grieves them that any should possess a virtue which they have not; and the performance of a good action, even although they themselves are its object, is gall and wormwood to their souls, from the secret knowledge that they are {108} incapable of doing the same. This violence of hatred which the wicked, without apparent motive, entertain for the good, is forcibly pourtrayed by Shakspeare, (nature's magician, who applied his "Open Sesame" to that dark cave the human heart, penetrated its recesses, and explored its most secret nooks,) when he makes Iago give as a reason for desiring the death of Cassio,

"He hath a daily beauty in his life That makes me ugly"----

The feelings engendered in the heart of Willis, (for that was the name of the usurer,) by the kindness of his benefactor, were envy and bitter hatred. Envy, that he possessed the means to be generous; hatred, that having them he was so. But his heart rejoiced when he reflected that this very generosity would betray itself; and as he counted his own increasing gains, and became acquainted with the diminished and decreasing resources of his friend, he foresaw the time would come when their relative situations would be changed--when the patron would in turn become the suitor, and be dependant on his former menial's bounty. The time did come. A small loan was requested, and granted with cheerfulness. "The spider" as Heywood afterwards said, "had spun his first line." Then came a demand for a larger sum, which was raised with a pretence of great difficulty. Another thread was wrapped around the body of the victim. Slowly, silently, cautiously, these tiny lines were drawn, with a touch so light, that they were not felt until the web was fully formed--the prey secure--fluttering and struggling in the toils,--but vainly struggling; for those little threads had been plied and twisted into a cord of strength to bind the unshorn Sampson.

Of all the galling miseries that man is heir to, the most intolerable, the most debasing, the most corroding to the heart, the most destructive to the mind, is the consciousness of debt without the means of payment. Oh! what days of humiliation, what nights of nervous wakefulness, or else of dreaming horror, does he abide, on whose oppressed spirit is laid the load of payments he cannot meet, of obligations he cannot cancel. For him, though the sun shines abroad, there is no beauty in his beams. The earth is clothed with verdure, and a thousand odorous flowers are scattered in his path. He heeds them not; their perfume is wasted on him. The moon rides in liquid lustre, and the myriad stars break forth in light, and the whole heaven is clothed with exceeding glory; but there is a darkness in his soul no light can penetrate--a grief at his heart no beauties of nature can assuage. His energies are dead; they fester beneath the pall of despair.

When at last every inch of his property was covered by debt, and the remorseless creditor was about to strip and turn naked on the world, him from whose hand he once had fed, kind death stepped in and released the poor old gentleman from his troubles; and what he himself was too honorable to do, his heirs did without hesitation. They resisted Willis's claim upon the plea of usury. Heywood was their advocate. Fired with indignation at the base ingratitude of the man, he summoned all the powers of his eloquence against him, and so awfully severe was the attack, that Willis, although in general bold and impudent, slunk away from the court amid the hisses and groans of the crowd. The very next day, to his utter amazement, Heywood was waited on by Willis, who placed in his hands business of great value, and paid him down a handsome fee.

"You see, Mr. Heywood, I can forgive and forget, as bad as you think of me, and as much as you have abused me. The fact is, sir, you are what I call a real clever man, and to my notion the best lawyer I've met with--so you're the man for my money; and I suppose if I pay you your fees, you'll do my business as soon as another man's--and I can make it worth your while, I tell you. You said yesterday, I was a vampire bloated with the lifeblood sucked in secret from the veins of my victims. I remember the words, but not in malice. Well sir, when I see fit I can bleed pretty free myself; and if you'll just consider yourself my lawyer in all my cases, I'll pay you fifteen hundred a year, and say done first."

"Mr. Willis," replied Heywood, "I have no hesitation in accepting your offer, and will to the best of my ability serve you, as I would any other individual who called upon me. It is my trade, or profession, to advocate that cause in which I am retained; and although I rejoice when I find I am on the right side, I have in common with my brethren, no scruples in doing battle on the wrong."

And so they parted. It may perhaps be thought unnatural that Willis should have acted in the way he did; but he was a shrewd, worldly wise man, and could make any sacrifice to promote what he deemed his interests. Now he had not forgiven, much less forgot. On the contrary, his hatred of Heywood was deep and concentrated; but he knew him to possess talents that were formidable when opposed to him, and on which he could with safety rely when enlisted in his behalf.

The transactions of business necessarily carried Heywood to his client's house, where one day being detained until the dinner hour, he was introduced to Miss Louisa Willis, an exceedingly beautiful and interesting lady of about eighteen. He was much struck with her, and indeed it was impossible for the coldest disposition to withhold its admiration from charms seldom surpassed, and then in the very fulness of their bloom. With a form over whose round and soft proportions hovered an atmosphere of the most soul subduing voluptuousness, she was the possessor of a countenance, whose features in themselves almost faultless, habitually wore the bewitching expression of confiding love; as if for all she looked upon, there existed in her bosom a living spring of kindness; and the consciousness of her own deep charities, taught her to expect a like return from others. She was the adopted daughter of Willis. Her parents, poor but highly respectable people, died while she was yet an infant, having been carried off within a few hours of each other, by one of those pestilential fevers that sweep whole districts of our country, and leave in their path the silence of death or the sob of mourning anguish, where the sounds of merriment had been wont to break upon the ear. Willis was alone in the world. There was no human being connected with him by the ties of consanguinity: there was not one whom he had propitiated by the exercise of kindness: and although the consciousness that he was hated only served to harden and imbitter his feelings, there were moments when he felt the loneliness of his situation, and longed for something that even he could love.

{109} He took the little orphan to his home, and in her found the object he had sought. Upon her he lavished all his bounty--bestowed upon her the best education the capabilities of the country afforded--and at a proper age, placed her in an eligible seminary in the city of ----, whence indeed, at the time of Heywood's first interview with her, she had just returned.--Perhaps the disposition of Miss Willis--that of great sweetness with very little energy or passion, was particularly calculated to win upon such a man as Heywood. Himself all passion, burning with the consciousness of uncommon powers, urged into action by the ever goading stimulus of a brain that teemed with strong and beautiful thought,--now breaking out into commanding eloquence--now running over with sparkling wit,--it was enjoyment to him to find repose in another. His mind self taxed to its utmost limit, was refreshed, and soothed, and solaced by the calm and even purity which dwelt within that form of intoxicating loveliness. Perhaps with persons constituted like Heywood, the same ardor of passion might be exhibited towards any object, "in whose fresh cheek" they might "meet the power of fancy;" perhaps their glowing temperament would vest with beauty both of mind and person, those who to common eyes had nothing to distinguish them. Be this as it may, it is certain that he loved Miss Willis, deeply, devotedly, ardently--with tender delicacy and with manly passion. Whether his feelings were reciprocated by her, to the extent of which she was capable, it is not for me to say: that secret lies within her own bosom. Heywood thought so. He was constant in his attentions to her, which seemed to be well received, and were certainly encouraged by Willis. The only annoyance Heywood experienced, arose from his feelings towards the latter. Greater familiarity with his character had not, it is true, increased his abhorrence of it; perhaps it had diminished it;--for as the visual eye becomes accustomed to look without winking upon the disgusting and even the terrible, so does the mental, and sad to say, the constant recurrence of deeds of vice, lessens the sense of detestation which they at first inspired. But there was something very galling to his pride, in the idea of connecting himself in so close a manner with Willis as he must necessarily do, if he married his daughter; only his adopted daughter, it is true: but still in no action that could evince a parent's fondness and a parent's care, had he been wanting to her--and he was unquestionably entitled to a full return of that affection that might be looked for from a properly disposed child; and as certainly did he receive it from Miss Willis, whose respectful love for him was without stint or measure. The struggle between pride and passion, seldom eventuates in favor of the former, particularly where our feelings are uninfluenced by the effect our actions may produce upon the minds of others, and have no reference to a _degrading_ change of situation that may be produced on us in society. Heywood might by marrying Miss Willis, excite the sneers of the unsuccessful and the envy of the disappointed; but he would not be the less loved, esteemed and respected by the great bulk of his acquaintance, while by many it would be thought a fortunate circumstance; for in the event of their obligations falling into his hands, they might look for an indulgence it were vain to hope from the ruthless usurer. Heywood, as might be expected, yielded to the suggestions of his heart, and proffered his affections to Miss Willis. She of course referred him to her father; and with much embarrassment and hesitation of manner, Heywood announced to him the fact, and solicited his approbation. He received the information with a smile of peculiar meaning, of gratification--but apparently of malicious gratification, as if he were about to win a triumph he had been long seeking to obtain. He said but little however in reply, nor was that little, discouraging or otherwise. He professed himself honored by the proposal, coming as it did from so distinguished an individual.

"To be sure," he said, "Louisa Willis was not an every day sort of girl, and she might fairly look for as good offers as any lady in the country. She had that, or she would have, which was all the same, that would command them. It commanded every thing else, _he reckoned_, even talents. She was young enough too, and likely enough, for the matter of that, and he had had other views for her. Hows'ever, there was no hurry--he would see about it; he must have some little time to think before he made up his mind: when he had, he would let Heywood know what it was."

To talk to such a man of the urgency of one's affections, was ridiculous. Heywood felt it so, and therefore made no objection to the delay.

It was about a month after this interview, during which interval there had been no communication between Heywood and Willis, that the latter, accompanied by another individual, a Mr. ----, entered the office of the former. They had called for the purpose of explaining their mutual understanding of the nature of a conveyance which was to pass between them, and to request him to draw it out in proper form. He accordingly made a rough draft of it, read it to the parties, who expressed themselves satisfied, and Mr. ---- took his leave, with a promise to return and execute the deed when the fair copy should have been made out. Willis remained behind. After a few minutes silence, (of torturing silence to Heywood, for he expected he should now receive an answer on the subject nearest his heart,) "Mr. Heywood," said the hard featured old man, "let me see that deed." Heywood disappointed, handed it to him. He conned it over attentively, as he sat with one elbow placed upon his knee and his chin resting in the hollow of his hand.

"It is all right?" said Heywood inquiringly.

"Why--ye-es," replied Willis, "but there are one or two little words here I would like to have changed; that is, I would like to have some others put in their place. It's of no great consequence, but somehow they please me better."

"What words are they? Be so good as to point them out."

"Why these," answered Willis, as he shewed them with his finger, and peered into Heywood's face, over his spectacles, with half closed eyes. "Suppose now, instead of them, you _was_ to use _such_ words," and he mentioned those he wished adopted.

"But sir," rejoined Heywood, "these words that I have used are technical words, and express in a legal sense what I understand most positively to be the intention of the parties. Were I to substitute for them {110} those that you propose, I should make the granter convey a title it is by no means his wish to do."

"Pray, Mr. Heywood, are you acquainted with Mr. ----, and do you consider yourself employed by him or me?"

"I am but slightly acquainted with Mr. ----, sir, and it matters not to me by which party I am employed. It is my business as an honest man, to execute to the best of my ability, what I consider myself intrusted by both to perform, and that I have done."

"Then let me tell you Mr. Heywood that I know ---- well, that he has not had quite as much as either you or I to do with deeds, and that if you make the alteration I want, it's a hundred to one he will never find it out to the end of time--so where can be the harm?"

"You surely jest with me, Mr. Willis," quickly answered Heywood; "you cannot seriously propose to me to do that, which according to my view of the matter, would be neither more nor less than a legal fraud."

"A fraud, sir! do you mean to say _I_ would commit a fraud, sir?" cried Willis, in an angry tone and blustering manner.

"I have not said so, Mr. Willis," calmly replied Heywood; "I only said, that with my knowledge of the law, _I_ should commit one were I to do what you request."

"Well then," urged Willis, "suppose you let me go for Mr. ----, and have the alteration made before his eyes. Will that satisfy your squeamishness?"

"Certainly, if Mr. ---- consents to it, and is made fully aware of the situation in which he thus places himself."

"But _you_ aint no ways bound to tell him that."

"Pardon me, sir, I am every way bound to do so."

"Very well, sir, very well, we'll drop the matter then--I don't care much about it; only you aint as much _my_ friend as I thought you was--that's all. But let that pass, it don't signify no great deal. And now Mr. Heywood, for what you would call a more interesting subject." Heywood's heart beat quick. "You told me t'other day you loved my daughter, and would like to marry her. Now, sir, suppose you had a daughter, and you could afford to give her as much as would make the best men in all the land snap at her--and suppose there was one man who despised you in his heart, though he was willing to work for your money, and who had abused and insulted you in the public court, and refused to befriend you, in a small way, when you wanted his friendship, and _he_ of all men in the world was just to pop up and say, Give me your daughter and a fortune,--what would you say to him? Would'nt you tell him, certain, and thankee to boot, sir? Would'nt it please you to the heart to have a son-in-law, who if he could help himself, would'nt speak to you when he met you, nor shake hands with you, if there was any body by to see him do it? Now just answer me that, Mr. Heywood; you're a mighty ready man with your bills and answers--answer me that if you please."

"Mr. Willis," stammered Heywood, "this is not--a fair way to--treat me."

"Aint it? Now I think it is--so there we differ again; any how it's my way, and I can afford to have my ways as well as most folks. Hows'ever, since you don't seem to fancy those questions, I'll try again. Do you _really_ love my daughter, for herself alone mind you, and will you marry her if I tell you, and I am in earnest, that if you do, you never shall, nor she either, touch a farthing of money or an acre of land that belongs to me."

"Most readily, most willingly, and think myself but too happy in maintaining her by my own humble efforts."

"Money is not a thing to be despised, Mr. Heywood, and it would be a heap of it I can tell you, and as you partly know, that you would be giving up; you'd better think again."

"This is not a matter of reflection and calculation with me, sir. It is a feeling deep and durable, and I cannot hesitate to choose between what I esteem my happiness and my misery. With her, portioned or unportioned, I shall be happy--without her, though Croesus' wealth were showered on me, I know I must be miserable."

"Say you so, sir," shouted Willis, with an air of vindictive triumph. "Then be miserable, for I would see her, gladly see her, and I love her too, a rotting corpse in her winding sheet--or worse, a common beggar in the public road, for all the world to spit on if they choose, before you should call her wife. I am glad that you love her too. If you loved her ten thousand times better than you do--if you went mad for love, as they tell me some fools do, I should like it all the better. I wanted you to love her, and I saw you would love her, and I sort of encouraged you to do so, just that when you were fairly fixed, I might have the satisfaction to tell you that you should not have her; and now I think we're quits. You dared to tread upon me--to flout me in the open court-house, before a whole crowd of people, when you could have all the talk to yourself, and my mouth was shut and my hands as good as tied. But my turn has come, and if I have'nt paid you back, and with a stinging interest, my name is not Abraham Willis; and so good morning to you. You need'nt write no notes, nor send no messages to my daughter. She knows my mind, and she is satisfied with it. She wants no man for a husband who has abused her father. Once more, good morning to you." And with another of his demon like smiles, he departed.

Heywood remained as a man stupified, without change of position or movement of a muscle, every feature rigidly fixed as if cut out of marble, his whole appearance more like a breathing statue than a living creature. Yet who shall say what torturing thought was pressing on that brain--what stormy passions struggling in that bosom. Did the uprooting of his heart's affection, the total prostration of his hopes, the utter destruction of his anticipated bliss, smite him to despair; or did his powerful mind confront the evils that beset him, and although deeply wounded, rise in triumph from the conflict? It is only by the effects we can judge, and these to common observation were not remarkable. It is true, he resigned his seat in the legislature, and altogether withdrew himself from social intercourse, and save when necessitated by his professional duties, rarely left the solitude of his rooms. There his time was devoted to study; not confined to the acquisition of legal knowledge, but of literature in general. He collected about him a noble library, and made himself master of its contents; but though he {111} heaped up knowledge such as few possess, and added daily to his mental stores, it was even as a miser gathers pelf, to gloat upon the heap in private, but impart to none its benefits. Still, although he thus secluded himself, when he did appear abroad, there was nothing of gloom about him, or marked reserve in his manner to his fellow men. He might even sometimes have been thought gay. He would jest himself, and laugh at other's jests; but all this was but "outward seeming." There was no joy of the heart--no "flow of soul"--no living sympathy with mankind, teaching him to be glad when they rejoiced, to sorrow when they mourned.

There were none to whom he imparted his feelings, none to whom he communicated his sentiments. On none of the usual topics of conversation among men, whether of politics or literature, were his opinions ever expressed--not even on legal points, unless when sought for professionally. He lived strictly alone, concealing thought and passion within the impenetrable recesses of his unfathomable mind.

Here for the present I will leave him, to give a short account of Drayton's career, connected as it is with the main interest of my narrative.

With the assiduity, industry and application for which he had been distinguished at college, he pursued his professional studies; and although denied the gift of eloquence, or rather I should say, embarrassed by a slow and hesitating manner of speaking, it was obvious enough that his knowledge of the law was sound, and that he perfectly understood its application to the point he might be advocating. If too, he lacked the graces of oratory, and could distil no honied words into the ears of his auditory, he possessed that happy manner, which imposes on society the opinion that there is a fund of wisdom and learning to be drawn on, whenever the exigency of the case might require its use. He had a serious, business like look, and if he walked abroad for exercise, he seemed to have a deeper motive for the action. His progress was nevertheless very slow in the commencement; still he advanced by degrees, and his patience was inexhaustible. Drayton had another advantage too, that to him amply compensated for the want of purely professional business, and even the glitter of fame. A relation had bequeathed him a few thousand dollars, and this enabled him to make occasional advances to a needy client, where the claim was eventually secure, and also to carry on a traffic in bonds, exchanging one for another at a large discount, and thus in a short time doubling his original capital. One or two lucky hits in land speculation returned him large profits; and people beginning to find out his merits, as they perceived these accessions to his worldly wealth, in course of time his practice became respectable and lucrative. Between Heywood and Drayton there continued the same kindness of feeling they had mutually entertained at college, up to some short time before the philippic delivered by the former against Willis. But about that period a coolness grew between them. This arose from no misunderstanding or quarrel, but simply from a dislike Heywood entertained to the very obsequious manner Drayton exhibited towards all men who were superior to him in private wealth or public station; and the former could not refrain from telling him one day, after some display of the sort, that he reminded him of Sir Pertinax McSycophant, in the "Man of the World," who never in all his life could stand straight "in the presence of a great mon." Drayton was conscious that there was truth in the application of the sarcasm, and although he made no reply, he was hurt, and thenceforth avoided one who could and would tell him disagreeable truths. After the rupture between Heywood and Willis, the latter transferred his business to Drayton, who received from Heywood all the papers in his possession, with the necessary information and instructions, which were given to him with perfect freedom, and without the slightest manifestation of chagrin or resentment. This perhaps was not exactly pleasing to him. He would have liked on Heywood's part some small exhibition of a consciousness that he was deprived of a considerable advantage.

"This should be a valuable business I have had the good fortune to fall into, Mr. Heywood," said he; "Mr. Willis's concerns must be very extensive, and require much legal advice, as well as other matters in our way. I fear he will be hardly content with my poor management, after the able assistance he has derived from you."

"You will certainly find the business profitable," replied Heywood; "Mr. Willis pays liberal fees, and it depends upon yourself to make larger gains than I have done. I congratulate you on having obtained it."

"I suppose I shall be so unfortunate as to have you opposed to me occasionally, and if so, I trust you will not be quite so hard on my poor client as you once were," said Drayton with an insinuating smile.

"Circumstances, sir," answered Heywood, "have put it out of my power to speak of Mr. Willis as I think of him. You need entertain no apprehensions for your _poor_ client; he is safe at least from my invective."

Some few months after this conversation, rumor babbled of the particular attentions paid by a certain lawyer, to a very wealthy young lady, and in the course of a year, the babble was confirmed by the marriage of Charles Drayton, Esq. to the all accomplished, &c. Miss Louisa Willis. Drayton was now become a very wealthy and of course a very influential man. He was sent to the legislature, then to the state senate, thence to congress, and finally having been created a judge, he took up his residence near ---- on a farm given him by Willis, where he built the handsome brick house, I had observed on my return home. Two or three days after I had fixed myself at ----, I fell in with Drayton, whom I found much altered. He had grown quite fat, and had a very justice-like rotundity of body. His manner was kind enough though somewhat pompous, and he had the air of one who was on especial good terms with himself. I dined with him and was introduced to his family, consisting of his wife and four children; the eldest, a handsome lad of seventeen, the others girls, the youngest about eight years old. Mrs. Drayton, was very pale and apparently in bad health. I endeavored to converse with her, but found her little disposed to talk. Willis was there. He was a tall, lean man, with very sharp features--small grey eyes somewhat inflamed, and almost hid by long bushy, wiry eye-brows, a pinched, sharp pointed nose, thin, pale lips, much drawn in and compressed, and a projecting chin. He endeavored to assume ease in his manners, but his vulgarity was very apparent. There were two other {112} gentlemen of the neighborhood there, and on the whole, my time was not spent so pleasantly then, or afterwards, as to induce me to repeat my visits often, although I occasionally called in as an old acquaintance of the master of the house. Heywood's name was of course, never mentioned there. I once did make some inquiries of Drayton, when only he and I were together. "Ah poor fellow, yes," said he, "he has been absent from ---- for some time, went up the country to his brother's, who I hear is lately dead. Heywood turned out badly sir with all his genius,--thrown himself completely away--no prudence--ruined himself to pay his brother's debts, and took to drinking--little better, if any, than a common blackguard." "So much for early friendship," thought I, as I turned away in disgust.

The marriage of Drayton to Miss Willis seemed not to affect Heywood; if he felt, his feelings were perfectly concealed. When he met Drayton, he congratulated him on the event, without the slightest awkwardness or embarrassment, although the former exhibited much of both; to all appearance he had entirely conquered his ill fated passion. His studies, however, became more and more intense, and his seclusion closer than ever. He scarcely eat or slept, and took no exercise. He gave up the practice he had hitherto pursued in the adjoining counties, and confined himself to that of the one he lived in. This mode of life could not fail to injure his health. He grew pale and thin, and experienced great languor: to remedy the latter, instead of resorting to the only proper mode, a change of habits, he applied to artificial stimulants for temporary relief. They naturally increased the evil, by leaving behind them when their momentary excitement had worn off, a greater degree of depression than they had been employed to remove. He was probably aware of this, but he changed not his course. On the contrary he increased the dose, and repeated it the more frequently, until gradually his libations amounted to intoxication, which after a while became daily. This, at first, was confined to the after part of the day, but by and by he was frequently found in an unfit state for business, by those who called upon him in the morning. Still, so great was his reputation as a lawyer, and so powerful were the displays he made when he appeared at the bar, that men continued to employ him, although they were put to the inconvenience and expense of associating other counsel with him, who would attend to the minutiæ and drudgery of their cases. About this time, his brother (whom I did not know,) a careless, extravagant man, with a large family, became entirely insolvent, and the farm on which he lived was exposed to sale. Heywood became the purchaser, for the wife, and nearly exhausted his own means in doing so; for though he had received large sums of money in his profession, and might with a little economy, have been very independent, if not rich, he had not retained much of his hard earned gains, and money had never been to him an object of solicitude. Besides, his library had cost him no contemptible fortune. By degrees, as the vile and fatal habit he had acquired, grew upon him, he became more and more unfit for business, and his clients were reluctantly compelled to abandon him, and transfer their cases to others. Finally, (what he had never done before,) he was compelled to run in debt. He raised money on his books, a paltry sum in proportion to their value; that was soon exhausted, and they were forced off at auction at an enormous sacrifice. Hitherto, his intemperance had been confined to the privacy of his chamber, but now he commenced frequenting taverns, where he was frequently to be found in a state of beastly drunkenness.

When I arrived at ---- he was absent, as Drayton stated, at the brother's whom I have mentioned, and did not make his appearance for several months. One evening as I returned from my accustomed walk, I entered the bar-room of the inn where I lodged, for the purpose of making some inquiries of the landlord. A man was sitting at a table, with his back towards me. He was dressed in a rusty black coat, coarse, dirty, white trowsers; shoes and stockings that were covered with the dust of the road, and a worn out straw hat, around which was a piece of ragged, soiled crape. I naturally took him for some common vagabond, and paid no farther attention to him, but commenced my business with the landlord, who was standing at the bar door with a pint decanter of common whiskey in his hand, intended, no doubt, for his _genteel_ looking customer; who, growing somewhat impatient at the delay I occasioned by my conversation, called out in a hoarse voice, "Mr. Tomlins, do you mean to bring me that liquor or no? I tell you I am dying of thirst." "Certainly, sir," said Mr. Tomlins. "Excuse me a moment, sir," addressing me, as he proceeded to the table with the spirits, a pitcher of water and a glass. The man poured into his glass about a gill of spirits and drank it off at one gulph, taking a little water after it,--and then, without stopping, proceeded to take a second dose. I gazed at him with mingled emotions of contempt and pity. The landlord touched me on the arm. "You have frequently inquired of me, sir, about Mr. Heywood; that is _him_." "Great God!" I exclaimed aloud, "that Heywood?" He turned immediately on hearing his name, and I hastened to him, extending my hand. "You are familiar with my name, sir," he said, "and act as if you had a claim upon my recognition, but I have no recollection of your countenance."

"Have you entirely forgot then, your old friend S----."

"S----," he exclaimed, and he rose and took my hand in both of his, and gazed with earnestness some moments in my face. "Thirty years--yes, thirty years have fled since last this hand was clasped in mine. They are nothing in Time's record, but much to us poor, three-score-and-ten mortals, and they have shown their power on us both. S----, my friend, for _you_ were my friend, and I loved you even with the warmth of a brother's love, I look in vain for the marks by which I once knew you. The fair cheek of youth, the laughing eye, the bold, self-confiding air, have fled. Age is a sad destroyer of good looks, is it not? It has not been over lenient with me; but never mind; our hearts are filled with hot blood yet, though sometimes I think mine is growing cold: it will be cold enough by and by, and yours too, S----; the more's the pity, for there are men, my friend, and you are one, who should never die; they should live to redeem mankind from the charge of utter selfishness; to save this Sodom and Gomorrah of a world from the curse of an outraged and offended Heaven."

{113} "Heywood," said I, interrupting him, "come with me--come to my room; I have much to say to you, and this is no place for it; I cannot talk to you here. Come where we will be private and uninterrupted."

"Not now, not now; I have just got here, after walking all day, for I am compelled to take exercise on foot for the benefit of my health as well as from poverty;" and he smiled bitterly. "I am fatigued and soiled with dust, and unfit for conversation."

"These are paltry excuses between friends--I cannot admit them. What! be thirty years apart, and when we meet have five minutes conversation in a public bar-room. That will never do."

"Well, well, then, allow me a little time to step to my room, and I will join you in an hour at farthest." This I could not refuse, although I parted with him with very great reluctance, as from the avidity with which he swallowed the spirits in my presence, I was apprehensive he might render himself unfit for rational conversation. There was a dreadful change in his appearance. I have described him as a remarkably handsome man, both in face and person. He was no longer so. I found him much emaciated, though his features were bloated; his hair was entirely gray; and in the place of the freshness and manly ruddiness of complexion for which he had been distinguished, his countenance was overcast with a sickly yellow hue; and those eyes, once so clear and expressive, were bloodshotten and dull. Age might, and would, no doubt, have made an alteration for the worse in his looks; but the prime agent in the destruction I witnessed, was habitual intemperance. That insatiate fiend, on whose bloodstained altars reeks the sacrifice of myriad hetacombs, whose worshippers, in the frenzy of their zeal, yield up all that is valuable in life; the world's respect, health, fortune, fame, domestic ties, their present good, their future hope; and whose reward is racking disease, infamy, an early and dishonorable grave.

Before the appointed time, Heywood returned. He had undergone a purification, which somewhat improved his looks, and he bore no evidence of having increased his potations. We had a long, and to us highly interesting conversation; but Heywood was not the man he had been; the mind--that glorious mind had suffered in the wreck. It is true he was occasionally eloquent, grand in his conceptions, pouring out burning thoughts, and exhibiting amazing knowledge; but there was a want of solidity and continuity in his discourse, and there were abrupt starts from deep pathos, when he touched upon his situation, to a wild and reckless jocularity that made me shudder. I had determined in my own mind, difficult and delicate as I felt the task to be, to strive to the utmost to reclaim him. It was a sacred duty devolving on me as a friend; it was a conscientious duty belonging to me as a man; and I felt if I could turn such a being from the path of evil, and lead him once again to the high and honorable station he was by his talents so eminently entitled to, it would be a deed whose reward even here would be inappreciable, and might plead against a thousand errors at the judgment seat of a righteous God. It required great tact, however, to approach the subject, for his sensitiveness was very keen, and I knew if I offended him there, I should lose my hold upon him; therefore I waited until he himself should give me an opportunity of entering on the subject. None occurred that night. Occasionally, as I have said, he would advert to himself and his present miserable situation, but in such a manner as deprived me of courage to speak upon the subject. At one time he observed, when Drayton's name had been mentioned, "It is somewhat strange S----, that man seems to have been born to supplant me. Who would have thought it? The quiet, easy, dull Charles Drayton, to supplant Morriss Heywood! Why, in the exuberance of my youthful vanity, I should have thought my wings beat an atmosphere too refined and rare, to sustain his heavy weight; that my eyes looked unwinking on a light that would have seared his duller optics. And yet he reached me, and he passed me. And while I descended in rapid whirls, until I grovelled in the very dust, he sustained his flight and held aloft his station. Yes, he supplanted me in my profession--supplanted me in public life--supplanted me in love. Ha! ha! ha! It is a strange tale to tell. What would our college mates say to it? What _does_ the world say to it? I know what it says. No matter,

'They can't but say I had the crown; I was not fool.'

And yet I was a fool, a miserable fool; but as it is a great approach to wisdom to know our own weakness, I am in a fair way to become a Solon, and should not be surprised, if ere long, public honors were decreed me. They must hurry them tho', or it will be to my senseless ashes they will bow, and hang their laurel wreaths upon my urn. But it grows late, my friend, and I must leave you. We are neither of us the boys we were, when we could stare the rising sun in the face, as he peeped upon our protracted revels. We will meet again soon." "Soon!" I exclaimed; "yes, tomorrow; I have not exhausted the half of what I have to say to you." "Faith, I have given you but little chance," said Heywood; "I am in truth a sad talker. Good night, or rather morning, for 'methinks I scent the morning air.'" And he left me, not without a promise however, with difficulty obtained from him, that he would join me at dinner on the morrow. He was punctual to his engagement, and I was much pleased to find that he was free from all artificial excitement. After we had dined, and I had discussed my usual allowance of wine, (in which Heywood did not join, alleging that it did not agree with him,) I proposed to him to take a stroll, for I felt as if I could make the effort I had determined upon, with more ease in the open air, than when seated in a small room _tete a tete_. After we had cleared the skirts of the town, I commenced making my approaches from a wary distance, to the subject I was anxious to enter upon. "To-day was the first of the sitting of the superior court for this term, I believe, Heywood; were you there?"

"No, not I; what should I do there? I have always made it a rule not to thrust myself into a place where I have no business."

"Have you entirely given up the practice of the law?"

"No, but the practice has entirely deserted me."

"How happened that? I have heard your legal attainments spoken of in terms of the highest praise."

{114} "I neglected it, as I have neglected every thing else; health, reputation, my obligations to society, and my duty, if not my reverence to God. This is a painful subject, S----; let us quit it. If I dwell upon it, it will unman me, and I shall then break through a resolution I this day made, and fain would keep."

"Will you tell me what that resolution is?"

"I had rather not;

'Be innocent of the knowledge, Till thou applaud the deed.'"

"Heywood! will you let me act towards you as one friend should act towards another?"

"How? in what way? explain yourself."

"It is in your power to be all you have been--nay, more; for many men rise to eminence, but how few when once they have sunk, have energy and firmness to regain the proud height from which they fell. It may be a work of time to you--it must be one of unbending resolution; but with such a mind and such attainments as your's, it will require nothing more. In the meantime, you shall not be harassed by debts, nor tortured by poverty. I have means, my friend--ample means; wealth beyond my hopes or wishes. It is useless to me, for my habits are frugal, and my expenses do not reach a fourth of my income. I will place in your hands the requisite sum to free you from all incumbrance, and enable you to pursue the plan I propose; and it shall be a debt between us, to be repaid when you are once more in prosperous circumstances. If this place be disagreeable to you, remove to some other; I will accompany you: all places now are the same to me. Do this Heywood, I conjure, I implore you; and you will confer on me a degree of happiness which nothing I have ever yet compassed could equal. What say you?"

"I say as Nero said--'It is too late.' You speak of my mind and my attainments. It must be plain to you as it is to me, that whatever that mind may have been in the flower of my youth and the pride of my manhood, it is now weakened, broken, dropping to decay; and what avails knowledge, learning, the deep research into ancient wisdom, the unwearied study of modern science? When the judgment that should direct their use is fled, they become a pile of worthless lore. No, I am a lost, degraded wretch--a mockery and a byword--

'A fixed figure for the time of scorn To point his slow, unmoving finger at.'

There is nothing left for me but to die and be forgotten."

"Heywood, you do yourself injustice. A steady course of life, as it will remove the cause of your depression, (for your mental malady is nothing more,) so will it the effect, and I feel confident that it requires but exertion to regain all you have lost, and even to surpass your former excellence. Come; be a man. Call your philosophy to your aid--rouse from your lethargy, and start once more upon the race of honor." He placed one hand upon my shoulder, and pointed forward with the other: "Behold," he said, "yon blasted pine; its giant limbs have been snapped in twain, and its lordly trunk clove from the summit to the root by the forked lightning,--while around it in the green hues of health, full of pride, vigor and beauty, are congregated its glorious brethren of the forest. Bid that stricken tree drink in the life sap, shoot out its rough red boughs, clothe them with their feathery foliage, erect its noble crest, and stand once more pre-eminent in loftiness and grace; and what would be its answer, as its shattered body creaks to the passing breeze? 'There is no other spring for me.' And that reply is mine. Therefore torture me no more; for it is torture to me to recur to the past, or dwell upon the present. _One_ favor I will ask of you. When I am dead, and I feel a certainty that time will soon arrive, if you are near and survive me, bury me in some private place, and do not raise even a mound, much less a stone, to mark the spot; but let the grass grow over and conceal it--for even as lonely and obscure as my latter days have been, so would I have my grave. Will you promise me this?"

"I will--I do," I replied, much affected.

The remainder of our walk was passed almost in silence; and when Heywood left me, which he did immediately upon our return to town, he pressed my hand to his heart, and sobbed, "God bless you."

The next day upon my inquiring for him, I found he had left town early that morning, saying that it was uncertain when he should return. This I regretted extremely; for although disappointed in my first attempt, I was not without hopes I might still succeed in bringing him back to the paths of virtue and of honor, from which he had so unfortunately strayed. I determined at all events to remain where I was until I had again seen him, and make another appeal to his friendship and his pride. Days and weeks passed however, and he came not. It was now the latter part of the month of May; the weather was delightful. I got tired of the solitude of my chamber, and walked out to enjoy the balminess of the air and the freshness of nature, as yet unscorched by the ardent beams of the summer sun. I took the road that led to Drayton's, and when I reached his gate, paused, as I had many a time before, to admire a noble oak that formed one of the gate posts. This splendid tree was at its base full five feet through, and its trunk shot up a height of forty feet before it gave out a branch. Thence its boughs spread out to an immense distance, forming a canopy over the road, beyond the opposite side of which they extended, and mingled with those of the trees growing there. It looked like a patriarch of the primeval forest, and seemed destined to stand while all around might decay. I sauntered along a mile or two, until I reached a favorite and secluded spot, well known to me when I was a boy, and which remained unchanged, while all else was changed or changing. There I seated myself on a moss covered rock, under the shade of a thick leaved birch, and while the bright waters rippled at my feet, passed in review before my mind some of the scenes of a busy and adventurous life. About an hour had elapsed in this pleasing melancholy of reverie, when I became conscious that a change had taken place in the weather. The refreshing breeze had died away, and the air become close and sultry, with that heavy suffocating feeling I had observed in high southern latitudes, as the invariable precursor of the coming hurricane. I made what haste I could to reach my home, which was full three miles distant, by the shortest path I could choose. I reached the upper part of Drayton's enclosure, where {115} there was an open field on either side, and paused as well from fatigue, as a desire to ascertain whether I could probably outstrip the approaching storm, or should be compelled much against my inclination to seek for shelter at Drayton's abode.

As I looked up, I perceived that the heavens were embossed with dark clouds that hung heavily in the atmosphere, scarcely moving their stations, or varying their forms, so completely stilled was the breeze--not a leaf trembled on the slenderest twig. Presently, on the extreme verge of the horizon to my right, a small, jagged cloud arose, that rested as it were a moment on the summits of the trees, and then darted high up the sky and emitted a brilliant flash of lightning, accompanied by a quick, sharp crash of thunder--as if this had been a signal summons, from all quarters of the heavens, seemingly by voluntary impulse, the hitherto inert vapors rushed with eagle speed to the spot, like mailed warriors to the battle field; concentrating, and condensing their huge forms into one, vast, deep, substantial looking body of impervious gloom, heaving to and fro with a mighty sound, like unto the rush of liberated waters that have broken down their rocky barrier. As I gazed in horror on this awful sight, there gradually descended from the centre, mass on mass of clouds, as if enormous folds of blackest velvet had been lowered down, narrowing in their descent until they almost formed a point: and then amid the lightning's incessant flashes, and the music of its own appalling roar, that drowned the loudest thunder; and the groans of the forest, as its mightiest trees were uprooted, or twisted from their stems, as a child would break a straw; the tornado marched on its appointed path of desolation. No words, at least none I can command, avail to describe its horrid majesty, its incalculable power. It was as if the very demon of destruction had clothed himself in robes of hellish grandeur, and came in the pride of his unimaginable strength, to strew with ruins the world's fair orb, and revel amidst his fiendish sport. I have in the course of my journey through life, encountered many a peril, and looked on many a sight that might strike the coward with despair, and blanch the cheek of the bravest. The appalling cry of fire has broken upon my ear, when my bark was rolling in the midst of the wide spread ocean, and the apparent choice was to leap into the wave, or perish by the flames. I have been with a crew, when the match was held by a resolute hand that would in an instant have hurled us in the air, rather than become the prey of the remorseless pirate. The storm upon the sea, the hurricane on land, and the terrors of battle upon both, I have beheld; but never did there weigh upon my heart such a feeling of unmixed dread, such a consciousness of utter helplessness, as now--still, I was not entirely deprived of my presence of mind--I was aware that the force of the tornado, although it might be extended to many miles, would probably be confined within narrow boundaries; and if I could ascertain its course, I might place myself beyond its influence. At this moment, however, it was difficult to conjecture to what point its fury would be directed: for as I have said, it was a perfect calm; the winds seemed to be enclosed within the lurid bosom of that horrible prodigy. Its approach was certainly in a line towards myself, but how soon it might swerve from that route, I could not tell; so that I dare not trust to flight. While I stood thus hesitating how to act, a horseman passed me at full speed. My attention had been so fully absorbed, and so deafening was the voice of the cloud, that I had not heard his approach, and barely caught a sufficient glimpse of the face to recognise it as that of Willis, and that it was overspread with an ashy paleness. He had not passed me a hundred yards, when as if by magic a strong wind burst from the north west, encountered the tornado, and turning it from the direction it had hitherto pursued, drove it obliquely in front of Drayton's house at about a quarter of a mile from it, and immediately towards the gate and the oak, I have spoken of. It now moved with immense velocity from me, and feeling that all personal danger was past, I could observe its appearance and effects with greater accuracy. The interior of the lower part was illuminated by _flames_, I may call them, of lightning; for so incessant and continuous were the flashes, that they appeared as one; and I could distinguish in the centre, large limbs of trees, and trees themselves suspended, tossed, and whirled about like feathers. Its wake was defined by the upturned ground, as if many ploughshares linked together had passed over it. Whatever lay in its track was instantaneously destroyed. It drove full upon the giant oak, and the forest Titan on whom many a storm had harmlessly broken, whose noble head was scarcely bowed in recognition of the furious gale, was wrenched, and severed from its trunk, and dashed upon the ground; that trembled as it received the enormous weight, as if an earthquake shook it. The destroyer passed on, and I stood watching it, until its noise was lost upon my ear, and its form had faded from my sight. Slowly then I bent my steps forward, mentally returning thanks to a gracious providence, for my escape from so imminent and appalling a danger. Suddenly, the recollection of Willis rose upon me, and a strong presentiment that he must have been overtaken by the cloud pressed upon my mind, and filled it with horror. The presentiment was destined to be realized. I quickened my steps, and as I approached the gate, I found the road so much impeded by the broken boughs and scattered fences hurled about in every direction, that I was compelled to make a considerable circuit in Drayton's field, to enable me to overcome the various obstacles that obstructed my passage. As I saw no trace of Willis, I began to hope he might have escaped, although it seemed scarcely possible; at all events, I thought it would be but proper for me to step to the house, a distance of some five hundred yards, and see if he had arrived in safety. I had, it is true, no respect for him, and perhaps his death could scarcely be deemed a calamity; but he was one of the great family of man, and what right had I to sit in judgment on my fellow creatures?

I found Drayton at home, standing at the front door, surveying the ravages committed on his estate. He greeted me, and commenced a harangue on the terrible phenomenon he had witnessed, which I cut short by inquiring if Mr. Willis was within--"within! No he had not seen him for several days." As briefly as I could, I then informed him of Willis' passing me on the road, of the obvious danger he had incurred, and requested he would accompany me with some of the servants, with axes and other implements, that might be necessary in prosecuting our search. He hastened to comply with {116} the request, and we soon set forward with some dozen assistants. We commenced our disagreeable undertaking, at the gate on the lower side of the prostrate oak, which lay obliquely across the road, endeavoring every now and then, to peep through the confused mass of tangled and shattered boughs that lay in heaps about us. Presently, one of the negroes uttered an exclamation, and pointing with both hands, cried out that he saw a man under the tree. We immediately gathered around him, and looking in the direction indicated, could perceive not only the object he had discovered, but also the prostrate body of a horse. There was now little doubt that Willis had here met his wretched fate.

The sun, which had come forth, was about an hour high, but we had great difficulties to overcome before we could reach the spot, where the body lay. One of the men was despatched to the house for further assistance, and we soon had all the efficient laborers of the estate at work; while the boys and women, whom curiosity brought there, were employed in holding torches, for the evening shades had fallen, before we got half through with our labor. At length, we succeeded in freeing Willis's body from the superincumbent load that pressed upon it. Life was totally extinct; his death had doubtless been instantaneous, for his bones were broken in many places, and the scull driven in, until its sides almost met. We hastily constructed a hand-barrow on which we laid the mangled remains, and were about to move off, when one of the boys came running to us from the wood on the opposite side to the gate, and with terror in his looks, informed us there was another man lying dead there. We hastened to the spot, which there was little difficulty in reaching, for the individual lay just on the skirt of the prostrate trees, and had probably been struck down by an upper bough as it fell. His face was towards the ground, and his hands outstretched. The back of the head had received a severe wound. We gently turned the body over. My heart sunk within me and a faintness came over my senses, as the light of the blazing torches revealed to my view the pallid face of Heywood. I soon recovered, however, and stood and gazed upon the features of the corpse, those features that I had so often seen lit up with intelligence, now rigid in death. Those eyes, whose piercing beams once reached the very hearts of men, and gazed upon their secret motives, had lost their "speculation," and those lips whose surpassing eloquence once filled his hearers with deep delight, ruling them with a master spell; now rousing apathy into action, now stilling passion in its wildest mood; were hushed in eternal silence. Before us was the motionless form of clay, the immortal spirit had ascended to its God. Both the bodies were removed to the house. The remainder of that night, I sat by the corpse of Heywood. The next day, I procured a plain coffin, and taking with me a couple of assistants, proceeded to the place where I had reposed after my walk on the preceding afternoon. At the foot of the birch tree we dug his grave, and heaped the earth upon the coffin to the level of the plain, and over it we spread the verdant turf: and there, in his "narrow and obscure bed," sleeps the misguided son of genius; while a splendid mausoleum marks the spot where the bones of Willis lie, and a marble slab records his thousand virtues.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

The study of poetry has been to me its own exceeding great reward: it has soothed my afflictions; it has refined and multiplied my enjoyments; it has given me (or at least strengthened in me) the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me--_Coleridge_.

STANZAS.

It is the Fall! the season now, Of rustling airs--of fading flowers; And Nature with a saddened brow, Sits brooding o'er her leafless bowers. Yet Autumn's reign was aye to me A season of felicity!

I'm standing in a dark recess Of a vast, dim, primeval wood, And on me is the consciousness That springs from such a solitude. No sounds are nigh save those I love-- No scene my heart's content to move.

A streamlet, gushing from above Goes dancing past me wild and free, As the fond boy is said to rove, Commission'd by Love's Deity. But _he_ in cities gaily flaunts, While _this_ seeks only nature's haunts.

And as it tracks the forest's maze, Through greensward alleys wand'ring wide, Affects not Folly's treach'rous ways, Nor looks to Fashion for its guide. How lulling to my sense its song,-- As thus it sweeps its course along!

The winds are also stirring now, In murm'ring tones, yon stately pine, Whose giant branches tend to throw A deeper shadow o'er this shrine-- This nobler shrine than priest or king Is wont to use for worshipping.

But lo! 'tis sunset--and the dew Is settling fast on herb and tree; Darkness will soon be shrouding too Each object in obscurity. My steps again I therefore turn, _To mix with man, and inly mourn!_

* * *

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET.

There is a splendour in these southern skies, Ofttimes at sunset, which I've nowhere seen, Wide as my range about the world hath been, Save on Italian shores; and there the dyes Have less of magic in them!--Who that tries, (Artist or Bard,) to paint such glowing hues As, in the west, mine eye this moment views, But must confess how passing far it lies Beyond his utmost skill?--High o'er my head A blue intense fades into purplish gray; And this anon to richer tints gives way, Of yellow--orange--then of deepening red, Until at length, in his all gorgeous bed, Proudly sinks down the monarch of our day.

* * *

{117}

ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.

POEMS BY A COLLEGIAN, Charlottesville, Va. Published by C. P. McKennie. Printed by D. Deans & Co. 1833.

A neat and unpretending volume of poems, with the above title, was issued last year from the Charlottesville press. As a Virginia production _altogether_, and the first fruits of poetical genius, emanating from the University of Virginia, the collection deserves honorable mention in the pages of the Southern Literary Messenger.

Criticism might be disarmed of some of its wonted severity, when it is known that all the poems contained in this volume, were written by the author between the ages of sixteen and nineteen. This fact, however, only increases our favorable opinion of his talents, and induces us to estimate still higher his natural powers of mind.

We propose, instead of an analysis of the volume before us, and a regular review of its contents, to extract specimens of the POETRY, which struck us as displaying that fire of genius so necessary to constitute a true POET. Our readers we are sure will agree with us in the favorable opinion we have expressed, after they have perused these specimens.

One of the best and most spirited of the poems, is the Address to Constantinople on its anticipated fall, written on receiving intelligence that the Russian army was on its march to that capital in 1829. We give the two first stanzas.

"Thy plumes are ruffled now, proud bird! O'er land and ocean, forest, solitude, The echo of thy last, sad shriek is heard!-- The glance of majesty Is quailing now from thy fierce eye, And the deep wailing of thy scattered brood Is dying to a murmur. Sadly dark Is thy soiled plumage, and thy gilded crest Has fallen--so often fall the loftiest and the best. Hark! To the tread of the devouring foe!-- But ere thou art laid low, Shall not one last avenging blow Be struck? Rouse thee, proud bird! Thy voice of triumph 'mid the nations, yet May swell from mosque and minaret-- May with the bravest and the first be heard!

Stamboul! proud city of the East! Sister of Rome!--old mistress of a world-- Wilt thou from thy high state be hurled? Shall not thy sinewy arm be strung With its accustomed power?--at least Gird on thy mail, and let thy dirge, If thou _must_ die, upon the battle's verge, Amid the shock of arms, be sung!"

The energy of the language and the appropriateness of the figures, appear to us worthy of high praise.

We have several beautiful descriptions of calm and quiet scenery. What follows, contrasts admirably with the lines we have just quoted.

"I look upon the stars sometimes--I love To watch their twinkling in the azure ground Of Heaven's o'er-arching canopy, where move Ten thousand worlds--which, starting with a bound-- Plough with fiery track, the unseen waves Of fathomless immensity; to see, Age after age, that sky hung o'er the graves Of buried nations, as a tapestry-- A funeral canopy when dyed with gloom; That sky, which, robed in majesty, looked bright Upon Columbus, when he sought the tomb Of all his hopes, or strove to snatch from night, And claim the birthright of a world. 'Tis when I view the stars, bright handmaids of the moon-- Who walks among them as a virgin queen-- That, with those stars to riot, seem a boon From Heaven; I love to see that moon's pure beams-- Like lightning shot upon the watery waste, Which like a mine of living diamonds gleams-- Each sparkling but an instant--as in haste To hide its liquid lustre in the wave-- A jeweled bathing place--a starlit home-- Fit--ay, beautifully fit to lave The light of worlds in upper air which roam."

There is much of that highly romantic and poetical imagery in this, which must please every reader of taste. A stanza of similar style is in the lines to page 32.

"And when the stars were breathing out Their holy light to earth, And diamonding the glad blue sky For the young moon's queenly birth, I've gazed upon some lovely one, And thought that it might be A glorious home in the afterworld, In which to live with thee."

And this at page 82.

"The air is like a tideless sea Of pure and silvery light, And the waters glance transparently, Illumed by the queen of night.

The crested waves as they dash on high, And dissolve in pearly beads, Appear as a carpet spread gaudily, Where the giant sea-god treads."

There is much, too, in the following lines, which comes over the senses "like the sweet south."

"Evening is stealing with her nectared breath, Slowly and calmly down to kiss each flower That pouteth in rich beauty from beneath Its emerald colored guardians--the bright leaves-- ('Tis strange what solace brings that magic hour To every heart that hopes, or loves, or grieves-- It is the fitting time for fervent prayer, Which rises holily on kindred air-- For then the air _is_ holy--'tis the time For love--the only time to gaze and die Beneath the lustre of a diamond eye; Yet strange to tell, it is the hour for crime!) In golden majesty the glorious sun, With light too pure for eye to gaze upon, Is sinking slowly in the gorgeous west-- A monarch going proudly to his rest.-- He's gone, and mellow twilight creeps along As gently as the cadence of a song,-- Twilight, to whom each poet in his day, Hath breathed melodious and impassioned lay, While o'er his soul thy witchery was stealing, As sweetly as the whispered tones of feeling.

Evening--'tis then the o'er fraught heart doth pour Its wealth of pious incense at the shrine Of deity--the spirit then may soar Into those regions where the angels twine Wreaths for the glorious of our earthly race;-- 'Tis then that we can see, and feel, and trace His glory in the realms of starry space!"

We were pleased with the lines to ----, commencing thus:

"Memory! Memory!--'tis like the talisman We read of in the page of Eastern story, That magi used the inmost soul to scan Of friends or foes; or oft mayhap to call {118} From his bright crystal, gold, or diamond hall, Some brother in his supernatural glory-- The talisman of feeling, that doth bring Back on the heart the deeds of other days, With all their dark or glorious coloring-- The wizard of the soul, whose wand can raise The disembodied spirits of the dead Palpable as it were to touch;--impress The face of such as long ago have fled Into their state of holy blessedness, Upon the mind."

The poem, with which the volume opens, "To My Country," contains many brilliant passages;--and throughout the work, the reader will linger at almost every page to dwell upon something which must please his fancy. Indeed the extracts that we intended to have made have so multiplied upon our hands, that we have not now space to give place to them all. We trust, however, that what we have given will suffice not only to show that our own opinions are correct, but to bring the public, and especially the Virginia public, better acquainted with the author and his work. In a future number we may adorn the columns of the Messenger with further extracts from the POEMS BY A COLLEGIAN.

In the preface, the author states that his motive for preserving his poems in their present form, was his desire "to leave among those who have taken an interest in his welfare, and with whom he has been in habits of daily intercourse, a slight memorial of himself, ere more important duties urge their claims to consideration." We know that his Alma Mater will always be proud of such a son, and that his friends, with him, under her instruction will long cherish the "memorial." A favorable opinion of it will, however, not be confined to them alone. A discerning public will see and appreciate its excellence.

MY NATIVE LAND, AND OTHER POEMS. By Frederick Speece. Philadelphia: Printed for Augustine Leftwich, Lynchburg, Virginia. 1832.

Having been obligingly furnished with a copy of these poems, we take pleasure in introducing them to the notice of the public. We are somewhat surprised to learn that although published two years since in Lynchburg, they have attracted no notice in that quarter, either of applause or censure. It is perhaps, more agreeable to an author, that his works should come under the lash of satire, than that they should pass altogether without observation. The chilling neglect of the public however, furnishes no stronger proof of a writer's demerit, than do the too frequent carpings of illiberal criticism. Some of the greatest poets have been doomed whilst living, to indigence and obscurity, and owe all their honors to posthumous fame; and it is asserted of Homer especially, that seven cities claimed the honor of his birth, not one of which perhaps would have furnished a morsel to save him from starving.

We design not to raise extravagant expectations respecting Mr. Speece's poems--nor can we hazard the conjecture that the praise of future times will compensate him for contemporary injustice. We do not hesitate however, to recommend his work as incomparably superior to much of that glittering trash which passes under the name of poetry. There is a vein of good sense,--of just and honest feeling--of tender melancholy--and sometimes of rich imagination--which runs through his volume, and which cannot fail to delight such readers as have any soul for poetical composition. His versification for the most part, is sweet and melodious--though occasionally there is a little inattention to syllabick quantity, which produces rather an unpleasant effect upon the ear. There are other faults too--but they are inconsiderable when compared with the many redeeming beauties which shine through the volume. The poem of "My Native Land," in its general tone and harmony of verse, brings to recollection Goldsmith's Deserted Village--and the "Sketches," which are also descriptive of the pleasures of juvenile life and the picturesque scenery of his native hills--contain many fine passages. In the "Juvenalis Redivivus"--the author has pointed the arrows of satire against men and manners with no little severity--so much so, that he has found it necessary in his preface to acknowledge that time had softened much of the harsh coloring which he had thrown into his pictures. Many of his minor pieces abound in beautiful thoughts, expressed in smooth and flowing numbers--and upon the whole we think if Mr. Speece had been sufficiently encouraged in early life to persevere in the delightful but unprofitable task of poetical authorship--he might have reached a highly respectable rank. The following passage from "My Native Land," will probably remind the reader of Cowper's touching address to his mother's picture.

"My mother! Melancholy was the morn That found me orphaned, and almost forlorn. My friend! My guide! Oh, could not mercy save Her for her child, or lay me in her grave! Why cheer my drooping and unsheltered head, When to the skies her gentle spirit fled? Why bid me live, since riper years must pay Their long arrears to that lamented day? I had a mother, tender, kind and true, Her virtues many and her failings few; With warm solicitude and watchful eye, She taught me what to follow, what to fly; And warned me disappointment and distress In life must be my portion, more or less; That fierce disease would often banish health; Pride point the insolence of power and wealth; Folly and vice allure; pretended friends Abuse my confidence for private ends; And fears and sorrows, hovering round my head, Pursue me to my last and narrow bed. Yet would she say, in Virtue's path was found A balm to heal the bosom's deepest wound: Winged my young thoughts to better worlds above, There to repose my confidence and love. Her fond affection never would deceive, But these were things I could not then believe. Yet though her warnings vanished from my mind, Her precepts left a faithful trace behind;-- In memory's careful records still remain, And long experience proves they were not vain."

The same poem concludes in the following lines--being a farewell tribute to the place of his nativity.

"Adieu! Perhaps forever! Should it be,-- 'Land of my Fathers! I will think of thee,' Long as its motions last, and vital heat, Within my heart, thy lovely name shall beat.-- Tho' rude thy piny hills, a thankless soil, Whence scanty products meet the tiller's toil, Tho' thy wild scenery, and thy fickle clime, Exhibit little beauteous or sublime;-- And timid Superstition's witching tales, {119} And Gothic ignorance linger in thy vales; The charms that could my infant love engage, Have fixed the feelings of maturer age. So strongly linked to joys and sorrows past-- I loved thee first--loved long--will love thee last. Whether, where Beauty taught me first to feel, And mutual passion fixed the sacred seal On treasures, Heaven reserved for me alone, A friend, a bosom dearer than my own, On Staunton's banks my wandering feet shall rest, Or in some Eden of the rosy West, In Alabama's ever verdant clime, Or where the wild Missouri rolls sublime; Or, 'mid the Bedford hills, whose limpid streams, Pay scanty tribute to the mighty James.-- Land of my birth! and where my fathers sleep, Oft shall remembrance turn to thee and weep, And though my steps be doomed to wander far, Affection tremble to her Polar Star, Till the last throb shall lay this bosom low, Where _Memory_ and _Affection_ cease to _glow_."

We select a passage at random from the satiric poem, as a fair specimen of the author's style and manner.

"There was a time, our good old fathers say, (Perhaps it was so in their better day,) When coats and gowns were patch'd without disgrace, And men wore hats that cover'd all the face; When ragged virtue was not kick'd aside, Nor worth and equipage identified, Nor taste and genius by possession squared, Nor merit sold, like riband, by the yard. Temperance and charity were then esteem'd, And men and women were just what they seem'd. Labor and health with vigor strung their arms, Themselves less cultivated than their farms. No smart young master, impudent and vain, Play'd with his cue, or silver-headed cane, Forsook his grammar ere he learn'd the rules, To pilfer pins, or rifle reticules; Nor beardless hero boasted laurels won, From maids deceived, or jilted, or undone. The rosy girls, content with native bloom, Sought not the flowing robe and waving plume; Nor wish'd to gain the empire of a heart, Where half the victory was achieved by art. No wanton fashion taught with lace to deck, The shorten'd waist, and lengthen down the neck. No everlasting clack of slanderous tongues, Raised sad solicitude for female lungs; Nor had the sex divided all their cares, To sorting silks and mangling characters."

If Mr. Speece were at this time a younger man than we presume him to be, we should take the liberty of pointing out some of his defects--but various allusions in some of his minor pieces, authorise the inference that his affections are now almost alienated from the once charming society of the muses. Domestic sorrow seems to have had no inconsiderable share in producing this result. His "Apology to A. L. Esq."--is full of the poet's as well as the father's anguish at the sudden death of a favorite son sixteen years old. We give the whole to the reader.

"The generous friend may justly claim The offspring of my musing, But to excite the Muse's flame No more obeys my choosing. Life's warmest hopes, its light and pride, Fail'd with my darling when he died.

My harp, that once in rapture rung, Full-toned to joy and gladness, Lies all unheeded and unstrung Beneath the cloud of sadness; Vain were the task, the effort vain, To wake its thrilling notes again.

Once skill'd to wreath poetic flowers Around the brow of Beauty, My hand has now forgot its powers, Nor heeds that gentle duty; Fled is their bloom; the task were vain, To wreath those wither'd flowers again.

The heart that feels the mortal stroke, The bosom anguish-riven, Sinks hopeless as the blasted oak From the fierce bolt of Heaven: The oak no genial season feels; The wounded bosom never heals.

Youth may regain its honors reft, And bloom again in gladness; Age, when bereaved, has little left But ever-during sadness; And gathering years and grief dissever Hope from the heart that bleeds forever."

A VISIT TO TEXAS: Being the journal of a traveller through those parts most interesting to American settlers. With descriptions of scenery, habits, &c. &c. _New York:_ Goodrich & Wiley. 1834.

The proximity of Texas to the United States,--the facilities of intercourse between the two countries--and the migratory habits of our citizens,--are sufficient to invest with more than ordinary interest every thing which relates to that part of Spanish America. The volume before us, is an unpretending and agreeable narrative, and is calculated we think to do good, by pointing out the mischiefs and inconveniences of emigration to the Mexican republic, and especially by calling the public attention to the many ingenious frauds which are practised by land companies and speculators. The author was a purchaser of twenty thousand acres from the Galveston Bay and Texas Land Company through their agents at New York, and full of golden dreams about this new Eldorado of the south west, he embarked in person at New Orleans, in order to take possession of his splendid principality. His disappointment and vexation may be easily imagined at finding himself on his arrival totally deceived on the subject of his title! It was not worth the parchment on which it was written, and after all his fruitless expense, anxiety and hardship, he did not enjoy even the melancholy satisfaction on his return to New York of obtaining from the trustees their sympathy, much less remuneration. Our traveller might indeed have acquired "a quarter of a league of unappropriated land, on condition of professing the Roman Catholic religion, becoming a citizen of the Republic of Mexico, and residing on the soil for six years, receiving his title from the government;"--but he was too conscientious and honorable to submit to such requirements. The truth is, that whilst there is much in the climate and soil of Texas to allure the settler, there are also numerous objections which ought to discourage the rash experiment of emigration. Our own country, particularly in its new states and territories--holds out sufficient inducements to such as find it either convenient or necessary to change their abodes; and there are no superior advantages in a residence on the Brassos or Colorado to compensate for the sacrifices of friends and connexions,--free government and the rights of conscience. It seems to us therefore to be little short of fatuity, especially in the present unsettled state of the miscalled Republic of Mexico, for a citizen of the United States to abandon for a settlement in that {120} quarter his native land, unless indeed, he be a violator of its laws and a refugee from punishment.

In truth, it appears that this desperate class of men constitute no inconsiderable portion of the population of Texas;--and our author relates that on one occasion he sat at the same table with no less than four murderers who had fled from justice. True, there is a large portion of the country extremely beautiful and fertile, and the labors of the planter and herdsman are richly rewarded;--but these advantages are greatly counterbalanced by the insecurity of the government and laws--the intolerance of religious bigotry--and the absence of most of the elements which constitute a virtuous and happy community. Minor evils and inconveniences are also felt. The spacious plains and luxuriant prairies--though they furnish abundance of food for horses and cattle, are scantily supplied with wood, and altogether destitute of stone;--and the usual incidents of southern latitudes,--bilious fever,--poisonous reptiles and insects, and alligators of enormous size, serve to fill up the revolting picture.

We have no fears therefore, notwithstanding the enchanting coloring which even the temperate feelings and chastened imagination of our author have thrown around a Texas landscape--that there are many persons of sober minds, when they shall have balanced the good with the evil, will be much enamoured with the thought of a permanent "visit" to that region. The book, therefore, may be recommended as a tolerably certain antidote to any lurking desire for a ramble across the Sabine,--and if perchance the spirit of migration shall have become too obstinate for cure,--it may still have the effect of confining the wanderer's steps within the limits of our own republic.

There are many things in our author's narrative both curious and amusing--and not among the least so, is the account he gives of that intractable animal, the _mustang_, or wild horse of the country. With one of that strange species he was necessarily obliged to cultivate an intimate acquaintance, having no other means of transportation between different parts of the country. The manner in which they are reduced to subjection, and the untameable perverseness of their nature, are thus related:

The first thing to be attended to, was the purchase of a horse; and this was easily effected. The small horses of the country, called _mustangs_, introduced by the Spaniards, and now numerous in the more northern prairies, run wild in droves over these parts of Texas, and are easily taken and rendered serviceable by the inhabitants. When caught, it would be a problem to a stranger to confine them, where there is neither tree nor rock to be found: but the Mexicans put on a halter, knot it at the end, dig a hole about ten inches deep, put in the knot, and press the earth down upon it. The pull being sideways is at a disadvantage, and the horse is unable to draw it out. They are driven to market, purchased for three or four dollars, branded, hobbled, turned out again, and entirely abandoned to themselves until they are needed. Whenever a vessel arrives, some of the inhabitants send into the woods and cane brakes for such a number as they suppose may be wanted by the passengers; and this I found had already been done in anticipation of the wants of those who came in the sloop Majesty. In the log stable belonging to Mr. Austin, at whose house I lodged, I saw a number of them, with all the wild look which might be expected from their habits of life. They are small, generally about 13 hands high, well formed, rather for strength, and of different colors. I saw others in several other stables; and at length made choice of a white one; and having paid for him a doubloon and four dollars, (a handsome advance on his original cost,) stuffed a pair of saddle bags with a few articles of food as well as clothes, and was soon ready for my journey.

As the brands on horses afford the only evidence of their identity, and the property of their owners, the rules observed in respect to them are very strict.

These horses are very useful in the country, and may perhaps become at some future time a valuable article of export, as they are innumerable, and cost only the trouble of catching. This is done with a strong noosed cord, made of twisted strips of raw hide, and called a _lazo_, which is the Spanish word for a band or bond. It has been often described, as well as the manner of throwing it, as it is in common use for catching animals, and sometimes for choking men, in different parts of America inhabited by the descendants of the Spanish and Portuguese. A man on horseback, with a rope of this kind coiled in his left hand, and one end of it fastened to the horse, whirls the noosed end in the air over his head as he approaches the animal he intends to seize: and, on finding an opportunity, throws it over its head or horns, and checks his horse. The noose is instantly drawn tight, and the poor creature is thrown violently down, without the power of moving, and generally deprived of breath. They are sometimes badly injured, and even killed, by bring dashed to the ground; but generally escape with a severe practical lesson on the nature of this rude instrument of civilization, which they afterwards hold in great respect all their lives, yielding immediately whenever they feel it again upon their necks.

The mustangs often carry to their graves evidence of the violent means adopted by the Mexicans in breaking them to the bridle. Many of them are foundered, or otherwise diseased. A horse which has been lazoed is blindfolded, mounted by a rider armed with the heavy and barbarous spurs of the country, after having their terrible lever bits put into his mouth, a moderate pull upon which might break his jaw, and if he runs is pricked to his speed, till he falls down with exhaustion. He is then turned in the opposite direction, and cruelly spurred again. If he is found able to run back to the point from which he started, he is thought to have bottom enough to make a valuable horse: otherwise he is turned off as good for little or nothing. The process is a brutal one; and the agony inflicted by the bits is extreme: as blood flows freely from the mouth which is often greatly swollen; and the animal yields to mere force.

In the morning we mounted our horses and proceeded to the river, where the ferry boat, a large scow, was lying near the shore. I dismounted, and taking the bridle in my hand, attempted to lead my horse in after me. Most fortunately I was looking at him, and was better prepared than I was sensible of being, to make one of those sudden instinctive motions, which sometimes prove essential to our safety. Had I been turning the other way, or a little less active, I should probably have lost my life, or at least have been seriously injured: for instead of following me into the boat, as an honest horse should, and as I had expected him to do, he fixed his eyes upon me with a malicious expression, and sprung at me like lightning, clearing the ground entirely, and making a leap of about eight feet. I jumped aside, and barely in time to avoid his feet, with which it seemed to me he designed to beat me down. I do not know that I ever had experienced such feelings as this occurrence excited in me. It betrayed a degree of spite mingled with craft which I had never seen in an animal of his species; and laid the axe at the root of all that confidence and attachment which a traveller loves to exercise towards his horse. I have been thus particular in mentioning this little occurrence, because the wit of the country appears to be largely invested in the horses; and this was the beginning of my white mustang.

Some other particulars of our traveller's own rebellious steed may also be extracted. He was not indeed "a Tartar of the Ukraine breed"--but he was as wild, mischievous and wicked an animal as ever pranked.

It was our intention to proceed to Bingham's that day: for one of my companions, who had travelled the road a short time before, had calculated that his house would afford us a very comfortable lodging after a good day's ride. We rose therefore to proceed on our journey. But I had a chapter or two more to read on the character of mustangs before I was destined to leave the place. I had never been informed of one particular propensity which they have, that is, to draw back and pull violently when approached in front, and therefore walked up to my white horse rather hastily to untie and mount him. He sprang back {121} and pulled for a moment so hard upon the sapling to which I had fastened him, that it came up by the roots; and after a few leaps and kicks, which freed him from my saddle bags, and broke the bridle, he made off towards the middle of the prairie at full speed, with his head and tail both raised, and in a state of exultation which formed quite a contrast to my own feelings.

My companions threw off their valises, mounted immediately, and gave chase to the pestilent runaway, which, after a short gallop, had halted, and with the most provoking coolness began to eat grass from the prairie. As they approached him, however, he flew off again as fast as his legs would carry him; and thus he led them to a great distance, on a chase apparently hopeless. I watched them till I was tired, coursing over the prairie here and there, now on this side, now on that, at such a distance that they looked no bigger than cats, and anon further diminished to mere mice. My white mustang led them up and down, round and crosswise, as if he delighted in worrying them, occasionally stopping, as coolly as before, to crop the grass, and then off in a new direction, like a wild creature as he was. This chase lasted without intermission for four hours, at the end of which they succeeded in driving the little white animal towards the house. Mr. Bailey, seeing him approaching, despatched a messenger to a neighboring farm for assistance; and a man soon came hurrying down on horseback, provided with a lazo: a rope with a noose at the end as before described. He joined in the pursuit with the spirit and skill of one practised in such employment, and soon got within about eight or ten feet of my horse, when, with a dexterous fling, he suddenly threw the noose over his head. Having the beast now completely in his power, he was prepared to choke him into submission; and the noose was on the point of closing its grasp round his neck. But here the intelligence and experience of the mustang stepped in with customary promptitude: for as soon as he felt the rope round his neck, he stopped stone still, and yielded as submissively as a lamb. Like an accomplished rogue at last fairly in the gripe of justice, he seemed in haste to submit, plead guilty and repent, in order to secure as much leniency as possible; and in a few moments I was again on the back of this little flying brute, jogging on as quietly as if he had never rebelled in his life. There was a great deal of farce in all this: but we had been put to too much inconvenience by the perverse trick to enjoy the joke: for our loss of time, we foresaw, would put it out of our power to perform all our intended day's journey.

It was nearly dark when we reached Hall's: a habitation of which I had heard, but at which we had not originally intended to stop, as it was only thirteen miles from Bailey's. I here found that horses in Texas are always turned out loose to feed, even if a traveller stops but for the night, which would have ensured another chase, with perhaps even more unfavorable results than that I had witnessed, but for an expedient which was recommended to us. This was to "hobble them" after the fashion of the country: which consists in tying together their fore legs with a short cord, and not one fore and one hind leg together, as we do at the north. This operation instantly changes the movements of a horse, as he is obliged to make every step a fair leap: and it excited the greatest merriment in me, when I saw the horses of my companions practising a gait so different from common, under a mode of constraint which I had never witnessed before. Fully satisfied that such confinement would be sufficient even for my white mustang, I began to tie his legs together, which to my surprise he submitted to with the utmost cheerfulness, without raising his head, for he had already began to graze on the fine grass. Although so recently accustomed to run at large in the Brazos forests, he had evidently been familiar with the hobble: for as if he perfectly concurred in my opinion as to the propriety of his being bound, whenever he wanted to move he carefully raised both fore feet together, so as not to interfere with my task, and made a gentle spring to a knot of fresh feed. Surely, thought I, I have got a steed sagacious enough to figure in one of Æsop's Fables.

Our traveller had not proceeded far on his journey, before his vexatious mustang refused to eat, and gave signs of great weariness and exhaustion. Unable however to supply himself with another, he resolved after an interval of rest to pursue his way.

We took our departure accordingly; and I had much difficulty in getting my horse out of the town. In a short time, however, he began to cheer up, and gradually quickened his pace until his strength and spirits were quite restored, and he travelled remarkably well. However strange it may seem, there was every appearance that the whole affair had been a mere trick of the wily brute; and my opinion was confirmed by several inhabitants to whom I afterwards recounted the story. They told me that the sagacity and duplicity of the mustang is well known among them, and that he is capable of almost any thing, which ingenuity or malice can invent. So ungrateful a return for all my kindness and care, under such vexatious circumstances, and aggravated by such persevering imposture, added to my previous dislike of the animal which had been guilty of it.

One would be almost tempted to think that these provoking yet sagacious quadrupeds were regular descendants from the race celebrated by Swift, and which that eccentric satirist endowed with superior intelligence to men.

From our author's account, Texas would undoubtedly furnish its full quota of contributions to a cabinet of natural history. The feathered tribes luxuriate there, especially on the coast, in great abundance and variety. The wild fowl congregate in prodigious flocks, and the ornithologist might find almost every order, genera and species in creation. The tenants of the forest are not less numerous,--there being an ample supply of wolves, bears, panthers, wild cats, wild hogs, foxes, rackoons and squirrels. The waters too, furnish their finny, testaceous and crustaceous treasures,--the red fish, buffalo, cat, drum, pearch, oysters, crabs, &c. Nor is there any want of those amphibious annoyances, crocodiles and alligators--and to crown the whole, there is an anomalous species called the alligator-garr,--consisting not of the fanciful compound of half horse and half alligator--but of the actual and bona fide admixture of one moiety of fish, and the other of alligator. We must not forget either in enumerating the zoological curiosities of that region, one which we do not recollect to have seen described by naturalists. We give the words of the author.

One of the prettiest little animals I ever saw, is the "horned frog;" which, notwithstanding its name, is far from being amphibious, as it is found on the prairies at a distance from water. Indeed it bears little or no resemblance to a frog, appearing more like a lizard, with rather a long and graceful form, a tail, and legs of nearly equal length, so that it runs swiftly and never leaps. I had often occasion to notice them, both here and on other prairies. They run with such agility, that although they do not take alarm until you have approached very near them, they dart off, and generally disappear immediately. One might often mistake them for quails, while in motion. They are of a yellowish color, mottled, and have horns about half an inch long, projecting from the front of the head. Several were caught and kept for some time in a barrel at Anahuac, and though it could not be perceived that they ate any of the various kinds of food which were offered them, they lived and continued active for a considerable time.

That formidable reptile the rattlesnake, is also found in the grassy prairies of Texas. Our traveller killed one of the "largest and noblest" of that venemous family--it being five or six feet long and about six inches in circumference. It was provided however with only eight rattles, whereas others which had been killed a few days previously of hardly half the size, were furnished with as many as thirteen;--from which the author takes occasion to contest the common opinion that the number of rattles is an indication of the reptile's age. We have heard the same fact asserted, and the same conclusion drawn from it by others, whose opportunities for careful and actual observation were undoubted.

Notwithstanding the many and formidable objections {122} to a permanent residence in Texas,--there are beauties in its scenery, which, despite of its unvarying monotony--must fill the beholder with delight. We give a description of one of the few fine estates in regular cultivation.

We were received with great hospitality by Mr. McNeil and his family, in which we found every disposition to welcome us. They set before us the best products of the soil, which is indeed a land flowing with milk and honey, in a more unqualified sense of the expression than any I had ever seen. Our exercise had sharpened our appetites; and we were soon cheered with the sight of an excellent and plentiful meal: for our hosts, without making a single allusion to the subject, had immediately given directions, on our first arrival, that our wants should be provided for, and we soon sat down to a well timed repast. It consisted chiefly of venison and a fine turkey, and was accompanied with excellent coffee. The daughter of our host was a very intelligent and well educated young lady, and had recently returned from the Northern States, where she had just completed her education.

After eating, we took a view of the charming scene around us. The house in which we were, constructed of logs, and on the plan common to the country dwellings of farmers in Texas, is well sheltered from the sun and the winds by the wood, in the verge of which it is situated: and when the beautiful China trees around it shall have attained a greater size, the spot will be rendered still more agreeable. The mansion fronts upon the estate: a fine, open prairie, over which the eye ranges with pleasure, no wild or barren spot occurring to interrupt the universal aspect of fertility and beauty, and no swelling of the surface being perceptible, which might in any degree interfere with the clearest view of every part. The only interruption is caused by clusters of trees of different forms and sizes, scattered at distant intervals here and there. These clumps and groves, apparently possessing all the neatness and beauty which could have been given them if planted by the hand of man, and tended by his greatest care, added the charm of variety to the eye, while they promised thick and convenient shelter from sun and storm to man or beast. Without such variety and such a refuge, the aspect of the prairie, with all its verdure, would have been monotonous to the sight, and disheartening to the traveller. It would be almost impossible for a person who has never seen them, to imagine the appearances of these groves. Although they are wholly the work of nature, they often present all the beauty of art: for the trees are of nearly equal size, and grow near together, without underwood, and present outlines perfectly well defined, and often surprisingly regular. Some appear to form exact circles or ovals, while others are nearly square or oblong. It is no uncommon thing to see a continued line, running perfectly straight, for a mile or more in length, with scarcely a single tree projecting beyond it: so that I found it difficult to divest myself of the impression, that much of the land had been lately cleared, and that these were but the remains of the forest.

Those groves are called islands, from the striking resemblance they present to small tracts of land surrounded by water. Nothing can be more natural than the comparison. The prairie assumes the uniform appearance of a lake, both in surface and color; and in the remoter parts the hue melts into that of distant water; and it requires no very great effort of the imagination, especially in certain states of the weather and changes of the light, to fancy that such is the nature of the scene.

The landscape was bounded on the right by a long and distant line of woodland, which concealed and yet betrayed the course of the river San Bernard, and about three miles off, and on the left by a similar limit, which formed the "bottoms" of the Brazos. Between these the prairie extended its broad, unbroken level before us about ten miles, beyond which we saw the Gulf of Mexico, reaching off to the horizon.

I stood long contemplating this charming picture, which, as I before remarked, is entirely overlooked from the door of our hospitable friend; and what greatly added to its interest, was a vast number of cattle feeding in all parts of his wide domain. How different a sight was here presented, from any of the rural scenes with which my eyes had ever before been familiar! How different was all the system of the farmer from that prevailing in those regions of my own country which I had lately visited! I was one moment struck with surprise at the vast extent of land under the care of a single proprietor, and the few human hands required to perform the necessary labor; and the next I was filled with admiration at the various advantages afforded by a mild and benignant climate, a soil of extreme fertility, and a surface best appropriate to its use, when subjected to a system of culture to which it is best adapted. The cotton field and garden, with their two hundred acres, lay on the one hand, effectually secured against all encroachment with the most substantial fence I had ever seen, which stretched off a mile on one line; and around and beyond it lay the almost boundless prairie, variegated with its numerous islands, spotted with a scattered herd of six hundred cattle, all belonging to our host. The breed is larger than those common in the north, with longer and straiter limbs, broader horns and smoother coats. They all appeared well fed, active and vigorous, and spend their lives through winter and summer in the open air. The only attention bestowed upon them, is merely to mark them when young in such a manner that if they stray they may be distinguished from the cattle of any other proprietor. Of course no housing is necessary in such a climate, and no provision of food for them is to be made, in a country where there is perpetual green. They feed during the winter in the bottoms, and as yet do not require salt, for some reason unaccountable to me. One might expect that cattle left thus to herd together in such immense droves, without the care or control of man during their lives, would contract habits of timidity or of fierceness; but I was assured that they are in one respect more manageable than the tame cattle I have seen: for a horseman can always readily separate such as he chooses from a herd, by riding after them one at a time, though this is a task of great difficulty with our northern cattle, even where they have roads and fences to restrain them.

We shall conclude by extracting another portion of the work, which in the simple and unpretending language of the author, presents a picture of such striking beauty, that the eye of a poet might almost mistake it for Elysium.

I had never been at all prepared for the indescribable beauty of a Texas prairie at this season of the year, which I now could not avoid admiring, even under such unpleasant circumstances. The wild flowers had greatly multiplied, so that they were often spread around us in the utmost profusion, and in wonderful variety. Some of those which are most cultivated in oar northern gardens were here in full bloom and perfection, intermingled with many which I had never before seen, of different forms and colors. I should despair of giving my reader any adequate idea of the scenes which were thus so richly adorned, and through which we often passed for acres in extent, breaking for ourselves the only path perceptible on the whole prairie. Among the flowers were the largest and most delicate I had ever seen, with others the most gaudy. Among them were conspicuous different species about six inches in diameter, presenting concentric zones of the brightest yellow, red and blue, in striking contrasts. In more than one instance these fields of flowers were not only so gay and luxuriant as to seem like a vast garden richly stocked with the finest plants and abandoned to a congenial soil, but extensive almost beyond limitation: for it was sometimes difficult to discover whether they stopped short of the horizon. It was singular also that patches were here and there overspread by mimosas, which, as our horses passed through them, drew up their leaves and dropped their branches whenever they were brushed by their feet, thus making a withered trace on the surface, which was but gradually obliterated as these timid plants regained their courage, raised their stems again and expanded their withered leaves. The plants whose sensitiveness had thus been overcome, were rendered distinguishable to the eye from others, by the exposure they made of the lower side of their leaves when they folded them up: that side being of a much lighter hue than the upper. There was a phenomenon connected with this striking appearance, which I was at the time unable to account for, and could hardly credit. That was, the shrinking of the delicate plants a little in advance of us, before we had quite reached them. A friend who had witnessed the same thing, accounted for it by supposing that they received a shock through the long horizontal roots which connect them together.

One of the first flowers which appears to deck the prairie in the spring, is the prairie rose, which in blossom and fragrance, resembles some of our rich red roses, though the shrub is quite different. As for others, I know not what a botanist might make of them: but I am certain that many of them would be exceedingly admired in our own country, as rich and new; and as to {123} the scenes over which they were spread, it is impossible to describe or to imagine their beauty and attraction. After looking on the rich and ever varying display, I felt a high degree of pleasure and admiration, so that I thought I could almost give my mustang his liberty, throw myself on the ground and spend the whole season among them. Occasionally too a light breath of wind would rise, and blow the mingled perfumes into my face, giving an enjoyment no less pure and refined, and most difficult to express.

VIRGINIA HISTORICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY.

We select the following from the "_The Western Monthly Magazine_," a very neat and ably conducted periodical, published at Cincinnati. We are gratified at the favorable notice taken of the first labors of the _Historical and Philosophical Society_;--a society which, of all others ever established among us, ought to stir up every Virginian who possesses a particle of state pride. Why, in the name of every thing that is dear to us, do we not unite our efforts to establish something like a literary and scientific character for the Old Dominion. Is there not something, besides politics, worth living for? We shall devote some pages of our future numbers to the interests of this excellent institution.

COLLECTIONS _of the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society_; to which is prefixed an Address spoken before the Society, &c. by _Jonathan P. Cushing_, A.M., President of Hampden Sidney College. vol. i. Richmond, T. W. White, 1833.

The Society from whose labors this pamphlet has been produced, was originated in the winter of 1831; but owing to the fatal epidemic which prevailed in that country, in common with other parts of the United States, and other adverse causes, effected but little during the two first years of its existence. The interesting publication now before us, however, affords an earnest that the rich hoard of ancient lore, treasured in the public archives, or private records, of the ancient dominion, will not be suffered to lie concealed any longer from the public eye.

We hail the establishment of this Society, at the head of which we perceive the name of the venerable Chief Justice of the United States, as an event highly auspicious to the literature of our country. Notwithstanding all that has been published, the older states of the Union abound in fragments of traditionary history, of the most interesting and valuable character, many of which will soon be lost to posterity, unless they shall be rescued from oblivion by the efforts of zealous and learned associations. Virginia especially, is rich in the materials of history. From the day when the intrepid Smith first wandered in search of adventure, along the wooded shores of the Chesapeak, and when the gentle Pocahontas gave to the world an example of female heroism and affection, more touching than any thing recorded upon the pages of romance, down to the present era, her annals have been filled with events of thrilling interest, and high importance. Long before the revolution, her scholars and statesmen were known to fame, and her soldiers were distinguished in the colonial wars. Mistress of the wide expanse of the unknown west, her sons began early to explore the wilderness, and to lay the foundation of a new empire in this enticing region. From that state came the pioneers who subdued the enemy, in the forests of Kentucky, and to whom America owes a large debt of gratitude. The war for independence, was not fought by our gallant forefathers upon the shores of the Atlantic only. While our armies were contending there, the British had turned loose the savage hordes of the west upon the frontiers, and the backwoodsmen were successfully repelling the incursions of the barbarian, while Washington was employed in fighting their regular armies. When we recal those events, when we recollect the services of Virginia, in defending the western settlements, and her magnanimity in yielding up to the general government the broad lands of this Great Valley, the larger portion of which were her own by right and by possession, it will be seen that there is no state to whom the inhabitants of this region owe so much, and none whose history is so nearly connected with our own. We witness, therefore, with no small degree of gratification, an attempt to place on record the existing reminiscences of the patriotic and hardy deeds of the noble generation which preceded our own. And we hope it will be successful. Abounding as Virginia does, in all the elements of greatness, there is no reason why she should not perpetuate the fame of her own sons. Containing within her limits so many men of genius, education, and comparative leisure, she has at command the most ample means of collecting and preserving every bright relic which has been scattered along her career, by the hand of time.

The first article in the pamphlet before us, is the address of President Cushing, of Hampden Sidney College, in which he sets forth the objects of the Society, and presses them earnestly upon the attention of the members. They are such as are usually embraced in the plans of similar institutions, including not only historical and biographical details, but facts in relation to the natural history and actual condition of the state.

The next article is a "memoir of Indian wars, and other occurrences, by the late Colonel Stuart, of Greenbrier"--a paper which sheds considerable light upon the events which transpired upon the western portion of Virginia, during the thirty years succeeding the year 1749. The writer participated in the eventful scenes of that interesting period, and was not only a soldier, but a man of strong mind, who has recorded his recollections in a clear and easy style. The following anecdote is quite characteristic:

About the year 1749, a person who was a citizen of the county of Frederick, and subject to paroxysms of lunacy, when influenced by such fits, usually made excursions into the wilderness, and in his rambles westwardly, fell in on the waters of Greenbrier river. At that time, the country on the western waters was but little known to the English inhabitants of the then colonies of America, being claimed by the French, who had commenced settlements on the Ohio and its waters, west of the Alleghany mountains. The lunatic being surprised to find waters running a different course from any he had before known, returned with the intelligence of his discovery, which did abound with game. This soon excited the enterprise of others. Two men from New England, of the name of Jacob Marlin and Stephen Sewell, took up a residence upon Greenbrier river; but soon disagreeing in sentiment, a quarrel occasioned their separation, and Sewell, for the sake of peace, quit their cabin and made his abode in a large hollow tree. In this situation they were found by the late General Andrew Lewis, in the year 1751. Mr. Lewis was appointed agent for a company of grantees, who obtained from the governor and council of Virginia, an order for one hundred thousand acres of land lying on the waters of Greenbrier river,--and did, this year, proceed to make surveys to complete the quantity of said granted lands; and finding Marlin and Sewell living in the neighborhood of each other, inquired what {124} could induce them to live separate in a wilderness so distant from the habitations of any other human beings. They informed him that difference of opinion had occasioned their separation, and that they had since enjoyed more tranquillity and a better understanding; for Sewell said, that each morning when they arose and Marlin came out of the great house and he from his hollow tree, they saluted each other, saying--good morning Mr. Marlin, and good morning Mr. Sewell, so that a good understanding then existed between them; but it did not last long, for Sewell removed about forty miles further west, to a creek that still bears his name. There the Indians found him and killed him.

Colonel Stuart gives a very detailed account of the campaign of General Lewis in 1774, which resulted in the battle at Point Pleasant. That battle was, in fact, the beginning of the revolutionary war; for it is well known that the Indians were induced by the British to commence hostilities, for the purpose of confounding and terrifying the American people. It was thought that an Indian war would prevent a combination of the colonies for opposing the measures of parliament, and would turn their thoughts from resistance to the government, by engaging them in the defence of their homes. The Shawanese, a fierce, warlike, and numerous tribe, were employed on this occasion, and they were a tribe not to be despised--for by them, with their allies, have the most conspicuous battles in the West been fought. It was chiefly the Shawanese that cut off the British army under Braddock in 1755, and defeated Major Grant and his highlanders at Fort Pitt in 1758. It was they who defeated an army composed of the flower of Kentucky at Blue Licks--who vanquished Harmer and St. Clair, who were beaten by Wayne, and conquered by Harrison.

The army sent against these formidable savages by Governor Dunmore, was composed of Virginia volunteers, led by General Andrew Lewis, a gentleman of whose military abilities General Washington entertained so high an opinion, that when the chief command of the revolutionary armies were tendered to himself, he recommended that it should be given to General Lewis. He was the companion of Washington in the fatal campaign under Braddock, and was a captain in the detachment which fought at Little Meadows in 1752. He commanded a company of Virginians, attached to Major Grant's regiment of Highlanders in 1758, and on the eve of the battle in which the latter was so signally defeated, was ordered to the rear, with his men, in order that he might not share the honor of the expected victory. There he stood with his brave Virginians, impatiently listening to the reports of the musquetry, at a distance of more than a mile from the battle ground--until the Europeans were defeated, when, without waiting for orders, he rushed to the scene of slaughter, and by his coolness and skill, turned the scale of victory, drove back the savages, and saved the regulars from massacre. "When he was advancing," says the narrative before us, "he met a Scotch Highlander under speedy flight, and inquiring of him how the battle was going, he said 'they were a' beaten, and he had seen Donald McDonald up to his hunkers in mud, and a' the skeen af his heed.' Grant made his escape from the field of battle with a party of seven or eight soldiers, and wandered all night in the woods," but surrendered himself to the enemy in the morning, while the Virginians marched home in triumph. This was the same Colonel Grant who figured in the British Parliament in 1775, when he had the impudence to say, he knew the Americans well--he had often acted in the same service with them, and from that knowledge would venture to predict, that they would never dare to face an English army, being destitute of every requisite to constitute good soldiers.

We regret that we have not room to make further extracts from this narrative. We shall have attained our object, however, if the remarks we have made, shall be the means of attracting attention to this interesting era in our history.

The last article in this pamphlet is a very curious document, being an exact copy of the "Record of Grace Sherwood's Trial for Witchcraft, in 1705, in Princess Ann County, Virginia." On another occasion we shall present an account of this singular procedure to our readers.

THE LITERARY JOURNAL.

M. M. Robinson, Esq. editor of the Compiler, has issued the first or specimen number of a new periodical to be published weekly in this city, with the title of the "LITERARY JOURNAL." Its contents will consist of _selections_ from the mass of contemporary literature, American and foreign. We should rejoice in Mr. Robinson's success, even if his paper was likely to conflict with the interests of the "Messenger." In truth however, the two periodicals ought to flourish together, and be mutually beneficial. Whilst the "Journal" will be filled _exclusively_ with _selected_ matter, the "Messenger" will _chiefly_, though not entirely, consist of _original_ articles. The _former_ will improve the taste and enrich the mind of the reader, by culling from inexhaustible sources whatever may contribute to his gratification and amusement; whilst the _latter_ will furnish the means of exercising the talents of _our own writers_--of imbodying our own conceptions, and reducing to _practical use_, the knowledge which we acquire. Whilst in order to write well, much reading is absolutely necessary, so all the reading in the world will avail but little, unless the free and familiar use of the pen is also obtained. We certainly never shall become a literary people unless we learn to use the treasures we accumulate from books; no more than the theory of military tactics will ever make an accomplished soldier in his closet--or the study of jurisprudence constitute a lawyer of one who never appears at the bar.

The first number of the "Journal" is filled with reviews of foreign publications, and other articles, which appear to have been judiciously selected. We take the liberty of making one suggestion however, and that is, that the source from which each article is derived ought to be designated. If the name of the writer cannot be given, that of the Quarterly or Monthly from which it is extracted, ought by all means to be furnished. It would moreover be doubtless gratifying to the reader to understand whether he is indebted to an American or British author for the pleasure he receives.

Mr. Robinson will, it is hoped, be successful in his enterprise.

EXTRACT FROM LACON.

Nothing is so difficult as the apparent ease of a clear and flowing style: those graces which from their presumed facility encourage all to attempt an imitation of them, are usually the most inimitable.

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EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT.

The two preceding numbers of the "Messenger" having been, as far as we can learn, favorably received by its patrons, we have endeavored in this to keep pace with expectation, by presenting a rich variety of original matter, and a few interesting selections. Among the most important duties of those who have any concern in the management of such a work--it is not the least to be watchful of an enlightened public opinion--to profit by the suggestions of others, and even to receive with patience well-intended rebuke. It is precisely in this latter spirit that we have noticed in the letters of one or two correspondents, as well as in the public prints, some animadversions upon the editorial remarks in the last number. We have been censured, and perhaps justly, for bestowing too much praise on the contributions of our friends. However great the error, it was at least honestly, if not prudently committed.

It was believed that a little commendation was not only justly due, but might stir up generous minds to increase their efforts in behalf of an infant and laudable enterprise. We should always prefer erring on the side of indiscriminate praise, rather than undeserved censure. The true path, indeed, is to avoid both extremes,--but it is much easier to prescribe good counsel than always to follow it. We have been admonished too by a very sensible and judicious correspondent, in whose judgment we entertain great confidence, that we have imposed inconvenient and impolitic restrictions upon the writers for the "Messenger," by limiting the subject matter of their contributions. We are told that we have circumscribed too much the field of their labors, by objecting to such materials as are drawn from foreign character and manners,--and we are gently reminded of an apparent inconsistency, between our professed attachment to domestic subjects, and the admission into our columns of copious extracts from an English novel. We are moreover informed from the same intelligent source, that our denunciation of all such fictions as are founded upon fairy mythology, is not very reasonable,--inasmuch as these may imbody the conceptions of imagination and genius--and may serve to illustrate and display Virginia talent and literature.

Now, with due deference to these various suggestions, which we know to originate in perfect good will--it is proper in the first place to remark, that we do not perceive any inconsistency between our objection to "the trammels of foreign reading"--and the admission into our pages of good selections from foreign publications. The "Messenger" is designed chiefly to encourage the practice of literary composition among our own writers of both sexes,--and of literary composition there are great varieties,--some founded on fact and personal observation, and some which are moulded exclusively out of the creations of fancy. A writer who will give us facts or sketches of the character and manners, or scenery of a foreign country, derived either from his own observation or authentic sources, will render an acceptable service;--but, in a pure tale of fiction, or in descriptive narrative, founded for the most part upon the mere inventions of genius--why is it necessary or proper to slight the familiar materials which every where surround us, and resort to those hackneyed and frequently distorted pictures of transatlantic manners, of which we can only form just conceptions through the secondary medium of books? If we must have foreign tales for our amusement and instruction, had we not better take them from those who copy from life, and are more likely to present faithful and finished sketches! Let foreign writers, therefore, give us pictures of their own,--and such, as we like we will publish; but let our own adventurers in the paths of literature, prefer rather to stand upon ground with which they are acquainted. Let them weave their garlands with flowers plucked from our native wilds, or our own cultivated gardens, and not rely, as too many do rely, upon exotic ornaments wherewith to embellish their pages. It is true that a _strict_ observance of any such rule as this is not to be expected and is perhaps not practicable--and we are perfectly aware, that illustrious examples may be found in our own, as well as in other countries, of a departure from its letter if not from its spirit. These examples for the most part, however, will be found on examination, to rest on peculiar circumstances. The genius of a Scott, may soar amidst the grandeur of Alpine scenery,--or may depict the curious superstitions and simple manners of the Shetland Islanders;--but minds like his,--of such incomparable vigor and fertility, are neither bound by the confines of space or time. They have a kind of exclusive privilege to transcend ordinary rules,--and those who would plead their example, ought at least to shew something like extraordinary merit to entitle them to the same exemption. If we look to our own country, it is well understood, that Mr. Cooper owes his reputation as a writer of fiction principally to those fine romances, which are founded upon native character and scenery--and that, if that reputation has suffered at all, it is in consequence of his desertion of a field so wide and magnificent, for the beaten and monotonous track of European character and customs. Mr. Irving is undoubtedly most indebted for his literary fame to such of his productions as are purely American; and it is probable that in the future estimate which will be formed of his powers and genius, his Bracebridge Hall, and the Tales of the Alhambra, will hold no comparison in the scale of merit with his Knickerbocker, or Salmagundi. But why amplify our illustrations? We will present no absolute rule on the subject,--but rather choose to throw out these opinions and suggestions to our readers and contributors, as matter for their consideration.

In respect to the Legends of Fairy land,--which give such illimitable scope to the fancy--and operate so feebly, if at all, in imparting either rational amusement or instruction,--we confess that our opinions are more decided and our objections more insurmountable. We think that the day has past when such kind of reading will either be relished or endured. In this age of comparative mental sobriety,--aliment like that, is not likely to satisfy the intellectual appetite; no more than the spectre tales of the last century would suit the rational and regulated taste of the present time. This opinion it is not necessary to enforce by a train of reasoning. We think that a large majority of our readers will concur in the sentiment.

We are also informed from more than one quarter, that we awarded too liberal and dangerous a compliment in our last number, to one article especially, to wit--the "_Recollections of Chotank_;"--that we have thereby, without intending it, given a sanction to vices {126} which were once fashionable, but now no longer so: that we have offended against the laws of that chaste empress, TEMPERANCE,--who sits enthroned in so many hearts, and who will not countenance the slightest inuendo against her sovereignty; and that we have actually been guilty of the sin of commending a paper, which contained enticing references to the social excesses and abuses of ancient hospitality. To all this we reply, that we spoke of the "_Recollections of Chotank_" as a _literary_ composition,--and that we had no more design, in the tribute which we paid to its merit, to recommend the vices of "gambling and drinking," than we believe the author himself had, when he sat down to sketch his reminiscences of by-gone days. We hope that the most fastidious will be content with this disclaimer.

It is impossible that the "Messenger" can always please each one of its readers. Its contents must be necessarily varied--and it will often happen, that an article which will dissatisfy one person, will be particularly acceptable to another. So it is on the stage, at the forum, and in the pulpit. Some will loath that very part of the performance, the argument or doctrine, which will inspire others with delight. As we cannot possibly please all, we must endeavor to satisfy the greater number, and in so doing we may probably please ourselves. There is one thing of which our readers and patrons may rest assured, that we shall never knowingly countenance any thing either false in taste, or wrong in morals;--and we hold--that purity in both, is necessary to the dignity and value of literature.

We have been gently reprimanded by some of our friends for not confining ourselves exclusively to _original matter_, whilst others have thought, that a few more good _selections_ would add to the value of our pages. Such is the "incurable diversity of human opinion." Our own view of the subject is so much better expressed by a distinguished writer, than we can do it--that we shall give below in the "_Extracts from the letters of our correspondents_," a full quotation from his letter.

But what shall we say of the contents of the present number?--shall we say nothing, least peradventure we may say too much? Must we be altogether silent, in order that our patrons may judge for themselves, unbiassed by our own humble opinion? We cannot in conscience be so uncivil as not to return the kindness of our friends, with the simple expression of our thanks; and if perchance we should so far suffer our good feelings to master our judgment, as to bestow praise where none is due, we feel confident that the superior discernment, and more enlightened taste of our readers, will correct the error.

Let us therefore take a rapid survey of the feast which we have spread. Perhaps our bill of fare may tempt curiosity and whet the appetite.

The article entitled "_Sketches of the History and Present Condition of Tripoli_," will be read and admired, not only for the style, but the really valuable and interesting information it contains. The source from which it comes may be fully relied on.

The domestic grievances of "_Belinda_" are we hope not without remedy. Time and strict regimen may perhaps restore her dyspeptic consort to a more equable frame. His humors have at least had the effect of supplying us with a good article.

The "_Reporter's Story, or the Importance of a Syllable_," is by a practised writer,--whose pen is humorous, caustic and brilliant, as occasion requires. We should be glad to secure his constant assistance.

The "_Cottage in the Glen_," is by a lady not unknown as a writer. There are few who will not admire the simplicity and beauty of her narrative; and to such as are of a serious or religious cast of mind it will be particularly interesting. We hope that the authoress will often favor us with the productions of her pen.

The "_Alleghany Levels_," is by a gentleman of scientific acquirements and classical taste. It is with peculiar pleasure that we insert in the "Messenger" such articles as his and "_The Cyclopean Towers in Augusta County, Virginia_." They develope some of those rare curiosities and remarkable features in the scenery of our state, which have hitherto been undescribed. The latter article is by one who possesses a cultivated taste for the beautiful in art and nature.

The story of "_My Classmates_," will be read when it is known to proceed from the author of "An Extract from a Novel," which was inserted in the last number of the Messenger. The space which the story occupies will be its greatest recommendation; it is one of thrilling interest, and told in powerful language.

We know not how all our readers will relish "_Cupid's Sport_," but there are some passages in it which Yorick himself would not have been ashamed to write, even with "the high claims and terrifying exactions" of the widow Wadman's eyes to inspire him.

"_Pinkney's Eloquence_," it will be seen is from the pen of "Nugator." His pieces need no commendation from us; we are charmed with every thing about them except the signature.

The "_Leaf from the Journal of a Young American Tourist_," we noticed in our last number. It is a graphic sketch, from the port-folio of an accomplished young traveller.

The "_Dandy Chastised_," will be relished by all who desire to see that anomolous species lampooned out of countenance.

The _selections_ in the present number are accompanied by prefatory remarks. "_The Letters from New England_," the first of which is inserted, though originally published in the Fredericksburg Arena, have been revised and corrected by their author expressly for the "Messenger." They deserve a more enduring record than the columns of a newspaper.

The suggestion has been made to us by one entitled to respect, that in the present condition of the public taste, too much space has been allotted in our columns to the productions of the Muse. We humbly hope that our friend is mistaken in this opinion. Nothing would grieve us more than the conviction that, among southern readers generally, there was not felt a lively concern and growing interest in the successful cultivation of that charming branch of literature; and indeed if this were the proper place, we think we could easily demonstrate that poetry exercises a most potent, diffusive and abiding influence upon the interests and happiness of society. Our present number will be found to contain some precious gems, which fully establish the claims of southern genius to high capabilities in the tuneful art. We forbear however to discriminate, confident that the taste of our readers will readily discern all that feeble language could express.

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EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF CORRESPONDENTS.

FROM PENNSYLVANIA.

_Philadelphia, Nov. 4, 1834_.

"I thank you truly for your obliging attention in sending to me the two numbers of your 'SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER,' which I have read with much satisfaction. I look with a deep interest and pleasure upon every effort to raise up the literary character of our country; to lay the foundations of a pure and sound taste, and to stimulate our native genius to develop and strengthen its powers. In the encouragement of these attempts, we should all act and feel as the citizens of the American republic, disregarding sectional divisions, and undisturbed by questions of state rights and constitutional scruples and constructions. Here we should be a consolidated people, and whether the candidate for fame be a native of the north or south, the east or west, we should claim him as our own, belonging to all alike. When I hear of the establishment of a seminary of learning; of a scientific or literary publication; of an invention in the arts; in short, of any thing which sheds abroad the light of American genius and power, its particular location is, with me, quite a secondary consideration, scarcely, indeed, considered at all. It is enough for me that I can say to the supercilious European, _this is American_.

"With these sentiments, you may be assured that I wish success to your endeavor to rouse the spirit of the South in the cause of literature; to draw its intellectual energies from the everlasting and monotonous discussion of politics, which has run the same round of topics and arguments for forty years, and to allure her favored sons and daughters to the kinder and brighter fields of science and letters. If you shall be able to continue as you have begun, your subscribers will be amply remunerated for their patronage, and your contributors may be proud to see their lucubrations on your pages. It is well that you do not confine yourself to original compositions, but mix them with judicious and interesting selections from works of established reputation. Repeated experience has shewn that an editor cannot depend much upon the voluntary contributions of our own writers, however friendly to his design, who are too much occupied with their own concerns and the serious business of life, to be relied on as the support of such an enterprise as yours.... We have not yet a class or body of _authors by profession_; writing is the occupation of hours snatched from business, or the amusement of the few who have leisure for indulgence."

FROM THE VALLEY OF VIRGINIA.

"I look with much anxiety to your _Launch_, (which I wish had been the title of your work)--the first of any promise in Virginia, heartily desiring it God-speed--yet fearing that you may meet with some inaptitude or distaste to mere literary contribution from the educated of our citizens. This, however, cannot last long; you may feel it at the outset, but it will soon end; for I doubt not that the Messenger, as one of its best effects, will draw into literary exercise the talents which now lie fallow throughout the community, or which have long extravasated in politics and professions. The mind of Virginia is unquestionably a quarry from which much that is precious may be extracted; and you may and I hope will be able to expose its strata to the light, as the huntsman of the Andes exposed to the eye of the world, at the foot of the yielding shrub which he had seized upon for support, how rich and vast was the treasure which an unexamined surface had concealed."

FROM SOUTHERN VIRGINIA.

"Be assured no effort on my part will be wanting to extend the circulation of the Messenger, and nothing would give me more unfeigned pleasure than being instrumental in the promotion of so laudable an enterprise. Your periodical is truly a pioneer in the cause of southern literature; and reasoning from the general character of the southern people, no other conclusion can be legitimately drawn, than a highly enlarged, extensive and honorable patronage. That this may be the case, permit me to add an ardent hope to my unqualified belief. We have been too long tributary to the north; it is time, high time, to awake from our lethargy--to rise in the majesty of our intellectual strength, put on the panoply of talents and genius, and _strike_ for the 'prize of our high calling' in literature. If the object of your labors be attained, of which there can be no reasonable doubt, posterity will be more grateful to you than to thousands of the _political exquisites_ of the day, whose memory will last just so long as their ephemeral productions."

FROM EASTERN VIRGINIA.

"I shall endeavor to avail myself of the offer of your columns, and if, as you propose, your periodical shall be issued monthly, I may probably contribute my full quota to every number. In doing so, I shall try to remember that I am writing for a _literary_ work, and one which leans much on the support of light readers. I shall therefore endeavor to treat grave topics with as little gravity as the nature of the case may admit of; drawing my reasons less from authority than from common sense and the nature of things, and addressing them to the untaught feelings of the heart, rather than to what is falsely contradistinguished as reason and judgment. I say _falsely_, because when the mind is once broken in by the discipline of a spurious philosophy, it is too apt to throw out its view all considerations incapable of being established by any regular chain of reasoning. Yet these are often entitled to be regarded as first principles; and their proof is found in nature, and in the universal acquiescence of mankind, the more conclusive, because it does not rest on reason, but on a sort of moral instinct. If men wrote less for fame and more for effect, I am persuaded they would find it rarely necessary to conduct the reader through a long process of ratiocination, and that the important end (conviction) would be often best accomplished by those striking exhibitions of truth which make it manifest at a glance. Such is the case with most of those great truths on which the rights, and duties, and happiness of men depend. On such subjects truth vindicates her title to respect by her very presence. 'She walks a queen,' and the heart gives its homage, and compels the acquiescence of the understanding, without stopping to look into her patent of royalty. Does any man doubt such truths? No. Can they be proved? No; and _therefore_ {128} they are the more certainly true. The fact that they are universally accepted, is a _fact_ to reason from; and it is the philosophy that teaches to overlook such facts that I call false.

"How often, when a man takes up his pen to elaborate a long course of reasoning, does he find himself attempting to lead his reader along a track that his own mind did not travel. Can he wonder that his reader will not consent to be so led? Does he think that he alone has the privilege of travelling the high road of common sense, which levels mountains and lifts up vallies, and that others will permit themselves to be led a roundabout way, picking their steps with painful accuracy along the dividing ridge between 'right hand extremes and left hand defections?' And why does he attempt this? Merely to show that he is too profound, and too philosophical to take any thing for granted."

"Accept my thanks for the Southern Literary Messenger. Its contents I have perused with pleasure. Its execution is not to be surpassed in accuracy and neatness. Can a discerning public withhold encouragement, especially when the benefits will be mutual? Indeed I consider the advantages more likely to be on the side of the public provided a liberal spirit prevail, and the well stored minds of the South contribute to establish, through the Messenger, that high literary reputation which is within their power to erect. The pride of the Old Dominion should respond to your appeal by a generous contribution of subscriptions and mental effusions. Please consider me a subscriber."

"The reception of your Literary Messenger gave me much pleasure, and I thank you for your polite attention in sending it. The cause you have in hand is one very dear to my heart, and I sincerely wish you success; I must not omit, however, to testify my zeal in a more substantial way, and accordingly send you five dollars, and desire to be considered a subscriber, and promise to use every exertion to procure you others."

FROM MIDDLE VIRGINIA.

"... Taking now as many papers as I can well pay for, I am induced to support the Messenger nevertheless, from the great anxiety which I feel for the progress of literature in the South, and to show to the country that the soil of the Old Dominion, so fertile in the production of patriots and statesmen, can also support and rear to age the bright scions which adorn smoother and more ornamented fields. I feel that this is a solemn duty, which the youth of Virginia owe to the memory of their fathers,--the mantles of whose patriotism have descended upon them unsoiled; to men who were cast upon so rough a sea as to have little time to think of any thing else save the dangers around them: their whole lives having been spent in bringing the noble vessel, freighted with every thing dear to American bosoms, into a safe harbor, where she has ever since continued to ride triumphantly in prosperity and glory, it can be nothing more than sheer justice in us to raise this 'tardy bust' to buried merit. As almost the pioneer in this noble undertaking, I bid you God speed, and I trust that the success of your paper may not only blot out the only spot on the escutcheon of Virginia, but in every way equal your most sanguine expectations."

FROM A SOUTH CAROLINIAN.

"The objects you have undertaken to accomplish, and which, judging from your prospectus and the character the public have given of your paper and yourself, will most certainly be attained, are highly meritorious and praiseworthy. Such a periodical has been long desired at the south, whose literary reputation is far inferior to that of the north--to awaken the dormant faculties--to arouse the ambition, and direct and concentrate the energies of a people, whose abilities are _at least equal_ to those of any class of men on earth. Incitement is all that is wished, and your paper, southern in its principles, and established in a southern city, will produce it, if any thing can. Capacity it is well known is not deficient. Only bring it fairly into play, and your columns will, and a hundred such would be filled with the most valuable matter--with the most finished efforts in every branch of literature."

FROM THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA.

"I have yours, with the several copies of the Literary Messenger, which I will dispose of to the best advantage, and shall be happy if I can be instrumental in circulating extensively in the West, a periodical that promises so much, and in its first number presents evidences so flattering, of the genius and refined taste of Virginians. I hope you will find ample encouragement to persevere in your work. The pride of Virginia,--_the mother of states_,--will surely not allow a work such as yours to fail for the want of patronage."

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO CONTRIBUTORS, &C.

We regret that various articles of merit both in prose and verse are necessarily excluded from the present number. Among the former, "_Hints to Students in Geology_"--"_Eloquence_"--"_The March of Mind_"--and the "_Description of a Fourth of July Celebration_," shall certainly appear in December. Among the latter, "_Lines to D----_," by a lady--"_Beauty and Time_"--"_Autumn Woods_"--"_Powhatan_;" and "_Lines Suggested on Viewing the Ruins of Jamestown_," shall be published.

So also shall appear "_The Invocation to Religion_," and other pieces by our esteemed correspondent "L."

We hope that our talented friends of Mobile and Tuscaloosa will be patient. We could only delight our readers with a part of their contributions in the present number. We greet the literary spirit of our young sister of the southwest.

We regret being obliged to decline the publication in the present number of the lines on "_The Creation of the Antelope_," being unable to decipher some of the words in the copy sent. Can we be favored by our correspondent "C" with another copy?

We have placed _Mr. French's Grammar_ in the hands of a skilful philologist for examination.

We have been favored with a sight of the _Poetical Manuscripts_ of the late excellent and lamented _Mrs. Jean Wood_, and we shall take the earliest opportunity to present some selections from them to the notice of our readers.

The essay on "_Luxury_" was received too late for the present number.

We are unable to decipher the manuscript of "_Alive_."

{129}

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.] RICHMOND, DECEMBER, 1834. [NO. 4.

T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

And Present Condition of Tripoli, with some accounts of the other Barbary States.

No. II.

From the year 1551, when Tripoli was taken by Dragut, to the early part of the eighteenth century, it continued to form a part of the Turkish empire; and as such, but little is known respecting it. However, though governed by a Pasha appointed from Constantinople, and garrisoned exclusively by Turkish troops, it did not entirely lose its nationality, and appears to have been much less dependant on the Sultan, than the other parts of his dominions; for we find upon record, treaties between Tripoli and various European powers concluded within that period, in which no mention whatever is made of the Porte. That with England, was negotiated in 1655 by Blake, immediately after his successful bombardment of Tunis; it proved however of little value, for ten years after, Sir John Narborough was sent with a fleet against Tripoli, on which occasion the celebrated Cloudesley Shovel first distinguished himself, in the destruction of several ships under the guns of the castle.

At length a revolution was effected in the government; the allegiance to the Sultan was thrown off, and his paramount authority was reduced to a mere nominal suzerainty. In the year 1714, Hamet surnamed Caramalli, or the Caramanian, from a province of Asia Minor in which he was born, while in command of the city as Bey or lieutenant during the absence of the Pasha, formed a conspiracy among the Moors, by whose aid, the city was freed from Turkish troops in a single night. Three hundred of them were invited by him to an entertainment at a castle a few miles distant from Tripoli, and were despatched as they successively entered a dark hall or passage in the building; of the others, many were found murdered in the streets next morning, and but a small number escaped to tell the dreadful tale. A Moorish guard was instantly formed, strong enough to repel any attack which could have been expected; and Hamet was proclaimed sovereign, under the title of Pasha. The new prince did not however trust entirely to arms, for the security of his title, but instantly sent a large sum to Constantinople, which being properly distributed, he succeeded in obtaining confirmation, or rather recognition by the Sultan. He moreover solemnly adopted Abdallah the infant son of his predecessor and declared him heir to the throne; but he altered these views, if he had ever entertained them, when his own children grew up, for his eldest son was made Bey or lieutenant at an early age, and afterwards succeeded him; Abdallah, however, lived through nearly three reigns, as Kiah, or governor of the castle, and was murdered in 1790, by the hand of the late Pasha Yusuf.

Hamet seemed really desirous to advance the true interests of his dominions, and for that purpose endeavored to make friends of the European nations. Within a few years after his accession, he concluded treaties with England, the United Provinces, Austria and Tuscany, one of which alone, contains a vague proviso, respecting the approval of the Sultan. The stipulations of these treaties are principally commercial, or intended to secure the vessels of the foreign power, from capture; no mention is made in them of any payments to Tripoli, but it is generally understood that considerable sums were annually given by the weaker states for the purpose of obtaining such exemption, and by the more powerful in order to encourage the piracies. By these means the commerce of the country was increased; the manufactures of Europe were imported for the use of its inhabitants, and for transportation into the interior, by the caravans; in return, dates, figs, leather, &c. were exported from Tripoli, and cattle from the ports lying east of it. One of the most valuable articles sent to Europe, was salt, brought from the desert and the countries beyond, where it is found in abundance, of the finest quality, either as rock-salt or in sheets resembling ice on the sand. Soda was likewise exported in great quantities, principally to France; but the facility with which it is now obtained from common salt, has much lessened the value of that substance and the quantity of it carried from Tripoli.

This commerce was carried on exclusively in foreign vessels, principally English, Dutch and French; those of Tripoli being all fitted out as cruisers, and engaged in piracy. None of its vessels indeed could venture to leave the place without being armed and manned to an extent which the profits of a trading voyage would not warrant; for in addition to the Spaniards, Venitians, Genoese and other maritime states, with one or other of which the Tripolines were generally at war, they had a constant and inveterate enemy in the Knights of Malta, whose gallies were ever hovering about the port, and who in the treatment of their captives, improved upon the lessons of cruelty taught by their Barbary neighbors.

These cruisers were charged to respect all vessels belonging to powers with which Tripoli had treaties; but such charges were occasionally forgotten, when a richly laden ship was encountered by a Corsair returning perhaps from a fruitless cruise; and the Pasha who was entitled to a large portion of each prize, sometimes shewed less alacrity than was promised by his treaties in causing the damage to be repaired. A mistake of this kind with regard to some French vessels, provoked that government in 1729, when it was at peace with England, to send a squadron to Tripoli, for the purpose of demanding satisfaction. The result of this display was a treaty, the terms of which were dictated by the French Admiral de Gouyon. The Pasha in the most abject manner acknowledged his infractions of the former treaty, and accepted with gratitude, the pardon and peace which the Emperor[1] of France was pleased to grant {130} him--all the French prizes taken were to be restored, or indemnification made for those which were lost or injured--the French captives were to be released, together with twenty other _Catholic_ prisoners to be selected by the Admiral--Tripoline cruisers were to be furnished with certificates from the French Consul, who was to take precedence of all other Consuls on public occasions--French vessels with their crews were not to be molested--together with many other provisions, calculated to give to France immunities and advantages, not enjoyed by any other nation. As an additional humiliation, all stipulations made or that might be made with the Porte, were to be observed by Tripoli; and the treaty was to remain in force one hundred years.

[Footnote 1: The King of France is always styled Emperor in negotiations with the Oriental Powers.]

This treaty is one of the many evidences of the want of common sense, which formerly presided over diplomatic negotiations, and rendered their history a record of unjust pretension on the one hand, of duplicity and subterfuge on the other. Exclusive advantages for a period which might as well have been left indefinite, are arrogantly extorted from a petty state, without reflecting, that supposing the utmost desire on its part, they could be observed only until some other strong power should demand the same for itself. The Barbary states have long known the absurdity of this, and have profited by it; to the force of the greater nations, they have merely opposed the _Punica fides_, and when availing resistance cannot be made, they sign any treaty however humiliating, trusting to Allah for an opportunity to break it profitably.

The inutility of these exclusive stipulations was soon proved; for in 1751 Tripoli became involved in difficulties with Great Britain, from circumstances similar to those which had provoked the ire of France. The quarrel terminated in a similar manner; a fleet was sent, and a treaty dictated, less humiliating in style to the weaker and less arrogant on the part of the stronger, than that with France, but giving to Great Britain in effect, all the exclusive or superior advantages, and to her consul the same precedence of all other consuls, which had already been solemnly guarantied to the French. As a matter of course the latter sent a squadron soon after, to require a renewal of the treaty of 1729 with stipulations still more in their favor, to which of course the Pasha consented. The same plan has been pursued by these two great nations, with regard to the other states of Barbary; and the court of each Bey, Pasha or Emperor, has been a perpetual theatre for the intrigues and struggles for influence of their consuls.

In the early treaties with these states, we see no provision against piracy in general, no protest against the principle;--Tripoline cruisers shall not make prizes of our vessels, nor appear within a certain distance of our coasts--thus much they say; but nothing else appears, from which it might be gathered, that Tripoli was other than a state, respectable itself and complying with those evident duties, which compose the body of national morals. In fact Great Britain and France, each keeping a large naval force in the Mediterranean, which could immediately chastise any offence against its own commerce, not only had no objection to the practice of piracy, but even secretly encouraged it; as the vessels of the weaker states were thus almost excluded from competition in trade. The abandonment of this despicable policy is one among the many triumphs of principle and feeling, which have marked the advance of civilization during the last twenty years, and which authorize us in hoping that a desire to promote the general welfare of mankind, may in future exert an influence in the councils of statesmen.

In addition to his acts of pacific policy, Hamet extended his dominions by force of arms; he conquered Fezzan, a vast tract of desert, sprinkled with _oases_ or islands of fertile soil, lying south of Tripoli and which has until lately been held by his successors; this conquest was important from the revenue it yielded, and from the advantages it afforded to caravans to and from the centre of Africa. He also reduced to complete subjection, the intractable inhabitants of the ancient Cyrenaica or part lying beyond the Great Syrtis; and upon the whole displayed so much energy and real good sense in his actions, that viewing the circumstances under which he was placed, he may be considered fairly entitled to the appellation of _Great_, which has been bestowed on him by the people of Tripoli. Sometime before his death, he became totally blind, which affliction was believed by the more devout of his subjects, to have been sent as punishment for an act of tyranny, such as daily practised in those countries. In one of his visits to a mosque in the vicinity of the city, he chanced to see a young girl, the daughter of the Marabout or holy man of the place, whose beauty made such an impression on him, that he ordered the father to send her that evening richly drest to the castle, under penalty of being hacked to pieces, if he should fail to do so. She was accordingly conveyed to the royal apartments, but the Pasha on entering the room, found her a corpse; in order to save herself from violence, she had acceded to the wish of her father and taken a deadly potion. It is needless to relate what were the torments inflicted upon the parent; while writhing under them, he prayed that Allah would strike the destroyer with blindness; and his prayer was granted, it is said, as soon as uttered. However this may have been, a blind sovereign cannot long retain his power in Barbary; and Hamet probably felt that his own authority was less respected; for without any other ostensible reason, he deliberately shot himself in presence of his family in 1745. At least such is the account of his end given to the world.

After the death of Hamet the Great, the usual dissensions as to who should succeed him, for sometime distracted the country; his second son Mohammed at length established his claim, and with singular magnanimity, permitted seven of his brothers to live through his reign, which ended with his life in 1762.

Ali, the son and successor of Mohammed, was not so indulgent, and accordingly his uncles were soon despatched. One of them, a child, was however believed to have escaped, and a man was for many years supported at Tunis, whom the politic sovereign of that country affected to consider as the prince. The pretensions of this person were even favored by the Sultan, who, ever desirous of re-establishing his power over Tripoli, adopted this means of keeping the country in a ferment, and the Pasha in alarm. However, after this first bloody measure, which is considered as a mere act of prudence in the East, Ali passed his reign, not only without any show of cruelty, but actually exhibiting in many cases a degree of culpable kindness. He seems indeed to have been a weak and really amiable man, possessing many negative virtues, and even a {131} few positive; among the latter of which, were constancy and real attachment for his family. He had but one wife, who doubtless merited the devoted respect with which he always treated her; and when we read the details of their family life, as recorded in the agreeable pages of Mrs. Tully,[2] it is difficult to imagine that such scenes could have taken place within the bloodstained walls of the castle of Tripoli.

[Footnote 2: Narrative of a Ten Year's residence in Tripoli, from the Correspondence of the family of the late Richard Tully, British Consul at Tripoli, from 1785 to 1794.]

But if Ali received pleasure and consolation from his faithful Lilla Halluma, the mutual hatred of their three sons rendered the greater part of his existence a horrible burden. Hassan, the eldest of the princes, was a man of much energy, together with a considerable share of generosity and good feeling. He was at an early age invested by his father with the title of Bey, which implies an acknowledgement of his right to succeed to the throne, and moreover gives him the command of the forces, the only effectual means of substantiating that right. In this office he soon distinguished himself during many expeditions which he commanded against various refractory tribes; and under his administration, the army and the revenues of the country began to recover from the miserable state in which the supineness of his father had permitted them to languish. Indeed, upon the whole, he gave promise of as much good with as little alloy, as could possibly have been expected in a sovereign of Tripoli.

Hamet, the second son of the Pasha, inherited the weakness of his father, without his better qualities, and exhibited throughout life the utmost want of decision; in prosperity ever stupidly insolent; in adversity the most abject and degraded of beings, the slave of any one who was pleased to employ him. An improper message sent by the Bey to his wife, soon after their marriage, provoked a deadly hatred against his elder brother, which only exhibited itself however in idle vaporing threats of vengeance. The distracted parents did all in their power to produce a reconciliation, but in vain; the Bey was haughty, and Hamet implacable; neither trusting himself in the presence of the other, unless armed to the teeth and environed by guards.

Yusuf, the youngest son, was the reverse of Hamet; brave, dashing and impetuous, he had scarcely reached his sixteenth year, before he openly declared his determination to struggle with the Bey for the future possession of the crown, or even to pluck it from the brow of his fond and tottering parent. Hassan at first regarded this as the mere ebullition of boyish feelings, and endeavored to attach him by acts of kindness; but they were thrown away on Yusuf, who apparently siding with Hamet, acquired over him an influence which rendered him a ready tool. The whole country was engaged in the dispute, and daily brawls between the adherents of the opposing parties rendered Tripoli almost uninhabitable.

The report of this state of things produced much effect at Constantinople; the Sultan wished to regain possession of Tripoli, and he had reason to fear lest its distracted state should induce some christian power to attempt its conquest. It was therefore arranged in 1786, that an attack should be made on the place by sea, while the Bey of Tunis should be ready with a force to co-operate by land if necessary. The Capoudan Pasha or Turkish High Admiral, at that time was the famous Hassan, who afterwards distinguished himself in the wars against Russia on the Black Sea, and against the French in the Levant, particularly by the relief of Acre in 1799, while it was besieged by Buonaparte. He was the mortal enemy of Ali, and was moreover excited by the hope of obtaining the sovereignty of the country in case he should succeed in getting a footing. A large armament was therefore prepared; but its destination was changed, and instead of recovering Tripoli, the Capoudan Pasha had orders to proceed to Egypt, and endeavor to restore that country to its former allegiance; the Mamelukes having succeeded in establishing there an almost independent authority.

The Tripoline Princes had been somewhat united by the news of the projected invasion; but this change in the objects of the Porte, again set the angry feelings of the brothers in commotion, and a severe illness with which their father was seized at the time, gave additional fury to their enmity, by apparently bringing the object of their discord nearer. As the old Pasha's death was expected, the Bey called the troops around him, and every avenue to the castle was defended; Yusuf and Hamet on their parts assembled their followers, and declared their resolution to overthrow Hassan or perish in the attempt, being convinced that his success would be the signal of their own destruction. Their tortured mother prepared to die by her own hands, rather than witness the dreadful scenes which would ensue on the decease of her husband. Ali however recovered, and things remained in the same unsettled state for three years longer; the mutual animosity of the Princes increasing, and the dread of invasion causing every sail which appeared, to be regarded with anxiety and suspicion.

Yusuf had now reached his twentieth year, and had acquired complete influence over the mind of his father; a quarrel about a servant had raised a deadly feud between him and Hamet, and the Bey feeling more confidence from the success of several expeditions, was rendered less cautious than he should have been. Lilla Halluma made every effort to produce unity of feeling among them, and at length prevailed upon Hassan to meet his youngest brother in her apartments. The Bey came armed only with his sword, and even that defence he was induced to lay aside, by the representations of his mother. Yusuf appeared also unarmed, but attended by some of his most devoted black followers; he embraced his brother, and declaring himself satisfied, called for a Koran on which to attest the honesty of his purpose. But that was a signal which his blacks understood, and instead of the sacred volume, two pistols were placed in his hands; he instantly fired at the luckless Bey, who was seated next their mother; the ball took effect--the victim staggered towards his sword--but ere he could reach it, another shot stretched him on the floor; he turned his dying eyes towards Lilla Halluma, and erroneously conceiving that she had betrayed him, exclaimed, "Mother, is this the present you have reserved for your eldest son!" The infuriated blacks despatched him by an hundred stabs, {132} in the presence not only of his mother, but also of his wife, whom the reports of the pistols had brought to the room. Yusuf made his way out of the castle, offering up as a second victim the venerable Kiah Abdallah, whom he met with on his passage; he then celebrated the successful issue of his morning's achievement by a feast. This happened about the end of July, 1790.

Hamet was absent when the murder took place, and on his return was proclaimed Bey, but not until the consent of Yusuf had been obtained, which the miserable Pasha had been weak enough to require. The two brothers then swore eternal friendship, accompanying the oath with the ceremonies considered most solemn on such occasions. But oaths could have but little weight with men of their respective characters; they could give no security to Hamet, nor act as restraints upon Yusuf. In a short time the brothers disagreed; the Bey fortified himself in the castle, while Yusuf established his quarters in the Messeah, or plain which lies on one side of the City, and raised the standard of revolt. A number of discontented Moors and Arabs were soon assembled in his cause, and he formed a partial siege of the place.

Meanwhile the Sultan was again at leisure to carry into effect the long projected plan against the country. A squadron was prepared, and one Ali-ben-Zool, a notorious pirate, was placed in command, and furnished with a _firman_ or commission as Pasha. This squadron entered the harbor of Tripoli on the night of the 29th of July, 1793, and during the confusion that ensued, the Turks having got possession of the gates, were in a short time masters of the town. The _firman_ was then read, and the Pasha was summoned to deliver the castle to the representative of his sovereign. The poor old man was struck almost senseless with the news; his wife and family finding that resistance was impossible escaped, carrying the Pasha more dead than alive out of the city, where they at first were protected by an Arab tribe. Yusuf seeing when too late the misery which he had brought on his family, at length begged forgiveness from his father, and the Princes uniting their forces, endeavored by an assault on the town to retrieve their fortunes; but it proved unsuccessful; the Pasha's party was betrayed, and the Turkish power was for a time established. Every species of cruelty was then committed by Ali-ben-Zool, for the purpose of extorting money from the wretched inhabitants, and scenes were acted, which it would be shocking to relate. The unfortunate Lilla Halluma soon died of grief; her husband and sons retired to Tunis, where they were received and generously assisted by the Bey.

The Porte at length was induced by the cruelties of its agent, to withdraw its support, and leave was given to the Caramalli family to regain their dominions. Ten thousand troops accordingly marched from Tunis in the spring of 1795, under the command of Hamet and Yusuf; ere they reached Tripoli, Ali-ben-Zool had evacuated the place, and retired to Egypt. This ruffian was afterwards made Governor of Alexandria in 1803, subsequently to the expulsion of the French, where he pursued the same course of cruelty and extortion as at Tripoli, until he was at length murdered by his guards.

It is not to be supposed that Yusuf took all these pains merely to establish his brother quietly in Tripoli; the rude soldiery who decide matters of that kind in Barbary, could not but see a difference between him and Hamet, which was by no means in favor of the latter. Of this disposition Yusuf took full advantage, and so ingratiated himself with the troops, that when at length the news of old Ali's death reached the city, he was unanimously proclaimed Pasha; his brother, who was absent at the time, on returning, found the gates closed against him, and received an order from the new sovereign to retire to the distant province of Derne, and remain there as Bey. Hamet having no other resource, went to his place of banishment, and remained there for some time; but finding that his brother was daily making attempts to destroy him, he at length in 1797 retired to Tunis, where he was supported by the Bey.

The earliest act of Yusuf with regard to foreign intercourse, was the conclusion of a treaty with the United States, which was signed on the 4th of November, 1796, Joel Barlow then American Consul at Algiers and Colonel David Humphries, being the agents of the latter party. Its terms are generally reciprocal; passports are to be given to vessels of each country by which they are to be known--"As the Government of the United States is not in any sense founded on the christian religion, and has in itself no character of enmity against the laws, religion or tranquillity of Mussulmen, no pretext arising from religious opinions shall ever produce an interruption of the harmony between the two countries"--the Pasha acknowledges the receipt of money and presents, "in consideration for this treaty of perpetual peace and friendship, and no pretence of any periodical tribute or farther payment is ever to be made by either party." Finally, the observance of the treaty is "guarantied by the most potent Dey and Regency of Algiers, and in case of dispute, no appeal shall be made to arms, but an amicable reference shall be made to the mutual friend of both parties, the Dey of Algiers, the parties hereby engaging to abide by his decision."

To the terms of this treaty it would be difficult to offer any objection; the United States were anxious that their commerce in the Mediterranean should be undisturbed; their naval force was inadequate to its protection, and it was then considered inexpedient to increase that force. Presents were given in compliance with a custom generally if not always observed, and it was certainly the more manly course to have the fact openly stated in the treaty, with the proviso annexed, that none others were to be expected. The treaty between the United States and Algiers was on terms less equal, as it contained a stipulation on the part of the former to pay an annual value of twenty-one thousand dollars in military stores.

Thus secured from interruption, the American commerce in the Mediterranean rapidly increased, and the Tripoline corsairs were daily tantalized by the sight of large vessels laden with valuable cargoes, which were to be passed untouched, for no other reason than because they sailed under the striped flag and carried a piece of parchment covered with unintelligible characters. This must have been the more vexatious to the corsairs as they never met with ships of war belonging to the nation which they were thus required to respect.

{133} Reports of this nature did not fail to produce their effect upon Yusuf; his cupidity was excited, and he doubtless feared that his popularity might suffer, if his subjects were longer prevented from pursuing what had always been considered a lawful and honorable calling in Barbary. He had collected a small maritime force, estimated in 1800 at eleven vessels of various sizes, mounting one hundred and three guns, and thus considered himself strong enough to give up the further observance of a treaty with a power which appeared so incapable of enforcing it. In this idea he was encouraged by his naval officers. The chief of these was a Scotch renegade, who had been tempted to exchange the kirk for the mosque, and his homely name of Peter Lyle, with his humble employment of mate to a trading vessel, for the more sounding title of Morat Rais, and the substantial appointment of High Admiral of Tripoli. Rais Peter is represented by all who knew him as destitute of real talent, but possessing in its stead much of that pliability of disposition which is supposed to form an essential characteristic of his countrymen; however that may have been, he for some time enjoyed great credit with the Pasha, and employed it as far as he could against the interests of the United States. Whether this arose from any particular enmity, or from the hope of enjoying a share of the anticipated spoil, is uncertain; but to his influence was mainly ascribed the proceedings which led to a rupture of the peace. Another abettor of the war was the Vice Admiral Rais Amor Shelly, a desperate ruffian, who was most anxious to be engaged where there was such evident promise of gain. Hamet Rais, the minister of marine, was of the same opinion, and probably of all his councillors, Yusuf placed the greatest confidence in him; he is represented as a man of great sagacity and energy--such indeed, that Lord Nelson thought proper in 1798, to send a ship of the line, with a most overbearing letter, demanding his exile, which the Pasha promised, but after the departure of the ship thought no more about it. The only friend of the United States in the regency, was the Prime Minister Mahomet d'Ghies, whom every account represents as an honorable and enlightened gentleman.

Thus fortified by the assurances of his counsellors, and farther induced by his success in bringing Sweden to his terms, Yusuf commenced his proceedings against the United States in 1799, by making requisitions of their consul; these were resisted, and to a proposal from Mr. Cathcart (the consul) that reference should be made to the Dey of Algiers, as provided in such cases by the treaty, the Pasha replied that he no longer regarded the stipulations of that convention. His intentions became more clearly defined in the ensuing year, when Rais Shelly returned from a cruise, with an American brig, which he had brought in under pretence of irregularity in her papers; she was indeed restored, but not until after long delay and the commission of numberless acts of petty extortion, accompanied by hints that such lenity would not be again displayed. Considerable time having elapsed without any answer from the United States, the consul was informed that the treaty with his country was at an end; that the Pasha demanded two hundred and fifty thousand dollars as the price of a new one; and that it must contain an engagement on the part of the United States, to pay an annual tribute of twenty-five thousand dollars for its continuance. No reply having been made to this, war was formally declared by Tripoli on the 11th of May, 1801, the American flag staff was cut down by the Pasha's orders on the 14th, and Mr. Cathcart left the place a few days after.

A swarm of cruisers instantly issued from the port of Tripoli, and spread themselves over every part of the Mediterranean; two of them under Morat Rais arrived at Gibraltar, with the intention of even braving the perils of the unknown Atlantic, in search of American vessels. In the course of a few weeks five prizes were taken by the corsairs; but the consul of the United States had long foreseen the danger, and given timely warning, so that interruption of their commerce was almost the only evil afterwards suffered.

As soon as the news of these exactions arrived in Washington, President Jefferson caused a squadron, composed of three frigates and a sloop of war, to be fitted out and despatched to the Mediterranean, under Commodore Dale; it entered that sea about the end of June, 1801, and was probably the first American armed force seen in its waters. This squadron was sent with the hope that its display would be alone sufficient to bring the Pasha back to the observance of the treaty; the Commodore was therefore instructed to act with great caution, so as to repress rather than provoke hostilities; and he was made the bearer of letters to each of the Barbary sovereigns, couched in the most amicable terms and disclaiming all warlike intentions. The squadron touched first at Tunis, where its appearance somewhat softened the Bey, who had begun the same system of exactions from the American consul; it then sailed for Tripoli, before which it appeared on the 24th of July.

The sight of such a force was very disquieting to Yusuf, who sent a messenger on board to learn what were its objects. The Commodore replied by asking what were the Pasha's views in declaring war, and on what principles he expected to make peace? To this Yusuf endeavored to evade giving a direct answer, and he hinted that his principal cause of complaint was the dependence on Algiers implied by the terms of the first and the last articles of the treaty, which he considered humiliating. The American commander not being empowered to negotiate, remained for some days blockading the harbor, until having learnt that several cruisers were out, he thought proper to go in search of them. One only was encountered, a ship of fourteen guns, commanded by Rais Mahomet Sous, which after an action of three hours, on the 1st of August, with the schooner Enterprize, struck her colours; the Americans lost not a man, the Tripolines had nearly half their crew killed or wounded. As orders had been given to make no prizes, the cruiser was dismantled, and her captain directed to inform the Pasha, that such "was the only tribute he would receive from the United States." Notwithstanding the desperate valor displayed in this action by the Tripolines, Yusuf thought proper to ascribe the result to cowardice on the part of the commander; and poor Mahomet Sous, after having been paraded through the streets of the city on an ass, exposed to the insults of the mob, received five hundred strokes of the bastinado. This piece of injustice and cruelty however, produced an {134} effect the reverse of that which was intended; for after it, no captain could be induced to put to sea, and those who were out already, on learning the treatment experienced by their comrade, took refuge from the Americans and the Pasha, for the most part among the islands of the Archipelago. The two largest vessels which had been arrested at Gibraltar on their way to the Atlantic, by the appearance of the United States' squadron, were laid up at that place, their crews passing over into Morocco.

The American commerce being thus for the time secured from interruption, a portion of the squadron returned to the United States; the remainder passed the winter in the Mediterranean, and were joined in the ensuing spring (1802) by other ships. Nothing however was attempted towards a conclusion of the difficulties with Tripoli by any decisive blow; the American agents in the other Barbary states were instructed to procure peace if possible, on condition of paying an annual tribute; and partial negotiations were carried on, principally through the mediation of the Bey of Tunis. They however proved ineffectual, as Yusuf demanded an amount far beyond that which the American government proposed. The operations of the squadron were limited to mere demonstrations; a simple display of force being considered preferable to active measures. On one occasion however, the Constellation frigate, while cruising off the harbor of Tripoli, was suddenly becalmed, and in this defenceless situation, was attacked by a number of Tripoline gun-boats; their fires would soon have reduced her to a wreck, had not a breeze fortunately sprung up, which enabled her to choose her position; several of the gun-boats having been then quickly destroyed, the remainder were forced to retreat into port.

The system of caution and forbearance by which the foreign policy of the American government was then regulated, renders the history of its transactions in the Mediterranean during the first four years of this century by no means flattering to the national pride. There was a disposition to negotiate and to purchase peace, rather than boldly to enforce it, which must have been most galling to the brave spirits who were thus obliged to remain inactive; and it certainly encouraged the Barbary governments in the opinion that the Americans were disposed to accept the more humiliating of the two alternatives, paying or fighting, which they offered to all other nations. It would not perhaps be just at present to censure this patient policy; the institutions of the country were then by no means firmly established, and the utmost circumspection was necessary in the management and disposition of its resources. There was also great reason to apprehend that a decided attack on one of the Barbary powers, would produce a coalition of the whole, aided by Turkey, which might have given a blow, severe and perhaps fatal, to the commerce of the United States in the Mediterranean. The Americans may however at least rejoice, that a more dignified system can now with assurance be pursued, in the conduct of all their affairs with foreign nations.

* * * * *

The length of this article renders its conclusion in the present number inconvenient; the remainder will appear in our next.

REVIEW

of Governor Tazewell's Report to the Legislature of Virginia, on the Deaf and Dumb Asylum.

The late Chief Magistrate of Virginia, Governor Floyd, in his message of December, 1833, called the attention of the Legislature to the condition of that unfortunate race of beings for whom it has been reserved, under Providence, to the present age, to provide a suitable system of instruction, by which they should be elevated to the condition of moral and accountable creatures. The Governor says: "The deaf, and dumb, and the blind, are objects of sympathy with all classes of society, and from which no family can claim exemption. An asylum for these unfortunate beings is suggested, where proper attention and instruction can be given at public expense--where they can be taught to read and write, and learn something of the useful arts; where even the blind can be taught something to alleviate the long and wearisome night which is allotted to them. I appeal to you in their behalf with the more confidence, as it is a subject which stands wholly unconnected with the business of life, from which they are excluded; and without voice, like the eloquence of the spheres, applies to the heart of all, from which they will not be spurned by the good and the just."

These humane and benevolent suggestions were referred, by special resolution, to the Committee of Schools and Colleges, by which committee a very able report was made on the subject to the House of Delegates, concluding with a resolution, "that it was expedient and highly important to provide immediately for the establishment and endowment of an asylum for the deaf and dumb of the state of Virginia."

At the same session of the Legislature, it appears that a memorial was presented by the trustees of the deaf and dumb asylum at Staunton, an association incorporated in March 1833, setting forth that sufficient funds had been provided to purchase a suitable site for a building--and praying that the Legislature would make an annual appropriation in aid of their benevolent purposes. This memorial is written with ability, and presents in a strong light the necessity of some legislative action on the subject. The Legislature, it seems however, was not prepared to act definitively, even with all the lights before them; but as if unwilling that an object so vastly important, and involving so many high considerations, should entirely be lost sight of,--the House of Delegates, a few days before the close of the session, adopted a resolution requesting the Governor "to communicate to the General Assembly at its next session such facts and views as he might deem pertinent and useful, relative to the best plan, the appropriate extent, the most suitable organization, and the probable cost of an institution for the instruction of the deaf and dumb, to be located in some healthy and convenient situation in this state; and that he be further requested to accompany his communication by such information as he might be able to impart relative to similar institutions in other states, together with an estimate of the probable number of the deaf and dumb who would repair to such an institution, to be located within the limits of this Commonwealth."

In compliance with this resolution, Governor Tazewell, whose term of office commenced on the 31st of March last, made a report to the Legislature at its {135} present session--a report which we regret to say is entirely at variance with all the views heretofore entertained on this interesting subject--a report which, so far as such high authority can wield an influence, is calculated to repress the efforts of the friends of humanity in the prosecution of so noble a cause. We shall examine this document with the respect which is due to the high character and eminent talents of its author--at the same time with that freedom which belongs to the right of discussion--especially when we believe that the interests of humanity are deeply concerned in the issue.

The report, after a few preliminary remarks, sets out as follows: "In differing from those who may be in favor of establishing within this state a seminary for the education of the deaf and dumb _at this time_, I hope I shall not be considered by any as being opposed to the accomplishment of an object so truly benevolent in its character. The very reverse of this is the fact. It is only because I ardently desire to see this laudable object attained by the best means practicable, that I do not concur with those who may desire to effect it by the creation of such an institution within this Commonwealth _at this time_." Now with great deference to his Excellency, we humbly conceive that all the reasons which he assigns against the establishment or endowment of an asylum _at this time_, apply with equal force to any _other time_. If there be any force in his arguments, they will continue to operate, at least in a very essential degree, _for a long period of years_. What are his reasons?

"Schools for the instruction of the deaf and dumb differ from all other seminaries of education in this particular--that they can never prosper, except by means which may suffice to bring together, at one point, a sufficient number of pupils to commune with each other in their own peculiar mode, and to concentrate the interest necessary to be felt, and the efforts necessary to be used by those engaged in their instruction. No expense can accomplish the desired object, unless by the attainment of these means. Then, the question seems to be resolved into this: Can the Legislature of Virginia reasonably promise itself, that by the employment of any means which it ought to use, it may concentrate at any point within this state, sufficient inducements to draw thither the proper number of such pupils and of such instructers? I do not think this can be done."

We shall forbear answering this part of his Excellency's report, which we think is very easily done, until we spread still more of his reasons before the reader.

"The whole number of white persons in Virginia, of all ages, who were deaf and dumb, is shown by the last census to have been then four hundred and twenty-two only. The annual increase of such unfortunates (as shown by the calculations made upon the population of other countries less favorably situated in this respect than Virginia,) does not amount to more than about fifteen in a million--a number approaching so nearly to the annual decrease by natural causes, that the annual augmentation here must be very small indeed. Of the whole number of deaf and dumb in any state, even in those where the most liberal means have been employed to attract to their long established asylums all of that class who might be induced to resort thither, the proportion does not exceed one fifteenth. Thus in Connecticut, where the number of mutes, as shewn by the last census, was two hundred and ninety-five, there were not at their asylum, according to the last report of that institution which I have seen, more than eighteen persons of that number; and this after a period of sixteen years had elapsed since the commencement of this establishment. Yet in Connecticut the population is dense, and the inducements held out to send all their deaf and dumb to this asylum are very great indeed. So too in Pennsylvania, where the last census shews the whole number of mutes to have been seven hundred and twelve, the number of these at their excellent asylum, according to the last report, was only forty-eight, after this seminary had been opened fourteen years.

"If then," continues the Governor, "in Connecticut, where there are two hundred and ninety-five mutes, there cannot be collected at such an institution, after sixteen years, more than eighteen of that number; and if in Pennsylvania, where the number of mutes is seven hundred and twelve, only forty-eight of that number can be induced to avail themselves of the advantages held out by its admirable institution, after ---- years; it is unreasonable to suppose that the sparse population of Virginia could supply a sufficient number of pupils to attain the great object had in view by the establishment of a seminary here like that proposed. For it must not be overlooked, that the supply of pupils to every school will bear some proportion to the expense of maintaining them while there, and that in older institutions, this expense will be necessarily much less than in those of more recent origin."

The Governor would have shed much more light upon this branch of the subject, if he had expressed his opinion as to the precise number of pupils which it was necessary to bring together, in order that they might "commune with each other in their own peculiar mode;" and which, according to his view of the subject, is necessary to the existence and prosperity of all such institutions. That opinion however he has not indicated; but has left us to infer that as not more than one in fifteen has ever been induced, according to the experience of other institutions, to resort to them for instruction, even by the employment of the most liberal means,--that proportion of the whole number of free white deaf mutes in Virginia, would not be sufficient to justify the commencement of such an establishment here. One fifteenth of the whole number in Virginia, at the last census, would be twenty-eight. That number, however, will not suffice, and we must wait longer. How long, it is impossible to tell--inasmuch as from his Excellency's reasoning, the increase must be very inconsiderable--being not more than at the rate of sixteen annually for every million of inhabitants; and from this must be deducted the decrease from natural causes. Let us suppose then that the annual increase in Virginia is sixteen, and that the annual decrease is twelve, leaving a yearly increment of four to the whole number in the state. Now as, according to Governor Tazewell's views, not more than one in fifteen of the whole number can be induced to attend a school of instruction, it requires not the aid of Cocker to demonstrate that several years must elapse before even an additional pupil can be added to the twenty-eight above {136} stated. Candor compels us therefore to declare that we think this part of his Excellency's report very unsound in its reasoning. He seems to have founded his argument upon the supposition that the deaf and dumb pupils to be educated at the proposed asylum in Virginia, are to be maintained from their own resources, or the private liberality of their friends; whereas, the very object of applying for Legislative aid, is to enable many of these indigent children of misfortune to obtain instruction at the public expense. If this was not the ground of the Governor's reasoning, why does he suppose that not more than one-fifteenth of the whole number of deaf mutes could be induced to resort to a seminary for instruction? Does he mean that a larger proportion could not be obtained if the public expense were proffered for their education and subsistence? If he does, then we humbly think that his Excellency is most egregiously mistaken.

Strange as it may seem however, whilst the Governor in the part of his report which we have quoted, seems to reason upon the idea that Legislative aid is desired for the sole purpose of endowing an asylum at the commencement, and that the annual cost of supporting and educating the pupils is to be drawn from private sources,--he nevertheless suggests as the preferable mode, that the Legislature should annually appropriate a sufficient sum for the maintenance of a given number of pupils at the institutions of Connecticut or Pennsylvania. Let him speak in his own language:

"If the benevolent purpose of instructing the deaf and dumb be the great object of those who desire the establishment of a seminary of this kind in Virginia at this time, the principal question must be, by what means can such an object be best attained? The considerations I have mentioned will probably suffice to shew, that much proficiency cannot reasonably be expected from a school of this kind created here now, nor for many years yet to come, except at a cost to the public very far exceeding any public benefit that could possibly be derived from it. The benevolence of the object might perhaps justify such an expenditure for its accomplishment, if no other means existed. But when other means are open, by which the same benevolent purpose may be attained, even better, and at much less expense, it seems difficult to assign any reason why the better and cheaper mode should not be preferred. This better mode seems to me to be, to appropriate a portion of the sum it must require to create and to perpetuate such an establishment here, to the advancement of the same object in some other seminary already established in one of the other states. All the eastern states (except Rhode Island, I believe,) have pursued this course in regard to the seminary at Hartford, in Connecticut; and I understand that New Jersey, Delaware and Maryland have adopted the same plan with respect to the seminary in Pennsylvania."

In what way, let us ask, is this annual appropriation which the Governor recommends, to be expended? Upon the indigent of course--upon those to whose intellectual night the providence of God has superadded the gloom of poverty; and these objects of public sympathy and bounty are to be selected we presume from various parts of the commonwealth, according to some equitable rule hereafter to be established. Now we humbly think, that whatever inducements could prevail upon the friends of these unfortunates, to send them from three to five hundred miles abroad, in order to partake of the state's charity, would operate with much greater force if the place of their destination were somewhere within our own limits. Of this fact we presume there can be no question. The father or guardian of an indigent deaf mute in one of the border counties of this commonwealth, would vastly prefer Richmond, Staunton or Charlottesville as the place of his education, to either of the cities of Philadelphia or Hartford. There are, moreover, many strong and obvious reasons why a _state institution_ should be patronized, in preference to any other. The public funds would be expended on our own soil, and among our own population. The state would be even richer, by the introduction among us of that peculiar science, which reveals the mysterious intercourse of human minds deprived of the usual inlets to the understanding. The Governor himself seems to be aware that the encouragement of every good thing among ourselves, rather than to be dependent upon others for their enjoyment, is an honest, natural and patriotic prejudice; and accordingly he takes some pains to encounter and overthrow it. Hear him.

"Although I will not admit that there is a single citizen within the limits of Virginia more desirous than I am to domesticate here every thing needful to the well being of the state, yet I neither consider many of what are called modern improvements as coming within this description, nor do I regard it as wise to attempt such domestication prematurely. It is among the wise dispensations of Providence, that all things really necessary to man are placed within the grasp of every community composed of men, and that much of what is not necessary, but convenient only, is of easy acquisition in every civilized society. But when you ascend higher in the scale, and seek to teach or to learn all the sublime and long hidden truths of modern science, it is perhaps fortunate for our race that there are not many any where who feel the inclination to become scholars, and very few indeed who are qualified to teach such lessons. Such science may truly say she is of no country; for no single country on the habitable globe could fill the chairs of the instructers, or the forms of the pupils. Accident generally lays the foundation of such seminaries, and the contributions of the civilized world are required to erect and preserve the edifice. Does any country grudge to pay her quota to the common stock, or seek to pluck from the wing of science the particular feather which such country may claim as her own?--each will do so in its turn--and the bird which might have soared to a sightless height, when stripped of its plumage, will but flutter on the surface, unable to wing her way on high."

Now we confess that we do not understand to our entire satisfaction this extract from the report. The figure of the bird with the plucked plumage, neither strikes us as in very good taste nor very intelligible; but as we have more to do with his Excellency's arguments than his rhetoric, we shall leave the latter to those who are better skilled than we are in following "the mazes of metaphorical confusion." The governor proceeds:

{137} "If this is the case with science, in what may now be considered its higher departments, how much stronger is the appeal humanity makes in favor of benevolence and christian charity. These are of no country, certainly. They but sojourn on earth, teaching frail man to do his duty to his maker, in providing for the wants of his unfortunate fellows, so far as is practicable. To them it must be of little consequence indeed, whether the mute by nature is made a rational being by arts employed in his education, either in one place or another. So far as regards the unfortunate mute, the only inquiry is, where can he be best taught? The only inquiry of the benevolent ought to be, where can he be so taught at the least cost? This last is an inquiry suggested not less by benevolence than the former; for as the means of even charity are necessarily limited, that application of them is best which promises to do the greatest good with the least expenditure.

"To all this let me add, that if there is any thing better calculated than any other to cement our union, and to keep bright the chain which I trust will bind these states together while time lasts, it will be found in the contributions of each to the advancement of objects approved by all, without any jealous regard to the actual spot at which such a general good may commence. If a generous spirit of this sort is but once manifested, its effects will be soon seen and felt by all. Acts of kindness will not fail to induce forbearance and to generate sympathy. When each state shall feel, that for the aid it requires to accomplish any object of general utility, it may rely confidently on its co-states, there will be no more applications to the federal government to pervert the language of the constitution, in order to accomplish the unholy scheme of robbing a minority to enrich a majority. Then, those who contend but for the spoils of the vanquished, may be safely left to the contempt which such a motive cannot fail to inspire with all the generous and the good. It would have been worthy of Virginia to set such an example: it is worthy of her to imitate that which others have already taught."

It is in these passages that we think lurks the fallacy, and we might add, the mischief of the Governor's views. He sets out first by deprecating all legislative interference on the subject. "Let us alone" is his cardinal maxim, and the maxim of the school of political economists to which he belongs.--Let individuals take care of themselves and of each other, but let not government presume to thrust its paternal care upon the community. In the next place, however, if the State, according to his Excellency's notions, will officiously obtrude into these private matters--why then let the funds of the Commonwealth go abroad and enrich some sister State.--These kind offices will brighten the chain of union which binds the States together. They will teach us all to rely more upon each other, and less upon the general government. This is the sum and substance of the Governor's reasoning; and dangerous and fallacious as we believe it to be, we feel the stronger obligation, coming from the high quarter it does, to resist and refute it if we can. It may be justly asked, if there be any thing sound in this specious appeal to the generous feelings of the States, why have not the States carried out the doctrine themselves? Why has North Carolina for example, proverbially styled the Rip Van Winkle of the South, been so blind to her own interests and duty, as not to send her deaf and dumb children to Hartford, instead of erecting an asylum at home? Why have Ohio and Kentucky been guilty of the similar folly of founding institutions themselves? We think we can answer these questions in the only way in which they can be answered, and that is, that these younger States--these (for the most part) daughters of the Old Dominion, are wiser in their generation than their venerable mother. They have discerned their true interests, in fostering their own establishments. Did any one ever dream that Kentucky had given cause of offence to her sister States, by erecting an asylum for the poor mutes? We apprehend not. The truth is, that his Excellency the Governor, is entirely mistaken in his views upon this subject. State pride,--State sovereignty,--State independence,--jealousy of the federal government,--whatever you please to call it, is best preserved by each individual State taking care of its own resources, and building up its own establishments. What a ridiculous business it would be, if twenty-four families in the same neighborhood, were to act upon the principle that each was to take care of all the rest in preference to itself? How will the twenty-four States ever be strong, unless each State will attend particularly to the developement of its own latent powers and capacities--unless each will apply its own energies for its own benefit? Pursue the Governor's doctrine to all its remote consequences, and see to what absurdities we are driven. The University of Virginia was a most palpable violation of the courtesy and good feeling due to our sister States. Besides, according to his Excellency, would it not have been _cheaper_ to send our sons as usual to Cambridge, and Princeton, and Yale, rather than incur the enormous expense of erecting a splendid establishment from the State Treasury? The University, by the way, furnishes a very strong case, favoring, in many of the views in which it may be regarded, the positions and doctrines of Governor Tazewell; yet what Virginian regrets even the lavish expenditure by which that institution has been endowed?--Who does not rather rejoice, that in his native State, at the base of Monticello, the domes of science have been reared, to scatter its light to the present and future generations?

The truth is, and most melancholy is the truth, that many of our leading men in Virginia, perhaps the far greater number, are inclined to acquiesce in this fatal doctrine of State apathy--this most paralyzing policy of passive inertness,--whilst the world at large, and many other portions of the Union, are marching in advance of us, with a celerity which defies calculation. Governor Tazewell might well have applied his figure of the bird despoiled of its plumage, to our poor, old and venerable mother. Her daughters, and sisters, and brothers--almost the whole family--no doubt with the best intentions in the world--are practising, in one way or other, on the old lady's kind feelings and generous principles. Our worthy and excellent friends East of the Hudson, send us their notions--their long provender, their vegetables and brooms, and beg us, by all means, to buy them, because it is _cheaper_ to do so, than to divert our labor from our valuable staples. They send us also their excellent cottons, and other fabrics of their looms, which we take liberally, although we have a good deal of surplus labor, and the finest water power in the {138} Union.--Our near neighbor and almost twin sister Maryland, is pushing, with a degree of enterprise which does her credit, her internal improvements into the heart of our own territory--and we----we have too much grace and politeness to say to her, that it is rather an intrusion. Our most filial and amiable daughters to the West, send to us their hogs, horses and cattle--and we pay them, at least so says the buyer, most tremendous prices. All these drains from our prosperity, and many more which might be enumerated, we submit to, with a degree of patience and composed resignation that even Job might have envied. Our Eagle is indeed stripped of its plumage, to adorn others more fearless and adventurous on the wing.

But to return to the Report. The Governor thinking it probable that the Legislature might not concur in his views, either to give the whole subject of a deaf and dumb asylum the go-by, or to adopt the alternative of sending the indigent pupils into other States, presents various views touching the management of such institutions--the general correctness of which we are not disposed to question. At one thing, however, we are somewhat surprised, and that is, that his Excellency seems not to have been aware of the existence within this State, of an incorporated asylum, prepared to go into operation whensoever the public shall extend its patronage. The Report seems to have been founded upon a voluminous mass of documents, which are deposited in the public library, for the use of the Legislature. Not having access to them, we shall content ourselves with a reference to such others as lay within our reach, in order to present, in a few strong lights, the importance and necessity of such an institution in Virginia.

At the session of 1825-'6, Governor Pleasants communicated to the Legislature the first annual report of the trustees of the Kentucky institution, and also the ninth annual report of the Hartford Asylum. The first mentioned document is particularly important, inasmuch as it exhibits at once the success which attended a _first experiment_, under circumstances extremely disadvantageous. The report of the trustees made to the Kentucky Legislature was referred to a joint committee of the two Houses,--who visited the asylum at Danville, and who, among other things, stated, on their return, "that they were greatly gratified in witnessing the progress made by the pupils, whose facility and correctness in comprehending the signs made by the teacher, and expressing their ideas, exceeded any thing that could have been anticipated by the most sanguine friends of the institution." They further state the following extraordinary facts, which ought at once to dispel all prejudice, and unite all hearts in support of a system of instruction, attended by such beneficent results. "All those who had been instructed in the asylum for FOUR MONTHS, _wrote good hands, spelled correctly, and answered promptly and correctly, numerous questions that were proposed to them by the teacher and members of the committee_." It also appears that the whole number of pupils, at the end of the first year, was only twenty-one--a number, which, according to Governor Tazewell's theory, is not sufficient for the purpose of mutual communion, in their peculiar mode--but which, in the instance before us, would seem to establish the very reverse of that proposition.

The report from the Hartford Asylum, which is dated in 1825, is particularly interesting, as furnishing extraordinary proofs of the progress of the pupils, both in moral and intellectual attainments. We think, if Governor Tazewell had been so fortunate as to light upon this document, he would scarcely have urged as a reason for _postponing_ an asylum in Virginia, that the science of instructing the deaf mute was continually advancing, and was likely to be more perfect some years hence than at present. Doubtless this peculiar and valuable art will improve, and so will many other branches of knowledge which are even now in a highly advanced state. Natural history, chemistry, and the physical sciences generally, are constantly enlarging their boundaries, and extending their acquisitions--but shall we, on that account, remain in ignorance of what they _now_ teach, in the vain hope that by and by they will reach the maximum of perfection? Strange doctrine truly!

We have already referred to the memorial of the trustees of the Staunton institution, and the report of the committee of schools and colleges--both of which interesting papers will be found among the printed legislative documents of last winter, and ought to be reprinted for distribution among the members of that body, now in session. We hope that the Legislature will take the subject into its speedy and earnest consideration, and that, in the language of the Kentucky report, they will hearken to the "claims of those whom God, in the mysterious dispensations of his providence, has deprived of the faculty of hearing and of speech; of whom an eloquent divine has said, 'silence like theirs is eloquence.'"

COLONIAL MANNERS.

A picture of the House of Burgesses of Maryland in 1766.

We have been politely favored with the sight of a letter from _an illustrious philosopher and statesman_, written at Annapolis on the 25th May, 1766, to his friend in Virginia, from which we make the subjoined curious extract. It is no less instructive than amusing to trace the progress of society from its rude and simple beginnings, to that more perfect form produced by civilization and refinement. It may be doubted however, whether the degree of decorum prevailing in the legislative body of a country, furnishes more than an imperfect index to the state of public manners. We will venture to assert that in 1766, the very year when the Burgesses of Maryland are represented as no better than a "mob," the Colonial Assembly of Virginia exhibited as fine a picture of gravity and dignity as could be well conceived; and yet we have no reason to believe that the people of Maryland at that day were less civilized than their brethren south of the Potomac. Perfectly aware as we are of the faults of our countrymen, we have nevertheless always contended that the Virginians are the most remarkable people in the world for the observance of a certain peculiar affability towards each other, not only in their public bodies, but in private intercourse. We mean Virginians of the genuine old stock--not the new race who have sprung up among us like mushrooms, and are trying to introduce an awkward imitation of European customs. These latter are some of them weak enough to think that the sudden acquisition of fortune, without merit on their part, or a voyage or two to London or Paris, are of themselves sufficient to constitute a finished gentleman. Real refinement is founded upon good sense, {139} and upon kindness and good will towards our fellow man, and never can co-exist with purse-proud arrogance or conceited vanity.

In reference to our public assemblies, it is a common remark, and we have no doubt a just one, that there is more order, decorum and dignity in the Virginia Legislature, than in the House of Representatives of the United States. In the latter body the members sit with their hats on, write letters and read newspapers, whilst one of their members is addressing the chair, or the speaker is putting the question. Such disorder is rarely seen in the Capitol of the Old Dominion.

* * * * *

----"I will now give you some account of what I have seen in this metropolis. The Assembly happens to be sitting at this time; their upper and lower house as they call them, sit in different houses. I went into the lower, sitting in an old courthouse, which judging from its form and appearance, was built in the year one. I was surprised on approaching it, to hear as great a noise and hubbub as you will usually observe at a public meeting of the planters in Virginia. The first object which struck me after my entrance, was the figure of a little old man, dressed but indifferently, with a yellow queue wig on, and mounted in the judge's chair. This, the gentleman who walked with me, informed me was the speaker, a man of a very fair character, but who, by the by, has very little the air of a speaker. At one end of the justices' bench stood a man whom in another place I should, from his dress and phiz, have taken for Goodall the lawyer in Williamsburg, reading a bill then before the house with a schoolboy tone, and an abrupt pause at every half dozen words. This I found to be the clerk of the Assembly. The mob (for such was their appearance) sat covered on the justices' and lawyers' benches, and were divided into little clubs, amusing themselves in the common chitchat way. I was surprised to see them address the speaker without rising from their seats, and three, four and five at a time, without being checked. When a motion was made, the speaker, instead of putting the question in the usual form, only asked the gentlemen whether they chose that such or such a thing should be done, and was answered by a yes sir, or no sir; and though the voices appeared frequently to be divided, they never would go to the trouble of dividing the house; but the clerk entered the resolutions, I supposed, as he thought proper. In short, every thing seems to be carried without the house in general knowing what was proposed."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WESTERN SCENERY.

EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM A WESTERN TRAVELLER.

We had rode about a mile, when my guide said, that if I was willing to go a hundred yards out of the way, he could show me something worth seeing. I no sooner assented to this, than he cast around him his keen woodsman's glance, and then, turning his horse in a direction slightly diverging from the road, struck into the woods. I followed, and presently observed that we were pursuing a course nearly parallel to what seemed to be a precipice, beyond the verge of which I caught glimpses of a vast extent of country. Without allowing me time to see any thing distinctly, my guide pushed on, and, spurring to the top of an Indian barrow, placed himself and me at the desired point of view.

We were on the spot that overlooks the confluence of Salt River with the Mississippi. Having once travelled an hundred miles to see the Natural Bridge, and having heard from Mr. Jefferson that that sight was worthy of a voyage across the Atlantic, I certainly did not grudge the price I had paid for the view that opened on me.

The confluence of the rivers is nearly at right angles. The hill descends with equal abruptness towards each, and, at first glance, the apex seems to overhang the water of each. But this is not so. The descent, perhaps, wants two or three degrees of perpendicularity, and, at the bottom, there is a narrow border of low-ground, fringing the banks with lofty trees. The appearance of these trees gave the only measure of the height of the hill. To the eye they might be bushes. My guide assured me they were of the tallest growth.

To the East, across the Mississippi, lay what is called _Howard's bottom_. This is, as its name imports, a body of low ground. Its width is said to be, in some places, not less than six miles, and to be nearly uniform for a distance of sixty. Of this I could not judge. It seemed that it might be so. I was nearly opposite the middle of it, and overlooking the whole. Next the water was a border of the most luxuriant forest, apparently some half a mile in width, and beyond this, a Prairie reaching to the foot of the hills, interspersed with masses of forest, and groves, and stumps, and single trees, among which, here and there, were glittering glimpses of the _Chenaille ecartee_, which traverses the whole length of it. You, who know the vesture in which nature clothes these fertile plains, need not be told how rich and soft was the beautiful picture thus spread beneath my feet. Its _setting_ was not less remarkable. This was a perpendicular wall of limestone, two or three hundred feet high, which bounds the valley on the East. An occasional gap, affording an outlet to the country beyond, alone broke the continuity of this barrier. To the North, lay the extensive plain through which Salt River winds. I have no idea of its extent. It is a vast amphitheatre, surrounded by lofty and richly-wooded hills. The plain itself is of wood and Prairie interspersed, and so blended, that every tree seems placed for effect.

You are not to suppose, because I do not launch out in florid declamation about the beauty, and grandeur, and magnificence, and all that, of this scene, that it was less striking than you would naturally suppose it must be. You know that I have neither talent nor taste for _fine writing_, so you must take the picture as I give it, and draw on your own imagination for the garniture. I have said nothing of the rivers, but to tell you they were there, and flowing through a landscape of many hundred thousand acres of the richest land on earth, with the most beautifully variegated surface, all spread out under my feet. I felt that the scene was sublime; and it is well for your patience, that I have learned that sublime things are best described in fewest words. It is certainly the finest I ever saw. There may be others equal to it, but the earth does not afford _room_ for _many_ such. What will it be, when it becomes "a living landscape of groves and corn-fields, and the abodes of men?" As it is, if the warrior, on whose tomb I stood, could raise his head, he would see it in nothing changed from what it was when his last sun set upon it.

{140}

THOM'S GROUP OF STATUARY,

FROM BURNS'S TAM O'SHANTER.

These remarkable specimens of sculpture, have been recently exhibited in this city, and have attracted, we believe, universal admiration. The artist is a native of Ayrshire, Scotland,--which also gave birth to the Immortal Bard, whose conceptions are so happily illustrated by the genius of the sculptor. Not pretending ourselves to any of those mysterious capabilities, which are claimed by _connoiseurs_ and _amateurs_, to judge of the productions of art; we rely upon our simple perceptions of what is both true and excellent, in their design and execution. The following is the passage from Burns, which the artist has chosen in order to give visible and tangible form to the poet's fancy:

Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow Souter Johnny, His ancient trusty, drouthy crony: Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, And aye the ale was growin' better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious: The Souter tauld his queerest stories, The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Never perhaps, as is well observed by a political journal in this city, was the genius of art so truly impressed upon stone, as in the present instance,--to represent human bodies in a state of petrifaction. A reader of Romance, would almost imagine that the wand of enchantment had passed over the merry group, and had frozen the currents of life--without disturbing the mirth, enlivened feature, the arch and humorous look,--or the easy and careless attitudes of nature. We admire the productions of the great masters of modern times, or, of classical antiquity--but, whilst we gaze, we never once even _imagine_ that the promethean spark might have animated the marble. Belonging, as most of them do, to the _ideal_ schools of sculpture--imbodying all that is fair and beautiful, in the artist's conception; rather than what is absolutely true in the visible forms of nature,--they do not strike us with the same irresistible force, or so instantly seize upon our feelings--as does the rude, simple, but faithful sculpture of this unlettered and inexperienced Scottish stone-cutter. Considering that Mr. Thom was entirely ignorant of the rules of his art,--that he had not even the advantage of first modelling his productions in clay,--that the group from Tam O'Shanter is among his first efforts, and that each of these fine pieces, was hewn at once out of the shapeless stone, without the power of correcting the mistakes of his chisel as he proceeded,--the mind is lost in wonder at the vigor and originality of his genius. Such a man is worthy the birthplace of Robert Burns,--who little thought whilst he was sketching the hilarities of the ale-house, that one of his countrymen would so soon arise to present in the forms and models of a sister art, so fine a representation of the scene. The following detailed account of the artist, and of his singularly successful labors, is extracted from an Edinburg journal. We copy it from "_The People's Magazine_." It will be highly interesting to most of our readers:

James Thom, the sculptor of these wonderful figures, is a native of Ayrshire, and of respectable parentage near Tarbolton. Although, like those of his countryman and inspirer, his relatives were all engaged in agricultural pursuits, (his brothers, we understand, possess large farms,) the young man himself preferred the occupation of a mason, and was, accordingly, apprenticed to a craftsman in Kilmarnock. This profession was probably selected as offering the nearest approach to the undefined workings and predilections of his own inexperienced mind, since he was not, as in the instance of several sculptors of eminence, thrown first into the trade of a stone mason by the force of circumstances. This would appear from his showing little attachment to the drudgery of the art: accordingly, his first master is understood to have pronounced him rather a dull apprentice. From the beginning, he seems to have looked forward to the ornamental part of his calling; and in a country town where there was little or no opportunity of employment in that line, to those more immediately concerned, he might appear less useful than a less aspiring workman. The evidences of young Thom's diligence and talent at this time, however, still remain in numerous specimens of carving in stone, which he himself still considers, we are told, as superior to any thing he has yet done.

His term of apprenticeship being expired, Mr. Thom repaired to Glasgow in pursuit of better employment. Here his merits were immediately perceived, and so well rewarded, that his wages were considerably higher than the ordinary rate.

In his present profession, Mr. Thom's career may be dated from the commencement of the winter of 1827. Being employed at this time in the immediate neighborhood, he applied to Mr. Auld, of Ayr, who afterwards proved his steady and judicious friend, for permission to take a sketch from a portrait of Burns, with the intention of executing a bust of the poet. This is a good copy of the original picture by Mr. Nasmyth, and is suspended in the very elegant and classical monument, from a design by Mr. Hamilton, erected to the memory of the bard, on the banks of the Doon, near "Allowa's auld haunted kirk." The permission was kindly granted; doubts, however, being at the same time expressed, how far the attempt was likely to prove successful, Mr. Thom not being then known in Ayr. These doubts seemed to be confirmed, on the latter returning with a very imperfect sketch, taken by placing transparent paper on the picture. These occurrences happened on the Wednesday, consequently nothing could be done till Thursday, when materials were to be procured, and other arrangements made, before the work was absolutely begun. The surprise then may be conceived, on the artist returning on the Monday following with the finished bust. In this work, though somewhat defective as a likeness, the execution, the mechanical details, and the general effect, were wonderful, especially when viewed in connexion with the shortness of the time and the disadvantage of being finished almost from memory--the very imperfect outline, already mentioned, being the only _external_ guide. It was this general excellence that encouraged the proposal of a full length figure--a proposal to which the artist gave his ready assent, stating that he had wished to undertake something of the kind, but did not consider it prudent, without any prospect of remuneration, to hazard the expense both of the block of stone and the loss of time. On this Mr. Auld offered to procure any stone from the neighboring quarries which the artist might judge fit for his purpose. Several days elapsed in this search; in the meantime, the matter was rather laughed at than encouraged; and some apprehensions of failure, and exposure to consequent comments, being expressed, "Perhaps," said the artist, endeavoring to re-assure his friends, "I had just better try my _hand_ at a _head_, as a specimen o' Tam." This being agreed to, he returned to Crosby church-yard, where he was then employed upon a grave-stone. The day following happened to be one of continued rain; and, finding that the water filled up his lines; probably, too, thinking more on "glorious Tam," than on the _memento mori_ he was attempting to engrave, our artist resolved to take time by the forelock, and to set about the "specimen head" directly. Accordingly, pulling from the ruins of the church of Crosby a rabat of the door-way, as a proper material for his purpose, he sat himself down among the long rank grass covering the graves, and in that situation actually finished the head before rising. Nay, more, although the day has been described to us "as a dounright pour," so total was his absorption in the work--so complete his insensibility to every thing else, that he declares himself to have been unconscious of the "rattling showers," from the moment he {141} commenced. Such is the power of genuine and natural enthusiasm in a favorite pursuit. This head, which contained perhaps, more expression than even that of the present figure, decided the matter. Next day, the block requisite for a full-length of Tam o' Shanter, was brought into Ayr, a load for four stout horses, and placed in a proper workshop, within Cromwell's fort.

It may be interesting to mention a few particulars of the manner in which these figures have been composed and finished.--"Tam" was selected by the artist as a subject for his chisel. The figure is understood to bear a strong traditional resemblance to the well-known Douglass Graham, some forty years ago a renowned specimen of a Carrick farmer, and who, residing at Shanter, furnished to Burns the prototype of his hero.

---- Souter Johnnie, His antient, trusty, drouthie cronie--

is said to be a striking likeness of a living wight--a cobbler near Maybole; not that this individual sat for his portraiture, but that the artist appears to have wrought from the reminiscences of two interviews with which he was favored, after twice travelling 'some lang Scotch miles,' in order to persuade the said "souter" to transfer his body, by means of his pair of soles, from his own to the artist's studio. The bribe of two guineas a-week, exclusive of "half-mutchkins withouten score," proved, however, unavailing, and the cobbler remained firm to the _last_. By this refusal, "the birkie" has only become poorer by the said couple of guineas, and certain "half-mutchkins drouthier," for so true has the eye of the sculptor proved, that every one is said instantly to recognise the cobbler's phiz and person. A strange perverseness, indeed, or fatality, or what you will, seems to have seized upon all the favored few selected as fitting archetypes for these admirable figures. For, Tam's "nether man" occasioning some anxiety in the perfecting of its sturdy symmetry, a carter, we believe, was laid hold of, and the _gamashins_, being pulled on for half-an-hour, Tam's _right leg_ was finished in rivalship of the said gentleman's _supporter_. It appears to have been agreed upon that he should return at a fitting opportunity, having thus left Tam "hirpling:" but, in the interval, the story of the sitting unfortunately taking _air_, and the soubriquet of "Tam o' Shanter" threatening to attach to the lawful and Christian appellations of the man of carts, no inducement could again bring him within the unhallowed precincts of our sculptor's work-room. In like manner, though at a somewhat later period, while the artist was engaged upon the figure of the landlady, no persuasion could prevail upon one of the many "bonny lasses" who have given such celebrity to Ayr, to exhibit even the "fitting of their pearlings" to Mr. Thom's gaze. One sonsy damsel, on being hard pressed to grant a sitting, replied, "Na, na, I've nae mind to be nickinamed 'landlady;' and, as for gudewife, twa speerings maun gang to that name."

It will, doubtless, excite the admiration of every one in the slightest degree conversant with the Arts, that these figures, so full of life, ease and character, were thus actually executed without model, or drawing, or palpable archetype whatsoever. The artist, indeed, knows nothing of modelling; and so little of drawing, that we question if he would not find difficulty in making even a tolerable sketch of his own work. The chisel is his modelling tool--his pencil--the only instrument of his art, in short, with which he is acquainted, but which he handles in a manner, we may say, almost unprecedented in the history of sculpture.--This, however, is the minor part; for we think, nay, are sure, we discover in this dexterity of hand, in this unerring precision of eye, in this strong, though still untutored, conception of form and character--the native elements of the highest art. These primodial attributes of genius, by proper culture, may do honor to the country and to their possessor. At all events, instruction will refine and improve attempts in the present walk of art, even should study be unable to elevate attainment to a higher. Now, however, it would be not only premature, but unjust, to criticise these statues as regular labors of sculpture. They are to be regarded as wonderful, nay, almost miraculous, efforts of native, unaided, unlearned talent--as an approach to truth almost in spite of nature and of science; but they do not hold with respect to legitimate sculpture--the high-souled, the noblest, the severest of all arts--the same rank as, in painting, the works of the Dutch masters do as compared with the lofty spirits of the Romans--precisely for this reason, that while similar subjects are not only fit, but often felicitous, subjects for the pencil, they are altogether improper objects of sculptural representation.

Though, from the circumstance of being the principals in the composition, and from the intrinsic excellence of their conception, these two figures have chiefly occupied the public attention, they ought not to induce forgetfulness of the artist's other labors. These, besides the Landlord and his mate, consist of several[1] copies, in various sizes, of this original group, and of numerous sculptures, of different character and purpose, from a "head-stane" upwards, executed by Mr. Thom, since his residence in Ayr as a professional stone-cutter. Here his studio is the resort of all intelligent strangers who visit this ancient and beautiful burgh; while his modest manners, and moral worth have conciliated the respect of every one. The character of the Landlady is well sustained, as the buxom bustling head of a well frequented "change-house." Her lord and master, on the other hand, is represented as one who has little to say in his own house, and better qualified to drink, than to earn his pint. The former seems by no means disinclined to reciprocate glances with Tam; while the latter is so convulsed with laughter at the Souter's stories, as to be hardly capable of maintaining the equipoise of the foaming tankard in his hand. Neither, however, is equal in graphic truth and humor to their two companions. A more gigantic, but by no means so happy a work, is the statue of the Scottish patriot, lately placed in the niche of the New Tower, just erected in Ayr, on the site of the ancient "Wallace Tower" of Burns. In fact, we regard this figure as nearly a failure. It possesses neither the truth of nature, nor the dignity of ideal representation. Omitting others of less moment, we shall pass to the most perfect of all Mr. Thom's works--the figure of "Old Mortality." This, though only a model, and not yet, we believe, even commissioned in stone, offers by far the most striking evidence of genius in its author.[2] The costume, attitude, and expression of the old man, as he is represented sitting upon a grave-stone, which he has been occupied in cleaning, are most admirable; and perhaps no artist ever more completely realized the exquisite conception of the original mind. The history of this composition supplies a striking instance of the power of genius over spirits of a congenial stamp, and of the singular coincidences which sometimes take place in its manner of conceiving the same sentiment. During a voyage to London, in a Leith steam packet, Mr. Thom one day found in the cabin, Sir Walter's delightful tale of Old Mortality, which he had never read. Taking it up, he quickly became entirely engrossed in the narrative. The description of the old man, to whom posterity is indebted for many a record, else lost, of our single-minded sufferers for conscience' sake--so fixed itself upon the artist's imagination, that he instantly conceived the idea of representing it in sculpture. By way of concentrating his thoughts, he sketched a figure in the imagined attitude, on one of the boards of the book he had been reading. Pleased with his idea, he transferred it to his pocket-book. A few days after his arrival in London, he was introduced to our celebrated countryman, Wilkie, who, with his accustomed kindness, showed him his portfolios. Mr. Thom's surprise may be imagined, when in one of these he found a sketch of Old Mortality, almost identical with his own, executed by Wilkie several years before. The same thought had struck both, and almost in the same manner.

[Footnote 1: There are now five sets; three of which are the size of life, and two, four and twenty inches high. One set is, or is to be deposited at the temple called the tomb of Burns, in Ayrshire.--Another belongs to Lord Cassili. The third is in this country.]

[Footnote 2: Since the above has been published, Thom has nearly finished his Old Mortality in a block too small for his conception, and which will oblige him to execute an entirely new figure.]

[We extract the following affecting story from the "_Western Monthly Magazine_." Though written in the form of romantic narrative, it presents one of the strongest cases we recollect to have seen, in which innocence is overborne by powerful but false appearances of guilt. It is certainly a strong illustration of the danger of convicting a fellow creature, upon what is technically called _presumptive evidence_, a topic upon which the gentlemen of the bar are furnished with as wide a field for the display of professional ingenuity, as upon any other in the {142} whole compass of jurisprudence. That it is often safe, and indispensably necessary however to rely upon such kind of evidence, is so obvious in itself--and so well established as a legal maxim--that the danger of sometimes convicting, upon a train of specious but deceptive circumstances, is less than the evil of acquittal in the absence of positive, conclusive, and infallible testimony.]

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.

A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT.

The circumstances which I am about to relate, are familiar to many now living. In some particulars I have varied from the truth; but if in the relation of an event which excited intense interest, at the time of its occurrence, I shall succeed in impressing upon any one, the delusive character of circumstantial evidence, my object will be attained.

Beneath the magnificent sycamores which bordered a lovely stream in the southwest part of Kentucky, a company of emigrants had pitched their encampment, for the night. The tents were set up, the night-fire threw its gleam upon the water, the weary horses were feeding, the evening repast was over, and preparations were made for repose. The party consisted of three brothers, with their families, who were wending their way to the new lands of the distant Missouri. On their visages, where the ague had left the sallow traces of its touch, few of the nobler traits of the human character were visible. Accustomed to reside upon the outskirts of society, little versed in its forms, and as little accustomed to the restraints of law, or the duties of morality, they were the fit pioneers of civilization, because their frames were prepared for the utmost endurance of fatigue, and society was purified by their removal. Theirs were not the fearless independence, and frank demeanor which marks the honest backwoodsman of our country; but the untamed license, and the wiley deportment of violent men, who loved not the salutary influence of the law, nor mingled of choice with the virtuous of their own species.

As they stirred the expiring fires, the column of light, mingled with the smoke and cinder, that rose towards the clear sky of the mild May night, revealed two travellers of a different appearance, who had encamped on the margin of the same stream. One was a man of thirty. Several years passed in the laborious practice of medicine, in a southern climate, had destroyed his constitution, and he had come to breathe the bracing air of a higher latitude. The wing of health had fanned into new vigor the waning fires of life, and he was now returning to the home of his adoption with a renovated frame. The young man who sat by him, was a friend, to whom he had paid a visit, and who was now attending him, a short distance, on his journey. They had missed their way, and reluctantly accepted a sullen permission of the emigrants to share their coarse fare, rather than wander in the dark, through unknown forests. Hamilton, the younger of the two, was, perhaps, twenty-seven years of age--and was a young gentleman of prepossessing appearance, of cultivated mind, and of a chivalrous and sensitive disposition. His parents were indigent, and he had, by the energy of his own talents and industry, redeemed them from poverty, and placed them in easy circumstances. In one of his commercial expeditions down the Mississippi, he had met with Saunders, the physician. An intimacy ensued, which though brief, had already ripened into mature friendship.

'Affection knoweth nought of time, It riseth like the vernal flowers; The heart pulse is its only chime, And feelings are its hours.'

Together they had hunted over the flowery barrens, and through the majestic forests of their native state--had scaled the precipice, and swam the torrent--had explored the cavern, and visited whatever was wonderful or curious in the region around them; and both looked forward, with painful feelings, to the termination of an intercourse which had been pleasing and instructive.--As they were to separate in the morning, the evening was spent in conversation--in that copious and involuntary flow of kindness and confidence which the heart pours out at the moment when friends are about to sever, when the past is recalled and the future anticipated, and friendship no longer silent, nor motionless, displays itself like the beauty of the ocean wave, which is most obvious at the moment of its dissolution.

Early in the morning, the two friends prepared to pursue their journey. As they were about to depart, one of the emigrants advanced towards them, and remarked:

'I reckon, strangers, you allow to encamp at Scottville to-night?'

'Yes,' said Saunders, 'I do.'

'Well, then, I can tell you a chute, that's a heap shorter than the road you talk of taking--and at the forks of Rushing river, there's a smart chance of blue clay, that's miry like, and it's right scary crossing at times.'

Supposing they had found a nearer and better road, and one by which a dangerous ford would be avoided, they thanked their informant, and proceeded on their journey.

In some previous conversations, Saunders had learned, that his friend had recently experienced some heavy losses, and was at this time much pressed for money, and wishing to offer him assistance, had from time to time deferred it, from the difficulty of approaching so delicate a subject. As the time of parting approached, however, he drew the conversation to that point, and was informed that the sum of five hundred dollars, would relieve his friend from embarrassment. Having a large sum in his possession, he generously tendered him the amount required, and Hamilton, after some hesitation, accepted the loan, and proposed to give his note for its repayment, which Saunders declined, under the plea that the whole transaction was a matter of friendship, and that no such formality was requisite. When they were about to part, Hamilton unclasped his breast-pin, and presented it to his friend. 'Let this,' said he, 'remind you sometimes of Kentucky--I trust, that when I visit you next year, I shall not see it adorning the person of some favored fair one.' 'I have not so much confidence in you,' laughingly returned the other; and, handing him a silver-hafted penknife curiously embossed, 'I am told that knives and scissors are not acceptable presents to the fair, as they are supposed to cut love, so I have no fear that Almira will get this--and I know that no other human being would cause you to forget your friend.' They then parted.

As Hamilton was riding slowly homeward, engaged in thought, and holding his bridle loosely, a deer sprang suddenly from a thicket, and fell in the road, before his {143} horse, who started and threw him to the ground. In examining the deer, which had been mortally wounded, and was still struggling, some of the blood was sprinkled on his dress, which had been otherwise soiled by his fall. Paying little attention to these circumstances, he returned home.

Though his absence had been brief, many hands grasped his in cordial welcome, many eyes met his own in love, for few of the young men of the county were so universally beloved, and so much respected as Hamilton. But to none was his return so acceptable as to Almira ----. She had been his playmate in infancy, his schoolmate in childhood, in maturer years their intimacy had ripened into love, and they were soon to be united in the holiest and dearest of ties. But the visions of hope were soon to pass from before them, as the _mirage_ of the desert, that mocks the eye of the thirsty traveller, and then leaves him a death-devoted wanderer on the arid waste.

A vague report was brought to the village, that the body of a murdered man was found near Scottville. It was first mentioned by a traveller, in a company where Hamilton was present; and he instantly exclaimed, 'no doubt it is Saunders--how unfortunate that I left him!' and then retired under great excitement. His manner and expressions awakened suspicion, which was unhappily corroborated by a variety of circumstances, that were cautiously whispered by those, who dared not openly arraign a person whose whole conduct through life had been honest, frank, and manly. He had ridden away with Saunders, who was known to have been in possession of a large sum of money. Since his return, he had paid off debts to a considerable amount. The penknife of Saunders was recognized in his hands--yet none were willing, on mere surmise, to hazard a direct accusation.

The effect of the intelligence upon Hamilton was marked. The sudden death of a dear friend is hard to be supported--but when one who is loved and esteemed, is cut off by the dastardly hand of the assassin, the pang of bereavement becomes doubly great, and in this instance, the feelings of deep gratitude which Hamilton felt towards his benefactor, caused him to mourn over the catastrophe, with a melancholy anguish. He would sit for hours in a state of abstraction, from which even the smile of love could not awaken him.

The elections were at hand; and Hamilton was a candidate for the legislature. In the progress of the canvass, the foul charge was openly made, and propagated with the remorseless spirit of party animosity. Yet he heard it not, until one evening as he sate with Almira, in her father's house. They were conversing in low accents, when the sound of an approaching footstep interrupted them, and the father of Almira entered the room. 'Mr. Hamilton,' said he, 'I am a frank man--I consented to your union with my daughter, believing your character to be unstained--but I regret to hear that a charge has been made against you, which, if true, must render you amenable to the laws of your country. I believe it to be a fabrication of your enemies--but, until it shall be disproved, and your character as a man of honor, placed above suspicion, you must be sensible that the proposed union cannot take place, and that your visits to my house must be discontinued.'

'What does my father mean?' inquired the young lady, anxiously, as her indignant parent retired.

'I do not know,' replied the lover, 'it is some electioneering story, no doubt, which I can easily explain. I only regret that it should give him, or you, a moment's uneasiness.'

'It shall cause me none,' replied the confiding girl: 'I cannot believe any evil of you.'

He retired--sought out the nature of the charge, and to his inexpressible astonishment and horror, learned that he was accused of the murder and robbery of his friend! In a state little short of distraction, he retired to his room, recalled with painful minuteness all the circumstances connected with the melancholy catastrophe, and for the first time, saw the dangerous ground on which he stood. But proud in conscious innocence, he felt that to withdraw at that stage of the canvass, might be construed into a confession of guilt. He remained a candidate, and was beaten. Now, for the first time, did he feel the wretchedness of a condemned and degraded man. The tribunal of public opinion had pronounced against him the sentence of conviction; and even his friends, as the excitement of the party struggle subsided, became cold in his defence, and wavering in their belief of his innocence. Conscious that the eye of suspicion was open, and satisfied that nothing short of a public investigation could restore him to honor, the unhappy young man surrendered himself to the civil authority, and demanded a trial. Ah! little did he know the malignity of man, or the fatal energy of popular delusion! He reflected not that when the public mind is imbued with prejudice, even truth itself ceases to be mighty. Many believed him guilty, and those who, during the canvass, had industriously circulated the report, now labored with untiring diligence to collect and accumulate the evidence which should sustain their previous assertions. But arrayed in the panoply of innocence, he stood firm, and confident of acquittal. The best counsel had been engaged--and on the day of trial, Hamilton stood before the assembled county--an arraigned culprit in the presence of those before whom he had walked in honor from childhood.

As the trial proceeded, the confidence of his friends diminished, and those who had doubted, became confirmed in the belief of the prisoner's guilt. Trifles light as air became confirmations strong as proofs of Holy Writ to the jealous minds of the audience, and one fact was linked to another in curious coincidence, until the chain of corroborating circumstances seemed irresistibly conclusive. His recent intimacy with the deceased, and even the attentions which friendship and hospitality had dictated, were ingeniously insisted upon as evidences of a deliberate plan of wickedness--long formed and gradually developed. The facts, that he had accompanied the deceased on his way--that he had lost the path in a country with which he was supposed to be familiar--his conduct on hearing of the death of his friend--the money--the knife--caused the most incredulous to tremble for his fate. But when the breast-pin of Hamilton, found near the body of the murdered man, was produced--and a pistol, known to have been that of the prisoner, was proved to have been picked up near the same spot--but little room was left, even for charity to indulge a benevolent doubt. Nor was this all--the prosecution had still another witness--the pale girl who sate by him, clasping his hand in hers, was unexpectedly called upon to rise and give testimony. She shrunk from the unfeeling call, and buried her face in her {144} brother's bosom. That blow was not anticipated--for none but the cunning myrmidons of party vengeance, who had even violated the sanctuary of family confidence, in search of evidence, dreamed that any criminating circumstance was in the possession of this young lady. At the mandate of the court, she arose, laid aside her veil, and disclosed a face haggard with anxiety and terror. In low tremulous accents, broken with sobs, she reluctantly deposed, that the clothes worn by her brother, on his return from that fatal journey, were torn, soiled with earth, and bloody! An audible murmur ran through the crowd, who were listening in breathless silence--the prisoner bowed his head in mute despair--the witness was borne away insensible--the argument proceeded, and after an eloquent, but vain defence, the jury brought in a verdict of _guilty!_ The sentence of _death_ was passed.

* * * * *

The summer had passed away. The hand of autumn had begun to tinge with mellow hues the magnificent scenery of the forest. It was evening, and the clear moonbeams were shining through the grates of the prisoner's cell. The unhappy man, haggard, attenuated, and heart-broken, was lying upon his wretched pallet, reflecting alternately upon the early wreck of his bright hopes, the hour of ignominy that was just approaching, and the dread futurity into which he should soon be plunged. It was the season at which his marriage with Almira was to have been solemnized. With what pride and joy had he looked forward to this hour! And now, instead of the wedding festivities, the lovely bride, and the train of congratulating friends, so often pictured in fancy, he realized fetters, a dungeon, and a disgraceful death! The well-known tread of the jailer interrupted the bitter train of thought. The door opened, and as the light streamed from a lantern across the cell, he saw a female form timidly approaching. In a moment Almira had sunk on her knees beside him, and their hands were silently clasped together. There are occasions when the heart spurns all constraint, and acts up to its own dictates, careless of public opinion, or prescribed forms--when love becomes the absorbing and overruling passion--and when that which under other circumstances would be mere unlicensed impulse, becomes a hallowed and imperious duty. That noble-hearted girl had believed to the last, that her lover would be honorably acquitted. The intelligence of his condemnation, while it blighted her hopes, and withered her health, never disturbed for one moment her conviction of his innocence. There is an union of hearts which is indestructible, which marriage may sanction, and nourish, and hallow, but which separation cannot destroy--a love that endures while life remains, or until its object shall prove faithless or unworthy. Such was the affection of Almira; and she held her promise to love and honor him, whose fidelity to her was unspotted, and whose character she considered honorable, to be as sacred, as if they had been united in marriage. When all others forsook, she resolved never to forsake him. She had come to visit him in his desolation, and to risk all, to save one who was dear and innocent in her estimation, though guilty in the eyes of the world.

The jailer, a blunt, though humane man, briefly disclosed a plan, which he, with Almira, had devised, for the escape of Hamilton. He had consented to allow the prisoner to escape, in female dress, while she was to remain in his stead, so that the whole contrivance should seem to be her own. 'I am a plain man,' concluded the jailer, 'but I know what's right. It 'aint fair to hang no man on suspicion--and more than that, I am not agoing to stand in no man's way--especially a friend who has done me favors, as you have. I go in for giving every fellow a fair chance. The track's clear, Mr. Hamilton, and the quicker you put out, the better.'

To his surprise, the prisoner peremptorily refused the offer.

'I am innocent,' said he; 'but I would suffer a thousand deaths rather than injure the fair fame of this confiding girl.'

'Go, Dudley--my dear Dudley,' she sobbed: 'for my sake, for the sake of your broken-hearted father and sister--'

'Do not tempt me--my dear Almira. I will not do that which would expose you to disgrace.'

'Oh, who would blame me?'

'The world--the uncharitable world--they who believe me a murderer, and have tortured the most innocent actions into proofs of deliberate villainy, will not hesitate to brand you as the victim of a cold-blooded felon. And why should I fly? to live a wretched wanderer, with the brand of Cain on my forehead, and a character stamped with infamy?'--

He would have said more--but the form, that during this brief dialogue, had sunk into his arms, was lying lifeless on his bosom. He kissed her cold lips, and passionately repeated her name--but she heard him not--her pure spirit had gently disengaged itself, and was flown forever. Her heart was broken. She had watched, and wept, and prayed, in hopeless grief, until the physical energies of a delicate frame were exhausted: and the excitement of the last scene had snapped the attenuated thread of life.

Hamilton did not survive her long. His health was already shattered by long confinement, and the chaffing of a proud spirit. Almira had died for him--and his own mother--oh! how cautiously did they whisper the sad truth, when he asked why _she_ who loved him better than her own life, had forsaken him in the hour of affliction--she, too, had sunk under the dreadful blow. His father lived a withered, melancholy man, crushed in spirit; and as his sister hung like a guardian angel over his death-bed, and he gazed at her pale, emaciated, sorrow-stricken countenance, he saw that she, too, would soon be numbered among the victims of this melancholy persecution. When, with his last breath, he suggested that they would soon meet, she replied: 'I trust that God will spare me to see your innocence established, and then will I die contented.' And her confidence was rewarded--for God does not disappoint those who put their trust in him. About a year afterwards, a wretch, who was executed at Natchez, and who was one of the three persons named in the commencement of this narrative, confessed that he had murdered Saunders, with a pistol which he had found at the place where the two friends had slept. 'I knew it would be so,'--was the only reply of the fast declining sister--and soon after she was buried by the side of Dudley and Almira.--Reader, this is not fiction--nor are the decisions of God unjust--but his ways are above our comprehension.

EMILLION.

{145}

LAW LECTURE AT WILLIAM AND MARY.

A Lecture on the Study of the Law; being an Introduction to a course of lectures on that subject, in the College of William and Mary, by Beverley Tucker, Professor of Law.--Richmond: T. W. White. Nov. 1834.

It is impossible for a Virginian not to feel an interest in old William and Mary. Recollecting the many able men who have been nurtured within its walls, and signalized as lawyers, legislators and statesmen, we cannot but feel gratified at every effort in its behalf that promises to be of use. From the time of Judge Semple's last appointment as Judge of the General Court, until the month of July, the law chair had remained vacant. A vacancy in so important a department continuing for so long a period, could not fail to be prejudicial to the institution. It was in vain that the other professorships were ably filled. The circumstance of the lectures in the law department being suspended, made many fear that the other professorships would one by one share the same fate--that this vacancy was but a precursor to others--that a failure to fill this would be followed by like failures hereafter--and that in a few years the doors of this venerable pile would be closed. These inferences are strengthened by the fact, that a very important professorship (the professorship of mathematics) had formerly been permitted to remain vacant for even a longer period than that which is the subject of these brief reflections. With such anticipations, it is no wonder that every class has latterly been characterized by the smallness of its numbers.

The Board of Visiters, at their meeting in July, resolved that the vacancy should continue no longer, and conferred the appointment of law professor upon Beverley Tucker. Mr. Tucker is well known as a writer upon constitutional questions, and his appointment to the bench of another state, after a short residence in it, affords evidence of the estimation in which his legal attainments were there held. The same professorship to which _he_ is now appointed, was filled many years ago by his father _St. George Tucker_, whose edition of Blackstone's Commentaries, and subsequent appointment first in the state and then in the federal judiciary, have given him a reputation with members of the bar throughout the Union.

The letter and answer which precede the introductory lecture of Professor Tucker, sufficiently explain the circumstances under which that lecture is published.

* * * * *

_Williamsburg, October 27, 1834_.

_Dear Sir:_--The students of William and Mary, highly gratified by your able and eloquent address, delivered before them this day, have held a special meeting, and by unanimous vote adopted the following resolution:

_Resolved_, (At a meeting of the students in the large lecture room on the 27th inst.) That a committee be appointed to address a note to Professor Tucker, for the purpose of expressing their admiration of the able and interesting lecture which he has this day delivered, introductory to his course on law, and to solicit the same for publication.

We hope for your assent to this request, and in performing this agreeable duty, we tender you our sentiments of respect and esteem.

JNO. W. DEW, CHAS. H. KENNEDY, WM. T. FRENCH, JOHN MURDAUGH,

_Professor Tucker_. _Committee_.

* * * * *

_Williamsburg, October 28, 1834_.

_Gentlemen:_--I acknowledge the receipt of your polite note, and am happy to comply with the request which it conveys. Identified with the College of William and Mary by the early recollections and warm affections of youth, I have nothing so much at heart as a desire to be found worthy to aid in restoring that venerable institution to all its former prosperity and usefulness. Your approbation is dear to me, as encouraging a hope that my efforts may not be unavailing. If I shall be so fortunate as to send out into the world but one more, to be added to the list of illustrious men, who are every where found upholding, with generous, devoted and enlightened zeal, the free institutions inherited from our fathers, in their true spirit, I shall have my reward. If I can succeed in impressing on my class the conviction, that freedom has its duties, as well as its rights, and can only be preserved by the faithful discharge of those duties, I shall have my reward. If I can do no more than to furnish to the profession members devoted to its duties, and qualified to sustain its high character for intelligence and integrity, by diligence and fidelity even in its humblest walks, I shall still have my reward. In either case I shall have rendered valuable service, to you, to this venerable institution, to this scene of my earliest, happiest and best days, and to Virginia--my mother--the only country to which my heart has ever owned allegiance. Far as my feet have wandered from her soil, my affections have always cleaved to her, and as the faithful mussulman, in every clime, worships with his face towards the tomb of his prophet, so has my heart ever turned to her, alive to all her interests, jealous of her honor, resentful of her wrongs, partaking in all her struggles, exulting in her triumphs, and mourning her defeats. May she again erect herself to her former proud attitude and walk before the children of liberty in the pathless desert where they now wander, as a "cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night."

For yourselves, gentlemen, and those whom you represent, be pleased to accept my acknowledgments for the compliment implied in your application. I would ask you to accept the expression of another sentiment, if I knew how to express it. Returning to Williamsburg after an absence commencing in early life, the long and dreary interval seems obliterated. I find myself remitted at once to the scenes and to the feelings of youth. It would seem more natural to me to come among you as a companion than as an instructer. But this may not be much amiss. My business is with your _heads_, but the road to them is through the _heart_, and if I can only bring you to understand and reciprocate my feelings, there will be nothing wanting to facilitate the communication of any instruction I may be capable of bestowing.

I remain, gentlemen, with high regard, your friend and obedient servant,

B. TUCKER.

To _Messrs. J. W. Dew, John Murdaugh, Wm. T. French, and Chs. H. Kennedy_.

* * * * *

YOUNG GENTLEMEN:

I gladly avail myself of an established custom, to offer some remarks on the mutual relation into which we have just entered, and the studies which will occupy our attention during the ensuing course.

This day is to you the commencement of the most important æra of life. You have heretofore been engaged in studies, for the most part useful, but sometimes merely ornamental or amusing. The mind, it is true, can hardly fail to improve, by the exertion necessary to the acquisition of knowledge of any kind, even as the athletic sports of the boy harden and prepare the body for the labors of the man. But, in many particulars, what you have heretofore learned may be of little practical value in the business of life; and your past neglects may perhaps be attended with no loss of prosperity or respectability in future. Some of you are probably acquainted with sciences of which others are ignorant; but are not for that reason any better prepared for the new course of studies on which you are about to enter. Nor will such knowledge necessarily afford its possessors any advantage at {146} the bar, or in the senate, or on any of the arenas, where the interests of individuals and nations are discussed, and the strifes of men decided. But the time is now past with you, young gentlemen, when you can lose a moment, or neglect an opportunity of improvement, without a lasting and irreparable detriment to yourselves. You this day put on the _toga virilis_, and enter on the _business of life_. This day you commence those studies on which independence, prosperity, respectability, and the comfort and happiness of those who will be dearest to you, must depend. For, trust me, these things mainly depend on excellence in the profession or occupation, whatever it may be, which a man chooses as the business of his life. The humblest mechanic will derive more of all these good things from diligence and proficiency in his trade, than he possibly can from any knowledge unconnected with it.

This, which is true of all occupations, is most emphatically true of that which you have chosen. To be eminent in _our_ profession is to hold a place among the great ones of the earth; and they, who devote themselves to it, have the rare advantage of treading the path which leads to the highest objects of honorable ambition, even while walking the round of daily duties, and providing for the daily wants of private life. The history of our country is full of proof that the bar is the road to eminence; and I beg you to remark how few of its members have attained to this eminence in public life, without having been first distinguished in the profession. To win _its_ honors, and to wear them worthily, is to attain an elevation from which all other honors are accessible: but to turn aside disgusted with its labors, is to lose this vantage ground, and to sink again to the dead level of the common mass. You should therefore learn to look on the profession of your choice, as the source from whence are to flow all the comforts, the honors, and the happiness of life. Let it be as a talisman, in which, under God, you put your trust, assuring yourselves that whatever you seek by means of it you will receive.

I have the more naturally fallen into these remarks, as they are in some sort suggested, and are certainly justified by the history of this institution. If you trace back the lives of the men, who at this moment occupy the most enviable pre-eminence in your native state, you will find that they received the rudiments of their professional and political education at this venerable but decayed seminary. There are certainly distinguished members of the profession, and illustrious men out of the profession, to whom this remark does not apply. But when Virginia (_Magna Parens Virum_,) is called on to show her jewels, to whom does she more proudly point than to men who once occupied those very seats; who here received the first impulse in their career; who here commenced that generous strife for superiority which has placed them all so high.

The subject of our researches, young gentlemen, will be the municipal law of Virginia. The text book which will be placed in your hands is the American edition of Blackstone's Commentaries, published thirty years ago by one of my predecessors in this chair. You will readily believe that it would be my pride to walk, with filial reverence by the lights which he has given us, and that, in doing so, I should feel secure of escaping any harsh animadversion from those to whom I am responsible, and who still cherish so favorable a recollection of his services. I shall certainly endeavor to avail myself of this privilege; though it may be occasionally necessary to assume a more perilous responsibility. A brief sketch of the plan which I propose to myself, will show you how far I shall follow, and wherein, and why, I shall deviate from the path which he has traced.

Municipal law is defined by Mr. Blackstone, "to be a rule of civil conduct prescribed by the supreme power of the state." By Justinian it is said, "_Id quod quisque populus sibi jus constituit, vocatur jus civile_:" which has been well rendered thus: "It is the system of rules of civil conduct which any state has ordained for itself."

Whatever definition we adopt, we shall find that municipal law is distinguishable into four grand divisions, which may be properly designated by the following description:

1. That which regulates the nature and form of the body politic; which establishes the relation that each individual bears to it, and the rights and duties growing out of that relation, which determines the principles on which it exercises authority over him; and settles a system of jurisprudence by which it operates to protect and enforce right, and to redress and punish wrong.

2. That which determines the relations of individual members of society to each other; which defines the rights growing out of that relation; and regulates the right of property, and such personal rights as must subsist even in a state of nature.

3. That which defines the wrongs that may be done by one individual member of society to another, in prejudice of his rights, whether of person or property, and provides means for preventing or redressing such wrongs.

4. That which defines and denounces the wrongs which may be done by any individual member of society, in violation of the duties growing out of his relation to the body politic, and provides means for preventing and punishing such violation.

The first of these divisions is treated by Mr. Blackstone in his first book, under the comprehensive head of "The Rights of Persons." Under the same head he includes so much of the second division as relates to such personal rights as must have belonged to man in a state of nature, and such {147} as grow out of his relation to other individual members of society. Such are the _relative_ rights of husband and wife, parent and child, guardian and ward, and master and servant--and the _absolute_ rights, of personal liberty, and of security to life, limb and reputation. These rights are obviously not the creatures of civil society, however they may be regulated and modified by municipal law. They in no wise depend on "the nature or form of the body politic;" nor on "the relations which individuals bear to it;" nor on "the rights and duties growing out of that relation;" nor on "the principles on which it exercises authority over individuals;" nor on "the system of jurisprudence."

As little indeed do they depend on "the rights of property," but they have much in common with them. Together with them, they collectively form the mass of "individual rights," as contradistinguished from "political rights." Neither class derives its existence from civil society, although both are alike liable to be regulated by it, and the two together form the subject of almost all controversies between man and man. Now with rights in actual and peaceable enjoyment, law has nothing to do. It is controversy which calls it into action; and as both this class of personal rights, and the rights of property, have the same common origin--both subsisting by titles paramount to the constitutions of civil society; as both are the ordinary subjects of controversy between individuals; and as these controversies are all conducted according to similar forms, decided by the same tribunals, and adjusted by the like means,--it is found convenient to arrange them together in a course of instruction. Such I believe has always been the practice in this institution. Proposing to conform to it, I have thought it best, in the outset, to intimate this slight difference between this practice and Mr. Blackstone's arrangement.

There is another particular in which Mr. Blackstone's order of instruction has been advantageously changed at this place. His is certainly the true _philosophical_ arrangement of the subject. When we are told that "municipal law is a rule of civil conduct prescribed by the supreme power in the state," it is obvious to ask, "what is that supreme power, and whence comes its supremacy?" When we are told that it is "the system of rules of civil conduct, which the state has ordained for itself," the first inquiry is, "what is the state?" Thus whatever definition of municipal law we adopt, the subject of inquiry that meets us at the threshold is the _Lex Legum_; the law which endues the municipal law itself with authority.

If the individual to be instructed were one who had heretofore lived apart from law and government, yet capable (if such a thing were possible) of understanding the subject, it is here we ought to commence. To him it would be indispensable to explain, in the first instance, the structure of the body politic; to specify the rights surrendered by individuals; and to set before him the equivalent privileges received in exchange. _We_ too might be supposed to require a like exposition before we would be prepared to submit to the severe restraints and harsh penalties of _criminal_ law. But in regard to controversies between individuals we feel no such jealousies. In these, the law, acting but as an arbiter, indifferent between the parties, no question concerning its authority occurs to the mind. The readiness with which we acquiesce in its decisions, is strikingly manifested in the fact, that the whole of England, Ireland and the United States are, for the most part, governed by a law which has no voucher for its authority but this acquiescence. The same thing may be said of the authority of the civil law on the continent of Europe. It thus appears that the mind does not always require to be informed of the origin of the law which regulates and enforces, or protects individual rights, before it will condescend to inquire what are its behests. _Prima facie_ it should be so; but being, in point of fact, born in the midst of law, habituated to it from our infancy, and accustomed to witness uniform obedience to its authority on the part of those whom we were taught to obey, we learn to regard it as a thing _in rerum natura_, rather than of human invention; a sort of moral atmosphere, which, like that we breathe, seems a very condition of our existence.

There is therefore no inconvenience to be apprehended from taking up the subject in an inverted order, treating first of individual rights, and reserving those that grow out of the relation of the citizen to the body politic, and the correlative duties of that relation, for future inquiry.

While there is nothing to be objected to this arrangement, there is much in favor of it. It is important that they who engage in the study of political law, should come to the task with minds prepared for it; well stored with analogous information, and sobered and subdued by the discipline of severe investigation. There is a simplicity in some views of government which is apt to betray the student into a premature belief that he understands it thoroughly; and then, measuring the value of his imagined acquirements, not by the labor that they have cost him, but by the dignity and importance of the subject, he becomes inflated, self-satisfied and unteachable; resting in undoubting assurance on the accuracy and sufficiency of such bare outline as his instructer may have thought proper to place before him. But in those countries where the authority of government rests on a questionable title, they who are entrusted with the education of youth, may naturally wish to keep them from looking into it too narrowly. Hence it may be a measure of policy with them, to introduce the student, in the first place, to the study of political law, in the hope of making on his raw and unpractised {148} mind, such an impression, as may secure his approbation of the existing order of things. The faculty of investigating legal questions, and forming legal opinions, may almost be regarded as an acquired faculty; so that, in the earlier part of his researches, the student necessarily acquiesces in the doctrines which are pronounced _ex cathedra_ by his teacher. At this time he readily receives opinions on trust; and if it be his interest to cherish them, or if he is never called on in after life to reexamine them, he is apt to carry them with him to the grave. This is perhaps as it should be in England and other countries of Europe. Having no part in the government, it may be well enough that he should learn to sit down contented with this sort of enlightened ignorance.

But with us the case is different. The authority of our governments is derived by a title that fears no investigation. We feel sure, that, the better it is understood, the more it will be approved. It rests too on a charter conferring regulated and limited powers; and the well being of the country requires that the limitations and regulations be strictly observed. Now every man among us has his "place in the commonwealth." It is on the one hand, the duty of every man to aid in giving full effect to all legitimate acts of government; and on the other, to bear his part in restraining the exercise of all powers forbidden or not granted. Every man therefore owes it to his country to acquire a certain proficiency in constitutional law, so as to act understandingly, when called on to decide between an alleged violation of the constitution, and an imputed opposition to lawful authority. Such occasions are of daily occurrence. Scarcely a day has passed, since the adoption of the federal constitution, when some question of this sort has not been before the public. Such is the effect of that impatience of restraint natural to man. So prompt are the people to become restive under laws of questionable authority, and so apt are rulers to strain at the curb of constitutional limitations, that one or the other, or both of these spectacles, is almost always before us.

When you come then, young gentlemen, to the study of political and constitutional law, you will find it no small advantage to have been engaged for some months before in studies of a similar character. The opinions you will then form will be properly your own. I may not be so successful as I might wish, in impressing you with those I entertain; but I shall be more gratified to find you prepared to "give a reason for the faith that is in you," whatever that faith may be, than to hear you rehearse, by rote, any political catechism that I could devise. I shall accordingly postpone any remarks on constitutional and political law, until your minds have been exercised and hardened by the severe training they will undergo in the study of the private rights of individuals, of wrongs done in prejudice of such rights, and of the remedies for such wrongs. All these topics are embraced in the second and third division of municipal law, that I have laid before you.

To these belong the most intricate and difficult questions in the science of law. In introducing you to the study of these, let me say, in the language of one from whom I am proud to quote, that, "I cannot flatter you with the assurance that 'your yoke is easy and your burden light.' I will not tell you that your path leads over gentle ascents and through flowery meads, where every new object entices us forward, and stimulates to perseverance. By no means! The task you have undertaken is one of the most arduous; the profession you have chosen one of the most laborious; the study you are about to pursue, one of the most difficult that can be conceived. But you have made your election. You have severed yourselves from the common herd of youth, who shrink from every thing that demands exertion and perseverance. You have chosen between the allurements of pleasure and the honors which await the disciples of wisdom. You yield to others to keep the noiseless tenor of their way in inglorious ease. You have elected for yourselves the path that philosophers and moralists represent as leading, up a rugged ascent, to the temple of fame. It may be the lot of some of you to elevate yourselves by talents and unabating zeal, in the pursuit you have selected. But these distinguished honors are not to be borne away by the slothful and inert. _Nulla palma sine pulvere_. He who would win the laurel, must encounter the sweat and toil of the _arena_. Nor will it suffice that he _occasionally_ presses on to the goal. If he slackens in his efforts he must lose ground. We roll a Sisyphean stone to an exalted eminence. He who gives back loses what his strength had gained; and sinking under the toil his own indolence increases, will at length give up his unsteady efforts in despair."--1. T. C. Introduction, p. vi.

I can add nothing to these striking remarks but my testimony to their truth. There is, perhaps, no study that tasks the powers of the mind more severely than that of law. In it, as in the study of mathematics, nothing is learned at all that is not learned perfectly; and a careless perusal of Euclid's elements would not be more unprofitable, than that of a treatise on the laws of property. Nor will a mere effort of memory be of more avail in the one case than in the other. Both must be remembered by being understood; by being through the exercise of intense thought, incorporated as it were into the very texture of the mind. To this end its powers must be fully and faithfully exerted. As, in lifting at a weight, you do but throw away your labor, until you man yourself to the exertion of the full measure of strength necessary to raise it; so, in this study, you may assure yourselves that all you have done is of no avail, if you pass {149} from any topic without thoroughly understanding it. And let no man persuade you that genius can supply the place of this exertion. Genius does not so manifest itself. The secret of its wonderful achievements is in the energy which it inspires. It is because its prompting sting, like the sharp goad of necessity, urges to herculean effort, that it is seen to accomplish herculean tasks. He is deceived who fancies himself a favored child of genius, unless he finds his highest enjoyment in intellectual exercise. He should go to the toil of thought like the champion to the lists, seeking in the very _certaminis gaudia_ the rich reward of all his labors.

There may be something startling, I fear, in this exhibition of the difficulties that lie before you, and it is proper to encourage you by the assurance that by strenuous effort they may be certainly overcome. Remember too that this effort will be painful only in the outset. The mind, like the body, soon inures itself to toil, and wears off the soreness consequent on its first labors. When this is done, the task becomes interesting in proportion to its difficulty, and subjects which are understood without effort, and which do not excite the mind to thought, seem flat and insipid.

But lest the student should falter and give back in his earlier struggles, it is the duty of the teacher to afford him such aids as he can. This is mainly to be done by means of such an analysis and arrangement of the subject as may prevent confusion, and consequent perplexity and discouragement.

There are two sorts of analysis, each proper in its place. The one _philosophical_, by which the different parts of a subject are so arranged, as to exhibit in distinct groups those things that depend on the same or like principles, and such as are marked by characteristic points of resemblance; giving a sort of honorary precedence to the most important. The other sort of analysis may be termed _logical_. It is that method by which different propositions are so arranged, as that no one of them shall ever be brought under consideration, until all others which may be necessary to the right understanding of that one, have been established and explained. Of this last description sire Euclid's elements, in which it is interesting to observe that no one proposition could with propriety be made to change its place; each one depending for its demonstration, directly or indirectly, upon all that have gone before.

Blackstone's Commentaries may be cited as an example of _philosophical_ analysis. He has indeed been careful to avoid perplexing his reader, through the want of a strictly _logical_ arrangement, by dealing chiefly in generalities, and never descending to such particulars as might be unintelligible for want of a knowledge of matters not yet treated of. This I take to be the reason why his work has been characterized as being "less an institute of law, than a methodical guide or elementary work adapted to the commencement of a course of study. He treats most subjects in a manner too general and cursory to give the student an adequate knowledge of them. After having pursued his beautiful arrangement, he is obliged to seek elsewhere for farther details. After having learnt the advantage of system, he is almost at the threshold of the science, turned back without a guide, to grope among the mazy volumes of our crowded libraries. This cannot be right. If system is of advantage at all, it is of advantage throughout. Were it practicable, it would be better for the student to have a single work, which embracing the whole subject, should properly arrange every principle and every case essential to be known preparatory to his stepping on the _arena_. Much, very much indeed, would still be left to be explored in the course of his professional career, independent of the _apices juris_, which the most vigorous and persevering alone can hope to attain."--Tucker's Commentary, Introduction, p. 4.

The justice of these remarks none can deny. It might be thought unbecoming in me to say how much the writer from whom I quote them has done to supply such a work as he describes. Yet I cannot suffer any feeling of delicacy to restrain me from the duty of recommending that work to your attentive perusal. I shall eagerly, too, avail myself of his permission to make frequent use of it, as I know of no book which so well supplies the necessary details to parts of the subject of which Mr. Blackstone has given only loose and unprofitable sketches. It is to be lamented that in doing this he has so strictly bound himself to the arrangement of that writer. That arrangement, as I have remarked, imposed on Mr. Blackstone the necessity of being occasionally loose and superficial. For want of one more strictly logical, the Virginia Commentator often finds it impossible to go into the necessary detail, without anticipating matters which properly belong to subsequent parts of his treatise; and too often, where this is impracticable, topics and terms are introduced, the explanation of which is, perhaps, deferred to the next volume.

An instance will illustrate my meaning:--Mr. Blackstone classes remedies for private wrongs, thus: "first, that which is obtained by the _mere act_ of the parties themselves; secondly, that which is effected by the _mere act_ and operation of _law_; and thirdly, that which arises from _suit_ or _action_ in courts." Now, it probably occurred to him, that he could not go into details on the two first of these three heads, without presenting ideas which would be unintelligible to any who had not already studied the third. In striving to avoid this, he has touched so lightly upon the other two, that his remarks on the important subjects of distress and accords, which come under the first head, leave the {150} student nearly as ignorant as they found him. For this there was no real necessity, as a knowledge of the two first heads is by no means necessary, or indeed at all conducive to the right understanding of the third. Had the pride of philosophical analysis, and symmetry of arrangement, been sacrificed to the laws of logic and reason, there was nothing to forbid the introduction of treatises on these important topics, as copious and elaborate as those supplied by the diligence and research of the Virginia Commentator. The manner in which this has been done, has made it manifest how unfavorable the arrangement of Mr. Blackstone sometimes is to amplification and minuteness. The essays of the President of the Court of Appeals on distresses and accords, leave nothing to be desired. Yet no one can read them profitably without having first studied the law of remedies by suit or action.

These, and some other instances of the same sort, have led me to this determination. Wishing to avail myself of the labors of the Virginia Commentator, without losing the benefit of Mr. Blackstone's analysis, I propose to preserve the latter, but to make occasional changes in his arrangement, substituting one more logical, though perhaps less philosophical. This, and the postponement of the study of political law, are the only liberties I propose to take. The fourth division, which relates to crimes and punishments, will be the last considered. This will be done not only in a spirit of conformity to Mr. Blackstone's plan, but also because one of the most important branches of criminal law has reference to an offence of which no just idea can be formed without a previous and diligent study of the Constitution and of the science of government.

This last mentioned subject, young gentlemen, I should perhaps pass over but lightly, were I free to do so, contenting myself with a passing allusion to its connexion with the study of the law, and the encouragement you should derive from the honorable rewards that await distinguished merit in our profession. But this is not a mere school of professional education, and it is made my duty, by the statutes of the College, to lecture especially on the constitution of this state and of the United States. In the discharge of this duty it may be necessary to present views more important to the statesman, than to the mere practitioner. When I think of the difficulty and high responsibility attending this part of my task, I would gladly escape from it; but considerations of its importance and of the benefit to the best interests of our country which has heretofore resulted from its faithful execution, come in aid of a sense of duty, and determine me to meet it firmly and perform it zealously.

The mind of the student of law is the ground in which correct constitutional opinions and sound maxims of political law should be implanted. The study of the common law involves the study of all the rights which belong to man in a state of society. The history of the common law is a history of the occasional invasions of these rights, of the struggles in which such invasions have been repelled, and of the securities provided to guard against their recurrence. A mind thoroughly acquainted with the nature and importance of the writ of _habeas corpus_, and the trial by jury, and rightly understanding the indestructible character of the right of private property, will hardly fail to be awake to any attack which may be aimed at liberty from any quarter. Hence liberty finds in the students of the law a sort of body guard. Their professional apprenticeship serves as a civil polytechnic school, where they are taught the use of weapons to be wielded in her defence. The history of our country from the first dawning of the revolution is full of proofs and examples of this. The clear view of the rights of the colonies which led to the Declaration of Independence, was one which hardly any but lawyers could have taken, and of the accuracy of which none but lawyers could have been sure. It was from them the ball of the revolution received its first impulse, and under their guidance it was conducted to the goal. Some few others were placed forward by circumstances; but they soon fell back, or found their proper place of service in the field; leaving the great cause to be managed by those whose studies qualified them to know where to insist, and where to concede; when to ward, and when to strike. The state papers emanating from the first congress will, accordingly, be found worthy to be compared with the ablest productions of the kind recorded in history; displaying an ability, temper, and address, which prepares the reader to be told that a large majority of the members of that body were lawyers.

In Mr. Blackstone's introductory lecture are some remarks on the importance of the study of the law to English gentlemen, strictly applicable to this view of the subject. "It is," says he, "perfectly amazing, that there should be no other state of life, no other occupation, art, or science, in which some method of instruction is not looked upon as necessary, except only the science of legislation, the noblest and most difficult of any. Apprenticeships are held necessary to almost every art, commercial or mechanical: a long course of reading and study must form the divine, the physician, and the practical professor of the laws: but every man of superior fortune thinks himself _born_ a legislator. Yet Tully was of a different opinion: 'it is necessary,' says he, 'for a senator to be thoroughly acquainted with the constitution; and this,' he declares, 'is a knowledge of the most extensive nature; a matter of science, of diligence, of reflection; without which no senator can possibly be fit for his office.'"

If the part in the government allotted to the people of England renders this admonition {151} important to them, how much more important must it be to us, who are in theory and in fact _our own rulers_. Not only is every office accessible to each one of us; but each, even in private life, as soon as he puts on manhood, assumes a "place in the commonwealth." In practice, as in theory, the SOVEREIGNTY OF THE STATE is in us. _Born to the purple_, the duties of that high destiny attach upon us at our birth; and unless we qualify ourselves to discharge them, we must cease to reproach the ignorance and folly, the passion and presumption, which so often disgrace the sovereigns of the old world, and heap wretchedness and ruin on their subjects. The same causes will have the like effects here as there. Power does not imply wisdom or justice, whether in the hands of the few or the many: and it is only by the diligent study of our duties in this important station that we can qualify ourselves so to administer its functions, as to save the free institutions inherited from our fathers, from the same reproach which the testimony of history fixes upon all other governments.

Not only is this true in reference to us as well as to the kings of the earth, but it is more emphatically true of us than of them. Whatever be their theory of sovereignty, and however they may prate about _divine right_, they all know, and feel, that, after all, they are but _kings by sufferance_. They may talk of absolute sovereignty, and claim for government that sort of _omnipotence_ which is said to reside in the British parliament. But, after all, they know and feel, that there is much they cannot do, because there is much they dare not do. The course of events now passing in England is full of proof of this. We have just seen that same omnipotent parliament, new-modelling itself to suit the wishes of the people. This act indeed, was itself an exertion of this pretended omnipotence, but wisely and discreetly exercised, in surrendering power. It was certainly done with a very bad grace; and at this moment we see that body anxiously watching the temper of the multitude, and adapting its measures, not to the views of its members, not even to the views of the constituent body, but to the real or supposed interests of the great unrepresented mass. Such is the check, which in spite of all positive institutions, the physical force of numbers, however degraded, and, professedly, disregarded, must exercise over their rulers; and in this check, they find a motive to justice, forbearance, and circumspection, which, in a measure, restrains the abuse of power.

But may not we, the sovereign citizens of these states, abuse power too? When men are numerous and "strong enough to set their duties at defiance, do they cease to be duties any longer?" Does that which would be unjust as the act of ninety-nine, become just, as being the act of an hundred? Is it in the power of numbers to alter the nature of things, and to justify oppression, though it should fall on the head of only one victim? It would be easy to point to instances in which we all believe that majorities have done great wrong; and that under such wrongs we have suffered and are still suffering we all know. But where is the check on such abuse of power? Constitutional authority and physical force are both on the same side, and if the _wisdom_ and _justice_ of those who wield both does not freely afford redress, there arc no means of enforcing it. "There is no sanction to any contract against the will of prevalent power."

The justice of these ideas is recognized in the forms of all our governments. The limitations on the powers of congress and the state legislatures, are all predicated on the certain truth "that majorities may find or imagine an interest in doing wrong." Hence there are many things which cannot be lawfully done by a bare majority; and many more, which no majority, however great, is authorised to do. Two-thirds of the senate must concur in a sentence of impeachment. The life and property of an individual cannot be taken away but by the unanimous voice of his triers; and all the branches of all our governments collectively cannot lawfully enact a bill of attainder, or an _ex post facto_ statute.

But though such acts are forbidden by the constitution, they may nevertheless be passed, and judges may be found to enforce them, if those holding legislative and judicial offices shall be so minded. The constituents, too, of a majority of the legislature may approve and demand such acts. Where then is the security that such things will not be done? Where can it be but in the enlightened sense of justice and right in the constituent body?

I am not sure that such restraints on the powers of public functionaries are not even more necessary in a republican government than in any other. A king can scarcely have a personal interest in ruining one portion of his dominions for the benefit of the rest, and he would not dare to ruin the whole, while a spark of intelligence and spirit remained among the people. But in a republic, whenever the inclination and the power to do such a wrong concur, the very nature of the case secures the rulers from all fear of personal consequences. The majority is with them. Their own constituents are with them. To these is their first duty; and shall they hesitate to do that which is to benefit their constituents, out of tenderness to those who are not their constituents? We know how such questions are answered, when the occasion is one where a _fixed majority_ have a _fixed interest_ in the proposed wrong. Is not this the reason why legislative encroachment so much disposes men to acquiesce in executive usurpation? Is it not this, which, when the barriers of constitutional restraint are seen to fall, drives minorities, _as by a sort of {152} fatal instinct_, to seek shelter under the arm of a _common master_, from the all pervading tyranny of majorities exercising the power of _universal legislation_? The wrongs of America were the act of the parliament of England, goaded on by the people. It was they who claimed a right to legislate in all things for the colonies. It was they who demanded a revenue from America; and the colonies, eagerly looking to the crown for protection, maintained an unshaken loyalty, until the king was seen to take part with their oppressors. The wrongs of Ireland are the act of the people of England. Ireland is the rival of England in agriculture, manufactures and commerce; and every concession to the former, seems to the multitude to be something taken from the prosperity of the latter. But the representation of Ireland in parliament is to that of England as one to five; and when the Irish people cry to parliament for redress, they are answered _as all appeals from minorities are answered by the representatives of majorities_. But how would they be answered if the representative and constituent bodies were both thoroughly instructed in the sacred character and paramount authority and importance of the _duties_ which belong to the high function of sovereignty? We justly deny and deride the divine right of kings; and we assert and maintain _the divine right of the people to self government_. And it is a divine right. It is a corollary from the right and duty to fulfil the purposes of our being, which accompany each one of us into the world. The right and the duty both come from the author of that being. He imposes the one when he gives the other, and thus fixes on us a responsibility which clings to us through life. We deceive ourselves if we think to get rid of any portion of this responsibility by entering into partnership with others, each one of whom brings into the concern the same rights, the same duties, and the same responsibilities;--neither more nor less than ourselves. We do but multiply, and divide again by the same number. Each receives, by way of dividend, the same amount of right, duty, and responsibility that he carried into the common stock. Of so high a nature are these, and so vast are the interests with which they are connected, that it has been truly said, that, whether we mount the hustings or go to the polls, we may well tremble to give or to receive the power which is there conferred.

Gentlemen; if these ideas be just, how important is the duty imposed on me by that statute of the college which requires me to lecture on constitutional law! How desirable is it that there should be every where schools, in which the youth of our country should be thoroughly imbued with correct opinions and just sentiments on this subject! It was Agesilaus, I think, who said that "the business of education was to prepare the boy for the duties of the man." How pre-eminently important, then, must be that branch of education which is to qualify him to perform this highest of all social duties, and to bear worthily his part in that relation which has been characterized as "a partnership in all science, in all art, in every virtue, and in all perfection; a partnership, not only between those who are living, but between those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are yet to be born."

These striking words, which are from the pen of the celebrated Edmund Burke, call to mind the high testimony which he has borne in favor of the study of the law, as a school of political rights. After having acted an important part in procuring the repeal of the stamp act, he made his last effort in favor of the rights of the colonies, in March, 1775. On that occasion, laboring to dissuade the British parliament from pushing America to extremities, he descanted on the love of freedom, which he pronounced to be the predominating feature in the character of our fathers. The prevalence of this passion he ascribed to a variety of causes, none more powerful than the number of lawyers, and the familiarity of the people with the principles of the common law. His ideas I will give you in his own words, for it is only in his own words that his ideas ever can be fittingly expressed.

He says, "In no country perhaps in the world is the law so general a study. The profession itself is numerous and powerful; and in most provinces it takes the lead. The greater number of the deputies sent to the congress were lawyers. But all who read, and most do read, endeavor to obtain some smattering in that science.... This study renders men _acute_, _inquisitive_, _dexterous_, _prompt in attack_, _ready in defence_, _full of resources_. In other countries, the people, more simple, and of a less mercurial cast, judge of an ill principle in government only by an actual grievance; _here they anticipate the evil, and judge of the pressure of the grievance by the badness of the principle. They augur misgovernment at a distance, and snuff the approach of tyranny in every tainted breeze._"

Such, young gentlemen, is the important and useful influence which the study of our profession enables its members to exert. But if, instead of preparing their minds by this study, the very men to whom the people look up for light, do but provide themselves with a few set phrases contrived to flatter and cajole them, what but evil can come of it?

"The people can do no wrong." Why! this if but what all sovereigns hear from their flatterers. In one sense, it is indeed true of both, for there is no human tribunal before which either king or people can be arraigned. But neither can make right and wrong change places and natures.

"_Vox populi, vox Dei._" "It is the voice of God." {153} So said the Jews of the impious Herod. But the judgments of the insulted Deity showed how mere a worm he was; and _his_ judgments are not limited to kings, nor withheld by numbers. We may preserve all the outward forms of freedom, the checks and balances of the constitution may remain to all appearance undisturbed, and yet he who can "curse our blessings" may give us over to all the evils of despotism, if we do not "lay to heart" the high duties of that freedom wherewith he has made us free.

I am sensible, young gentlemen, that, to many, these ideas will not be acceptable. And for an obvious reason. "Men like well enough," it is said, "to hear of their power, but have an extreme disrelish to be told of their duties." Yet in a government of equal rights, these are strictly correlative. The rights of each individual are the exact measure of the duties which others owe to him, and of coarse, of those he owes to others. This is so obviously true, that it needs but be stated, to be recognized at once as a man recognizes his face in the glass. But _he_ "goeth his way, and straightway forgetteth what manner of man he was." Let not us do likewise.

But there is another reason why many will hear with impatience of the difficulties attendant on the proper discharge of duties, which are too often made the low sport of a holiday revel. None can deny the truth and justice of the remarks already quoted from Mr. Blackstone; but few, I fear, are willing to bring them home, and to acknowledge the necessity of such severe preparation to qualify themselves to exercise the franchises of a citizen. Let me hope, young gentlemen, that you will view the matter in a different light, and go to your task with the more cheerfulness, from the assurance that you will thus be qualified to derive a blessing to yourselves and to your country, from the discreet and conscientious exercise of a privilege, which others, from a want of correct information and just sentiments, so often pervert to the injury of both.

Before I conclude, give me leave to offer a few remarks on a subject in which every member of the faculty has an equal and common interest. If there be any thing by which the University of William and Mary has been advantageously distinguished, it is the liberal and magnanimous character of its discipline. It has been the study of its professors to cultivate at the same time, the intellect, the principles, and the deportment of the student, laboring with equal diligence to infuse the spirit of the scholar and the spirit of the gentleman. He comes to us as a gentleman. As such we receive and treat him, and resolutely refuse to know him in any other character. He is not harassed with petty regulations; he is not insulted and annoyed by impertinent _surveillance_. Spies and informers have no countenance among us. We receive no accusation but from the conscience of the accused. His honor is the only witness to which we appeal; and should he be even capable of prevarication or falsehood, we admit no proof of the fact. But I beg you to observe, that in this cautious and forbearing spirit of our legislation, you have not only proof that we have no disposition to harass you with unreasonable requirements; but a pledge that such regulations as we have found it necessary to make, _will be enforced_. If we did not mean to execute our laws, it might do little harm to have them minute and much in detail on paper. It is because we _do_ mean to enforce them that we are cautious to require nothing which may not be exacted without tyranny or oppression, without degrading ourselves or dishonoring you.

The effect of this system, in inspiring a high and scrupulous sense of honor, and a scorn of all disingenuous artifice, has been ascertained by long experience, and redounds to the praise of its authors. That it has not secured a regular discharge of all academical duties, or prevented the disorders which characterize the wildness of youth, is known and lamented. But we believe and know, that he who cannot be held to his duty, but by base and slavish motives, can never do honor to his instructers; while we are equally sure that such a system as keeps up a sense of responsibility to society at large, is most conducive to high excellence. We think it right, therefore, to adapt our discipline to those from whom excellence may be expected, rather than to those from whom mediocrity may barely be hoped. Such a system is valuable too, as forming a sort of middle term between the restraints of pupilage and the perfect freedom and independence of manhood. Experience shows that there is a time of life, when the new born spirit of independence, and the prurience of incipient manhood will not be repressed. They will break out in the _airs_ or in the _graces_ of manhood. Between these we have to choose. The youth of eighteen treated as a _boy_, exhibits the _former_. Treated as a _man_, he lays aside these forever, and displays the _latter_. This system is thus believed to afford the best security against such offences as stain the name of the perpetrator. Of such our records bear no trace; nor is there, perhaps, a single individual of all who have matriculated here, that would blush to meet any of his old associates in this school of honor.

May we not hope then, young gentlemen, when so much is trusted to your magnanimity, that the dependence will not fail us? May we not hope, when we are seen anxious to make our relation, not only a source of profit, but of satisfaction to you, that you will not wantonly make it a source of uneasiness and vexation to us? I persuade myself that you, at least, commence your studies with such dispositions as we desire. If this be so, there {154} is one short rule by which you may surely carry them into effect. "_Give diligent attention to your studies._" This is the best security against all unpleasant collision with your teachers, and against that weariness of spirit which seeks relief in excess or mischief. It carries with it the present happiness, which arises from a consciousness of well doing; it supplies that knowledge which encourages to farther researches, and renders study a pleasure; it establishes habits of application, the value of which will be felt in all the future business of life; and lays the foundation of that intellectual superiority by which you hope to prosper in the world, and to be distinguished from the ignoble multitude who live but to die and be forgotten.

_Williamsburg, October 27, 1834_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE MARCH OF MIND.

"_Tempora Mutantur._"

The present is emphatically the age of useful invention and scientific discovery; and it is the peculiar good fortune of the present generation, that the indefatigable labors of a few gigantic minds have opened to it new and expanded sources of enjoyment, by the development of principles which have long eluded the grasp of philosophy, and by their practical application to the most ordinary affairs of life. Men are not now bewildered by the imposing mysteries in which scientific truth has been so long enveloped; nor are they deterred from a bold investigation into the solidity of theories and hypotheses, by the studied ambiguity of phrase in which the votaries of learning have veiled them. They have learned properly to appreciate the fallacy of those abstruse speculations and metaphysical researches, into which so many thousands, in pursuit of some vain chimera, have been inextricably involved--and have erected the standard of _utility_ as that alone by which all the lucubrations of moonstruck enthusiasts, and all the experiments of visionary projectors are to be rigidly scanned and tested. The practical benefits which have resulted from the rapid march of mind, are to be seen in the application of steam to the propulsion of boats, and in the innumerable rail roads, canals, and other stupendous improvements, which have developed the resources of this extensive country, and multiplied the blessings so bounteously bestowed upon it by providence. But in the first glow of astonishment and exultation which these have excited in the minds of men, numerous beneficial changes of minor importance have followed the march of intellect, which from their comparative insignificance, have almost escaped observation.

Formerly, the professors of the complex sciences of law, medicine, and divinity, were regarded as exalted by their attainments, to an immeasurable height of superiority over the mass of mankind, because they shrouded the truths and principles of science from the vulgar eye, by a veil of unintelligible jargon and grandiloquent technicalities, entirely above the ordinary powers of comprehension. Years of laborious and incessant toil were requisite to master the hidden complexities of those venerated and "time-honored" professions; and he, who with martyr-like resolution and unwearied perseverance, devoted his time and talents to their attainment, was regarded by the "_vulgus ignobile_" with sentiments of respect and admiration, nearly approaching to the idolatrous reverence of a Hindoo, for the fabled virtues of his bloody Juggernaut. But the illusion has at last been dispelled by the refulgent light of truth, and those illustrious individuals, the Luthers of the age, who have stripped these hoary errors of the veil which concealed their enormity, may with merited exultation and triumph exclaim, "_Nous avons changé toute cela!_" The art of economising time has been simplified, and subjected to the grasp of the most obtuse intellect; so that a science which formerly required years of intense and unremitted study, united with long experience and observation, is now thoroughly understood and mastered in a fortnight! So rapid indeed has been the march of intellect, sweeping from its path obstacles heretofore deemed insurmountable, and scaling the most impregnable fortifications of philosophy, with a force no less astonishing than irresistible, that many of our most profound adepts in the "glorious science" of the law, are (_mirabile dictu!_) at once initiated into all its mysteries by a single perusal of "Blackstone's Commentaries" and the "Revised Code!" instead of toiling his way up the steep ascent of fame by consuming the midnight oil, by exploring the dark and forbidding chambers of the temple of law, dragging forth truth from the musty volumes of antiquity, and searching the origin of long established principles. Among the feudal customs of our Saxon progenitors, a man may now become "like Mansfield wise, and Old Forster just," by one month's attendance at the bar of a county court! At the expiration of that period, he can rivet an admiring audience in fixed attention, by the strains of Demosthenian eloquence, in which he asks if "the court will hear a motion on a delivery bond?" And will astound some illiterate ignoramus, by the consequential pomposity with which he prates of "contingent remainders," "executory devises," and all the labyrinthian subtleties of nisi prius! No one will then contest his right to perambulate the streets, with all the ostentatious dignity of a man "learned in the law," and to parade before the eyes of the admiring rabble, his colored bag of most formidable dimensions,--albeit, it may be filled with cheese and crackers to stay his stomach in the intervals of business.

But the inappreciable benefits which the "March of Intellect" has showered upon mankind, are easily discovered by referring to the stupendous revolutions it has achieved, not only in the science of law but in divinity, medicine, education, manners, and morals. Men do not now venerate the ancient fathers of the church for the profound erudition and wonderful acquirements displayed in those ponderous tomes which now and then greet the eyes of the bibliopole, exciting the same degree of astonishment as the appearance of a comet illumining the immensity of space with its brilliant scintillations, or some _lusus naturæ_ like the Siamese twins. Far from it. Modern philosophers have discovered the inutility and absurdity of wading through the voluminous discussions of controversial theologists, and tracing the origin of some religious dogma or doctrinal schism, which has for ages furnished these pugnacious wiseacres with food for inquiry and research. Instead of {155} wasting the time necessarily consumed in these ridiculous studies, men who formerly might have dragged out their lives in the vulgar vocation of a tailor, a butcher, or a hatter, spring forth in a single week armed cap-a-pie to defend their religion from the unhallowed assaults of infidels, and amply qualified to expound the sacred texts, and deal out damnation with the indiscriminate prodigality of a spendthrift, for the first time cursed with the means of gratifying his extravagant propensities.

Formerly too, the most attentive and patient observation of the progressive development of the mental faculties of a child were necessary to enable a parent to adapt his education to the sphere of life in which nature had destined him to move. Innumerable obstacles were to be encountered in tutoring his mind to the comprehension of the profession for which he was intended; and, perhaps, after years of incessant toil and intense parental anxiety, the young stripling blasted all the hopes of his kindred, by either becoming the hero of a racefield or the magnus apollo of a grog shop, or distinguished his manhood by the puerile follies of youth, or the incurable stupidity of an idiot. But the "March of Mind" has obviated or removed all these difficulties, by the discovery of the renowned science of phrenology. A parent, in this blessed age of intellectual illuminism, may by an examination of certain craniological protuberances, ascertain with mathematical exactness, whether his child is a hero or a coward, a philosopher or a--fool; and may regulate his education in conformity to the result. The safety and well being of society, too, is thus encompassed with additional safeguards, which will effectually protect it from those evils which have heretofore been only partially suppressed by legislation. If any ill favored monster of the human species happens to have the organ of destructiveness largely "developed," (_ut verbum est_) and not counteracted by any antagonist organ,--all the murders, rapes and thefts which he is morally certain to perpetrate,--with their attendant train of want, calamity and ruin, may be at once prevented by hanging the scoundrel in terrorem, as a kind of scarecrow to all evil doers. A desideratum in political economy will thus be also attained. The accounts of those "caterpillars of the commonwealth," clerks, sheriffs, lawyers, _et id omne genus_, who swarm around the treasury in verification of the old maxim of Plautus, "_ubi mel, ibi apes_,"--(Anglice--Where there is money, _there_ are lawyers,) are balanced without the payment of a cent; for it is obvious that there is no necessity for all the tedious formalities of a trial at law, the guilt of the murderer being already ascertained and summarily punished by this _preventive_ justice, and the commonwealth of course exempted from the expense of a prosecution.

It would require a volume to enumerate all the advantages which have resulted from the discovery of this science. But even these are about to be quadrupled by the successful experiments recently made in the immortal and euphoniously titled science of phrenodontology, by which a man's _grinders_ are regarded as the unerring indices of his habits, manners and propensities; and should these last be of an evil nature, they can be entirely eradicated by the extraction of such of the _incissores_ as indicate their existence. There is no necessity whatever of inculcating self denial, regular habits, fortitude and virtue, to correct the depravity and vice of any individual. Only knock out his teeth, (or as that method is somewhat too summary,) have them extracted _secundum artem_ by a dentist, and you instantly metamorphose him into a paragon of moral purity!

But one of the principal benefits of the "March of Mind," is the salutary reformation effected in the opinions of mankind, in relation to numerous important subjects. All those low and grovelling ideas which once tenanted the crania of our honest yeomanry as to the education of their children, have now evaporated into thin air. Instead of tying their sons to a vulgar plough, bronzing their visages to the complexion of an Indian, as was formerly the absurd practice, they are now transplanted into the genial hothouse of a town life, where they are soon installed in all the fashionable paraphernalia of tights, dickey, and safety chain; and astonish their honest old dads by the dexterity with which they flourish a yardstick, and by the surprising volubility with which they can chatter nonsense, _a la mode du bon ton_. I have often been enraptured with the incontrovertible evidence of the "March of Mind," when I saw one of these praiseworthy youngsters, with his crural appendages, cased in a pair of eelskin inexpressibles, and his nasal adjunct inflamed to that rubicund complexion which Shakspeare has immortalized in the jovial Bardolph, quiz a country greenhorn, and _cul_, in the genuine Brummel style, some vulgar, lowborn, mechanic acquaintance, who insolently aspired to the honor of a nod! The improvement too, in the education of our young ladies, is "confirmation strong as proof of holy writ," of the rapid and resistless march of science and intellect. With a precocity of talent which would have absolutely dumbfoundered a belle of the olden time, they now arrive at full maturity at the age of thirteen; when

"My dukedom to a beggarly denier,"

they can out-manoeuvre the most consummate coquette of fifty! They perfect their education with almost the rapidity of light; and prattle most bewitchingly in French or Italian, before their pretty mouths have been sullied by their vulgar vernacular. The odious and despicable practice of knitting stockings and baking pies, fit only for a race of Goths in an age of Vandalism, has been inscribed with "_Ilium fuit_," and is now patronised only by the rustic _canaille_, who still adhere to the horrid custom of rising at the dawn of day and attending to household business. Their proficiency too, in the science of diacousticks, or the doctrine of sounds, is truly amazing--and the whole _posse comitatus_ of foreign fiddlers, jugglers, and mountebanks who kindly condescend to instruct them in music, (as they facetiously term it) are often thrown into raptures by the ease with which they produce every variety of noise on a piano, from the deafening roar of a northwester to the objurgatory grunt of a Virginia porker, unceremoniously ousted from his luxurious ottoman of mud!

But, as Byron says, greater "than this, than these, than all," are the wonderful phenomena which have occurred in the science of medicine. The physicians of modern times, have snatched the imperishable laurels from the brows of Galen and Hippocrates, and have compelled Old Esculapius himself, to "hide his {156} diminished head!" It had long been a source of the most poignant regret to the philanthropic observer of the ills and afflictions incident to human nature, that the benign system of medical jurisprudence, designed originally for the alleviation of human suffering, had been so dilatory and uncertain in its operation, and so fatally ill adapted to the eradication of numerous diseases from the human frame, as to effect only a partial accomplishment of its beneficent purpose. This radical disadvantage in that system of medical science, might reasonably have been attributed to the want of a proper firmness and adventurous temerity in its practitioners;--probably, also, it might have resulted from their lamentable ignorance of the structure and conformation of the human frame. This system, as was to have been expected, had met with numerous advocates, principally in consequence of their perfect personal indemnity from the frequently fatal result of their ignorance or mismanagement; it being well known that under this system a practitioner might, if he so chose, administer a deadly poison to his patient, who would naturally "shuffle off this mortal coil," while his afflicted relatives would piously attribute his decease to a dispensation of Providence; and the physician, composedly pocketing his fees, would have the satisfaction of seeing himself eulogised in his patient's obituary, as a man of "science and skill." It is obvious that under this system the patient's life was but

"A vapour eddying in the whirl of chance,"

and the distressing frequency with which we were called on to attend the remains of a fellow being to the gloomy prisons of the dead, imperatively demanded a radical and extensive reform.

But fortunately for the human species, the "March of Mind" has led to medical discoveries which have chained up the monster Death in impotence, and rendered him a plaything to "the faculty." The long and pompous pageants of M. D.'s diplomas, &c &c. have ceased to overawe the eager aspirant for medical celebrity, and he now steps forward in the path of fame at the age of nineteen, _maximus in magnis_, greatest among the great! Diseases that formerly baffled the utmost skill of science, and preyed upon their victims for years, are now thoroughly extirpated in an hour! The long catalogue of noxious medicines with which the pharmacopia was crammed, and which served no other purpose than to swell

"The beggarly account of empty boxes,"

which the shelves of a rascally apothecary presented to view, are now discarded; and their places are supplied by medicines so simple and so efficacious, that the value of life, once considered so inestimable, has actually undergone a considerable diminution, merely because of the ease with which it may be enjoyed. It is now no longer necessary to watch the various diagnostics of an obdurate disease through their origin and development; it is no longer important that the unfortunate patient should be bolstered up in bed for months, and his stomach annihilated by a nauseous diet of mush and water gruel. This was but the quackery of the rapacious cormorants, who grew rich upon the credulity of their dupes. The patient may be on his feet in half an hour, by the salutary operation of some harmless medicine, which produces no other evil effect than a remarkable elongation of the visage, and divers contortions of the abdominal viscera! Instead of first ascertaining to what extent the body of the patient has been debilitated by the ravages of his disorder, it is only requisite to refer to a mystical talisman, vulgarly called a _teetotum_, which entirely supersedes the necessity of thought or reflection; and whose final position, after performing sundry gyrations on its point, informs the practitioner with unerring certainty, whether his patient should be _puked, sweated, or blistered!_ The result is certain. The most complicated case of pulmonary consumption is instantly and thoroughly cured by _steam_; and an obstinate fever, produced by a superabundance of bile upon the stomach, is effectually extirpated by an injection of _cayenne pepper!_ As revolutions never retrograde, these important changes in medical jurisprudence will only terminate in the actual resuscitation of a dead body, by an external application of camphorated salts! a "consummation devoutly to be wished," and most certain to be effected, by the rejection of all mineral medicines,--which the "March of Mind" has demonstrated to be hurtful,--and the substitution in their stead of a few simple vegetable remedies, accurately arranged, classified, and _numbered!_

But enough. No man can reflect upon these things, without applying, as I do, the trite quotation, "_tempora mutantur_," &c. Although it has been used for the ten thousandth time, by the whole tribe of newspaper scribblers and juvenile poetasters, yet it has never been more _apropos_. Times _are_ changed; and "oh, _how_ changed!" What mind does not expand at the delightful contemplation of these grand revolutions; and who does not look forward with eagerness to the memorable era when all the vulgar _bourgeois_ qualities of common sense, common decency, and common virtue, will fade into nothingness before the resistless and all powerful "March of Mind!"

V.

_Lynchburg, Oct. 30, 1834_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE VILLAGE ON FOURTH JULY 183--.

A TALE.

Ergo agite, et lætum cuncti celebremus honorem.--_Virgil_.

Risum teneatis amici?--_Horace_.

I do not know that the celebration of a Fourth of July in a country village has ever been thought worthy of appearing in print; nor do I know that a tale, founded on such a celebration, has ever been written; and I doubt whether the fancy of any of our geniuses has ever pictured such a subject, either with the pen or pencil. Many of your readers will perhaps be amazed at the thought of such a subject for a tale; but permit me to ask, why not a tale of the Fourth of July as well as any other? Is it because the hearts of a free people, rejoicing on the anniversary of the day which gave them liberty, throb in harmony, and therefore can afford neither novelty nor variety? Granted. But are there not various modes of manifesting, more or less appropriately, the inward emotions of our hearts? Are not our ideas dissimilar as to the manner of exhibiting our feelings, according to our various means, situations and vocations in life--high or low--in cities, towns and country? Then wherefore not? We have read of tales of wo, and tales of bliss, and tales of neither; and, this being the case, I am imboldened to this undertaking, {157} leaving to the better judgment of the reader to assign it to whichever class it properly belongs.

* * * * *

At the foot of a slope, and on the right of a stream compressed between two abrupt and craggy hills, covered with oaks and pines, stands a small village, remarkable only for the rude and romantic scenery which surrounds it. Access to it from the left side of the stream can only be gained by a rocky, rugged and declivous road, the greater part of which seems to have been either blasted or hewed out of the side of a hill, around which it winds at a considerable height above the water--and, at its termination is a neat frame bridge, which when crossed admits you into the village. This stream bounds a conterminous portion of two counties bordering upon the Potomac, into which it empties itself at about five miles below the village, where the influx and reflux of the tides are felt. Although there is considerable depth of water at the village sufficient to float vessels of a large size, yet the clayey alluvion brought down by the stream, and reacted upon by the river at their junction, becomes a deposite which forms a kind of bar, over which none but small crafts can pass. The number of inhabitants may be estimated at from two to three hundred, the greater part of whom are attached to a cotton factory but recently erected, and the remainder, with the exception of a few families of consideration, are more or less connected with the country and merchant mills, established many years since, from which the village has its origin and perhaps its name.

The beating of a drum, and the shrill and false tones of a fife, at dawn of day, betokened to the villagers who still reposed upon their pillows, that the glorious birthday of independence was likely not to be passed unobserved, as hitherto it had been. This novel, and, in effect, startling ushering of the day, soon brought them upon their feet, and ere the sun had peered over the eastern, or crested the brows of the western, mounts, the streets, such as they are, had become quite enlivened. Most of the villagers had never heard the sounds of martial music, and the greater number of those who had, were indebted to the troops that had passed through the village during the late war. Those who had never seen nor heard the sounds of a drum and fife, disclosed their amazement by their gazing eyes and mouths agape. To a looker on, the performers could not but be remarkable. A European, tall, erect, lank, and already tippled, thumped away upon a drum, the vellum of the nether end of which was rent,--followed by a stout, awry necked, crumped backed and limping African, as _fifer_--a contrast at once striking and ludicrous, hobbled along, most earnestly occupied with their _reveille_, heedless of the gaze of the wonderstruck multitude--the din of their music echoing and reverberating from the surrounding hills. The _drummer_ had been such in the United States Marines, and had but recently quitted the service--and though not sober, his performance was far from being bad. The _fifer_ had served in that capacity during the revolutionary war. His finger, stiff from long disuse of the instrument, which he had preserved with religious care since that epoch, did not allow him to give but an imperfect specimen of his store of marches and quicksteps in vogue at that time, and his recollection of them was scarcely better; the tunes of the present times he knew nothing about. The drum used upon this occasion had been _put hors de combat_ during the late war, as the troops passed through the village. This, together with the hallowed fife and veteran _fifer_, in connection with the day, did not fail to give rise to associations eminently calculated to excite enthusiasm.

It appears that the celebration of the day had originated with, and was suggested by, an honest son and follower of St. Crispin, (who had lived in a city and had acquired some knowledge of _l'art militaire_,) whose ambition to command a corps had led him to the most indefatigable exertion to inspire the villagers with the spirit of _amor patriæ_, and success having crowned his exertion, application had been made for commissions as well as for arms, in order to organize themselves in time for a parade on the approaching festival. In this however they were disappointed; for they had obtained neither when the day arrived, and having determined to celebrate it, in spite of their disappointment they would.

This resolution soon circulated through the adjacent country called the _forest_--its inhabitants _foresters_, who, anxious to witness the parade--"_the spree_," as they termed it, came flocking into the village on foot and horseback, singly and doubly, et cetera, by every byroad and pathway which led to and terminated there. By meridian the gathering was so great that the oldest inhabitants declared that such an influx was not within their recollection. As regards the character of the _foresters_, men and women, they are an honest, hardy, industrious and independent people, and on Sundays, high-days and holydays, cut a very respectable figure in the way of apparel and ornaments--and for this occasion particularly, no pains had been spared to make an _eclat_.

In consequence of the disappointment alluded to, every firearm that could be found was put under requisition, and the entire forenoon was consumed in collecting and preparing them for use, during which the music to arms continued without intermission. It was in this interval that the buzzing of an expected oration was heard, which swelled into a report, and heightened not a little the pre-existing enthusiasm.

Discharges of guns repeated at irregular intervals on the skirts of the village, was an indication that the parade was about to commence, and at a little after twelve o'clock the soldiery made their appearance. They wore no uniform, but were clad in their best "Sunday go to meetings;" and in the ranks were many of the foresters who had joined them--

"The rustic honors of the scythe and share"

being given up for the time, for the warlike implements then to be used.

Their arms were of divers descriptions; double barrelled guns, deer guns, ducking guns, and a blunderbuss, with powderflasks and horns swung round their shoulders,--and, volunteers in number exceeding arms, poles were substituted. A cutlass distinguished the captain; a horsewhip the lieutenant; a cane the second lieutenant. These three, together with the soldierly appearance of some, the rigidity of others, the apparent _nonchalance_ of a few, and the deformity of several, presented a _tout ensemble_ the most grotesque and diverting.

{158} In the midst of this band was a small man, the stiffness of whose carriage and the peculiarity of whose countenance attracted the attention of the crowd. His eyes were small--appeared to be black and twinkling, and were set into the deep recesses of sockets which projected considerably, and surmounted by dark shaggy brows; his face was contracted--his features small--and his forehead, though retreating, was not sufficiently so to denote the entire absence of the reflective faculty, according to phrenology. In his hand he bore a scroll, and the dignity which his stiffness was meant to affect, was reasonably enough imputed to the importance which he attached to the part he was to act. The scroll was the Declaration of Independence, which was to be read by him; and from the peculiarly reverential manner with which it was held in his hand, he seemed to feel that it was an instrument coeval with the birth of, and coexisting with, a free and powerful nation, and demanded deference even from the very touch of his hand. This man was not altogether devoid of talent, for he had succeeded in earning for himself among the villagers a reputation of high literary acquirements; and on hearing the report of an expected oration, (suspicion fixed on him the origin of it,) had spontaneously proposed to verify it. Of course the proposition was well received, and dissipated at once any uncertainty. The spot at which it should be delivered was soon decided upon and designated--well known--and but a short distance out of the village. Thither the multitude repaired in advance of the military, who were not to arrive there until all the necessary arrangements for their reception had been made. This duty devolved upon a self-constituted committee of arrangement, who discharged it with all the zeal and ability which the briefness of the notice would allow.

The locality was well chosen, and seemed to have been designed by nature for the scene for which it was now appropriated. From the village and around the foot of the hill, winds a path that leads by an easy ascent to the summit of another hill, capped by a grove or cluster of huge pines and oaks, which overshadow a surface clear of undergrowth and interspersed with rocky prominences. These prominences, though rough, answered admirably well the purpose of seats for the auditory, and one of them being flat and overswelling the rest, was pitched upon as a rostrum from which the orator should hold forth. On one side of it, which might be called the rear, was planted a staff, to which was tacked an old bunting American ensign or flag, pierced with holes, received at the battle of Plattsburg. At the end of the staff hung a red woollen cap, the symbol of liberty--its color emblematic of the ardor of its spirit, as explained by the committee. At the foot of the staff stood a cask of "_old corn_," for the refreshment and entertainment of the _corps militaire_, in honor of the day and orator.

The village and country belles and beaux, attired in their gayest possible manner, by way of regard, were suffered to have precedence in the selection of places, and the former had possessed themselves of those crags which might best suit them to the convenient hearing of the oration. The assembled people were now impatiently awaiting the arrival of the orator and escort, when they were at length descried wending their way up hill, at the tune of _Molbrook_, sent forth to the air from the fife in fragments--and having arrived, the orator was conducted in form to the rostrum by the committee, which he mounted with unfaltering steps.

The bustle and buzz incident to the choosing of convenient places amid the rugged area having subsided, the _coup d'oeil_ presented was well worthy the pencil and genius of a Hogarth; the pen can convey but a faint idea. The gay females, elevated upon the asperated crags, overtopping every other object, seemed to shed lustre and life upon every thing around. Their attendants or beaux, resting in various postures at their feet, or lolling against a tree hard by, proved that the village and sylvan belles command the devotions of the rude sex no less than those of courts and cities. The boys were perched upon every oaken bough that overhung the spot that could bear their weight, and the military and the rest were strewed about thickly and promiscuously on the ground--sitting, squatting, kneeling; in fine, in every position indescribable which the human frame is susceptible of when adapting itself to some particular locality for its comfort.

The speaker being about to commence, many who had kept on their hats or caps were bid to uncover; the greater number of whom did so cheerfully; a few reluctantly; and several, more independent and less tractable, kept on theirs. To have insisted upon this point of decorum might have been attended with consequences to mar the rejoicing--so the point was very wisely given up. Silence obtained, nothing was heard but the rustling of the leaves, through which the breeze that prevailed passed and refreshed all below. The orator bowed and addressed his attentive auditory. His voice was clear and audible, and his words were carefully noted by a chirographer, and are here inserted.

"Citizens of the village and farmers of the forest!--I will not offer any excuse for the peramble that I will speak subsequent to the reading of this _glorious_ document (holding up the scroll) of our ancestors. The honor with which you have extinguished me this day, by making me the reader on it, is duly depreciated.

"When you have heared the sentiments contained upon it, you will find your hearts in trepidation at the conjointure at which your forefathers dared to put their fists to it.

"While they was employed in this business, the immortal Washington, called the _frater pater_, because he had a brotherly and fatherly love for his countrymen, was commanding an army made up of such soldiers as _you_ are. (Cheers.) It was with the like of you--such powerful men as you--with such cowrageous souls as yours, that John Bull was fighting with, running before and falling dead. (Great cheering.) The great Thomas Jefferson and John Adams was driving the quill in peace and comfort in Philadelphy, about this grand production, (stretching forth and unfolding the scroll,) because they knowed, and all that was there with them knowed too, that such soldiers as _you_, fighting for liberty, barefoot, bareback and half starved, just as you are now when you are all at home hard at work, was unresistible and unvincible. (The deafening and reiterated cheers interrupted the speaker for a short time.)

"Without you, what would have become to them, and this now free, brave and happy nation? Shall I tell you? Why they should have all been hanged or shot, and this nation would have been made up of {159} slaves. They worked with their heads, and you with your arms; to use a learned expression, they physically and you bodily: and if it had not a been for your arms and bodies, they could never--they would never have dared to do nothing with their heads. You was the strong ramparts behind which they retrenched themselves to save their necks. (Cheers.)

"Your beloved Washington could work with ither his hand or his arm, but he showed his wisdom by choosing to work with his arm--that is, by flourishing the sword instead of driving the pen--by putting himself at your head in battle--facing the cannons of the enemy, and leading you to _victory_ or _death!_ (Tremendous cheering.) To make this plainer still to your understandings, which is very good,--suppose a man was to abuse you and call you hard names? Why, you would up fist and knock him down at once, if you could, in course; and if you did you would be safe enough, and the matter would end. This was Washington's maxim, and he acted up to it. Now-a-days, amongst them who drives the quill, when one abuse another, they go to writing, and when they have lost a heap of time to prove one another in the wrong--mind you, because they don't want to come up to the sticking point, they are at last obliged to end the difference by shooting at one another, or one murdering the other. Now what does it all amount to in the end? All their writing did no good, and they might as well have fight it out 'right off the reel' at first--not with pistols and the like of that, but the arms that God gave them--their fists, (clenching his fist.) In times of war men fight with firearms and the like, because they can't come in contact man to man. (Cheers.)

"It was your worthy fathers and the like on 'em, who atchieved the freedom of your beloved country. Tom Jefferson and Jack Adams wrote down what they fought about, that you might have it in black and white--that you might never forget what your forefathers fought for, and that you might stimulate their actions. This is all that writing is fit or good for. Many of you don't know A from a bull's foot, but which amongst you could'nt take up a gun and shoot the crows that would come to your cornfields to destroy your crops. The British came here like crows to destroy what was yours, and you shot them down like crows and drove away the rest.(Cheers.)

"My brave friends! your present conditions is a proof of your being the ascendants of those naked and half starved warriors. You have turned out this day to prove to the world that you can depreciate the yearly anniversary of this fourth of July. You are now enjoying the blessings which they got for you by their lives, and at the peril of them who has outlived the revolution. You are now resting at ease, and listening to me, (for which I am complimented,) but they never rested at all--they was always on the go; they went through thick and thin--sunshine and rain--dust and mud--snow and ice--_fire and sword_--DEATH AND DESTRUCTION, (tremendous cheering,) and made less of it than you do now, for I can see that some of you is getting mighty restless. (A shriek from a female at this instant spread consternation in the assembly, which turned into a simultaneous burst of laughter as soon as it was discovered she had fallen from a crag, being unable to endure any longer the pain caused by its asperity.)

"I will not keep you any longer in distraint; but I cannot finish without saying a few words to the lovely gathering of our fair countrywomen, which has complemented me this day with their smiles.

"Your sex too, gentle hearers! had a helping hand in this glorious revolution. Your foremothers was industriously employed at home for your forefathers, while they was fighting for their country, their wives and their offstrings. With such lovely being as I see now gathered around me, this happy country need never fear of being in want of warriors. (Cheers.) Sweet lasses! may heaven send down upon you such partners as will make my prophecy come to pass."

The peal of applause which ensued and continued for some minutes, rung through the woods and welkin, and resounded from hill to hill, until lost in the distance, after which the orator proceeded to the reading of the Declaration of Independence. When he had read that part in these words--"To secure these rights governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the _consent_ of the _governed_. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the RIGHT of the PEOPLE to _alter_ or _abolish_ it, and to institute new governments,"[1] &c. in which his feelings were deeply enlisted, he concluded the clause by giving vent to them in the following fervid comments: "_Behold_ Americans!" cried he, "_behold_ the _whole_ of _your_ rights explained. Do you not _see_ the figure which EVERY _one_ of you cuts?! Out of you _the power_ comes, and _nothing_ can be done _without_ you. Don't this prove what I said in my extompere address, '_that their heads cannot work without you_?'" (Here a voice was heard to cry, "By jingo, Jack, clap on your hat; ding it, do as I do!")

[Footnote 1: In the extract the words are in italics and small capitals on which much stress was given by the reader.]

The reading ended, the assemblage broke up and dispersed, leaving the military to honor the day and orator in the manner already intimated, during which many national and sentimental toasts were drunk; after which they returned into the village in the military order they had left it for the purpose of parading.

Various evolutions were performed; among them occasionally a left wheeling for a right--a countermarch for a right or left face--keeping time with right or left foot indifferently. They carried arms either upon the right or left--trailing, supporting, sloping, advancing--just as it suited their own whim; in other words, _will_. In vain did their commander command, threaten or entreat. A volunteer, bolder than the rest, went so far as to ask the captain, "If he had forgot what they had heard from the Declaration?" and hinting at his being commander so long as they willed it. They felt that they were the sovereign people and only citizen soldiers.

At the order "halt!" they came to a stand, and were drawn out in a line, facing the stream, for the purpose of firing their _feu de joie_--an apt simile, by the way, of the state of their minds after the closing scene of the hill. The orders for execution were simply, "prime and load--ready--fire!" which was executed with tolerable precision. Three rounds being fired, they were ordered to "right face!" in order to file off and resume their march; but few only obeying the order, some confusion took place in the ranks. "_Right face!_" again {160} vociferated the captain, whose impatience for shaking off his brief authority was very apparent. Still the contumaceous kept their position, declaring that they would not "_budge_" until they had received the word to fire a fourth round, for which they had already loaded. A dispute arose between the officers and men--the former asserting and endeavoring to enforce their authority--the latter denying and obstinately determined not to move until they had received the word to discharge their pieces, considering the reservation of their fire until the order be given a sufficient evidence of their subordination. The captain finally yielded, and crying out, "make ready--fire!" the fourth round went off, and the men filed off without further hesitation; some at a common time--some at a quickstep--some skipping, and one hopping; the captain brandishing his cutlass over the _drummer's_ pate for not "_treading in a straight line_"--the _fifer_ blowing off fractions of marches and quicksteps, and the lieutenants endeavoring to keep order in the ranks. In this style they once more marched out of the village, to partake for the last time of the refreshment at the hill, and crown the celebration.

The sun was just reclining upon the western mount when they made their third and final entry into the village, in a march, technically known as the "rout march," thereby showing that the effect of the "old corn" was predominating.

The omission of testifying their respect in a military manner to the chief magistrate of the village during their first parade, had occurred to them at the hill, and concluding that it had better be done late than never, they had returned to the village, contrary to their intention when they had left it, in the manner described, and drawing up in front of the dwelling of that excellent man, they commenced and kept up a tremendous firing, shouting and huzzaing until nightfall, when all who were able dismissed themselves, (their officers having abandoned them,) leaving many on the ground as it were _dead_--_pro tempore_.

Thus terminated the village celebration of the anniversary of the day out of which a great and virtuous nation was ushered into being. However much our mirth may have been excited by the description given, yet none will deny that the feeling which actuated them in their celebration, was the identical feeling that dictates the observance of the same day throughout the cities of the union--with this difference only, that _this_ savours of the pomp and circumstances of wealth, pride and refinement, while _that_ is perfectly in character with nature,--true, simple and unsophisticated. I will conclude with a quotation from Boileau.

"La simplicité plaît sans étude et sans art. Tout charme en un enfant dont la langue sans faìd, A peine du filet encor débarrassée, Sait d'un air innocent bégayer sa pensée. Le faux est toujours fade, ennuyeux, languissant: Mais la nature est vraie, et d'abord on la sent; C'est elle seule en tout qu'on admire et qu'on aime."

T. P.

_Alexandria, November 1834_.

EXTRACT FROM LACON.

Mental pleasures never cloy; unlike those of the body, they are increased by repetition, approved of by reflection, and strengthened by enjoyment.

_University of Virginia, Nov. 13th, 1834_.

To the Editor of the Southern Literary Messenger.

SIR--If you think the following verses worthy of an insertion in the Messenger, you will gratify me by giving them a place. They were written two or three years ago, by a young lady of this state; and it certainly never was her intention to publish them, but I am induced to offer them to the public eye, because I think they are creditable, and that they will not appear disadvantageously in the Messenger.

R.

TO D----.

I'll think of thee--I'll think of thee In every moment of grief or of glee; The memory will come of these fleeting hours, Like the scent that is wafted from distant flow'rs; Like the faint, sweet echo that lingers on When the tones that waken'd it are gone.

There's many a thought I may not tell, Hidden beneath the heart's deep swell; There's many a sweet and tender sigh Breath'd out when only God is nigh; And each familiar thing I see, Is blended with the thought of thee.

Thy form will be miss'd from the social hearth, Thy voice from the mingling tones of mirth; When the sound of music is poured along-- When my soul hangs entranced on the poet's song-- When history points from her glowing page, To the deathless deeds of a former age-- When my eye fills up and my heart beats high, I shall look in vain for thine answering eye.

When the winds are lulled in the quiet sky, And the sparkling waters go surging by, And the cheering sun invites to walk, I shall miss thine arm and thy pleasant talk: My rustling step--the leafless tree-- The very rock will speak of thee.

I'll think of thee when the sunset dyes Are glowing bright in the western skies; When the dusky shades of evening's light Are melting away into deeper night-- When the silvery moon looks bright above, Raising the tides of human love-- When the holy stars look bright and far, I'll think of thee--my _guiding star!_

When all save the beating heart is still, And the chainless fancy soars at will, When it lifts the dark veil from future years, And flutters and trembles with hopes and fears,-- When it turns to retrace the burning past, And the blinding tears come thick and fast-- And oh! when bending the humble knee At the throne of God--I will _pray_ for thee!

And wilt thou sometimes think of me, When thy thoughts from this stormy world are free? When thou turnest o'erwearied from toil and strife The warring passions of busy life, May a still, small whispering, speak to thee, Like a touch on thy heartstring--Love, think of me.

E.

{161}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

INVOCATION TO RELIGION.

Come blest Religion, meek-eyed maid, In all thy heavenly charms arrayed, Descend with healing in thy wing, And touch my heart while yet I sing.

Heaven's own child of simple truth, The stay of age, the guide of youth, All spotless, pure and undefiled, How blest are those on whom you've smiled.

Oh! come, as thou wert wont, and bless The widow and the fatherless-- Temper the wind to the shorn lamb, Pour on the wounded heart thy balm;

Strew softest flowers, where e're they stray, And pluck, oh! pluck the thorns away. Come like the good Samaritan, Bind up the sick and wounded man;

Not like the Priest thy love display-- Just look devout, and turn away. Oh! no--the bruised with kindness greet, And set the mourner on his feet.

Teach me with warm affections pure, That holy Fountain to adore, From whence proceeds or life or thrift-- The source of every perfect gift:

Teach me thy fear--thy grace impart, And twine thy virtues round my heart; With pity's dew suffuse my eye, And teach me heavenly charity--

That blessed love, which will not halt, Or stumble at a brother's fault; But with affection's tender care, Will still pursue the wanderer.

Oh! teach my heart enough to feel, For human woe and human weal. Not that mad zeal, which works by force, And poisons goodness, at its source;

But that mild, pure, persuasive love, Which thou hast brought us from above. Thro' thy fair fields, oh! fatal change, Let no distempered _maniac_ range,--

No frantic bigot spoil thy bowers, And blight thy pure and spotless flowers. Still, still, thou pure and heavenly dove, Still speed thy work of perfect love.

Pursue the pilgrim on his road, And oh! take off his heavy load. Peace whisper to the troubled breast, And give the weary mourner rest--

And when in that last awful hour, Death shall exert his fatal power, Oh! blunt the print of his keen dart, And sooth the pangs that rend the heart.

When the last vital throb shall cease, Oh! be then present, with thy peace: Then let thy healing grace be given To light and waft our souls to Heaven.

L.

_Pittsylvania_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BEAUTY AND TIME.

[Written under a vignette, representing a branch of roses with a scythe suspended over it, in a Lady's Album.]

Emblem of woman's beauty, This blooming rose behold! Time's scythe is hanging o'er it, While yet its leaves unfold.

Alas! that Time is ever To Beauty such a foe! How can she shun his power? How ward his withering blow?

Has she no art to foil him, And turn his scythe aside? Must she, who conquers others, To him yield up her pride?

Yes, yes, there is a conquest That Beauty gains o'er Time: Forget it not, ye fair ones, But prize the homely rhyme.

For every charm he pilfers From Beauty's form or face, Upon the mind's fair tablet, Some new attraction trace.

Thus, Time's assaults are fruitless, For, when her bloom is o'er, Woman, despite his malice, Is lovelier than before.

S[obelisk].

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ANTICIPATION.

When life's last parting ray is shed, And darkness shrouds this pallid form; When I have laid this aching head, Secure from ev'ry earthly storm--

Oh! then how sweet it is to think That some fond heart yet warm and true, Will cherish still the severed link Which death's rude hand has snapt in two.

Who oft, at evening's pensive hour, From all the busy crowd will steal, To dress the vine and nurse the flower That deck my grave, with pious zeal.

And ling'ring there, will lightly tread, As fearful to disturb my sleep, And oft relieve the drooping head Upon her slender hand, and weep.

And oh! if in that world which rolls Sublime beyond this earthly sphere, That love still warms departed souls, Which once they fondly cherished here.

Oh! yes, if in such hour is given, And parted souls such scenes may see, At that pure hour I'd leave e'en heav'n, And kiss the heart that wept for me.

L.

_Pittsylvania_.

{162}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HINTS TO STUDENTS OF GEOLOGY.

BY PETER A. BROWNE, ESQ.

NO. I.

The word "_science_," in its most comprehensive sense, means "knowledge." In its general acceptation, it is "knowledge reduced to a system;" that is to say, arranged in regular order, so that it can be conveniently taught, easily remembered, and readily applied to useful purposes. An _art_ is the application of knowledge to some practicable end,--to answer some useful or ornamental purpose. The sciences, are sometimes divided into the _abstract_ and the _natural_; by the former we are taught the knowledge of reasons and their conclusions; by the latter we are enabled to find out causes and effects, and to study the laws by which the material world is governed. To the abstract sciences belong, first, language, whether oral or written, including grammar, logic, &c.; secondly, notation, including arithmetic, algebra, geometry, &c. Philosophy inquires into the laws that regulate the phenomena of nature, whether in the material or immaterial world; it is generally divided into three classes, two of which are material and one immaterial. The material are, first, those which relate to number and quantity; secondly, those which relate to matter. The immaterial are those which relate to mind. The second class of the material is called "natural philosophy" or "physics," and sometimes the "physical sciences." Natural philosophy, in its most comprehensive sense, has for its province the laws of matter, whether organic or inorganic. These laws may regard either the motions or properties of matter, and hence arises their division into two branches--first, those which regard the _motions_ of matter, which are called _mechanics_; and secondly, those which regard the _properties_ of matter, which are subdivided, and have various names, according to the different objects of investigation. When the inquiry is confined to organized bodies and life, it is called physiology; which is again subdivided into zoology and botany. When it treats of inorganic matter, it is subdivided into chemistry, anatomy, medicine, mineralogy and geology. The principles of natural philosophy rest upon _observation_ and _experiment_. Observation is the noticing of natural phenomena at they occur, without any attempt to influence the frequency of their occurrence. Experiment consists in putting in action causes and agents, over which we have control, for the purpose of noticing their effects. From a comparison of a number of facts, obtained from either observation or experiment, the existence of general laws are proved. The laws of man are complicated; to understand their objects, we are often obliged to take the most circuitous routes; but the laws by which nature governs all her works are beautifully simple, and they are found to lead directly to the end she has in view. To study them, therefore, according to the rules that have been laid down, viz: from observation and experiment, is pleasant and easy. The principal difficulties that have arisen, are owing to the improper manner in which the subjects connected with natural history have often been treated. Natural philosophy regards what was the condition of natural bodies: but many persons exert the whole force of their genius to discover what they _might have been_. And as there is no department of natural philosophy into which this erroneous method of procedure has made greater inroads than geology, nor any science that has suffered so severely in such conflicts, it may not be amiss to appropriate half an hour to the inquiry whence this error has arisen; and, if possible, point out the best method of avoiding its dangerous tendency. The word geology is derived from two Greek words, signifying "the earth" and "reason;" and it is that science which teaches the structure of the crust of the earth, and ascertains its mineralogical materials, and the order in which they are disposed, and their relations to each other. Geognosy is used by the French as synonymous to geology, but in English is generally understood to be synonymous to cosmogony; which is an inquiry, or rather a speculation, as to the original formation or creation of the world; hence geognosy has sometimes been called "speculative geology." In pursuing the examinations to which geology leads, we reason from facts, as is done in other branches of natural science. The strata of the crust of the earth, owing to the disturbed manner in which we now find them, are in a great measure open to our examination; their composition, formation, deposition, eruption, depression, succession, and mineralogical contents, are all objects of sensation. The objects of geognosy (in the English sense of the word) are, on the other hand, for the most part, ideal, visionary and delusive. We are sensible that this earth exists and that it is material, and therefore we know that it must have been created. We know that it was not created by man, who hath not the power to add to it one single atom, nor diminish it by a single grain--so that it is manifest that it was created by a superior and omnipotent power; but by what process it was done is a mystery, and the more we seek to discover it the more we expose our ignorance. The geologist, like the mathematician, deals with the understanding; his advance is wary, admitting no conclusion until his premises are fully established. The professor of geognosy, on the contrary, addresses himself entirely to the imagination, and he delights in hypothesis and suppositions. The progress of the geologist is necessarily slow; he is like the patient miner, making his laborious but determined way into the solid rock: but the professor of geognosy will make a world or even a universe in an hour, for he deals in fancy and works in visionary speculations. The geologist delves into the bowels of the earth in search of useful metals, earths and combustible matters, which nature has kindly placed within his reach, and he strives to turn them to the best advantage in administering to the wants and increasing the comforts and convenience of his fellow creatures; but all the labors of the professor of geognosy are directed to discover a secret which appears to be hidden from human ken; a secret, the discovery of which would not, as far as we can judge, add any thing to the sum of human happiness. It excites our astonishment therefore, that so many persons of fine genius and brilliant talents should have wasted so much time in forming what are called theories of the earth, who might have been so much better employed in investigating the secondary causes by which the materials composing the crust of this earth obtained their present forms, and in examining the changes which those materials are daily undergoing. But so it is; the curiosity so natural to our {163} species opens the way--the vanity of being supposed to have penetrated deeper than others into the abstruse mysteries of nature urges them forward--the silly pride of having in their own estimations discovered the hidden ways of Providence quickens their zeal; and, such is the love of the marvellous, that if they exhibit only a tolerable degree of ingenuity, and embellish their performances with a few flowers of rhetoric, they are sure to command more attention and praise from the general mass of readers, than can be extorted by the most laborious examination of nature's works. While Martin Lister was ridiculed by Doctor King for the laudable minuteness with which he described the different natural objects he met with in his journey through France, Mr. Thomas Burnet, for a fanciful theory of the earth, was extravagantly lauded by a writer in the Spectator. Saussure crossed the Alps in fourteen places; Humboldt traversed nearly one half of the habitable globe; Cuvier spent seven years in the study of comparative anatomy, as subservient to the study of fossil remains; and Hauy studied geometry for the sole purpose of obtaining a knowledge of crystalography; but neither of these distinguished philosophers have been able to win the laurels that have been heaped upon the brow of Count Buffon for a visionary hypothesis which he calls a theory of the earth.

The substitution of these hypotheses for knowledge, unfortunately, has not been confined to the early and dark ages of geology. One entirely new theory of the earth was published as lately as the year 1825--another in 1827--and a third in 1829. It is proper therefore that the student should be warned against their fascinating and baneful influence.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ESSAY ON LUXURY.

Of the various researches, which engage this enlightened age, there is not one perhaps more important, whether we consider the public weal, or the general interest of humanity, than that which concerns _luxury_. It is regarded by some as the source of the greatest calamities; by others as a source of opulence and industry. It has been said and repeated thousands of times, that we often dispute, because we do not understand each other, and that we give a different meaning to words we use, because we do not define them with sufficient precision. This is frequently true; but cases will often arise where, though the words of a proposition are taken in precisely the same acceptation, and those who employ them reason alike, yet the result of their reasonings are diametrically opposite. Luxury has at all times been considered as a cause of the corruption of morals, and the destruction of empires; but in the last ages, it has not wanted its advocates--nay, they have even pretended, that it was necessary to render empires flourishing, to favor commerce, industry, circulation, manufactures; and that _it_ alone would redress the inequality of various conditions, by making the superfluities of some contribute to relieve the necessities and wants of others. The contrary has always been held as an irrefragible axiom. But still its advocates maintain, that it nourishes all the refinements of good taste, and developes the talents of the artist, whose art and genius are encouraged by the profusion and prodigality which it produces. This is indeed the favorable side of the picture; but how often is it, that what we see in an object, is not all we might see there, and that one truth by intercepting the view of others, conducts us often to error. It is possible by considering the subject more attentively, though we may find all we have said, true to a certain degree, yet on the other hand, the evil, which excessive luxury produces, is infinitely more dangerous;--and speculation will confirm what the experience of all ages has demonstrated. It is an historical and invariable truth, that excessive luxury has always been the harbinger of the destruction of a state. I may add, it has always been the fatal cause. Labor and economy are the principles of true prosperity--the eclat of pomp and magnificence without them, is only a false splendor, which conceals inward misery. But it is here, we must stop for a moment, before we further advance, in order to have a precise idea, of what we understand by the word _luxury_. If by it, we mean every thing which exceeds the physical necessities of life, I should apologize to the learned. But I do not mean to fix the boundary by the laws of Lycurgus. I agree farther, that what may be luxury at one time, is not so at another; but it is in this gradation, which may be extended to infinity, that we ought wisely to seize that degree of the scale, where it degenerates into vice--I mean political vice, which far from being useful becomes prejudicial to a state. This distinction is still local, individual, and subject to different times and eras. What is a ruinous luxury in one country, would perhaps be useful or indifferent in another. A destructive and indecent luxury in one order of society, is honorable, indispensable and useful in another; and in short, in a country where a certain degree of luxury is necessary, there may be times, when sumptuary laws would be useful. If we proceed to analyze its principles, we shall see that though abstractedly, luxury may appear to produce certain advantages, yet in general it is the cause of the greatest disorders. If the expense or luxury of each individual were the thermometer of his fortune, the degree of luxury would certainly be the symptom of power, riches, industry and opulence of a state, but it would not on this account, be the cause; for what must be the consequence, when vanity and self-love excited by opinion, by custom and by pride, make us aspire at an external show far beyond our condition in life, and run into extravagancies, which we cannot support? This is to sap a commodious edifice in order to build a larger, which we can never erect. The state loses the house and does not gain the palace. In a country where luxury reigns, this example may be seen every day and in every order of the state. The "Luxury" then of which I speak, is that which prompts many to run into expenses, beyond what their circumstances will admit, by the respect attached to it, and by that contempt, with which those are treated, who do not maintain a similar profusion; by the universality of the custom; and by the opinions of others, which render the superfluous, the useless, the frivolous, almost necessary and indispensable. It is on this account, that the felicity, or apparent power, which luxury appears sometimes to communicate to a nation, is comparable to those violent fevers, which lend for a {164} moment, incredible nerve to the wretch, whom they devour, and which seem to increase the natural strength of man, only to deprive him at length of that very strength and life itself. It is likewise physically true, that excessive luxury impairs the body and destroys courage. Effeminacy enervates the one, and artificial wants blunt the other; wants multiplied become habitual, nor by diminishing the pleasures of possession, do they always diminish the despair of privation. Let us not say that the misfortunes of individuals, do not concern the public; when many suffer, the public must feel it. If it were true, that the possessions of those who are ruined, are found dispersed among other individuals, the ruin of the unfortunate would still be prejudicial to the state; because it is the number of individuals in easy circumstances, which create its wealth. But it is absolutely false, that those possessions are found in the mass of the public; if the possession of each individual consisted in silver, this might be so; but property for the most part is fictitious or artificial: industry, credit, opinion, form a great part of the riches of each individual,--which vanish, and are annihilated with the ruin of his former possessions, and are forever lost with respect to the state. Besides, lands are best cultivated, when divided among many hands. An hundred husbandmen in easy circumstances, are infinitely more useful to a state, than an hundred poor ones, or ten powerfully rich. It is the quantity of consumers, who regularly make an honest, well supported and permanent expense,--which augments industry, circulation, commerce, manufactures, and all the useful arts. But when excessive luxury causes, that the arts are lucrative in the inverse ratio of their utility, the most necessary become the most neglected, and the state is depopulated by the multiplication of subjects, who are a charge to it. It is then we fall precisely into the case of him, who cuts down the tree to get the fruit: what weakens each member of a body, must necessarily weaken the body itself; but excessive luxury weakens, without contradiction, each member of a body politic, physically and morally,--consequently it must undermine and destroy the constitution of that body. Another inconvenience attending luxury is, that according to the order of nature, the propagation of the species ought continually to increase in a country, if some inherent vice, either physical or moral, do not prevent it. We have seen in those times, when luxury prevailed only among the superior class, swarms issue from the state, without depopulating it, in order to establish themselves in other places. But the luxury of parents, whose baleful example is often the sole inheritance of their offspring, forces them necessarily into a state of celibacy; whereas it is evident, that by a division of property among their children, the latter might, with industry and care, having a principal to begin with, increase their hereditary wealth and enrich the state. Every thing conspires, where luxury reigns, to corrupt the morals. It eclipses, stifles, or rather destroys the virtues. It knows no object but the gratification of certain imaginary pleasures, more illusory than the honor, which it attracts. Mankind are born perhaps with no particular bias to fraud or injustice. It is want, either real or artificial, which creates the robber or the murderer; but for the most part, those crimes, which are most dangerous to society, take their origin from artificial wants, which ensue from "Luxury." The brother violates the strongest ties of nature--the patriot plunges the dagger into the bosom of his country. It was "Luxury," which called from Jugurtha his celebrated observation on Rome. It would be endless to attempt to enumerate the examples of ruin, and of those calamities, which have ever followed in its train. But how is this most dangerous of evils to be guarded against? Sumptuary laws would not always be efficacious. They do not always answer the end proposed. They are eluded by refinements upon "Luxury" until it becomes "Luxury" in excess. It must be the province of the legislature to prevent this abuse. The most effectual laws would be those, which would remove that ridiculous respect, which is paid to frivolous exteriors, and would attach real respect to merit alone; which would destroy that unjust contempt into which modest simplicity has fallen by a depravity of taste and reason. He, who by a wise legislation would discover the secret of banishing those prejudices, would render an essential service to humanity. Virtue and emulation would flourish--vice and folly no longer appear. After all, I would not have it forgot, that I have agreed, that what would be "Luxury" at one time, and for one order of people, is not so for another. The "Luxury" which destroys a republic, would not perhaps destroy a large kingdom; but there is a degree of "Luxury" prejudicial to the most opulent monarchy. The universal use of wine would be ruinous to this country, but not so to France. The detail and analysis of those distinctions, are perhaps the most important object to humanity. I am persuaded, that the public good, the repose of families, and the happiness of the present and future generations depend upon it.

B. B. B. H.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ----

"_Agite Mais Constant_."

"Though the speed with which we are hurried through the immensity of space, is not perceptible to our vision; yet the _truth_ that '_Time_ is ever on the wing,' should teach us to be wise while it is called '_to-day_.'"

Pleasures of _time_ and _sense_ can give No hope or real joy; They leave an aching void behind, Are mixed with base alloy.

Say, wouldst thou twine a lasting wreath To deck thy forehead fair, Go--wipe away the _widow's_ tear, And sooth the _orphan's_ care.

Wouldst thou be meet to join the choir Who sing in endless bliss, Go--drink at that Eternal Fount, Whose stream shall never cease.

Wouldst thou improve the talents here, Transmitted from above; Go--turn the sinner from his way, And prove a Saviour's love.

POWHATAN.

EXTRACT.

Men will wrangle for religion; write for it; fight for it; die for it; any thing but--_live_ for it.

{165}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ELOQUENCE.

In the long list of powers and endowments, we can select no faculty or attainment more useful and ennobling than that of eloquence. Brightening the gloom of intellect, and awakening the energies of feeling, it holds reason mute at its will and enkindles passion with its touch. The soldier on the tented field is incited to the charge, and animated in the conflict, and his last moments sweetened, by the magic of its influence. The cries of injured innocence it converts into notes of gladness, and the tears of sadness and sorrow into smiles of pleasure and rejoicing. The miser, gazing on the beauty of his coin, and living on the manna of its presence, and kneeling to its power as his idol, is taught to weep over his error, bow to his Creator, and despise the degrading destroyer of his peace. The infidel, unswayed by the voice of divinity, and ignorant of its attributes, and doubtful of its existence, enraptured with the glowing efforts of ethereal eloquence, is convicted of his depravity, and yields to the resistless current, which swelling in its onward course, dispels the cloud that obscures the mind, and leaves it pure and elevated. In the courts of justice, the criminal, his heart imbittered with torturing despair, and his soul torn with agonizing anguish, beholds his arms unshackled, his character unsullied by even suspicious glance, and futurity studded with honors, station and dignity. In the halls of legislation, corruption is unmasked, intrigue is exposed, and tyranny overthrown. Where is its matchless excellence inapplicable? The rich and the poor experience its effects. The guilty are living monuments of its exertion, and the innocent hail it as the vindicator of its violated rights and the preserver of its sacred reputation. In the cause of mercy it is ever omnipotent; bold in the consciousness of its superiority, and fearless and unyielding in the purity of its motives, it destroys all opposition and defies all power. The godlike Sheridan, unequalled and unrivalled, swayed all by its electric fire, charmed and enthralled the weak and the timid, and chained and overpowered the profound and the prejudiced. Burke, the great master of the human heart, deeply versed in its feelings and emotions, "struck by a word, and it quivered beneath the blow; flashed the light'ning glance of burning, thrilling, animated eloquence"--and its hopes and fears were moulded to his wish. Curran, whose speeches glitter with corruscations of wit, and sentiment, and genius, and whose soul burned with kindred feelings for its author, and teemed with celestial emanations, astonished, elevated and enraptured. Pitt, and Fox, and Henry, and Lee, and other great and gifted spirits of that golden age, have all unfolded the grandeur of its sublimity, the richness of its magnificence, and the splendor of its sparkling beauties.

At a later period, when the rising generation caught the living spark as it fell from the lips of their giant fathers; a Phillips has pleased and fascinated by the grace and vigor of his action, the strength and fervor of his imagination, and the dignity and suavity of his manner; by the warmth of his feelings and the quickness of his perceptions. A Canning, by the brilliance of his mind, beaming with gems of classic literature; the perspicuity of his diction, rich in the beauties of our language; and the commanding force of his voice, now surpassing in its deep sternness the echoing thunder, and now, soft, and sweet, and mellow as the dying cadence of a flute, has never failed to arouse, and enliven, and convince. And a Brougham, with a profound and comprehensive intellect, deep and capacious as ocean's channels, with great powers of close and sound reasoning; with an extensive knowledge of the past and the present, with untiring energies and unremitted industry, wields a concentrated mass of overwhelming argument, and hurls a thunderbolt of eloquence, subduing and crushing in its impetuous course. In our own country, so fertile in the highest orders of mind, and so successful in nurturing, and expanding, and invigorating its faculties, we may point to Calhoun, and Webster, and Clay, and McDuffie, as the master spirits of the age. Their varied endowments; their chaste language; their pure and sublime style; their bitter and withering irony; their keen and searching sarcasm; their vast range of thought and unequalled condensation of argument, command the admiration and excite the wonder of men.

That eloquence has been productive of immense good, no one can deny or doubt. From the earliest ages it has been assiduously cultivated, and ranked among the highest attainments of the human mind. So great and elevated was it deemed by the Athenians--so grand the results of its application, and so distinguished in their councils were those who possessed it--that the young Demosthenes, inspired with quenchless ardor for its acquisition, bent all the energies of his gifted intellect to the task--opposed and triumphed over every obstacle that nature presented to his advancement--heeded not the scoffs and hisses of the multitude on the decided failure of his first endeavors--and at length as the recompense for his toils, reached the pinnacle of renown--received the gratulations of an admiring age, and beheld his brow encircled with the wreath of victory, immortal as his glory, and unfading as the memory of his deeds. While language continues to exist, and breathe in beauty and vigor the conceptions of mind, his phillippics, rich in forcible and magnificent expression, in sublime thought, and bold and resistless eloquence, will survive. And the fervent, and holy, and incorruptible patriotism that speaks in every line, must elicit unbounded veneration. His matchless powers, never exerted but for the public good, inspired his enemies with respect and fear, and forced the mighty Philip to acknowledge, "that he had to contend against a great man indeed." Cicero too, entitled by a contemporary philosopher and orator,[1] one by no means addicted to flattering or giving even unnecessary praise, "The Father of his Country," has proved by a long and active career of usefulness and honor, the beneficial effects of this inestimable power. Who can conceive any thing more thrilling and overwhelming than his orations against Cataline? We can see the patriot orator, sternly bold, from the magnitude of his cause--for the lives of millions depended upon his success--hatred and abhorrence depicted in his face; indignation flashing from his eye--for love of country was his impelling motive; energy and passion in his every action, and the living lava bursting from his lips;--and the victim, shrinking awe-stricken away--his baseness exposed--his treacherous schemes unfolded to public {166} gaze; he flies a blasted and withering thing--a reckless and degraded outlaw. This is but one of his numerous triumphs, which, stamped with the seal of immortality, have secured to him a fame as imperishable as time itself. It was by eloquence that the apostle of christianity so aroused the apprehensions and pierced the hardened conscience of the heathen Agrippa, that in the fulness of contrition he exclaimed, "thou almost persuadest me to be a christian." With it, the fisherman[2] of Naples declared to the populace the sanctity of their rights--explained the violation of their chartered privileges, and pointed out the means of securing justice--denounced their rulers as tyrants, and swore upon the altar of his country to revenge them. The multitude, through instinctive esteem for intellectual capacities, however humble the station of their possessor, and urged by the enthusiasm he had excited, obeyed his every word. Passive in his hands, he guided them to the maintenance of their freedom and the expulsion of domestic foes. To its influence we may ascribe the commencement of our Revolution, and the tameless spirit which animated our fathers in the struggle. Even now its effects are visible every where around us. We see that the seducer is lashed into remorse and contrition, and the traitor has received the reward for his crime. In the chambers of congress its fire burns with increasing lustre, and sheds unending sparks of brilliancy and strength. When properly directed, it is the inseparable companion of liberty; and so long as it continues thus--so long as its efforts are characterized by purity and patriotism, the prosperity, union, and above all, the freedom of these states, will remain secure.

[Footnote 1: Cato of Utica.]

[Footnote 2: Massaniello.]

H. M.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.--NO. 2.

Our readers will participate with us in the pleasure of reading the second letter from _New England_, by an accomplished Virginian, whose easy and forcible style is so well employed in depicting the manners and character of a portion of our countrymen, separated from us not more by distance, than by those unhappy prejudices which too often spring up between members of the same family. The acute observation of men and things which these letters evince, will entitle them to be seriously read and considered,--and they will not have been written in vain, if they serve to remove the misconceptions of a single mind. We repeat what we stated in our last number, that although they were originally published in the Fredericksburg Arena, they have since undergone the revision and correction of the author expressly for publication in the Messenger.

_Northampton, Mass. July 25, 1834_.

Of _Yankee hospitality_ (curl not your lip sardonically--you, or any other Buckskin,)--of _Yankee hospitality_ there is a great deal, _in their way_--i.e. according to the condition and circumstances of society. Not a tittle more can be said of Virginia hospitality. Set one of our large farmers down upon a hundred, instead of a thousand, acres; let him, and his sons, cultivate it themselves; feed the cattle; rub down and feed the horses; milk the cows; cut wood and make fires; let his wife and daughters alone tend the garden; wash, iron, cook, make clothes, make the beds, and clean up the house; let him have but ten acres of wood land, in a climate where snow lies three, and frosts come for seven, months a year; surround him with a dense population--80, instead of 19, to the square mile; bring strangers, constantly, in flocks to his neighborhood; place a cheap and comfortable inn but a mile or two off; give him a ready and near market for his garden stuffs, as well as for his grain and tobacco--and ask yourself, if he could, or would, practise our "good old Virginia hospitality?" To us, who enjoy the credit and the pleasure of entertaining a guest, while the drudgery devolves upon our slaves; the larger scale (wastefully large) of our daily _rations_, too, making the presence of one or more additional mouths absolutely unfelt;--hospitality is a cheap, easy, and delightful virtue. But put us in place of the yankees, in the foregoing respects, and any man of sense and candor must perceive that we could not excel them. Personal observation and personal experience, make me "a swift witness" to their having, in ample measure, the kindliness of soul, which soothes and sweetens human life: a kindliness ready to expand, when occasion bids, as well towards the stranger, as towards the object of nearer ties. No where have I seen _equal_ evidences of public spirit; of munificent charity; of a generous yielding up of individual advantage to the common good. No where, more, or lovelier, examples of domestic affection and happiness--evinced by tokens, small it is true, but not to be counterfeited or mistaken. And no where have I had entertainers task themselves more to please and profit me, as a guest. Yet, as _you_ know, few can have witnessed more of Virginia hospitality than I have. It would be unpardonable egotism, and more _personal_ than I choose to be, even in bestowing just praise; besides "spinning my yarn" too long--to do more than glance at the many kindnesses, which warrant the audacious heresy, of comparing our northern brethren with ourselves, in our most prominent virtue. Gentlemen, some of them of advanced years, and engaged in such pursuits, as make their time valuable both to themselves and the public, have devoted hours to shewing me all that could amuse or interest a stranger, in their vicinities--accompanying me on foot, and driving me in their own vehicles, for miles, to visit scenes of present wonder, or of historic fame: patiently answering my innumerable questions; and explaining, with considerate minuteness, whatever occurred as needing explanation, in the vast and varied round of moral and physical inquiry. In surveying literary, charitable, and political institutions--in trying to ascertain, by careful, and doubtless, troublesome cross-questionings, the structure and practical effects of judicial, and school, and pauper systems--in examining the machinery (human and inanimate) of manufactories--in probing their tendencies upon minds and morals--in 'stumbling o'er recollections,' in Boston, on Bunker's hill, and around Lexington--I found guides, enlighteners, and hosts, such as I can never hope to see surpassed, if equalled, for friendliness and intelligence. A friend of ours from Virginia, who was in the city of Boston with his family when I was, carried a letter of introduction to one of the citizens. "This gentleman, for three days," said our friend, "gave himself up entirely to us; brought his carriage to the hotel, and carried us in it over the city, and all its beautiful environs; in short, he seemed to think that he could not do enough to amuse and gratify us." To enjoy such treatment as this, one must, of course, in general, come introduced, {167} by letter or otherwise. Then--nay, according to my experience, in some instances without any introduction,--the tide of kindness flows as ungrudgingly as that of Virginia hospitality, and far more beneficially to the object: at an expense, too, not only of money, but of time--which here, more emphatically than any where else in America, _is money_. When travelling on foot, I had no letters to present--no introduction, except of myself. Still, unbought civilities, and more than civilities, usually met me. A farmer, at whose house I obtained comfortable quarters on the first night of my walk, refused all compensation, giving me at the same time a hearty welcome, and an invitation to stay to breakfast. Next day, a man in a jersey wagon, overtook me, and invited me to ride with him. I did so, for an hour, while our roads coincided: and found him intelligent, as well as friendly. Whenever I wanted, along the road, refreshing drinks were given me;--cider, switchell, and water--the two first always unasked for. One _gudewife_, at whose door I called for a glass of water, made me sit down, treated me abundantly to cider; and, finding that my object was to see the country and learn the ways of its people, laid herself out to impart such items of information as seemed likely to interest me: wishing me 'great success' at parting. Many similar instances of kindness occurred. It is true, none of the country people invited me to partake of their meals, except my first host just mentioned--an omission, however, for which I was prepared, because it arose naturally from the condition of things here. One testimonial more you shall have, to New England benevolence, from a third person. A deserter from the British navy--moneyless, shoeless, with only yarn socks on; feet blistered--and actually suffering from a fever and ague--told me that he had walked all the way from Bath, in Maine, to the neighborhood of Hartford, where I overtook him, entirely upon charity; and _had never asked for food or shelter in vain_. A lady that day had given him a clean linen shirt. There was no whining in this poor fellow's tale of distress: his tone was manly, and his port erect: he seemed, like a true sailor, as frank in accepting relief, as he would be free in giving it.

The result of all my observation is, that the New Englanders have in their hearts as much of the _original material_ of hospitality as we have: that, considering the sacrifices it costs them, and the circumstances which modify its application, they _actually use_ as much of that material as we do; and that, although their mode of using it is less _amiable_ than ours, it is more _rational_, more _salutary_--better for the guest, better for the host, better for society. And most gladly would I see my countrymen and countrywomen exchange the ruinous profusion; which, to earn, or preserve, a vainglorious name, pampers and stupifies themselves and impoverishes their country, for the discriminating and judicious hospitality of New England: retaining only those freer and more captivating traits of their own, which are warranted by our sparser settlements, our ampler fields, and our different social organization.

Yet, while such praise is due to the general civility and kindness of the New Englanders, it must be qualified by saying, that several times, I have experienced discourtesy, which chafed me a good deal: but always from persons who, in their own neighborhoods, would be considered as vulgar. The simplest and most harmless question, propounded in my _civilest_ manner, has occasionally been answered with a gruffness, that would for half a minute upset my equanimity. For example--"Good morning sir" (to a hulking, rough, carter-looking fellow, one hot morning, when I had walked eight miles before breakfast)--"how far to Enfield?" "Little better 'an a mile,"--was the answer; in an abrupt, surly, unmodulated tone, uttered without even turning his head as he passed me. Two or three of "mine hosts," at inns, were churlishly grudging in their responses to my inquiries about the products, usages, and statistics, of their neighborhoods. For these, however, I at once saw a twofold excuse: they were very busy and my questions were very numerous--besides the irritating circumstance, that answers were not always at hand--and to be _posed_, is what flesh and blood cannot bear. And it makes me think no worse than before, either of human nature in general, or of Yankee character in particular, that such slights occurred, nearly in every instance, whilst I was a somewhat shabby looking way-farer on foot; scarcely ever, while travelling in stage, or steamboat. Such distinctions are made, all the world over: in Virginia, as well as elsewhere.

A Southron, not accustomed to wait much upon himself, here feels sensibly the scantiness of the personal service he meets with. Even I--though for years more than half a Yankee in that respect--missed, rather awkwardly, on first coming hither, the superfluous, and often cumbersome attentions of our southern waiters. Besides having frequently to brush my own clothes, I am put to some special trouble in the best hotels, to get my shoes cleaned. In many village inns, sumptuous and comfortable in most respects, this last is a luxury hardly to be hoped for. This scarcity of menial service arises partly from the nice economy, with which the number of hands about a house is graduated to the general, and smallest possible, quantity of necessary labor; and partly, from a growing aversion to such services among the "help" themselves, caused, or greatly heightened, by the increased demand and higher wages for them in the numerous manufactories throughout the country. Almost every where, I am told of their asking higher pay, and growing more fastidious, and intractable, as household servants. "_Servants_" indeed, they will not allow themselves to be called. A "marry-come-up-ish" toss, if not an immediate quitting of the house, is the probable consequence of so terming them. The above, more creditable designation, is that which must be used--at least in their presence. By the by, though the gifted author of "Hope Leslie" says that the _singular_ plural, "help," alone, is proper, I find popular usage ("_quem penes arbitrium_"--you know) sanctioning the regular plural form "helps," whenever reference is made to more than one.

The spirit, and the habits, which oblige one to do so much for himself within doors, produce corresponding effects without. Useful labor is no where disdained in New England, by any class of society. Proprietors, and their sons, though wealthy, frequently work on the farms, and in the gardens, stables, and barns. Two or three days ago, I saw an old gentleman (Squire ----) a justice of the peace, and for several years a useful member of the Legislature, toiling in his hay harvest. Two of the richest men in this village--possessing habitations among the most elegant in this assemblage of {168} elegant dwellings--I have seen busy with hoe and rake, in their highly cultivated grounds. The wife of a tavern-keeper, in Rhode Island, worth $40,000, prepared my breakfast, and waited upon me at it, with a briskness such as I never saw equalled. Similar instances are so frequent and familiar, as to be unnoticed except by strangers. Many of New England's eminent men of former days, were constant manual laborers; not only in boyhood, and in obscurity, but after achieving distinction. Putnam, it is well known, was ploughing when he heard of the bloody fray at Lexington; and left both plough and team in the field, to join and lead in the strife for liberty. Judge Swift, of Connecticut, who wrote a law book[1] of some merit, and, I believe, a History of Connecticut, was a regular laborer on his farm, whilst he was a successful practiser of the Law. An amusing story is told (which I cannot now stop to repeat) of his being severely drubbed by the famous Matthew Lyon, then his indented servant; while they worked together in the barn. Timothy Pickering, after serving with distinction through the revolution--being aid to General Washington, Representative and Senator in Congress, and Secretary of State--spent the evening of his unusually prolonged and honored life, in the culture of a small farm of 120 or 130 acres, with a suitably modest dwelling, near Salem, Mass.: literally, and through necessity, (for he was always poor) earning his bread by his own daily toil. With Dr. Johnson, I deride the hacknied pedantry of a constant recurrence to ancient Greece and Rome--without, however, being quite ready to "knock any man down who talks to me about the second Punic War." But, in contemplating the stern virtues, that poverty and rural toil fostered in those earlier worthies of New England, and that still animate the "bold yeomanry, a nation's pride," who yet hold out against the advancing tide of wealth, indolence, and luxury--I cannot forbear an exulting comparison of these my countrymen, with the pure and hardy spirits that graced the best days of republican Rome:

Regulum, et Scauros, animæque magnæ Prodigum Paulum superante Poeno,

* * * * *

Fabriciumque, Hunc, et incomptis Curium capillis Utilem bello, tulit, et Camillum, Sæva paupertas, et avitus apto Cum lare fundus.

[Footnote 1: On Evidence, and Bills of Exchange and Promissory Notes.]

In the household economy of these thrifty and industrious people, it were endless to specify all the things worthy of our imitation. Their use of cold bread conduces to good in a threefold way: a less quantity satisfies the appetite, and it is in itself more digestible than warm bread; thus doubly promoting health: while there is a sensible saving of flour. The more frugal scale upon which their ordinary meals are set forth, is another point in which for the sake of economy, health, and clearness of mind, we might do well to copy them. By burning seasoned wood, kept ready for the saw in a snug house built on purpose, and by the simple expedient of having the doors shut and all chinks carefully closed, they secure warm rooms with half the fuel that would otherwise be necessary. I cannot, however, forgive their bringing no buttermilk to table. The _natives_ seem wholly ignorant, how pleasant and wholesome a food it is for man; and give it to their pigs. The hay-harvest lasts from four to six weeks; it has been going on ever since the 1st of July. Of course, the hay cut at such different periods must vary greatly in ripeness: and here they confirm me in a long standing belief, which I have striven in vain to impress upon some Virginia hay farmers--that the hay, cut before the _seeds_ are nearly ripe, is always best. The earlier part of the mowing, (where the crop is about equally forward) is most juicy, sweet and tender. The corn is now in tassel, having attained nearly its full height: the height of about five feet, on rich land! It is a sort differing from ours: small in grain and ear, as well as in stalk; and very yellow grained. It ripens in less time than ours; adapting itself to the shorter summers of this latitude. It is planted very thick: three or four stalks in a hill, and the hills but three feet apart.

With many vegetables and fruits, the season is five or six weeks later here than in Virginia. Thus, garden peas are still, every day, on the tables: I had cherries in Boston last week, of kinds which ripened with us early in June; and it is but a fortnight, since strawberries, both red and white, were given me in Connecticut--by the way, it was _at breakfast_.

On the margin of this village, is a curious agricultural exhibition. It is a large tract of flat land upon Connecticut river, of great fertility and value (one hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars an acre,) containing altogether several thousand acres. With one or two trifling exceptions, it has no houses or dividing fences upon it, though partitioned among perhaps two hundred proprietors. Hardly an opulent, or _middling_ wealthy man in Northampton, but owns a lot of five, ten, twenty, or fifty acres, in this teeming expanse. The lots are all in crops, of one kind or other; and being mostly of regular shapes (oblongs, or other four sided figures,) the various aspects they present, accordingly as the crop happens to be deep green, light green, or yellow--mown, or unmown--afford a singular and rich treat, to an eye that can at once survey the whole. Most opportunely, Mount Holyoke (the great lion of western Massachusetts, to scenery-hunters,) furnishes the very stand, whence not only this lovely plain is seen, but the river, its valley, and the adjacent country, for twenty or thirty miles around. Nearly a thousand feet below you, and not quite a mile from the foot of the mountain, the low ground, fantastically chequered into lots so variously sized and colored--dwindling too, by the distance, into miniatures of themselves--reminds you of a gay bed-quilt. A lady of our party (we ascended the mountain this afternoon, and staid till after sunset,) aptly compared it to a Yankee _comfort_; the elms and fruit trees dotted over the surface, and shrunk and softened in the distance, representing the tufts of wool which besprinkle that appropriately named article of furniture. The whole landscape, seen from Mount Holyoke, it would be presumptuous in me to try to describe. I have said, twenty or thirty miles around: but in one direction, we see, in clear weather, the East and West Rocks, near New Haven--about seventy miles off. Fourteen villages are within view. The whole scene is panoramic: it is as vivid and distinct as reality; but rich, soft and mellow, as a picture. We descended; and as we recrossed the river by twilight, the red gleams from the western sky, reflected in {169} long lines from the dimpling water, forced upon more than one mind that fine passage in a late work of fiction, where the remark, that "no man can judge of the happiness of another," is illustrated by the reflection of moon-beams from a lake. But I am growing lack-a-daisical: and must conclude.

I set off in the stage for Albany, at two o'clock in the morning. Good night.

We copy the following production of Mrs. Sigourney from the "_American Annuals of Education and Instruction_," a periodical published in Boston. It is difficult to decide whether the prose or poetry of this distinguished lady is entitled to preference. Her noble efforts in behalf of her own sex deserve their gratitude and our admiration.

ON THE POLICY OF ELEVATING THE STANDARD OF FEMALE EDUCATION.

Addressed to the American Lyceum, May, 1834.

The importance of education seems now to be universally admitted. It has become the favorite subject of some of the wisest and most gifted minds. It has incorporated itself with the spirit of our vigorous and advancing nation. It is happily defined by one of the most elegant of our living writers, as the "_mind of the present age, acting upon the mind of the next_." It will be readily perceived how far this machine surpasses the boasted lever of Archimedes, since it undertakes not simply the movement of a mass of matter, the lifting of a dead planet from its place, that it might fall, perchance, into the sun and be annihilated; but the elevation of that part of man whose power is boundless, and whose progress is eternal, the raising of a race "made but a little lower than the angels," to a more entire assimilation with superior natures.

In the benefits of an improved system of education, the female sex are now permitted liberally to participate. The doors of the temple of knowledge, so long barred against them, have been thrown open. They are invited to advance beyond its threshold. The Moslem interdict that guarded its hidden recesses is removed. The darkness of a long reign of barbarism, and the illusions of an age of chivalry, alike vanish, and the circle of the sciences, like the shades of Eden, gladly welcome a new guest.

While gratitude to the liberality of this great and free nation is eminently due from the feebler sex, they have still a boon to request. They ask it as those already deeply indebted, yet conscious of ability to make a more ample gift profitable to the _giver_ as well as to the _receiver_. It seems desirable that their education should combine more of thoroughness and solidity, that it should be expanded over a wider space of time, and that the depth of its foundation should bear better proportion to the height and elegance of its superstructure. Their training ought not to be for display and admiration, to sparkle amid the froth and foam of life, and to become enervated by that indolence and luxury, which are subversive of the health and even the existence of a republic. They should be qualified to act as teachers of knowledge and of goodness. However high their station, this office is no derogation from its dignity; and its duties should commence whenever they find themselves in contact with those who need instruction. The adoption of the motto, that _to teach is their province_, will inspire diligence in the acquisition of a knowledge, and perseverance in the beautiful mechanism of pure example.

It is requisite that they who have, in reality, the _moulding of the whole mass of mind in its first formation_, should be profoundly acquainted with the structure and capacities of that mind; that they who nurture the young citizens of a prosperous republic, should be able to demonstrate to them, from the broad annals of history, the blessings which they inherit, and the wisdom of preserving them, the value of just laws, and the duty of obeying them. It is indispensable that they on whose bosom the infant heart is laid, like a germ in the quickening breast of spring, should be vigilant to watch its first unfoldings, and to direct its earliest tendrils where to twine. It is unspeakably important, that they who are commissioned to light the lamp of the soul, should know how to feed it with pure oil; that they to whose hand is entrusted the welfare of a being never to die, should be able to perform the work, and earn the wages of heaven.

Assuming the position that _females are by nature designated as teachers_, and that the mind in its most plastic state is their pupil, it becomes a serious inquiry, _what they will be likely to teach_. They will, of course, impart what they best understand, and what they most value. They will impress their own peculiar lineaments upon the next generation. If vanity and folly are their predominant features, posterity must bear the likeness. If utility and wisdom are the objects of their choice, society will reap the benefit. This influence is most palpably operative in a government like our own. Here the intelligence and virtue of every individual possesses a heightened relative value. The secret springs of its harmony may be touched by those whose birth-place was in obscurity. Its safety is interwoven with the welfare of all its subjects.

If the character of those to whom the charge of schools is committed, has been deemed not unworthy the attention of lawgivers, is not _her_ education of consequence, who begins her labor before any other instructor, who pre-occupies the unwritten page of being, who produces impressions which nothing on earth can efface, and stamps on the cradle what will exist beyond the grave, and be legible in eternity?

The ancient republics overlooked the worth of that half of the human race, which bore the mark of physical infirmity. Greece, so exquisitely susceptible to the principle of beauty, so skilled in wielding all the elements of grace, failed to appreciate the latent excellence of woman. If, in the brief season of youth and bloom, she was fain to admire her as the acanthus-leaf of her own Corinthian capital, she did not discover, that like that very column, she might have added stability to the temple of freedom. She would not believe that her virtues might have aided in consolidating the fabric which philosophy embellished and luxury overthrew.

Rome, notwithstanding her primeval rudeness, and the ferocity of her wolf-nursed greatness, seems more correctly, than polished Greece, to have estimated the "weaker vessel." Here and there, upon the storm driven billows of her history, the form of woman is distinctly visible, and the mother of the Gracchi still stands forth in strong relief, amid that imagery, over {170} which time has no power. Yet where the brute force of the warrior was counted godlike, the feebler sex were prized, only in their approximation to the energy of a sterner nature, as clay was held in combination with iron, in the feet of that mysterious image which troubled the visions of the Assyrian king.

To some of the republics of South America, the first dawn of liberty gave a light which Greece and Rome, so long her favored votaries, never beheld. Even in the birth of their political existence, they discovered that the sex whose _strength is in the heart_, might exert an agency in modifying national character. New Grenada set an example which the world had not before seen. Ere the convulsive struggles of revolution had subsided, she unbound the cloistered foot of woman, and urged her to ascend the heights of knowledge. She established a college for females, and gave its superintendence to a lady of talent and erudition. We look with solicitude toward the result of this experiment. We hope that our sisters of the "cloud-crowned Andes," may be enabled to secure and to diffuse the blessings of education, and that from their abodes of domestic privacy, a hallowed influence may go forth, which shall aid in reducing a chaos of conflicting elements to order, and symmetry, and permanent repose.

In our own country, man, invested by his Maker with the "right to reign," has nobly conceded to her, who was for ages a vassal, equality of intercourse, participation in knowledge, guardianship over his dearest possessions, and his fondest hopes. He is content to "bear the burden and heat of the day," that she may dwell in plenty, and at ease. Yet from the very felicity of her lot, dangers arise. She is tempted to rest in superficial attainments, to yield to that indolence which spreads like rust over the intellect, and to merge the sense of her own responsibilities in the slumber of a luxurious life. These tendencies should be neutralized by an education of utility, rather than of ornament. Sloth and luxury, the subverters of republics, should be banished from her vocabulary. It is expedient that she be surrounded in youth with every motive to persevering industry, and severe application; and that in maturity she be induced to consider herself an ally in the cares of life, especially in the holy labor of rearing the immortal mind. While her partner stands on the high places of the earth, toiling for his stormy portion of that power or glory from which it is her privilege to be sheltered, let her feel that to her, in the recesses of the domestic sphere, is entrusted the culture of that knowledge and virtue, which are the strength of a nation. Happily secluded from lofty legislation and bold enterprise, with which her native construction has no affinity, she is still accountable to the government by which she is protected, for the character of those who shall hereafter obtain its honors, and control its functions.

Her place is in the quiet shade, to watch the little fountain, ere it has breathed a murmur. But the fountain will break forth into a stream, and the swelling rivulet rush toward the sea; and she, who was first at the fountain head and lingered longest near the infant streamlet, might best guide it to right channels; or, if its waters flow complaining and turbid, could truest tell what had troubled their source.

Let the age which has so freely imparted to woman the treasures of knowledge, add yet to its bounty, by inciting her to gather them with an unremitting and tireless hand, and by expecting of her the highest excellence of which her nature is capable. Demand it as a debt. Summon her to abandon inglorious ease.--Arouse her to practise and to enforce those virtues, which sustain the simplicity, and promote the permanence of a great republic. Make her answerable for the character of the next generation. Give her this solemn charge in the presence of "men and of angels,"--gird her for its fulfilment with the whole armor of education and piety, and see if she be not faithful to her offspring, to her country, and to her God!

L. H. S.

We beg our readers to amuse themselves with the following article from Mr. Fairfield's Magazine. We cannot however, whilst we value the importance of having an euphonous and pleasant sounding name, sympathise very sincerely with Mr. Rust in the horror he has conceived towards his own. We had rather be Lazarus in all his misery than Dives in "purple and fine linen."

From the North American Magazine.

MY NAME.

"Quid rides? mutato nomine, de te Fabula narratur."--_Horace, Sat. 1. Lib, I. 70_.

"Nil admirari" has always been my maxim, yet there is one thing which excites my wonder. It _is_ astonishing, that a man, who leaves his son no other legacy, cannot at least give him a good name. What could have been my father's motive, in inflicting upon me that curse of all curses--my name, I cannot determine. Trifling as so small a matter may appear, it has been my ruin. Bah! I shudder when I think of it! shade of my honored parent! would nothing but a scripture name satisfy thee? Why didst thou not then entitle me Ezra?--Zedekiah?--Nimri?--anything--it must out--but Lazarus!

Yes--LAZARUS RUST--that is my name; and, if any man can now blame me for being a misanthrope, let him come forward. As I said, my name has been my ruin. It has made existence a curse since my childhood; even at school, I was tormented almost to madness. I was the only boy who was not nicknamed. The most malicious were satisfied; they could not improve upon Lazarus.

Of all men, the most impertinent are your stage agents. They have a trick of asking your name, with an insulting coolness, which, to a man of delicate sensibilities, is extremely annoying. I shall never forget my first stagecoach journey. The fellow at the desk looked me full in the face, and calmly asked my name. I felt the blood boiling in my face, and my first impulse was to knock him down. But I was a prudent man, even when a boy; so I satisfied myself with turning contemptuously on my heel. The fellow was by my side in a moment. "Sir," said he, in the silver tones of a lackey, "will you allow me to inquire your name?" This was too much. "Allow me to tell you, sirrah," I cried, almost suffocated with rage, "that you are an impertinent scoundrel."

The bar room was in a roar. That laugh is sounding still in my ears, like the roar of a mighty cataract. What diabolical music some men make of laughing! When the agent explained to me the reason of his inquiry, I felt so consummately silly, that I forgot my {171} usual precaution of giving only my initial, and, in a voice painfully distinct, I answered--Lazarus Rust!

They did not laugh. I could have borne a deafening shout: but that suppressed smile! let me not think of it. Of all mortal sufferings, the keenest is the consciousness of being the object of ridicule, mingled perhaps with pity. O! Heaven! what did I not suffer--what have I not suffered, from this one source?

All this comes of my father's--what shall I call it?--madness, in calling me Lazarus. By the by, they tell me that, when I was baptized, a murmur of laughter arose from the whole congregation; and even the minister, as he uttered the solemn form, could not entirely conceal the smile, which, in spite of his utmost exertions played upon his lips.

A history of my ludicrous misfortunes would fill a volume. Perhaps the most ludicrous of all was at my marriage. "A rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet;" and a Lazarus may love as ardently as a Dives. I confess I did love Phoebe McLarry--(how sweetly the name flows from your lips!) she was not beautiful, but she loved me notwithstanding my name, "and I loved her that she did pity me." So we were married. But, when the priest repeated, "Son, Lazarus, take Phoebe," &c. I could not refrain from laughing myself.

They say that the constitution of our habits is such, that, by degrees, we can become reconciled to anything, but I am not yet satisfied with my name. I still persist in writing it L. Rust. I have seen a good deal of human nature; and, I must think, notwithstanding Shakspeare's opinion, that there is something in a name. Indeed, a man's name tinges his whole character. If it is a good one, he may sign even a mortgage deed with a light heart; and, if he writes a neat hand, he will rise from the desk a happy man. His flowing autograph, and more flowing name, make even poverty tolerable. But your Nimris, and Obadiahs! that which, to some men, is the pleasantest thing in existence--the seeing their names in print, is to them, utter and hopeless agony. And then their officious friends are eternally superscribing their letters with the name written out in full. There is one member of Congress, who, throughout the whole session, most perseveringly franks his dull speeches to Lazarus Rust, esq. One would think L. Rust was sufficiently definite, and it certainly has the advantage in point of euphony. I wish he was in Heaven. I know of no damper to ambition like a bad name. I would not immortalize myself if I could. Lazarus Rust, indeed,--that would look well inscribed on a monument! I say with Emmett, "Let no man write my epitaph." It would perhaps run thus:

"Here lies the body of Lazarus Rust With what a horrible name the poor fellow was _cust_."

No--not for me is the laurel wreath of immortality. When I die, let me be forgotten. If there is any truth in the doctrine of transmigration, I may yet take my chance. "I bide my time."

After all, I sometimes endeavor to persuade myself that it is a mere matter of taste. We have no reason to suppose that Lazarus was the worst name in the Hebrew genealogy. It must be confessed, however, that there are some disagreeable associations connected with it, aside from its sound; and, to speak the plain truth, it is a most disgusting appellation, fit only for a monkey. Yet I am compelled to bear it about with me--a thorn in the flesh, from which I cannot escape; it adheres to me like the poisoned tunic of Nessus. I would appeal to the Massachusetts Legislature, but my friends have a decided partiality for Lazarus, and would never know me by any other name. So, as Lazarus I have lived, Lazarus will I die.

I have redeemed my father's error, in naming my own children; I cannot, 'tis true, rub off the Rust: but, for the matter of Christian names, I defy the Directory to furnish a more princely list. When my eldest son was born, I vowed he should never be ashamed of his name, so I called him Henry Arthur Augustus George Bellville--so far, so good--it breaks my heart to add--Rust. The sly rogue has since improved his cognomen, by spelling it with a final e--thus: Henry A. A. G. B. Ruste--how it takes off the romance to add--eldest son of Lazarus Rust, esq.!

Finally, as I have the misfortune, like my namesake of old, to be of that class of mortals, denominated "poor devils," I can say, with the utmost sincerity, "who steals _my_ purse, steals trash; and he who filches from me my good name," has decidedly the worst of the bargain.

J. D.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

The following lines are from the pen of Dr. _J. R. Drake_. Sacred be his memory! A warmer patriot never breathed. The piece was written at the time of the invasion, and but a few days previous to the brilliant victory of the eighth of January. It is addressed to the defenders of New Orleans.

Hail! sons of gen'rous valor! Who now embattled stand, To wield the brand of strife and blood, For freedom and the land; And hail to him your laurel'd chief! Around whose trophied name, A nation's gratitude has twin'd, The wreath of deathless fame.

Now round that gallant leader, Your iron phalanx form; And throw, like ocean's barrier rocks, Your bosoms to the storm-- Though wild as ocean's waves it rolls, Its fury shall be low-- For justice guides the warrior's steel, And vengeance strikes the blow.

High o'er the gleaming columns The banner'd star appears; And proud, amid the martial band, His crest the Eagle rears-- As long as patriot valor's arm Shall win the battle's prize, That star shall beam triumphantly-- That Eagle seek the skies.

Then on! ye daring spirits! To danger's tumults now! The bowl is fill'd, and wreath'd the crown, To grace the victor's brow; And they who for their country die, Shall fill an honored grave; For glory lights the soldier's tomb, And beauty weeps the brave.

{172}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

VALEDICTORY IN JULY 1829,

_At the final breaking up of the ---- School, in consequence of the ill health of Mrs. ----, the Principal, after it had continued for eight years._

Among the numerous analogies, my young friends, which have been traced between the body and the mind, there is not one that requires more of our attention than the necessity of constantly supplying each with its appropriate food, if we would keep both in sound, vigorous health. Although the nutriment of the first be altogether material, and that of the second spiritual, yet the same want of daily supply is equally obvious in regard to the improvement and preservation of mental as well as bodily qualities. Without our daily bread we must all in some short time sicken and die; without some daily intellectual repasts, the soul must soon become diseased and perish. It is true that in each case the food may be much and often beneficially diversified--although there are some standard articles that cannot be dispensed with on any occasion without inconvenience, if not actual injury. Such for example are bread for the body and some moral aliment for the mind. Upon this principle it is that I have always deemed it essential, every time I have addressed you, to mingle some moral instruction with every thing I have said, since it is _this_ which constitutes the true leaven of the bread of life--and _this_ it is which will always prove an acceptable part of their mental food, to all whose appetites and tastes have not been depraved by mental condiments, which stimulate and gratify the passions at the expense of the soul.

An irresistible inducement on the present occasion to pursue towards you the course to which I have so long been prompted both by principle and habit, is, that _this_ is certainly the last opportunity I shall ever have of addressing you as pupils. The connexion of teachers and scholars which has subsisted for so many years between yourselves and my family, is about to be dissolved forever. But this circumstance has greatly augmented my solicitude to render the last admonitions I shall ever give you in my character of adviser, of some permanent service to you. They will relate to such endowments of mind and qualities of heart as you will most frequently have occasion to exercise in future life. These are, self-control, gentleness and benevolence of disposition, purity and rectitude of conduct, courtesy and politeness of manner.

The necessity for acquiring self-control arises, not only from the impossibility of gratifying all, even of our lawful wishes--to say nothing of those unhallowed ones which increase in a tenfold proportion from every indulgence--but from the almost continual calls for its exercise in all our intercourse with society. At home or abroad--in the depths of solitude, or in the busiest haunts of men--in all our domestic relations, as well as in those which place us in a more extended sphere of action, this all important quality is in continual demand. In governing ourselves it is indispensable; nor is it much less necessary when duty requires us to govern, direct or persuade others. Even when we are casually brought into the company of strangers, and for a short time only, it often enables us to command respect and to gain esteem, by manifesting the vast superiority of a well regulated mind over one which yields to every impulse of passion that assails it. This inestimable quality of self-control gives additional zest to all our lawful pleasures, and enhances our highest enjoyments, by causing us always to stop short of satiety; while it enables us by God's help, resolutely and undisturbed, to meet all the crosses and trials to which others may subject us. In a word, it arms us against the strongest temptation of our own passions, and empowers us to disregard the worst that can be attempted against us by the passions of other people. It is in fact the _regulator_, (if I may so express myself,) which governs all the machinery of our minds in such a manner as to prevent them from going either too fast or too slow. How many mortifications and disappointments--how much anger, resentment and grief does it not prevent our suffering from the envy, hatred, malice and uncharitableness of the world around us! How often does it save us from the shame and degradation of sensual indulgence; from the turpitude of sin; from the anguish of remorse. It is the effectual check to the depravity of our nature, which a merciful God will enable us always to apply, if we will only ask it of him as we ought--that is, by continual prayer and supplication.

The other qualities, gentleness, benevolence, purity, rectitude, courtesy and politeness, when accompanied by good sense and a well cultivated mind, constitute the great charm of domestic and social life. Indeed, they may well be called indispensable requisites, since there can be no happiness and very little comfort without them. There never was a greater, a more fatal mistake, than the too common one of supposing that the chief use of such qualities is in society at large; in other words, when we are acting a part before the world, in our ridiculous struggles for distinction and power. Selfishness is the mainspring of all such efforts, and it so sharpens our sagacity as to convince us that our bad qualities _must_ be restrained in public, or they will frequently subject us to punishment if we attempt to disturb others by their indulgence. But in private life, and particularly in the family circle, there are few so insignificant or destitute of means to disturb others as not to possess the power of causing much annoyance, if not actual unhappiness. A single individual of a waspish, irritable, jealous, gossipping, envious and suspicious temper, {173} in these situations, may destroy the peace and poison the domestic enjoyments of a large family. No incident is too trivial to excite some one or other of their bad passions; no person too unoffending to provoke them; no conduct so guarded as to escape malignant remark. Their approach, like the sirocco of the desert, produces an irresistible depression of spirits; constraint and embarrassment spread a gloom over every countenance, and the voice of joy and gladness dies away in their presence. On the other hand, the emanations of a gentle, benevolent disposition, produce the same impression on our hearts, that the balmy breezes and sweet smelling flowers of the vernal season do on our senses. It is a something that we feel deeply in the inmost recesses of our bosom, but cannot well describe. It is an atmosphere of delight in which we would gladly breathe during our whole life.

By purity of thought and rectitude of conduct, in which are comprehended the inestimable virtues of truth, candor and sincerity, we secure for ourselves the unutterable enjoyment of an approving conscience, at the same time that we obtain from others their esteem, their admiration, and their love. We may manifest these qualities in every part of our intercourse with others; for whether we speak or act, occasions continually present themselves to prove that we possess them. By conversation we show the purity of our sentiments; by conduct we manifest the rectitude of our principles--so that in all we either say or do, we supply others with the means of ascertaining what manner of persons we are. True we may deceive some by playing the hypocrite; but the persons whose good opinion is really worth gaining, are not so easily gulled, and our loss, if the game is once seen through, is irretrievable.

In regard to courtesy and politeness, they may justly be called the offspring of benevolence, since their chief object is to promote the ease, the comfort, the pleasure, and happiness of others. It must be admitted there are counterfeit qualities which sometimes pass undetected. But _they_ are the base born children of art and selfishness, aiming solely to promote their own interests by deceiving other people into a belief that _their_ gratification is the end of all their efforts to please. To say nothing of the continual labor and constraint necessary to enable these circulators of false coin to escape discovery and exposure, the superior ease and safety of genuine courtesy and politeness, should be a sufficient inducement with all young persons to study most assiduously to acquire them, even on the supposition that we had no better guide for all our actions in relation to others. That honesty _in manner_, as well as _in conduct_, will ever be found to be the best policy, amid all the varying forms, fashions and practices of the world, is I believe, as certain as that truth is better than falsehood--virtue preferable to vice. Another argument greatly in favor of genuine courtesy and politeness is, that they are the most current and easily procurable coin you can possibly use, being equally well adapted (if I may keep up the metaphor,) to make either large or small purchases. The articles procured too in exchange, always greatly exceed in real intrinsic value, all that you ever give for them. This is merely the manifestation of a sincere, an earnest desire to please; while the precious return is almost always the cordial expression of truly friendly feeling, the look of pleasurable emotion, and the affectionate regards of a grateful heart, particularly where the intercourse has been of sufficient duration to admit of some little development of character. Let it not be said that a cause apparently so slight is inadequate to produce such strong effects. There lives not a human being who has ever felt the influence of genuine courtesy and politeness, but can testify to the truth of what has been said in their praise. Nor is it easy to imagine the possibility of any individual's remaining insensible of their value, who like you my young friends, have always been accustomed to the society of ladies and gentlemen. Knowing this as I do, I should consider it somewhat like a work of supererogation to press upon you the absolute necessity of your constantly cultivating these invaluable qualities, if I were not thoroughly satisfied from painful experience, that almost all young persons require at least occasional admonition on this subject. In vain do some parents solicit, persuade--nay, beseech their daughters, never for a moment to forget what is due to the character of a lady, both in manners and deportment; in vain do they implore them with aching hearts to make a better return for all a mother's care and affection; to no purpose do they pray for that purity of heart and rectitude of principle in their offspring, which is the only true source of good manners: their unfortunate, wayward children continue to act, as if the chief purpose of their existence was to prove to the world how little influence their parents have over them. They seem utterly reckless of the parental tie--regardless of all the disparaging inferences which may be drawn from their own conduct in relation to the characters of their connexions--and continue hardened alike against advice or reproof, in whatever language or manner it may be offered to them. God forbid that such should be the moral portrait of any of my present auditors; but you have all sufficient experience to know that it is not a fancy picture, nor one wherein the features are so exaggerated and caricatured, as to be unlike any person who has ever lived. If none of your schoolmates have ever resembled it, you have either seen or heard of some others in the world whom it would fit. Should your own consciences acquit you, as I sincerely trust they do, of all liability to pursue so reckless a {174} course, both in regard to parental and other admonition--let me beseech you, my young friends, not to tax your imaginations with laboring to conjecture whether I aim at any particular individuals, for I do not; but strive most assiduously to examine your own hearts thoroughly as to all these points, and study so to act on all occasions and towards every person with whom you may have any thing to do, that the praise not only of courtesy and politeness may ever be yours, but likewise the far more exalted merit of right minds and pure hearts.

When I look back on the years that have passed away since this school commenced; when I reflect on the many anxious hours which your teachers have spent in meditating on the most effectual means to render their instructions and admonitions conducive to your eternal as well as temporal welfare; and when I recollect the several instances wherein I am persuaded they had good cause to believe that an all bounteous Providence had favored their humble labors, my heart is filled with gratitude for the past; and I cherish the fond hope that _you too_, my young friends, will be added to the number of those, who by the exemplary character of your future lives, will cause your instructers to rejoice that _you_ likewise have once been their pupils. Three or four of you have been so from the first to the last, and the rest have been long enough members of our family to be thoroughly acquainted with the whole course of our instruction. You cannot therefore be ignorant either of the chief objects at which you have always been taught to aim, or of the means recommended to be invariably pursued for their attainment. If you have failed to profit by them the fault must rest somewhere; the awful responsibility attaches to one or both parties; and let us all earnestly pray to God, that the purity and rectitude of our future lives, should it please him to spare us, may avert the punishment justly due to such offences. That none may plead forgetfulness, let me briefly recapitulate once more, and for the last time, what our course has been. The primary objects always most earnestly pressed upon your attention have been, first and above all, to prepare yourselves for another and a better world, by a life of usefulness in the present; by the love and fear of God; by cheerful obedience to his will; and by continually doing good to your fellow creatures whenever you had the means and the opportunity. Your secondary objects have been the study of sciences and languages, physical and intellectual improvement, with a view, not to foster pride and vanity, but solely to increase your power of being useful. Lastly, you have been taught to acquire certain arts usually ranked under the head of "accomplishments," but you have been invariably and perseveringly admonished to consider them merely as _recreations_, innocent if indulged in only occasionally, but sinful when made, as they too often are, the principal business of life. On all occasions too, you have been persuaded never so far to confide in the maxim that "youth is the season for enjoyment," as to forget that, like old age it _may_, and too often _is_, the season of suffering also. A preparation for such contingencies _must_ be made by all, or the hour of misfortune, although every human being is destined to meet it, will overwhelm those who are unprepared for it with a degree of misery which admits of neither alleviation nor cure. Young as you all are, and little as you have yet seen of human life, you have already felt, if not in your own persons, at least in the case of others, something of the effect produced by sudden and unexpected calamity, bursting like a thunderclap on the heads of its devoted victims. But a few days have passed away since you were witnesses to such an event in the case of two of your school companions. The morning on which it happened shone upon them cheerful and happy as any among you, unconscious of any impending misfortune, undisturbed by any anticipations to mar their peace. Yet, in a very few hours from that time, they were both plunged into the deepest affliction; both by a single blow reduced perhaps to poverty; both suddenly called by the most awful death of a parent of one of them, to return to a wretched family bereft of its chief support, and crushed to the earth in all the helplessness of irremediable wo. Alas! my young friends, how few of you ever think of drawing from such occurrences the many salutary lessons they are so well calculated to impart! How many turn away from them as matters to be banished as speedily as possible from your remembrance; as events never likely to happen to yourselves! Yet every hour that we live--every moment that we breathe--not one among us, no not one single individual, can truly say, "_I_ am free--_I_ am exempt both from present and contingent calamity." Far, very far am I indeed, from wishing you to be so constantly absorbed in gloomy anticipations, as to prevent you in the slightest degree from enjoying every innocent gratification suitable to your respective ages and situations in life. But I would have you all to know and to feel in your inmost heart, that "sweet are the uses of adversity," and that none should think themselves fit to live until they feel prepared to die the death of the righteous before God and man. Hard as this requisition may seem, thousands upon thousands, and of your age too, have complied with it to the very letter. Thousands have furnished angelic examples, even to the aged and hoary headed, that the fresh, the blooming, the joyous period of youth may be dedicated to God, as well as that worn out remnant of life when all power of earthly enjoyment is supposed to be dead within us, and nothing remains to be offered to heaven but exhausted faculties and fast decaying intellects. {175} Has not our blessed Saviour himself declared, when speaking of children, that "of such is the kingdom of heaven;" and in illustration of this truth, are not all the images of cherubim and seraphim presented to our senses, always represented with juvenile countenances, glowing with all the innocence and loveliness of youth? Shall the youth then of the present day--the youth of our own country--but especially the female portion of them, ever adopt the fatal delusion that _theirs_ is an age too immature for the acquisition and exercise of the highest moral and religious attainments. Shall _they_ fall into the ruinous error that it is yet time enough for them to attend to spiritual matters, and that the prime and vigor of their lives are to be wasted in merely temporal pursuits unworthy the characters and disgraceful to the rational creatures formed for a state of eternal happiness? Far better would it be that they never had been born; or that the hand of misfortune--the saddest hours of unmitigated suffering, should continue to press on them with all their weight, until they could be brought to know their duty to God, to their fellow beings, and to themselves. Heaven forbid, my young friends, that such awful discipline should be necessary to bring _you also_ to a proper sense of all you owe to the Divine Author of your existence, and to that society of which you may become either the blessing or the curse. Heaven forbid that any of you should so far forget the high destinies for which you were formed--the glorious purposes to which your lives should be devoted--and the everlasting happiness promised in another world to all who fulfil their duties in this, as to neglect for a moment any of the means essential to improve your hearts and minds to the utmost attainable degree. Nothing--no nothing within the range of possibility can enable you to do this, but continual, earnest, heartfelt prayer to God for the aid of his holy spirit in all your undertakings; frequent and deep meditation on all the vicissitudes of life; frequent and serious forethought in regard not only to what you may probably enjoy in the present world, but to what you may possibly be devoted to suffer. Gay and happy as you all now are in the joyous anticipations so natural to youth and health, it _may_ be your fate (but God forbid it ever should,) to see one by one of your nearest and dearest connexions drop into the grave--some in the very blossom and promise of juvenile years--others worn down by care, disease and old age. It _may_ be your fate to be the very last of your race, reserved to mourn over all who have gone before to another world. All this, my children, and yet deeper affliction may possibly be _your_ lot--for it _has been_ that of thousands, aye of millions before you. Can it be of _no importance_ then; nay, is it not of _the last, the highest, the most vital importance_, that you should make at least some small preparation for such appalling contingencies, lest they befal you utterly unawares? Will you ask me what is that preparation? It is simply so to use all your good gifts as not to abuse them; so to cherish all the powers both of your bodies and minds that they may last as long as nature intended they should, and fulfil all the purposes for which they were designed; so to divide your time between useful occupation and necessary recreation, that none may be said to be wasted or lost; in a word, _so to live_ that you may never be found _unprepared to die_. The joys of heaven should ever be the beacon to guide your course; and the road by which you should travel through the present life to reach them, should be _that_ and _that only_ which your heavenly Father, through his blessed Son, has commanded and besought you to take. Thousands who have steadily pursued this course have testified that it is "a way of pleasantness and a path of peace" to all who have once attained the dispositions, feelings and principles enjoined upon those who have made it their choice, in preference to all other reputed roads to happiness; while not a solitary human being who has ever tried these other roads, has ever yet been heard to bear witness in their favor, after the experiment has been fully made. Woful then must be your mistake, most fatal your error, in choosing "the way in which you should go," should you rather be led by the sinful allurements of illicit pleasure, than the universally concurring testimony of the good, the wise, and the just throughout the world.

In a few fleeting hours more this school will cease to exist, and your present monitor will have uttered the last words of admonition which he will ever address to you as pupils. Anxiously, most anxiously do I desire to fix them indelibly on your minds. But alas! I feel too sensibly my own inability, as well as the evanescent nature of all language in the form of advice, to hope for more than a temporary impression. If I make even _that_, I shall in part at least have attained the sole object of all that I ever said to you, which has been your own intellectual improvement, your own happiness. Let me entreat you, my dear young friends; let me implore you for the last time, never to forget (whatever other things you may suffer to escape your memories,) any of the various moral and religious instructions which you have received under our care. I feel well assured that they will not fail to come home to your bosoms--probably too with greatly augmented force, should the withering blasts of misfortune ever spread desolation and wo among you. But I pray for something more for you. I would have you bear them continually in remembrance, even in your happiest hours of prosperous fortune. I would have each of you individually meditate on them "when thou sittest in thy house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou {176} risest up." Then, but not until _then_, will you be fully prepared both for adversity and prosperity; and then indeed may you confidently trust that the God of all mercy and goodness will vouchsafe to impart to you the true christian's last, best hope, both for time and eternity.

Separated from us all as you will soon be, perhaps forever, and about to enjoy, as I earnestly desire, a happy meeting with the beloved friends and relatives from whom you have been so long withdrawn, accept for the last time our heartfelt assurances that our best wishes, our anxious prayers for your happiness, will accompany you through all the vicissitudes of life; that we shall always sympathise both in your joys and your sorrows; and that our own enjoyments will ever be greatly augmented by hearing that you are all leading exemplary and happy lives. For power to do this, forget not--oh! never for a moment forget, that your sole reliance must be on your heavenly Father and his holy spirit, which hath been promised abundantly to all who ask it in truth and sincerity.

"May the blessing of an all merciful God be ever on you and around you. May his grace be a lamp unto your feet and a light unto your path. May it guide, strengthen and support you in all the troubles and adversities of this life, and bring you, through faith in our Redeemer, to eternal blessedness in that which is to come."--AMEN.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SEASONS.

The verdant spring, decked in her brightest gems, and arrayed in her most gorgeous vesture, has driven hoary winter to his icy caverns, and leads forth her sportive train to kindle a smile upon the face of nature. The mountain streamlets, revelling in joyous gaiety at their disenthralment from the chains of winter, are playfully meandering among the flowrets which deck their velvet banks; and the smiling vallies, embosomed amid the lofty mountains, put forth their verdure, as if in commemoration of him who "holdeth in his hand the destiny of nations!" The blushing rose has expanded beneath the genial rays of the resplendent god of day, and scents with its fragrance the vernal zephyrs which stoop to kiss it as they pass. The woods, and rivers, and mountains, all clad in their variegated garments, seem to mingle in the celebration of the grand jubilee of nature!

The flowers of spring have faded. The refulgent sun has ascended yet higher in his brilliant pathway through the heaven; the gay vesture of the earth is yellowing beneath his scorching rays. The fruit, of which the vernal blossoms gave such fair and glorious promise, has ripened into maturity under his golden influence. Voluptuous summer has been ushered in upon the stage of time, accompanied and heralded by myriads of gleesome fairies, wantonly disporting upon the rich carpets, rivalling in splendor the purple of ancient Tyre, which nature has spread over the earth for her reception. The chaste Diana holds her nocturnal course through the blue expanse of ether, studded with countless gems, the brightest jewels in heaven's diadem, shedding her mild and mellow light over the sombre forests, and gilding the sparkling streamlets, which placidly repose beneath her beams. Earth, sea and air, encompassed by a heavenly serenity, seem to blend their beauties into one rich picture of loveliness, and offer up their united orisons to the sovereign Lord of all!

The revolving wheels of time, in their ceaseless and eternal gyrations, have rolled away the glories of the regal summer into the vast charnel house of the past--and the demon of decay, like the fiend consumption, breathing its fatal influence upon the roseate cheek of youthful beauty, has withered the tresses which hung in wild luxuriancy upon the bosom of the earth, and has stamped upon her brow the impress of his iron signet, as if to shadow forth her approaching doom. The limpid streams which veined her surface, and under the mild sway of the queenly summer, danced and sparkled in the sun's meridian beam, now roll lazily along in their channels, as if performing the funeral obsequies of the buried past. The vallies, but lately decorated in the blooming apparel of spring, have now assumed a more variegated and gorgeous hue, which like the hectic flush which fitfully crimsons the pallid cheek of consumption's hopeless victim, only indicates the accelerated progress of decay. A deep, monotonous, unbroken stillness reigns o'er the hills and vallies, but lately teeming with life and animation. A creeping, deathlike, insidious languor, the sure precursor of winter's despotic reign, pervades the works of nature, hushing the breezes which ripple o'er the surface of the placid lake, and fettering the whole earth in supine inertness. The face of nature is robed in melancholy sadness, as if mourning over the faded glories of the declining year!

Onward, in cold and gloomy grandeur, advance the frowning heralds of the despot winter! Every vestige of vernal beauty has faded from their presence. The mountains, vales and rivulets, as if anticipating his hateful arrival, have veiled themselves in a frigid, chilling vesture of white! Even the tears which sympathising heaven sheds upon the bosom of the earth, become congealed and frozen beneath his blighting influence. The volcanic fires which rage in the bosom of the towering mountain cower in dismay from his terrific glance. At length the tyrant, with his iron sceptre and icy crown, is seated on his throne. His attendant ministers rush to assist in the frightful coronation, and amid the demoniac yells which announce the termination of the loathsome ceremony, the harsh old Boreas shrieks forth the requiem of the departed year!

V.

{177}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BYRON'S LAST WORDS.

BY D. MARTIN.

Summer was in its glory. Night came down, With a light step upon the virent earth; Sepulchral silence reigned on every side; And the winds--those heralders of storm Which curl the billows on Old Ocean's brow, In their low breathings were inaudible,-- When a gifted son of Genius sought his home, And threw himself upon a lowly couch, And as his being's star went slowly down, He thus communed in low and faltering tone:--

Oh! it is hard to die! To leave this world of amaranthine green, Whose glittering pageantry and flowery sheen, Vie with the glorious sky!

But alas! the hand of Death, Has laid its icy grasp upon me now; The cold sweat rests upon my feverish brow, And shorter grows my breath!

Well be it so! And I will pass away like light at even, Unto the Houri's amethystine heaven, Where all immortal go!

Yet I have drank Unto its very dregs, the cup of Fame, And won myself a green, undying name, In Glory's rank!

And yet!--oh, yet, "Break but one seal for me unbroken! Speak but one word for me unspoken! Before my sun is set!"

Oh, for one drop Of the black waters of that stream sublime, Which follows in the stormy track of Time, This breath to stop!

It may not be! Yet I would pray that Memory might rest, Like the wan beauty of the sunlit west, In dark oblivion's sea!

Thus did he commune--and when the god of day Rose like a monarch from his sapphire throne, His spirit had passed away like morning mist-- And winged its way unto that far off land, Where burns fore'er eternity's bright star!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A YOUNG LADY.

How beautiful, fair girl, art thou, All robed in innocence and truth! Upon thy calm and snowy brow, Beam, like a crown, the smiles of youth; Heaven's sunshine falls and lights thy way, As one too pure and bright for sorrow-- And virtue's soft and seraph ray Flings lustre on thy dawning morrow,-- Giving a promise, that thy life Will ever be, with pleasure, rife!

Upon those dark, bright eyes of thine, That soft, like moonlit waters, beam, I love to gaze, and, as they shine, Of those ethereal beings dream, That oft, on us, have smiled, in sleep, Then quickly flown, and made us weep, That e'er to man, so much of heaven Should just be shown,--ah! never given!

How soft the rose upon thy cheek, Blent with the lily's milder hue, Whose mingling tints of beauty speak A sinless spirit--calm and true!-- The smile, that wreathes thy rosy lip, Is young affection's radiant token-- Beauty and Truth in fellowship!-- The symbol of a heart unbroken; Within thy bosom, holy thought, As in a temple, hath its shrine, Refulgent with a glory caught From the pure presence of thy mind, Whose lustre flings a hallowing ray, Around thee, calm as orient day!

Oh! may thy life be ever bright, As aught thine early dreams have framed, And not a shadow dim its light, Till heaven, in mercy, shall have claim'd Thee, as a being fit for naught That earth can boast, all sorrow-fraught As are its brightest visions. May Thy life be one long dream of love, Unbroken 'til the final day, When heaven shall waft thy soul above, And crown thee, as an angel _there_, Who wast indeed an angel _here!_

A. B. M.

_Tuscaloosa, Alabama_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES IN AN ALBUM.

As sets the sun upon the wave, At twilight, when the day is done, Casting a glory round his grave, That lingers, though his race be run;-- A glory, that attracts the gaze Of many a bright, uplifted eye, Leading the spirit, where his rays Blend with the quiet, azure sky, Till evening's star, with diamond beam, Mirrors his last effulgent gleam;--

So I would now, upon this page, At parting, _this_ memorial leave, O'er which, perhaps, in after age, Some pensive eye may kindly grieve, And mourn the loss of him, who though His life was all unknown to fame, Left still behind a feeble glow, Hallowing, in friendship's sky, his name,-- A light, that, like a star, will beam, Long, long, he trusts, in memory's dream!

* * * * *

And now my wish for happiness To thee, I mingle with mine own,-- A wish--a _prayer_, that heaven may bless, {178} And keep thee, kind and gentle one, Free from all sorrow, care and strife,-- A being far too pure and bright To wander 'mid the storms of life, That dim affection's vestal light,-- A seraph form'd like those above, For only joy, and peace, and love!

I need not tell thee, time can ne'er Thy name from memory's tablet blot, For thou art to my heart too dear, To wrong its worship, by the thought; No! though the world may sorrow bring, And bear thee far away from me, It from remembrance ne'er can wring The thoughts, that aye will turn to thee, As Chaldea's maiden to the star, She worships in its sphere afar!

A. B. M.

_Tuscaloosa, Alabama_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PARTING.

Farewell!--my hand is trembling yet, With the last pressure of thine own; Oh! could my troubled heart forget The sadness, 'round that parting thrown,-- Could memory lose the imaged smile, Bright sparkling through thy gushing tears, Which played upon thy cheek, the while Hope struggled with her prophet fears, That love and bliss no more would throw Their beams around us, as of erst, Or happiness, with seraph glow, Upon our rapturous _meetings_ burst,-- I then might lose a sorrowing thought, But one, with deep affection fraught!

Yet go!--I would not keep thee here, When "it is best to be away,"-- Go, seek thy distant home, and ne'er Let memory 'round these visions stray, When happiness, and love and joy, Unto our mingling hearts were given;-- Oh! go, and ne'er may pain annoy, Or sorrow dim thine eye's blue heaven, But peace and pure affection hold Their vigils 'round thine angel way, And blessedness thy form enfold, And keep thee, 'til "the perfect day," When heaven shall join the hearts of those, Who here have loved, through countless woes!

Go!--and I will not ask, or give A sigh,--a tear,--a single token, To prove our cherished love will live, Forever true, in faith unbroken;-- Though wayward fate has severed far Our fortunes, by a cruel lot, Yet love will live, with being's star, And never,--never be forgot;-- God's blessings on thee!--if the smile Of heaven e'er lights a seraph's path,-- Protecting it from blight the while It wanders here, 'mid sin and wrath,-- _Its_ smiles upon _thy_ path shall beam, And light it, like an Eden dream!

A. B. M.

_Tuscaloosa, Alabama_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES SUGGESTED ON VIEWING THE RUINS AT JAMESTOWN.

Monuments of other years, on ye I gaze As yonder sun sheds forth its dying rays; And as I read these marbles, reared to tell Who lived beloved, and much lamented fell; A feeling sad comes o'er my soul, and then My fancy brings their tenants back again. Not these alone, but those whose footsteps trod The soil before, and worshipp'd nature's god Free from scholastic trammel, and adored Him thro' his works, without the zealot's sword To force belief. Where are ye now? Bright star That shed'st thy soft light thro' the skies afar, Art thou the same that didst thy pale beams shed O'er the last broken-hearted Indian's bed? When death was glazing fast his eagle eye, Say, didst thou gleam from yonder deep blue sky O'er his dim vision, and point out the way Thro' death's dark vestibule to endless day?-- How did he die? With curses loud and deep (Startling the panther from his troubled sleep,) All wildly bursting from his soul for those Who came as friends, but--proved the worst of foes? Say, did he breathe his untamed spirit out, With the stern warrior's wild unearthly shout Quiv'ring along his lip, all proudly curled, Which seem'd to say, "defiance to the world?" Or was the lion quiet in his heart? And did a gush from feeling's fountain, start Adown his swarthy cheek, when o'er his soul Came tender feelings he could not control. Thoughts of the past perhaps; his aged sire; His mother bending o'er the wigwam's fire; His brothers, sisters, and the joyous chase; The stream he used to lave in oft, to brace His manly sinews; and perchance the maid, With whom in brighter days he oft had strayed Mid the hoar forest's over spreading shade. Came there a group past mem'ry's straining eye To teach the _brave_ how hard it was to die? What boots it now to know? Yet fancy warms With strange imaginings, and the gaunt forms Of forest heroes pass her eye before, As a strange feeling steals the spirit o'er. Is that Apollo[1] with his polish'd bow And quiver--with rich locks that freely flow Adown his neck of graceful form--whose eye Seems like some bright orb beaming from the sky? O! shade of Powhatan! I would not dare To breathe one word upon this balmy air To make thee sad--for as I look around, I _feel_ this mournful spot is sacred ground! If thou dost mark my footsteps, where I tread Unthinking, o'er those warrior's mounds, who bled Contending bravely for their own green hills, Their sunny fountains and their gushing rills, Their fields, their woods, their partners and their sons, This noble stream which to the ocean runs,-- Shade of the mighty Werowance[2] forgive! No trifling thoughts within this bosom live; {179} No throb unhallowed thrills my bosom here, As o'er these mounds I drop a mournful tear. But day declines; the hosts of heaven ride All brightly--while the moon, pale as a bride When at the altar her young vows are given, Smiles sweetly from her altitude in heaven.

The red man and the white, together sleep That dreamless slumber, and the waves' hoarse sweep Awakes them not--and I a wandering boy, Will not with my sad song their manes annoy.

I drop a parting tear, thou sacred pile, To thy strewn columns and thy moss grown aisle; Thy broken pavement, and thy ruined arch,-- How rapid Time, thy desolating march!

Farewell! farewell! thou sacred, solemn spot; What I have felt shall not be soon forgot: Rest, rest, ye slumberers! would that I could sleep; Your's is all calm, but _I_ must live to weep.

SYLVANUS.

_August, 1834_.

[Footnote 1: It is said of West, the celebrated painter, that on being shown an Apollo, he exclaimed, "My God, how much like a young _Mohawk warrior_."]

[Footnote 2: Indian term for a great man.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ODE WRITTEN ON A FINE NIGHT AT SEA.

How softly sweet this zephyr night! To Venus sends her brilliant light! And Heav'n's inhabitants unite Each kindly beam, To put fell darkness' train to flight, With gentle gleam.

The vessel's sides the waters wake, And waveless as the bounded lake, A solemn slumber seem to take Extending wide;-- Along the ship they sparkling break And gem the tide.

Midst such a scene, no thoughts can find An entrance in the pensive mind, But such as virtue has refined, The past must smile-- And flatt'ring fancy will be kind, And hope beguile.

Blest silence! solitary friend-- My thoughts with thee to _home_ I send; And _there_ absorbed my sorrows end-- In vain I roam-- As blossoms to the day-star tend, So I to home.

Not more I owe that glorious ray That beams the blessing of the day; Not more my gratitude I pay For air and light-- Than for that Home now far away-- First, best delight.

A little while, and that blest spot, From mem'ry shall raze each blot, And all my wand'rings there forgot, At last I'll rest-- No sorrow shall disturb the cot So loved, so blest.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AUTUMN WOODS.

A deep ton'd requiem's in the sigh Of the moaning blast, as it hurries by Yon fading forest; Upon its rushing wings is borne A voice sad as the anthem's tone Above the dead: It is the wild wind's hymn of death, Which pours in plaintive strains its breath O'er autumn woods; When hurl'd to earth by the fitful storm, Some frail leaf's wan and wither'd form Sinks to its tomb. Sad relics of the dying year; Thy springtide glories now are sear, And all departed: Where now's thy fairy robe of spring, The sunbeam and the zephyr's wing Once wove for thee? Say, where's that gush of melody Thy sylvan minstrels pour'd for thee In thy summer bowers? Or where's the Æolian song thou wouldst wake When some sporting zephyr's breath would shake Thy rustling leaves? Thy robe--thy song have past away, And the funeral pall and the funeral lay Alone are thine! How oft when summer's azure sky Was bath'd in the golden, gorgeous dye Of sunset's glow, I've lov'd to wander through thy bright And verdant bowers, gilt with light Of parting day; To list to the soft, faint melody Of thy vesper hymn, as it floated by On the passing breeze-- Or view, when on the stream's bright sheen Was pictured all thy fairy scene In mimic art;-- How calm that stream, in its slumber seeming, Of thee and all thy pageant dreaming Reflected there. But thro' thy shades 'twas not alone I stray'd. With me there wander'd one Of gentler mould, Around whose seraph form awakening, Young beauty's morning light was breaking In roseate beam-- And round whose stainless brow fond Love, And Hope and Joy a wreath had wove Of freshest bloom. Thou sad memento of the tomb! Say, shall that wreath, with its sunny bloom, E'er fade like thee? Shall Time's chill mildew on it light, Or sorrow breathe its _autumn_ blight Upon its flowers? A voice is in each falling leaf Which says, "earth's brightest joys are brief"-- _Thus fade its hopes!_ Then mid that wreath of fading flowers Fond pleasure weaves, to deck her bowers, {180} Oh! twine that flower Whose fadeless hue, whose springtide bloom Immortal lives, beyond the tomb-- Bright SHARON'S ROSE.

H.

We extract the following sprightly effusion from the _North American Magazine_, published in Philadelphia. It bears a strong resemblance to the grace and freedom, and _piquancy_ which distinguish the muse of Halleck, one of the most highly gifted poets in America. We hope our fair readers, however, will not suppose that the author's satire is adapted to our meridian. The BEAUTIES of our southern clime, are too generous and disinterested to be won by the sordid allurements of splendid edifices, bank shares and gold eagles!--at least we hope so, and should be sorry to find ourselves mistaken.

THE DECLARATION.

The lady sat within her bower, Where trellissed vines hung o'er her, With flashing eye and burning cheek, Down knelt her fond adorer; He took her soft white hand, and in Her bright eye fondly gazing, Sought for a look, to show that he An equal flame was raising; Yet still her eyes were turned away, And as his heart waxed bolder, And he devoured her lily hand, The lady's look grew colder.

And then he swore by all the stars, That in the sky were shining-- By all the verdant vines that o'er Her gentle bower were twining-- By mountains, valleys, seas and streams, And by the moon above her, And everything therein that e'er Sophi or saints discover-- He never could know peace again On earth, till he had won her; Yet still she answered not the look Of love he cast upon her.

And then he swore, at her command, To show his love, he would do What never mortals did before, And none but lovers could do, That he would climb up to the moon, Or swim the ocean over-- Would dine one day at Sandy Hook, And sup next night at Dover; Then jump from thence to London, and Alight on St. Paul's steeple-- Then pull the Premier's nose, and make O'Connell damn the people.

Or that he would put armour on, And, like a knight of yore, he Would fight with giants, castles scale, And gain immortal glory. Then go and build a kingdom up, And be a mighty winner; Bowstring the Sultan Mahmoud--and His TURKEY eat for dinner. Then follow Lander's dismal track, And on the Niger's banks An Empire of the Darkies found, And merit Tappan's thanks!

If HARDER tasks she did demand, He would reform the nation, Make talent, honesty, and worth, Essentials to high station-- Make politicians tell the truth, Give consciences to brokers, And put upon the temperance list An army of old soakers-- Make lawyers "keep the people's peace," Physicians kill them CHEAPER-- A cloud was on the lady's brow, Which, as he spoke, grew deeper.

He swore she had the brightest eyes, That ever look'd on mortal; And that their light was like the rays That stream from Heaven's own portal; That by her cheek, the opening rose Would look but dim and faded; And darker than the raven's wing, The hair her fair brow shaded; That Venus by her side would look A common country dowdy;-- The lady blushed and smiled, and then Her brow again grew cloudy.

Up sprung the lover then, and said, "Will you be Mrs. Popkins-- Miss Julia Jane Amelia Ann Matilda Polly Hopkins? I have a house four stories high-- We'll live in splendid style, and A handsome countryseat upon Lake George's sweetest island-- Ten thousand eagles in the mint, Bankshares, untold, percented"-- The lady bent her cheek to his, Her gentle heart relented!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FROM MY SCRAP BOOK.

You ask me B----ty, why I mourn, Yet dry'st the tearful eye? You ask me why I look with scorn, And check the heaving sigh? Time was, when I could carol forth, To tune of lively glee; But dark despair has left no hope-- Nor sigh--nor tear--for me. Like me--perchance some wayward sprite, Might dazzling lead astray; Then leave you on the giddy height, To perish far away: Take heed while yet you have the choice, Avoid the Syren's way; Nor listen to the artful voice, Which calls--but to betray; For sigh from him that is deceived, Or tear from eye that once believed, Is sought in vain--tho' fill'd with grief, Nor sigh nor tear can bring relief; 'Tis _time_ alone can steel the heart, And foil the Syren's pointed dart.

POWHATAN.

_Petersburg, Dec. 19, 1834_.

{181}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE MECHANICIAN AND UNCLE SIMON.

About the period of what "_I am gaun to tell_," the ancient aristocracy of Virginia had passed through its death struggle; the times when the rich were every thing and the poor nothing, had passed away; and the high pretensions of the sons of the Cavaliers had yielded to the more levelling opinions of the Roundheads. The badges of distinction, such as coats of arms and liveries, had become too odious to be generally kept up; occasionally however the latter were seen, but so rarely, that they looked like the spectres of departed greatness, and excited a feeling of contempt or pity for the weakness of the master, rather than respect for his wealth and rank. There was one class of people nevertheless, who retained all their attachment to these distinctive marks; and indeed they do so to this day: I mean the class of servants who belonged to the old families. They were the veriest aristocrats upon earth, and hated with the most unrelenting hatred all the ignoble blood of the land, and deeply deplored the transition of property from the nobles to the serfs. Though their own "_ancient but ignoble blood_" had literally almost "_crept through scoundrels ever since the flood_," they detested the poor and adored the rich. I shall never forget the Fall of the year ----. I had just graduated at one of our northern colleges, and received my two diplomas, with their red ribbons and seals attached. They were deposited by my good friend Andrew McMackin, the most expert diploma rigger in all the village, in a plain cylindrical case of pasteboard, for safe keeping, and would have remained there probably to this day unmolested, had not the rats made an inroad upon them, and in a single night demolished sigillum and signature--all that it had cost me years of hard labor to obtain--aye, and twenty dollars to boot. Not satisfied, I suppose, with the attestation of the president and venerable board of trustees, they were desirous of adding their own ratification of my pretensions to science. Be that as it may; full of delightful anticipation at the prospect of returning to my native state, after an absence of four years, I took my seat in the mail stage, and travelled three hundred miles without once going to bed. Such a journey at this day of steamboat and railroad car would be nothing, but at that time it was a great undertaking, and attended with much fatigue. The vehicles were crazy and often broke down, and the passengers had the pleasure of paying dearly for the privilege of walking many a mile through the mud. At length I arrived at the little town of F----, the end of my journey on the great mail route, where I expected to meet with some kind of conveyance to take me into the country to my uncle's. As I leaped from the carriage to the pavement, where many loiterers were gathered to witness the arrival of the stage, I found myself suddenly locked in the arms of some one, who exclaimed, "_There he is, the very moral of his grandpapa!_ God bless your honor, how do ye do? I'm so glad to see you." Extricating myself with some degree of embarrassment, because of the crowd around me, I perceived that the salutation proceeded from one of our old servants, who stood gazing upon me with the moat benevolent smile. His appearance was quite outré to one who had lived so long at the north. His old and faded livery, was blue turned up with yellow; he held in his hand a horseman's cap, without the bearskin; his boots had once been white-topped, but could no longer claim that distinctive epithet; like Sir Hudibras, he wore but one spur, though probably for a different reason; his high forehead glistened in the sun, and his slightly grey hair was combed neatly back, and queud behind with an eelskin so tight that he could hardly wink his eyes, exhibiting a face remarkably intelligent and strongly marked, with a nose uncommonly high and hawkbilled for a negro. Perceiving my embarrassment, he drew back with a very courtly bow, and begged pardon, declaring he was so glad to see me, he had forgotten himself and made too free. I made haste to assure him that he had not--gave him a hearty shake by the hand--called him Uncle Simon, a name he had been always accustomed to from me, and drawing him aside, overwhelmed him with questions about every body and every thing at home. Tell me, said I, how is my uncle? "I thank you sir, quite hearty, and much after the old sort--full of his projjecks, heh! heh! perpechil motion, and what not." What, said I, is he at that still? "Oh yes--oh yes--and carridges to go without hawses; God love you, Mass Ned, I don't think they ken go without animel nater." And how does my aunt like all this? "Ah!" said he, putting up his hands with an air of disgust, "She can't abide it--things go on badly. You 'member my four greys? So beautiful!--my four in hand!--all gone, all sold. Why, sir, I could whistle them hawses to the charrut jest as easy as snap my finger. Our fine London charut too! _that's gone_--and my poor Missis your aunt, has nothin to ride in, but a nasty, pitiful push phaton." I am sorry to hear it, Simon. "Why, Mass Ned, what mek you all let them Demmy Cats sarve you so? What you call 'em? Publicanes? Yes, _I'd_ cane 'um as old master used to do." But Simon, how is cousin Mary? "Miss Mary? Oh, Miss Mary is a beauty; gay as a young filly, and she walks upon her pasterns ----." Well, well, said I, interrupting him, Simon let us be off; what have you brought for me to ride? "Old Reglus, sir, your old favorite." Having taken some refreshment, and transferred my clothes to the portmanteau, I mounted Regulus, who still shewed his keeping. He was a bright bay, and his hair was as glossy as silk under Simon's management; his eye still glanced its fire, and his wide nostrils gave token of his wind. He knew me, I shall ever believe it, for my voice made him prick his ears, as if listening to the music of former days. It seemed to inspire him with new life; he flew like an arrow, and Simon found it impossible to keep up with me, mounted as he was on a high trotting, rawboned devil, that made the old man bound like a trapball, whenever he missed his up-and-down-position movement. His figure, thus bobbing in front of a monstrous portmanteau and bearskin, was so ludicrous, I could not forbear laughing; and reining up my steed, I told him I would ride slower for the sake of conversation with him. "Do, my good sir," cried he, "for this vile garran will knock the breath out of my body. If I had but my old hawse Grey Dick alive agin--that hawse, Mass Ned, was the greatest hawse upon the face of the yearth; I rod him ninety miles the hottest day that ever come from heaven, and when I got through our outer gate, he seized the bit between his teeth, and run away with me, and never stopped till he got clean into {182} the stable. Whenever I fed him, I was 'bliged to shet the stable door and go away, for if he heard me move or a stirrup jingle, he would'nt eat another mouthful, but stood with his head up and his eyes flying about, impatient for me to mount." I knew this was the moment to put in a leading question to bring out a story I had heard a thousand times. That was not the horse that ran away with you when a boy? "No--no--that was Whalebone; _your_ grandpapa used always to go to court in his coach and six; I can see him now, in his great big wig, hanging down upon his shoulders, and powdered as white as a sheet. I was then a little shaver, and always went behind the carridge to open the gates. Waitinman George rod the old gentleman's ridin horse Bearskin, and led Mass Bobby's hawse Whalebone; Mass Bobby rod in the carridge with old master. Well, one day what should George do but put me up upon Whalebone, as big a devil as ever was; soonever I got upon him, off he went by the coach as hard as he could stave; old master hallooed and bawled--he'll kill him--he'll kill him--George how dare you put Simon upon Whalebone? Pshey! the more he hallooed the more Whalebone run. I pulled and pulled till I got out of sight, and turned down the quarter stretch, and then _I did give him the timber_--Flying Childers was nothin to him. When old master got home, there I was with Whalebone as cool as a _curcumber_. I made sure I should get a caning, but all he said was, D--n the fellow! I 'blieve he could ride old Whalebone's tail off--heh! heh! heh!"

I am sorry I cannot do more justice to the eloquence of Simon, who excelled in all the arts of oratory. His eyes spoke as much as his tongue; his gestures were vehement, but quite appropriate; he uttered some words in as startling a voice as Henry Clay, and his forefinger did as much execution as John Randolph's. As to his political opinions, he was the most confirmed aristocrat, and thought it the birthright of his master's family, to ride over the poor, booted and spurred. It was his delight to tell of his meeting one day, as he swept along the road with his smoking four in hand, a poor man on horseback, whom he contemptuously styled a _Johnny_. He ordered the man to give the road; but as he did not obey him as readily as he desired, he resolved to punish him. By a dexterous wheel of his leaders, he brought the chariot wheel in contact with the fellow's knee, and shaved every button off as nicely as he could have shaved his beard with a razor. But enough of Simon. I beguiled the way by drawing him out upon his favorite topics, until we got within sight of my uncle's house, a fine old mansion, with an avenue of cedars a mile in length. They had been kept for several generations neatly trimmed, and he who had dared to mar their beauty with an axe, would have been considered a felon, and met his fate without benefit of clergy. I have lived to see them all cut down by the ruthless hand of an overseer, who sees no beauty in any thing but a cornstalk. However, this is wandering from my present theme. Then they were in all their evergreen loveliness, and I hailed them as my ancient friends, as I galloped by them, with a joyous feeling at approaching the scene of my childhood. The folding doors soon flew wide open, and the whole family rushed out to meet me with true-hearted old fashioned Virginia promptitude. I must not attempt to describe a meeting which is always better imagined than described. Let it suffice, that after the most affectionate greeting, which extended to every servant about the premises, I was ushered to my bed room at a late hour, with as much of state as could be mustered about the now decaying establishment, and soon sunk into a profound slumber, well earned by the toils and fatigues of my journey. Early the next morning, before I left my room, my excellent and revered uncle paid me a visit, and ordered in the never failing julep,--_such a one as would have done honor to Chotank_. At the same time he suggested to me that he would greatly prefer my taking a mixture of his own, which he extolled as much as Don Quixotte did his balsam to Sancho, or Dr. Sangrado his warm water to Gil Blas. It was a pleasant beverage, he said, compounded of an acid and an alkali. He had discovered by close observation, that all diseases had their origin in acid, and that alkali of course was the grand panacea; even poisons were acids, and he had no doubt that he should be able to form a concrete mass, by means of beef gall and alkali, which would resemble and equal in virtue the mad stone. If I felt the slightest acidity of stomach, I would find myself much relieved by one of his powders. He had written to Dr. Rush on the subject, and he shewed me a letter from that gentleman, at which he laughed heartily, and in which the Doctor protested he might as well attempt to batter the rock of Gibraltar with mustard seed shot as to attack the yellow fever with alkali. I could not help smiling at the earnestness of my dear uncle, and assured him that I had no doubt of the virtues of his medicine, but as I was quite well, I would rather try the anti-fogmatic; and if I should feel indisposed, would resort to his panacea; although I secretly resolved to have as little to do with it as Gil Blas had with water. Having dressed myself and descended to the breakfast room, I there met my aunt and cousin, who soon made me acquainted with the present condition of the family. Every thing was fast declining, in consequence of the total absorption of the mind of my uncle in his visionary schemes; and I saw abundant evidence of the wreck of his fortune, in the absence of a thousand comforts and elegancies which I had been accustomed to behold. He soon joined us, and such was his excellence of character, that we most carefully avoided casting the smallest damp upon his ardor. Indeed, he was a man of great natural talent and much acquired information, and was far above the ridicule which was sometimes played off upon him by his more ignorant neighbors. I almost begin to think that _we_ were the mistaken ones, when I look around and see the perfection of many of his schemes, which I then thought wholly impracticable. When old Simon thought that a carriage could never go without _animel nater_, he certainty never dreamed of a railroad car, nor of the steam carriages of England; and when my uncle gravely told me that he should fill up his icehouse, and manufacture ice as he wanted it in Summer, by letting out air highly condensed in a tight copper vessel, upon water, I did not dream of the execution of the plan by some French projector. I must not be thus diffuse, or I shall weary the patience of my reader. A ride was proposed after breakfast, and my uncle immediately invited me to try his newly invented vehicle which could not be overset. {183} I have constructed, said he, a carriage with a moveable perch; by means of which the body swings out horizontally, whenever the wheels on one side pass over any high obstacle or ground more elevated than the other wheels rest upon; and I shall be glad to exhibit it to a young man who is fresh from college, and must be acquainted with the principles of mechanics. I readily accepted his proposal, although I trembled for my neck; but declared I had no mechanical turn whatever, and could not construct a wheelbarrow. He was sorry to hear this, as he was in hopes I would be the depositary of all his schemes, and bring them to perfection in case of his death, for the benefit of his family. We soon set off on our ride; and Simon was the driver. As I anticipated, in descending a hill where the ground presented great inequality, the whole party were capsized, and nothing saved our bones but the lowness of the vehicle. Never shall I forget the chagrin of my uncle, nor the impatient contemptuous look of Simon, as he righted the carriage; he did not dare to expostulate with his master, but could not forbear saying that he had never met with such an accident when he drove his four greys. "Ah, there is the cause," said my uncle, much gratified at having an excuse for his failure; "Simon is evidently intoxicated; old man, never presume to drive me again when you are not perfectly sober; you will ruin the most incomparable contrivance upon earth." Simon contented himself with a sly wink at me, and we made the best of our way home; my uncle promising me another trial in a short time, and I determining to avoid it, if human ingenuity could contrive the means. The next day, as I was amusing myself with a book, my uncle came in from his workshop, with a face beaming with pleasure; and entering the room, proceeded in the most careful manner to close all the doors; and producing a small crooked stick, said to me with a mysterious air, "My boy, this stick, small and inconsiderable as it seems to be, has made your fortune. It is worth a million of dollars, for it has suggested to me an improvement in my machine for producing perpetual motion, which puts the thing beyond all doubt." Is it possible, cried I, that so small a stick can be worth so much? "Yes, depend upon it--and I carefully closed the doors, because I would not be overheard for the world. Some fellow might slip before me to the patent office, and rob me of my treasure." I observed that nobody was there who could possibly do so. "Yes, somebody might be casually passing, and I cannot be too vigilant. I take it for granted," he resumed, "that you are apprised of the grand desideratum in this business. You do not imagine, with the ignorant, that I expect to make matter last longer than God intended; the object is to get a machine to keep time so accurately, that it may be used at sea to ascertain the longitude with precision. Do you know that a gentleman has already constructed a time piece, for which the Board of Longitude paid him fifty thousand pounds; but owing to the metallic expansion, it would not be entirely accurate." I answered that I had not so much as heard of the Board of Longitude--and he proceeded to explain his improvement, of which I did not comprehend a syllable. All that I felt sure of, although I did not tell him so, was that he would not succeed in realizing the million of dollars; and, accordingly, when admitted as a great favor into his sanctum sanctorum, the work shop, to witness his machine put in motion, it stood most perversely still after one revolution, and "_some slight alteration_" remained to be made to the end of the chapter,--until hope became extinct in every breast save that of the projector. I could fill a volume with anecdotes of this sort, but will add only one, as descriptive of the very great height to which visionary notions may be carried. My uncle was a federalist, and of course hated Buonaparte from the bottom of his soul. He told me as a most profound secret, that he had discovered the means of making an old man young again, by removing from him the atmospheric pressure, and that nothing deterred him from patenting his discovery, but the fear that Buonaparte would attach his machinery to a body of soldiers and fly across the British Channel, and thus light down in the midst of England, and make an easy conquest of the only barrier left upon earth to secure the liberties of mankind. Eheu! jam satis! thought I. In this way did my poor uncle spend his time, to the utter ruin of a fine estate, which was surrendered to the management of that most pestilent of the human race, an overseer,--who would not at last be at the trouble of furnishing the old gentleman with wood enough to keep him warm in his spacious edifice. The means he resorted to, to reprove the overseer, were not less characteristic and laughable than many of his singular notions. One very cold day he sent for him; the man attended, and was ushered with much solemnity into an apartment where a single chump was burning feebly in the chimney place, and a table was standing in the centre of the room, covered with papers, pen and ink. My uncle received him with unusual courtesy, and ordered the servant to set a chair for Mr. Corncob by the _fire_,--with a peculiar emphasis on the word. "I have sent for you, Mr. Corncob," said he, "to get you to witness my will. You see, sir," pointing at the same time to the fire--"you see, sir, how small a probability there is that I shall survive the present winter. I am anxious to settle my affairs previous to my being attacked by the pleurisy, and have therefore sent for you to aid me in doing so." This was a severe reproof, and the man having done as he was bid, retired with an air the most sheepish imaginable. I fill up the picture by stating that I married my cousin, and inherited the estate in due course of time; but a mortgage swallowed it up as effectually as an earthquake--and poor old Simon died of a broken heart when Regulus was knocked off at the sale of his master's property at twenty dollars, to the man whom he hated of all others, Christopher Corncob, Esquire.

NUGATOR.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES WRITTEN IMPROMPTU,

On a Lady's intimating a wish to see some verses of mine in the Messenger.

A Lady requests me to write Some lines for your Messenger's muse, And I cannot be so impolite, By any means, as to refuse.

So I scribble these words in my way, In spite of Minerva, you see; But Venus will smile on my lay, And that is sufficient for me.

A. B.

{184}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE PEASANT-WOMEN OF THE CANARIES.

Beautiful Islands, how fair you lie Beneath the light of your cloudless sky, And the light green waves that around you play, Seem keeping forever a holiday;-- Beautiful Islands, how bright you rise 'Twixt the crystal sea and the sunny skies!

The luscious grape, with its royal hue Veil'd in a tint of the softest blue, Hangs on the vine in its purple prime As proud to garnish its own sweet clime, And the olive sports in your soft, sweet air Its pale green foliage--a native there.

Music is ceaseless your trees among, Thou Island-home of a choral throng; Music unheard on a foreign shore;-- Songs of the free--which they will not pour When exile-minstrels compelled to roam-- They're sacred songs to their sweet isle-home.

Why, though it's light in the Olive-bower, And fragrance breathes from the Orange-flower, And the sea is still and the air is calm And the early dew is a liquid balm-- Why are the young ones forbade to roam, Or stray from the door of their Cottage-home?[1]

In the light that plays through the Olive-bower, In the scent that breathes from the Orange-flower, In the liquid balm of the early dew, In the smooth, calm sea with its emerald hue, Can the Peasant-mother no charm descry To protect from the curse of the "evil eye."

While they shall loiter the trees among, Echoing the wild Canary's song, The "_mal de ajo_" may on them rest And blight the pride of the mother's breast; Her bosom throbs with a secret dread, Though paths of Eden her loved ones tread.

Lo, from the Peak, with its hoary crown, The "_el a pagador_" sails down, And over the Cot in the moon-light floats, Foreboding death in its awful notes-- Who in that Cottage but pants for breath, And hears that voice as the voice of death?

Richly the vine with its deep green leaf, Girdles the base of the Teneriffe,-- Yet there, in the prime of the sunny day, The Peasant-maiden dares not to stray, Till the secret charm to her arm is set, And her bosom throbs to an amulet.

When, oh! when, shall darkness flee, From the rosy Isles of the sunny sea? The light of Truth with its living ray, Pour on their dwellers a clearer day, And _Mind_ from the chain of its darkness rise, Like a bird set free, to its native skies?

ELIZA.

_Maine_.

[Footnote 1: D. Y. Brown's Superstitions of the Canary Islands.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE HEART.

Man's heart! what melancholy things Are garner'd up in thee!-- What solace unto life it brings That none the heart can see-- 'Tis shut from every human eye, Close curtain'd from the view; The scene alike of grief or joy-- Man's Hell and Heaven too.

Should all mankind combine to tear The curtain, thrown around, Their labor would be spent in air-- It is his hallow'd ground: Within thy magic circle, Heart! So potent is his spell, No human hand hath strength to part Or turn aside the veil.

In sadness, there's a pleasure soft, "Which mourners only know;" My heart affords this treasure oft, And there I love to go; It is the chosen spot where I Can live my life anew-- My Home!--my Castle!--my Serai! Which none must dare break through.

In thee, my Heart! I am alone Quite unrestrained and free, Thou'rt hung with pictures all my own, And drawn for none but me; All that in secret passes there, Forever I can hide; Ambition--love--or dark despair-- My jealousy--or pride.

Yes, when ambitious--ardent--young-- I thought the world my own, My glowing portraits there were hung; How have their colors flown!-- Some are by Time, defaced so far I look on them with pain; But Time nor nothing else can mar The portrait of my JANE.

I placed her there who won my soul; No creature saw the maid; I gazed in bliss, without control, On every charm displayed: It was a sweet, impassion'd hour, When not an eye was near To steal into my lonely bower, And kiss her image there.

Earth held not on its globe the man Who breathed that holy air; No mortal eye but mine did scan My folly with my fair; Sole monarch of that silent spot, All things gave place to me; I did but wish--no matter what-- Each obstacle would flee.

And did she love? She loved me not, But gave her hand away; {185} I hied me to my lonely spot-- In anguish passed the day; And such a desolation wide, Spread o'er that holy place, The stream of life itself seemed dried, Or ebbing out apace.

But what I did--what madly said-- I cannot tell to any-- Her portrait in its place hath staid, Though years have flown so many; Nor can each lovely lineament So deep impress'd, depart, Till Nature shall herself be spent, And thou shalt break, MY HEART.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--I send you a Parody upon Bryant's Autumn, apparently written by some disconsolate citizen of Richmond after the adjournment of the Legislature in time past. If the picture be faithfully drawn, it may perhaps amuse the members of the assembly who are now in your city.

NUGATOR.

PARODY ON BRYANT'S AUTUMN.

The very dullest days are come, the dullest of the year, When all our great Assembly men are gone away from here; Heaped up in yonder Capitol, how many bills lie dead, They just allowed to live awhile, to knock them on the head; Tom, Dick, and Harry all have gone and left the silent hall, And on the now deserted square we meet no one at all-- Where are the fellows? the fine young fellows that were so lately here And vexed the drowsy ear of night with frolic and good cheer. Alas! they all are at their homes--the glorious race of fellows, And some perhaps are gone to forge, and some are at the bellows. Old Time is passing where they are, but Time will pass in vain; All _never_ can, though _some_ may be, _transported_ here again: Old "_What d'ye call him_," he's been off a week, or maybe more, And took a little negro up, behind and one before; But _What's his name_ and _You know who_, they lingered to the last, And neither had a dollar left and seemed to be downcast; Bad luck had fallen on them as falls the plague on men, And their phizzes were as blank as if they'd never smile again; And then when comes December next, as surely it will come, To call the future delegate from out his distant home, When the sound of cracking nuts is heard in lobby and in hall, And glimmer in the smoky light old Shockoe Hill and all, An old friend searches for the fellows he knew the year before, And sighs to find them on the Hill Capitoline, no more; But then he thinks of one who her promise had belied, The beautiful Virginia, who had fallen in her pride. In that great house 'twas said she fell where stands her gallant chief, Who well might weep in marble, that her race had been so brief-- Yet not unmeet it was he thought--oh no, ye heavenly powers! Since she trusted those good fellows, who kept such shocking hours.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

Audire magnos jam videor duces Non indecoro pulvere sordidos.--_Hor. Car. L. ii. 1._

I stood upon the heights above Charlestown, and was silently contrasting the then peaceful aspect of the scene with that which it presented on the day of wrath and blood which had rendered the place so memorable in story, as my fancy filled with images of the past and once more crowded the hill--not indeed with knights and paladins of old,

Sed rusticorum mascula militum Proles, Sabellis docta ligonibus Versare glebas, et severae Matris ad arbitrium recisos Portare fustes.--_Hor. Lib. iii. Car. 6._

As the silent hosts arose in imagination before me, I thought of the complicated feelings which on that day must have stirred their hearts; I thought of the breasts which kindled under the insult of invasion and were nerved with the stern determination to play out the game upon which was staked their all of earthly hope or fear, and it struck me that the gallant Warren, whose voice had often made the patriot's heart to glow and nerved the warrior's arm, might perhaps have addressed them in sentiment something as follows:

THE BATTLE OF BREED'S HILL.

Look down upon the bay, my men, As proudly comes the foe; Ah! send them back their shout agen, That patriot hearts may glow.

They come to us in pomp of war-- The tyrant in his gold; Our arms are few--they're stronger far, But who will say as bold?

No Briton ever forged the chains Shall bind our hands at will; The Pilgrim spirit still remains, Out on the western hill.

Their power may awe the coward slave, But not the stalwart free; Their steel may drive us to the grave, But not from liberty.

Our fathers spirit boils along Impetuous through our veins; We ask to know, where are the strong, To bind us in their chains?

Then let the foe look to his steel, And count his numbers strong; We bide him here for wo or weal, As he shall know ere long.

We'll dare him to the last of death-- We've sworn it in our hearts; We stand upon our native heath-- We'll hold till life departs.

Oh! what is death to slavery! The dead at least are free: And what is life for victory! We strike for _liberty!_

This sod shall warm beneath our feet, All reeking in our gore, And hearts that gladly cease to beat, The foe must trample o'er. {186}

Our boys are bold--their mothers stern, Will rear them true and brave, And many noble hearts shall burn To free a father's grave.

Let every tongue be hushed and still, Each soldier hold his breath-- They're marching up the sloping hill,-- And now prepare for death.

ALPHA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A LADY.

Oh! do not sing--my soul is wrung When those sweet tones salute mine ear; Thou canst not sing as _thou hast_ sung-- As _I have heard_, I cannot hear. Then do not breathe to me one strain Of those I loved in years gone by; Their melody can only throw A darker cloud upon my sky.

Speak not to me!--thine accents fall By far too sadly on my ear; They _told_ of love, and hope, and joy-- They _tell_ of life made lone and drear. No word speak thou! The tones are changed That breathed to me thy young heart's vow Of all-enduring fondness; aye! Thou canst but speak in _kindness_ now.

And worse than all would be the smile Which once was mine, and only mine; Thou wert my hope--thy love my pride-- Thy heart my spirit's chosen shrine. But _now_--oh! smile not on me _now_; 'Tis insult--worse, 'tis mockery! Estranged, and cold, and false, thou art; Smile if thou wilt--but not on me.

M. S. L.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO IANTHE.

Think of me when the morning wakes, With a smile that's bright and a blush that's new; And the wave-rocked goddess gently shakes From her rosy wings, the gems of dew.

Think of me, when the day-god burns In his noon-tide blaze and his purest light; And think of me when his chariot turns To the sombre shades of silent night.

Think of me, when the evening's store Of brilliance, fades on the wondering eye; And think of me, when the flowers pour Their incense to the star-lit sky.

Think of me when the evening star, Through the deep blue sky shall dart his beams; And think of me when the mind, afar, Shall chase the forms of its joyous dreams.

Think of me in the hour of mirth-- Think of me in the hour of prayer-- Aye! think amidst each scene of earth, You feel my spirit is mingling there.

For morning's beam--nor evening's light-- Nor days of woe--nor hours of glee-- Nor e'en religion's holiest rite, Can steal or force my thoughts from thee.

FERGUS.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET.

FROM THE PORTUGUES OF CAMOENS.

BY R. H. WILDE, _Of Georgia_.

Sonnet xliii. of the edition of 1779-1780.

"O cysne quando sente ser chegada," &c.

They say the Swan, though mute his whole life long, Pours forth sweet melody when life is flying, Making the desert plaintive with his song, Wondrous and sad, and sweetest still while dying; Is it for life and pleasure past he's sighing, Grieving to lose what none can e'er prolong? Oh, no! he hails its close, on death relying As an escape from violence and wrong: And thus, dear lady! I at length perceiving, The fatal end of my unhappy madness, In thy oft broken faith no more believing, Welcome despair's sole comforter with gladness, And mourning one so fair is so deceiving, Breathe out my soul in notes of love and sadness.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAMME FRANCAISE.

Lit de mes plaisirs; lit de mes pleurs; Lit on je nais; lit on je mours; Tu nous fais voir combien procheins Sort nos plaisirs de nos chagrins.

TRANSLATION.

Couch of Sorrow; Couch of Joy; Of Life's first breath, and Death's last sigh; Thou makest us see what neighbors near Our pleasures and our sorrows are.

The above was the execution of a task proposed by a French gentleman, who, boasting the piquant terseness of his language, said that the original could not be rendered into English.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUE CONSOLATION.

He had wept o'er the honored, in age who die; O'er the loved,--in beauty's bloom; O'er the blighted buds of infancy: Till all earth was to him a Tomb.

And sorrow had drunk his youthful blood, And hastened the work of Time; And the cankering tooth of ingratitude Had withered his manhood's prime.

But he turned from earth, and he looked to the sky, His sorrow by faith beguiling; Where Mercy sits enthroned on high, With his loved ones round her smiling.

He looked to Eternity's bright shore, From the wreck of perished years; And Mercy's voice, through the storm's wild roar, Came down to sooth his fears.

That gentle voice has charmed away The frenzy from his brain; And his withered heart, in her eye's mild ray, May bud and bloom again; {187}

And her smile has chased the gloom from his brow, So late by clouds o'ercast; And his cheek is bright with the sun-set glow, That tells that the Storm is past.

And his heart returns to the world again, But forgets not the world above; For Heaven sends love to sooth earthly pain, But Heaven's whole bliss is Love.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET.

BY R. H. WILDE, _Of Georgia_.

Thou hast thy faults VIRGINIA!--yet I own I love thee still, although no son of thine; For I have climb'd thy mountains, not alone-- And made the wonders of thy vallies mine, Finding from morning's dawn 'till day's decline Some marvel yet unmarked--some peak whose throne Was loftier; girt with mist, and crown'd with pine, Some deep and rugged glen with copse o'ergrown, The birth of some sweet valley, or the line Traced by some silver stream that murmured lone; Or the dark cave where hidden crystals shine, Or the wild arch across the blue sky thrown;[1] Or else those traits of nature, more divine That in some favored child of thine had shone.

[Footnote 1: The Natural Bridge.]

[The following letter, written by a distinguished President of the oldest College in Virginia, has been already or rather formerly before the public;--but no apology is necessary for transferring it to the columns of the "Messenger." Its elegant style and still more excellent sentiments, will always command admiration,--and we doubt whether we could render a more essential service to society than to republish it annually, in order that every young married lady (at least within the range of our subscription) should receive the benefit of its precepts. Certain we are, that more wholesome advice conveyed in more agreeable language, we have seldom seen contained in the same space. It is of itself a volume of instruction, and we do most cheerfully recommend it to the softer sex, whether married or single; for the married may profit by it even after years of conjugal tranquillity--and the single may at least _expect_ to profit. It is more especially applicable, however, to her who has just sworn her vows on the altar of hymen--whose life of bliss and peace, or misery and discord, may depend upon the first six or twelve months of "prudent, amiable, uniform conduct."

Let it not be understood, however, that we are believers in the doctrine, that the pleasures of the matrimonial voyage are wholly dependant upon the conduct of the lady. She is but the second in command, and still greater responsibilities rest upon him who stands at the helm and guides the frail bark of human happiness. We should indeed be thankful if some of our highly gifted and experienced friends would prepare a _counterpart_ to this valuable letter of advice, designed more particularly for the edification of such of us lords of creation as have either contracted or are likely to contract the nuptial bond. As to the old bachelors they are an incorrigible race, upon whom such advice would be wasted, and therefore they need not trouble themselves to read it.]

ADVICE FROM A FATHER TO HIS ONLY DAUGHTER.

WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER HER MARRIAGE.

_My dear Daughter_,--You have just entered into that state which is replete with happiness or misery. The issue depends upon that prudent, amiable, uniform conduct, which wisdom and virtue so strongly recommend, on the one hand, or on that imprudence which a want of reflection or passion may prompt, on the other.

You are allied to a man of honor, of talents, and of an open, generous disposition. You have, therefore, in your power, all the essential ingredients of domestic happiness; it cannot be marred, if you now reflect upon that system of conduct which you ought invariably to pursue--if you now see clearly, the path from which you will resolve never to deviate. Our conduct is often the result of whim or caprice, often such as will give us many a pang, unless we see beforehand, what is always the most praiseworthy, and the most essential to happiness.

The first maxim which you should impress deeply upon your mind, is, never to attempt to control your husband by opposition, by displeasure, or any other mark of anger. A man of sense, of prudence, of warm feelings, cannot, and will not, bear an opposition of any kind, which is attended with an angry look or expression. The current of his affections is suddenly stopped; his attachment is weakened; he begins to feel a mortification the most pungent; he is belittled even in his own eyes; and be assured, the wife who once excites those sentiments in the breast of a husband, will never regain the high ground which she might and ought to have retained. When he marries her, if he be a good man, he expects from her smiles, not frowns; he expects to find in her one who is not to control him--not to take from him the freedom of acting as his own judgment shall direct, but one who will place such confidence in him, as to believe that his prudence is his best guide. Little things, what in reality are mere trifles in themselves, often produce bickerings, and even quarrels. Never permit them to be a subject of dispute; yield them with pleasure, with a smile of affection. Be assured that one difference outweighs them all a thousand, or ten thousand times. A difference with your husband ought to be considered as the greatest calamity--as one that is to be most studiously guarded against; it is a demon which must never be permitted to enter a habitation where all should be peace, unimpaired confidence, and heartfelt affection. Besides, what can a woman gain by her opposition or her differences? Nothing. But she loses every thing; she loses her husband's respect for her virtues, she loses his love, and with that, all prospect of future happiness. She creates her own misery, and then utters idle and silly complaints, but utters them in vain. The love of a husband can be retained only by the high opinion which he entertains of his wife's goodness of heart, of her amiable disposition, of the sweetness of her temper, of her prudence, and of her devotion to him. Let nothing upon any occasion, ever lessen that opinion. On the contrary, it should augment every day: he should have much more reason to admire her for those {188} excellent qualities, which will cast a lustre over a virtuous woman, when her personal attractions are no more.

Has your husband staid out longer than you expected? When he returns, receive him as the partner of your heart. Has he disappointed you in something you expected, whether of ornament, or furniture, or of any conveniency? Never evince discontent; receive his apology with cheerfulness. Does he, when you are housekeeper, invite company without informing you of it, or bring home with him a friend? Whatever may be your repast, however scanty it may be, however impossible it may be to add to it, receive them with a pleasing countenance, adorn your table with cheerfulness, give to your husband and to your company a hearty welcome; it will more than compensate for every other deficiency; it will evince love for your husband, good sense in yourself, and that politeness of manners, which acts as the most powerful charm! It will give to the plainest fare a zest superior to all that luxury can boast. Never be discontented on any occasion of this nature.

In the next place, as your husband's success in his profession will depend upon his popularity, and as the manners of a wife have no little influence in extending or lessening the respect and esteem of others for her husband, you should take care to be affable and polite to the poorest as well as to the richest. A reserved haughtiness is a sure indication of a weak mind and an unfeeling heart.

With respect to your servants, teach them to respect and love you, while you expect from them a reasonable discharge of their respective duties. Never tease yourself, or them, by scolding; it has no other effect than to render them discontented and impertinent. Admonish them with a calm firmness.

Cultivate your mind by the perusal of those books which instruct while they amuse. Do not devote much of your time to novels; there are a few which may be useful in improving and in giving a higher tone to our moral sensibility; but they tend to vitiate the taste, and to produce a disrelish for substantial intellectual food. Most plays are of the same cast; they are not friendly to the delicacy which is one of the ornaments of the female character. HISTORY, GEOGRAPHY, POETRY, MORAL ESSAYS, BIOGRAPHY, TRAVELS, SERMONS, and other well written religious productions, will not fail to enlarge your understanding, to render you a more agreeable companion, and to exalt your virtue. A woman devoid of rational ideas of religion, has no security for her virtue; it is sacrificed to her passions, whose voice, not that of GOD, is her only governing principle. Besides, in those hours of calamity to which families must be exposed, where will she find support, if it be not in her just reflections upon that all ruling Providence which governs the Universe, whether animate or inanimate.

Mutual politeness between the most intimate friends, is essential to that harmony, which should never be once broken or interrupted. How important then is it between man and wife!--The more warm the attachment, the less will either party bear to be slighted, or treated with the smallest degree of rudeness or inattention. This politeness, then, if it be not in itself a virtue, is at least the means of giving to real goodness a new lustre; it is the means of preventing discontent, and even quarrels; it is the oil of intercourse, it removes asperities, and gives to every thing a smooth, an even, and a pleasing movement.

I will only add, that matrimonial happiness does not depend upon wealth; no, it is not to be found in wealth; but in minds properly tempered and united to our respective situations. Competency is necessary; all beyond that point, is ideal. Do not suppose, however, that I would not advise your husband to augment his property by all honest and commendable means. I would wish to see him actively engaged in such a pursuit, because engagement, a sedulous employment, in obtaining some laudable end, is essential to happiness. In the attainment of a fortune, by honorable means, and particularly by professional exertion, a man derives particular satisfaction, in self applause, as well as from the increasing estimation in which he is held by those around him.

In the management of your domestic concerns, let prudence and wise economy prevail. Let neatness, order and judgment be seen in all your different departments. Unite liberality with a just frugality; always reserve something for the hand of charity; and never let your door be closed to the voice of suffering humanity. Your servants, in particular, will have the strongest claim upon your charity;--let them be well fed, well clothed, nursed in sickness, and never let them be unjustly treated.

ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.

VATHEK--An Oriental Tale, by Mr. Beckford, author of Italy, &c. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1834.

The publishers of this _fashionable_ romance, by way of smoothing its path to general reception and favor, have attached to the title page various opinions expressed by English journalists,--to wit: The _Quarterly Review_ says, "a very remarkable performance. It continues in possession of all the celebrity it once commanded." The "_Printing Machine_" (a paper we presume of that name) says, "As an Eastern story, we know nothing produced by an European imagination that can stand a comparison with this work." The _Morning Post_ exclaims, "The finest Oriental tale extant!" and the "_Gentleman's Magazine_," pronounces it "a creation of genius that would immortalize its author at any time, and under any taste." These are very imposing authorities, and superadded to them all, it is said that Mr. Beckford is now living, is one of the richest men in England, and occupies so high a rank in social life, that royalty itself has been known to court his society. Nor is this all. Lord Byron pronounced "Vathek" to be a most surpassing production--far superior as an Eastern tale, to the "Rassalais" of Johnson,--and whatever has been said by Lord Byron, especially in matters of taste, will pass with some persons as incontrovertible orthodoxy. We have not examined particularly to ascertain what our own critics have said on the subject; but we believe that some of them at least, have echoed the plaudits of the British periodicals. Be this as it may, we happen to have an honest opinion of our own, and we must say, in our poor judgment, that a more impure, disgusting, and execrable production, than this same "Vathek," never issued from the English or American press. That the author was a youth of extraordinary genius, is acknowledged; (he wrote before twenty years of age)--but it was {189} genius totally perverted and poisoned at its source. The work could hare been written by no one whose heart was not polluted at its very core. Obscene and blasphemous in the highest degree, its shocking pictures are in no wise redeemed by the beauty and simplicity of Oriental fiction. We should pronounce it, without knowing any thing of Mr. Beckford's character, to be the production of a sensualist and an infidel--one who could riot in the most abhorred and depraved conceptions--and whose prolific fancy preferred as its repast all that was diabolical and monstrous, rather than what was beautiful and good. We shall not even attempt a detailed account of this volume--but when such works are recommended to public favor, we think it is time that criticism should brandish its rod, and that the genius of morality--if there be such a spirit in our land--should frown down the effort.

LEISURE HOURS, or the American Popular Library; conducted by an Association of Gentlemen. Boston: _John Allen & Co._ 1835.

Here is another contribution to the constantly increasing store of popular literature. If the present generation does not surpass all its predecessors in the acquisition of knowledge in its various forms, it will not be from any deficiency of intellectual food. In England, the Family Library, the Libraries of Useful and Entertaining Knowledge, the Penny Magazine, and innumerable other productions of the same class, are employed to diffuse through every portion of society, sound and valuable instruction; and many of these excellent publications are not only reprinted in the United States, but the time is not distant when we may justly boast of others of entirely domestic origin. The work before us seems to have been commenced under favorable auspices, and with laudable objects. The editors in their advertisement, which we quote at length for the benefit of our readers, "propose to publish, at convenient intervals, a series of volumes of standard merit, calculated to interest and instruct every class of the community. Although they have chosen for the title of the series, the name of the American Popular Library, it is not to be understood that it is to consist wholly, or even principally, of American works. Nor, on the other hand, will any work, however popular, be introduced into the series, unless, in the opinion of the editors, it shall possess such a character as will secure to it a continued reputation, after it shall have ceased to interest by its novelty. In their selections they do not propose to be limited to any one class of works, but to include such books in each department, as shall appear to them to be most deserving of a place in the library of an enlightened christian family.

"It seems to them important, that the attention of our reading community should be turned to works of more _permanent_ value, than belongs to most of the periodical literature of the day, or at least that it should not be confined exclusively to works of only a temporary interest. The spirit of the times appears also to demand, that the separation, which has too often been made between elegant literature and pure christianity, should cease to exist, and that a christian literature should take the place of that, which has, in many cases, begun and ended in infidelity. It is the design of the editors of this publication to promote, so far as shall be in their power, the union of polite literature, sound learning and christian morals. Beyond this they do not suppose it necessary that they should pledge themselves to the public. A sufficient security for their patrons seems to be provided, in leaving it optional with the purchaser to take only such part of the series as he may choose.

"It is intended that a volume of nearly uniform size shall be issued every two or three months, or in such a manner that four or five volumes shall appear annually."

As a specimen of the work, we select at random the following story of

MY TWO AUNTS.

Philosophers tell us that we know nothing but from its opposite; then I certainly know my two aunts very perfectly, for greater opposites were never made since the formation of light and darkness; but they were both good creatures--so are light and darkness both good things in their place. My two aunts, however, were not so appropriately to be compared to light and darkness as to crumb and crust--the crumb and crust of a new loaf; the crumb of which is marvellously soft, and the crust of which is exceedingly crisp, dry and snappish. The one was my father's sister, and the other was my mother's; and very curiously it happened that they were both named Bridget. To distinguish between them, we young folks used to call the quiet and easy one aunt Bridget, and the bustling, worrying one, aunt Fidget. You never, in the whole course of your life, saw such a quiet, easy, comfortable creature as aunt Bridget--she was not immoderately large, but prodigiously fat. Her weight did not exceed twenty stone, or two-and-twenty at the utmost--but she might be called prodigiously fat, because she was all fat; I don't think there was an ounce of lean in her whole composition. She was so imperturbably good natured, that I really do not believe that she was ever in a passion in the whole course of her life. I have no doubt that she had her troubles: we all have troubles, more or less; but aunt Bridget did not like to trouble herself to complain. The greatest trouble that she endured, was the alternation of day and night: it was a trouble to her to go up stairs to bed, and it was a trouble to her to come down stairs to breakfast; but, when she was once in bed, she could sleep ten hours without dreaming; and when she was once up, and seated in her comfortable arm-chair, by the fireside, with her knitting apparatus in order, and a nice, fat, flat, comfortable quarto volume on a small table at her side, the leaves of which volume she could turn over with her knitting needle, she was happy for the day: the grief of getting up was forgotten, and the trouble of getting to bed was not anticipated. Knowing her aversion to moving, I was once saucy enough to recommend her to make two days into one, that she might not have the trouble of going up and down stairs so often. Any body but aunt Bridget would have boxed my ears for my impertinence, and would, in so doing, have served me rightly; but she, good creature, took it all in good part, and said, "Yes, my dear, it would save trouble, but I am afraid it would not be good for my health--I should not have exercise enough." Aunt Bridget loved quiet, and she lived in the quietest place in the world. There is not a spot in the deserts of Arabia, or in the Frozen Ocean, to be for a moment compared for quietness with Hans-place--

"The very houses seem asleep;"

and when the bawlers of milk, mackerel, dabs, and flounders, enter the placid precincts of that place, they scream with a subdued violence, like the hautboy played with a piece of cotton in the bell. You might almost fancy that oval of building to be some mysterious egg, on which the genius of silence had sat brooding ever since the creation of the world, or even before Chaos had combed its head and washed its face. There {190} is in that place a silence that may be heard, a delicious stillness which the ear drinks in as greedily as the late Mr. Dando used to gulp oysters. It is said that, when the inhabitants are all asleep, they can hear one another snore. Here dwelt my aunt Bridget--kindest of the kind, and quietest of the quiet. But good nature is terribly imposed upon in this wicked world of ours; and so it was with aunt Bridget. Her poulterer, I am sure, used to charge her at least ten per cent. more than any of the rest of his customers, because she never found fault. She was particularly fond of ducks, very likely from a sympathy with their quiet style of locomotion; but she disliked haggling about the price, and she abhorred the trouble of choosing them; so she left it to the man's conscience to send what he pleased, and to charge what he pleased. I declare that I have seen upon her table such withered, wizened, toad-like villains of half-starved ducks, that they looked as if they had died of the whooping-cough. And if ever I happened to say any thing approaching to reproach of the poulterer, aunt would always make the same reply,--"I don't like to be always finding fault." It was the same with her wine as it was with her poultry: she used to fancy that she had Port and Sherry: but she never had any thing better than Pontac and Cape Madeira. There was one luxury of female life which my aunt never enjoyed--she never had the pleasure of scolding the maids. She once made the attempt, but it did not succeed. She had a splendid set of Sunday crockery, done in blue and gold; and, by the carelessness of one of her maids, the whole service was smashed at one fell swoop. "Now, that is too bad," said my aunt; "I really will tell her of it." So I was in hopes of seeing aunt Bridget in a passion, which would have been as rare a sight as an American aloe in blossom. She rang the bell with most heroic vigor, and with an expression of almost a determination to say something very severe to Betty, when she should make her appearance. Indeed, if the bell-pull had been Betty, she might have heard half the first sentence of a terrible scolding; but before Betty could answer the summons of the bell, my aunt was as cool as a turbot at a tavern dinner. "Betty," said she, "are they all broke?" "Yes, ma'am," said Betty. "How came you to break them?" said my aunt. "They slipped off the tray, ma'am," replied Betty. "Well, then, be more careful another time," said my aunt. "Yes, ma'am," said Betty.

Next morning, another set was ordered. This was not the first, second, or third time that my aunt's crockery had come to an untimely end. My aunt's maids had a rare place in her service. They had high life below stairs in perfection; people used to wonder that she did not see how she was imposed upon: bless her old heart! she never liked to see what she did not like to see--and so long as she could be quiet she was happy. She was a living emblem of the Pacific Ocean.

But my aunt Fidget was quite another thing. She only resembled my aunt Bridget in one particular; that is, she had not an ounce of lean about her; but then she had no fat neither--she was all skin and bone; I cannot say for a certainty, but I really believe, that she had no marrow in her bones: she was as light as a feather, as dry as a stick, and, had it not been for her pattens, she must have been blown away in windy weather. As for quiet, she knew not the meaning of the word: she was flying about from morning till night, like a fagot in fits, and finding fault with every body and every thing. Her tongue and her toes had no sinecures. Had she weighed as many pounds as my aunt Bridget weighed stones, she would have worn out half-a-dozen pair of shoes in a week. I don't believe that aunt Bridget ever saw the inside of her kitchen, or that she knew exactly where it was; but aunt Fidget was in all parts of the house at once--she saw every thing, heard every thing, remembered every thing, and scolded about every thing. She was not to be imposed upon, either by servants or trades-people. She kept a sharp look out upon them all. She knew when and where to go to market. Keen was her eye for the turn of the scale, and she took pretty good care that the butcher should not dab his mutton chops too hastily in the scale, making momentum tell for weight. I cannot think what she wanted with meat, for she looked as if she ate nothing but raspings, and drank nothing but vinegar. Her love of justice in the matter of purchasing was so great, that when her fishmonger sent her home a pennyworth of sprats, she sent one back to be changed because it had but one eye.

She had such a strict inventory of all her goods and chattels, that, if any one plundered her of a pin, she was sure to find it out. She would miss a pea out of a peck; and she once kept her establishment up half the night to hunt for a bit of cheese that was missing--it was at last found in the mouse-trap. "You extravagant minx," said she to the maid, "here is cheese enough to bait three mouse-traps;" and she nearly had her fingers snapped off in her haste to rescue the cheese from its prison. I used not to dine with my aunt Fidget so often as with my aunt Bridget, for my aunt Fidget worried my very life out with the history of every article that was brought to table. She made me undergo the narration of all that she had said, and all that the butcher or poulterer had said, concerning the purchase of the provision; and she used always to tell me what was the price of mutton when her mother was a girl--two pence a pound for the common pieces, and twopence-halfpenny for the prime pieces. Moreover, she always entertained me with an account of all her troubles, and with the sins and iniquities of her abominable servants, whom she generally changed once a month. Indeed, had I been inclined to indulge her with more of my company, I could not always manage to find her residence; for she was moving about from place to place, so that it was like playing a game of hunt the slipper to endeavor to find her. She once actually threatened to leave London altogether, if she could not find some more agreeable residence than hitherto it had been her lot to meet with. But there was one evil in my aunt Fidget's behavior, which disturbed me more than any thing else; she was always expecting that I should join her in abusing my placid aunt Bridget. Aunt Bridget's style of house-keeping was not, perhaps, quite the pink of perfection, but it was not for me to find fault with it; and if she did sit still all day, she never found fault with those who did not; she never said any thing evil of any of her neighbors. Aunt Fidget might be flying about all day like a witch upon a broomstick; but aunt Bridget made no remarks on it; she let her fly. The very sight of aunt Fidget was enough to put one out of breath--she whisked about from place to place at such a rapid rate, always talking at the rate of nineteen to the dozen. We boys used to say of her that she never sat long enough in a chair to warm the cover. But she is gone--_requiescat in pace_;[1] and that is more than ever she did in her life-time.

[Footnote 1: May she rest in peace.]

EDITORIAL REMARKS.

In presenting the fourth number of the "Messenger" to the public, we are gratified in announcing the continued support of our friends and correspondents, and the increasing ardor with which the work is patronized. Far more to the great cause of southern literature, than to our own humble efforts, is it owing that we are encouraged from a variety of quarters to persevere in our labors; and our generous well wishers may rely, that we are not disposed to look back or falter in our course,--borne as we are upon the "full tide of successful experiment." Let but our friends continue to take an interest in our cause, and this work will soon be placed beyond contingent evils. It will become the {191} arena, where southern minds especially, may meet in honorable collision; and when we say _southern_ minds, let us not be understood as slighting or undervaluing the rich and valuable aid which we hope to receive from our northern and eastern brethren. Far from it. We desire to emulate their own noble efforts in behalf of American literature, and to stir up our more languid countrymen, to imitate their industry, and to hope for their success.

The rights and duties of the editorial chair, especially in the infancy of a literary work, are extremely delicate. Taste is so subtle, variable and uncertain a quality, that, for an editor to establish his own, as a fixed and immutable standard--would seem invidious, if not absolutely odious. On the other hand, some judgment and discrimination must be exercised, or the consequences might be still more injurious. The indiscriminate admission of _all_ pretenders, would be disparaging and unjust to those whose claims are unquestionable. The true view of the subject we take to be this--not to exclude all contributions which do not display a high degree of merit--especially if their authors are young and evince a desire to excel. One object of a work like the "Messenger," is to _improve_ the exercise of thought and the habit of composition. A literary novice, when he sees himself in print, and contrasts his productions with those of more mature minds and more practised hands, will rouse himself to greater effort. It may encourage and stimulate him to more decided and brilliant exertion. Fine writing is not the acquisition of a day or a year; it requires, in order to the full attainment of success,--long, continued and unwearied application.

We make these remarks, because we are not entirely satisfied ourselves, with _all_ the articles either in prose or verse, admitted into the present number. We did not think, however, that any of them deserved exclusion. In some of those which are published, may be perceived undoubted indications of genius,--and in the rest, evidences of high capacity to excel.

In noticing some of the pieces, we hope it will not be supposed that we pass sentence of inferiority upon such as we omit to mention. Our object is to ask the particular attention of the reader to those which have afforded us peculiar pleasure.

It is with unalloyed satisfaction, that we continue the very able and interesting account of "_Tripoli and the Barbary States_." The author has thrown around authentic narrative, all the charms of romance; and we perfectly agree with a contemporary editor in this city, that he has reached in a very high degree the interest and dignity of the true historic style.

The description of _Howard's Bottom_, under the head of "_Western Scenery_," will be at once recognized as the production of a practised and polished pen.

If the "_Hints to Students of Geology_," by an able proficient in the science, shall serve to stimulate the languor which prevails in Virginia on that subject, we shall be more than gratified.

In the "_March of Intellect_," by V, there is a singular mixture of the serious and comic--of truth and caricature--which may not perhaps be agreeable to all readers. All, however, will concede to the author, vigor and fertility of mind,--with much of the "_copia verborum_" in style. We should have taken the liberty to apply the pruning knife to the luxuriant foliage of the "_Seasons_," from the same pen,--had we not feared doing some injury to the fruit. The author has only to cultivate his fine talents, in order to attain a high rank in the art of composition.

There is a good deal of humor in the description of a Virginia "_Fourth of July_,"--and we hope the writer will repeat his effort. In the local and distinctive traits of our national manners, there is a wide field for the pencil.

With the "_Essay on Luxury_," by B. B. B. H. we have taken some liberties, and crave his indulgence if we have been too free. Sometimes the finest thoughts and strongest reasoning, suffer injustice by inattention to style.

The author of "_Eloquence_" has our earnest exhortations to press on in the path which leads to renown. If we mistake not, he is actuated by the noble ambition to acquire distinction.

The "_Valedictory in July 1829_," now for the first time published, will command attention for the excellence of its precepts and doctrines upon the all important subject of female education. No one could be better qualified than the author, to enforce serious truths in a graceful and agreeable manner.

We beg the reader's particular attention to the original tale of "_Uncle Simon and the Mechanician_." The author's admirable sketches derive additional value from the fact that they are not the mere creations of fancy, but exact copies from nature.

Some of our readers may perhaps complain, that more than a due proportion of the present number is devoted to the Muses. It may be so; but our apology is, that some of the pieces have been so long on hand, that to delay their publication would almost amount to exclusion. If all the poetry is not of equal quality, there is still enough which is excellent; enough to demonstrate beyond all question, that if our Bards would only take courage, and rise superior to the fear of foreign rivalry, the highest success would crown their efforts. Among the pieces which have afforded us more than ordinary pleasure, we may be allowed to enumerate the "_Peasant-Women of the Canaries_," "_The Heart_," and that which we have taken the liberty to designate by the title of "_True Consolation_." The oftener that we read these, the more we like them; but we shall restrain the ardor of our own feelings, lest our readers should suppose we indulge the presumptuous thought of influencing their judgments.

It is with real pleasure that we insert two productions from the pen of the _Hon. R. H. Wilde_. These would be enough of themselves to disprove the charge of plagiarism preferred against that gentleman during the Georgia election, in respect to the charming lines which appeared in our first number, and which we stated were generally ascribed to him. It is to us passing strange, that the sacred repose of the republic of letters, should be disturbed by the agitations and conflicts of party politics. Notwithstanding that the authorship of "_My Life is like the Summer Rose_," has been confidently claimed by some for O'Kelly, an Irish poet,--and by others for an ancient Greek bard named Alceus, we still adhere to the opinion that that beautiful effusion is the bona fide and genuine offspring of Mr. Wilde's muse. Upon this subject, however, we shall reserve a more particular expression of our sentiments for a future number.

{192} We have already expressed our opinion of the bards of Mobile and Tuscaloosa. May we not expect a continuance of their favors?

The humorous "_Parody on Bryant's Autumn_," or rather on his piece called the "_Death of the Flowers_," will strike every one acquainted with the productions of the New York bard, as an admirable imitation of his style. It is the more excellent, as Bryant's sombre imagery has been made to assume a light and sportive dress.

We could say much in commendation of many of our other poetical contributors, if it were not somewhat improper to invade too much the province of our readers. We hope, therefore, that they will not for a moment believe that we slight or undervalue their favors.

EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF CORRESPONDENTS.

FROM AN EMINENT LITERARY GENTLEMAN, NOW A RESIDENT OF LOUISIANA.

"I am domiciliated in the south for the residue of my days; and so far as residence, pursuit, and the home of those most dear to me may be supposed to impress local preferences, I am and long have been a southern man. But we all love our dear common country better than all that belongs to district and climate; and so loving my country, and so being proud of its best fame and honor, its literary advancement, I was decidedly pleased with your periodical. The writing, the printing, _the revision of the proofs_, the _ensemble_, are all unquestionably creditable to you. I am too old and too much hackneyed in the style of periodicals to compliment. The Richmond Messenger gives respectable promise. Periodicals have to me a kind of physiognomy. Some look sickly and death-doomed from their birth. Yours give signs of a vigorous and healthful vitality. May it live long and prosper."

FROM A DISTINGUISHED LITERARY LADY IN NEW YORK.

"I owe you a very humble apology for not having earlier acknowledged your first communication and the receipt of the first number of your work, which you were so kind as to send me. I was absent on a very long journey when they reached my residence, and then my reply fell into the ever open grave of deferred duties. I have since been gratified to hear from various sources that your enterprise was succeeding. It could hardly be otherwise, if you could once rouse the minds in your beautiful state, where inspiring subjects every where abound. Your request is very flattering to me, and I should most willingly comply with it, but that I have at present more work on my hands than I have energy to accomplish. At some future time, should you continue to desire my services, it will give me pleasure to render them."

FROM EASTERN VIRGINIA.

[A correspondent from whom we have received many favors, indulges in the following sportive strain. So far from being willing that he should "_sail before the mast_," we would rather see him take rank as OUR POST CAPTAIN.]

"I sincerely rejoice in the success thus far of your undertaking, and trust you have now been sustained long enough to give time to abler men to come to your assistance. I wish you a good crew and a pleasant voyage for your little frigate. I shall still occasionally sail with you before the mast as a common sailor, until somebody gives me the cat-o'-nine-tails, and then perhaps I shall stay at home and mind my business, which is _clodhopping_, and which is perhaps more suitable than the occupation I have lately been following."

"To read your paper is the _only one thing needful_ to enlarge its circulation, to attract the attention, and to gain the affections of the reading part of the community. It is a work peculiarly interesting to southern literature, as its appeals are direct to the love of letters, to the generous pride, and to the chivalric patriotism of southerners. The monotonous sound of politics cannot but be disgusting."

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS TO CONTRIBUTORS, CORRESPONDENTS, &C.

We tender our thanks to the editor of the _Farmer's Register_ for setting us right in respect to Mr. Peter A. Browne's letter on the mineral resources of Virginia. The republication of that letter in the Register had escaped our recollection entirely. We shall be much gratified in having the able co-operation of Mr. Ruffin upon a subject we have much at heart, to wit: a geological and mineralogical survey of the state. When the legislature shall have settled the exact limits of federal power, and the precise boundaries of state rights--if indeed these things can be done in our time--or when we shall have laid the broad and permanent foundation of a system of internal improvement,--we hope then at least to see Virginia treading in the paths of other states, and turning her attention to her own vast, and in some respects, hidden resources.

We owe a similar acknowledgement to Mr. Fairfield, editor of the North American Magazine, who informs us that Mr. Browne's letter also appeared in one of his numbers, but which in like manner escaped our notice.

The "_Remarks Delivered to the Law Class at William and Mary_," upon a subject deeply interesting to the south, shall appear in our next number.

The "_Letters from a Sister_," we have only had opportunity to glance at. We have no doubt that they will furnish a rich store for the entertainment of our readers.

The _Selections from the Manuscripts of Mrs. Wood_, are reluctantly but unavoidably excluded from the present number, but shall certainly appear in our next.

We have on hand a variety of poetical contributions, from which we shall cull liberally for our pages. As some literary appetites however, are cloyed by too many dainties, we must be somewhat particular in the arrangement of our table.

The _Publisher_ offers an apology to his patrons for the delay in the publication of the present number. The close of the year being, by common consent, a season of holiday recreation rather than of business, all just allowances will be made. He promises (always excepting unforeseen accidents and contingencies) to be more punctual hereafter. It is his desire to issue the Messenger, if possible, regularly between the 20th and last day of each month. Contributors ought to be governed accordingly. He tenders the compliments of the season to his patrons.

{193}

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.] RICHMOND, JANUARY 1835. [NO. 5.

T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

And Present Condition of Tripoli, with some accounts of the other Barbary States.

No. III.

From 1798 to 1803, William Eaton, formerly a captain in the army of the United States, was their consul[1] in Tunis. As the character of this remarkable man will be best illustrated by the account of his proceedings in Barbary, it will be sufficient to premise that he had, before his mission to that country, given proofs of more than ordinary courage and capacity, and that the utmost confidence was placed in his honor and integrity by those who possessed the means of forming an opinion with regard to him. These are admirable qualities for a diplomatic agent; on the other hand, he was irritable and cynical, and was considered eccentric by persons who were unable to comprehend his views or his plans. Ever open and liberal himself, he could not easily conceal his contempt for those in whom he discovered signs of duplicity or meanness; and his irrepressible frankness on such occasions, was not calculated to render him an object of favor with a government which reprobated treachery only when it was unsuccessful.

[Footnote 1: The consuls residing in the Barbary States, are considered as the representatives of their several governments, and are essentially diplomatic agents; although they are not so termed, out of respect for the Porte.]

The Bey Hamouda, to whom Eaton was accredited, was a man vastly superior to the generality of Barbary sovereigns; though free from none of the vices which appear to have fixed their seat in that portion of the earth, he was yet by no means their slave, being neither a brutal ruffian nor a luxurious sybarite. His passions, though violent, seldom obscured his observation, or led him to the commission of imprudences or wanton cruelties; and it was only by means of sagacity, energy and laboriousness such as he possessed, that the throne of Tunis could have been held by one man for thirty-two stormy years (1782 to 1815).

The intercourse between these two shrewd and fiery spirits, was a continued series of discussions and struggles, of attempted encroachments on the part of the Bey, and of obstinate resistance on that of Eaton. The African Prince soon perceived that the American was of a different stamp from the consuls to whom he had been hitherto accustomed, and whom he regarded in general as mere intriguers, or instruments for the conveyance of flattery and presents; and Eaton, although he could not like or respect the Bey, yet seems to have excepted him from the anathema of contempt in which he involved all other inhabitants of Barbary. In the accounts of their interviews, we see Hamouda ever anxious to secure advantages, yet at times displaying something like a feeling of national pride; Eaton placing the honor of his country as the first consideration, yet mindful of its smallest interests when they could be reconciled with this primary object: the Bey endeavoring to inveigle or surprise the American consul into a promise of his influence to obtain some future concession from his government; Eaton carefully avoiding, or boldly refusing the slightest encouragement to such expectations, well knowing that it would be construed and afterwards quoted as a definite or a partial engagement. These accounts are indeed only to be found in the despatches of Eaton. But independently of the character of the writer, his details bear every mark of truth, and together present one of the most original and interesting specimens of negotiation to be found in the annals of diplomacy. The strength and the weakness of these anomalous governments are there clearly exposed; and after the demonstrations thus given, it would have been unpardonable in the Americans to have longer persisted in the submissive course which they had been induced to adopt.

Eaton's first business was to have amendments made in a treaty which had been concluded between the United States and Tunis, through the agency of a Frenchman named Famin; this was effected, after a display of great ingenuity on both sides, and some mutual concessions. Then came the arrangement of the presents from the American government, which the Bey attempted to raise far beyond the amount agreed on, hinting that war might be the consequence of refusal. It was on this occasion that Eaton commenced his solicitations for the despatch of an American squadron to the Mediterranean--"Send the _stipulated_ presents," said he, "but accompany them by a respectable force, and let them be tendered under our guns; if then refused, the obligation is at an end; delay, and we shall soon be obliged to redeem our citizens from slavery." No ship of war appearing to support the resistance of the American consul, the Bey increased his demands, requiring at one time a frigate, and afterwards ten thousand stand of arms. At length the appearance of Dale's squadron (1801) induced him to lower his tone and to suspend his exactions.

The war between the United States and Tripoli soon occasioned new difficulties, in the course of which the Bey showed himself well acquainted with the received principles of national law; and unfortunately the manner in which the operations of the American squadron were conducted, gave him the advantage in the argument. Tripoli had been declared in a state of blockade; yet months elapsed during which no ship appeared on the coast to enforce it; indeed the frigates (of which, with the exception of the schooner Enterprize, the American squadron was entirely composed,) were nearly useless for that purpose; the shallowness of the water enabling lighter vessels to leave or enter the port, by running some distance close to the shore. Eaton was unceasing in his solicitations to his government, and to the officers of the squadron, for the pursuance of more energetic measures; but his government adhered to its system of caution, and the naval commanders appear to have been affected with that jealousy or distrust which always exists in the minds of {194} such officers with regard to the representatives of their nation abroad, particularly towards those who are termed consuls. They received his recommendations with hauteur, and treated them with neglect; and on one or two occasions only could he obtain their co-operation.

The Bey seeing this, demanded passports for his vessels to carry grain to Tripoli, which they had been in the habit of supplying with that article. Eaton refused, alleging that it would be an infringement of the blockade. The Bey replied that no blockade existed _de facto_; and a series of discussions ensued, in which we see the Barbary Prince insisting on an observance of the rules of national law, and the American representative agent upholding a paper blockade.

The difficulties between Eaton and the Bey were much increased by the intrigues of the Tunisian ministers and officers; particularly by those of Sidi Yusuf, the _Seid-e-Tapa_, or Keeper of the Seal, commonly called the Sapatapa, a wretch who by the most infamous practices had amassed an immense fortune, and raised himself from the condition of a Georgian slave to the highest place in the ministry. To their ceaseless importunities for presents Eaton at first yielded; but finding that compliance only rendered them more frequent, and that the requests put on the form of exactions, he at length plainly refused, frequently clothing his denial in a sarcastic dress, or accompanying it by observations which no interpreter could soften into compliments. Indeed, on several occasions, when the inferior agents were insolent, he did not scruple to lay his cane over their shoulders; and even Famin the Frenchman, who had been the representative of his government in the negotiation of the treaty, felt the weight of his arm. These circumstances rendered him obnoxious to the whole Tunisian government, and every attempt was made to get rid of him, in order to obtain another consul who might be of more pliable stuff. Intimidate him they could not, but they succeeded fully in disgusting him.

Circumstances at length occurred which revived his hopes of seeing the honor of his country vindicated, and its relations with the Barbary powers established on a fair and firm basis. It has been stated that Hamet, the exiled Prince of Tripoli, had sought refuge in Tunis from the persecutions of his brother; he was there received and supported by the Bey, partly from compassion, but principally from political motives, as he might thus be employed to keep Yusuf in check. In the summer of 1801, it was suggested to Eaton by the ex-consul Cathcart, that the restoration of Hamet to the throne of Tripoli might in all probability be easily effected through the assistance of the United States, and that it would prove highly advantageous to American interests. Eaton at first paid but little attention to the suggestion; but afterwards having obtained information from Tripoli on which he could rely, that the Pasha was very unpopular, and his subjects ripe for revolt, he became acquainted with the Prince, and gradually communicated to him his views. He proposed that Hamet should proceed to Tripoli with the whole American squadron, and be there presented to the people as their rightful sovereign; if accepted, peace was to be made, on terms of which the principal were stated, one of them being the delivery of Yusuf to the Americans; if the inhabitants should however refuse to receive him, the war was to be prosecuted with vigor to a conclusion.

Hamet at first appeared to enter into the plan, and communicated information from which its success appeared still more probable; but his natural irresolution soon returned, and innumerable difficulties presented themselves to his imagination. The most serious ground of objection taken by him was, that his family were still retained as hostages in Tripoli, and the ruthlessness of his brother's character rendered it highly probable that he might exercise towards them any degree of violence, when prompted either by interest or revenge. To this, Eaton opposed the consideration, that the appearance of an overwhelming force, with the country too in arms against Yusuf, would impress upon him the inutility of resistance, and oblige him to enter into some arrangement for the release of Hamet's family, and the surrender of the throne. The exiled Prince would however make no promises, until he had been assured of the assistance of the American force, which Eaton immediately endeavored to obtain; but neither his instructions, nor those of the commander of the squadron, would warrant such proceedings; and indeed, as the proposition came from Eaton, it was of course reprobated and pronounced visionary by the latter. The consul therefore wrote to his government, detailing his plan, and urging its attention; and his health being much enfeebled, he determined to await an answer in Italy, for which country he sailed in December, 1801.

These projects could not be devised so secretly as to escape the vigilance of the Tunisian government; and they were soon communicated to Yusuf, by one of its ministers whom he kept in pay. They created in him the utmost alarm. He had just then involved himself also in a war with Sweden, and a fleet from that country had already entered the Mediterranean under Admiral Cederstrom, who had orders to act in concert with the Americans. His two largest vessels were lying useless at Gibraltar; and Morat Rais, without whom he could do little towards equipping others, was also at that place closely watched by his enemies.

In this state of things, he endeavored to amuse the Americans with propositions of peace; and the sovereigns of Algiers and Tunis being in consequence engaged by him as mediators, sounded the consuls of the United States at their respective courts, as to the dispositions of their government. Nothing definite could be drawn from either: they merely hinted what they hoped and believed, that nothing would be paid, either for peace or as tribute; and the mediators were not disposed to continue their good offices on such grounds. The Emperor of Morocco also undertook to load the ships lying at Gibraltar with wheat, and to procure for them, as his own property, American passports for Tripoli. These were however refused by the consul of the United States at Tangiers, and by the commander of their squadron; at which the Emperor was so much incensed, that he ordered the American consul to quit his dominions, and commenced hostilities against their commerce. Morat Rais, the Scotch renegade, was however conveyed on board a British ship of war to Malta, whence he easily passed over to Tripoli, much to the disappointment of Eaton, who considered him as the chief exciter of the difficulties, and as the only person in the Pasha's {195} service at all acquainted with naval affairs. But very little advantage was derived from his skill; worthy Peter had indeed found it much easier to profit by the licenses of his new creed, than to submit to its restrictions, and some of his old propensities had probably been revived during his residence at Gibraltar; for after his return to Tripoli, he remained some time in a constant state of intoxication.

Yusuf still carried on his preparations for defence with great energy. Moors and Arabs were called in and enrolled, some principal persons from each village or tribe being kept as hostages in the castle. The Swedish and American prisoners were employed in repairing the fortifications, making gun carriages, &c.; and as no vessels could be built in Tripoli, some were purchased and prepared for use as cruisers.

But he had another object in view, of still greater importance; which was to get Hamet again in his power. In this the Bey of Tunis consented, it is said reluctantly, to aid him. Hamouda had no objection to see the Pasha of Tripoli in an embarrassed state, or indeed to have Hamet placed on the throne; but he was little inclined to favor the pretensions of the latter on the score of _legitimacy_, he himself being a usurper, and the heir to the throne of Tunis by regular descent, being a prisoner in his castle; he also apprehended that the success of Eaton's plan would encourage other christian powers to interfere in the concerns of Barbary. It was therefore proposed to Hamet to return to the government of Derne, which with his family, Yusuf offered to restore to him; and the proposition was accompanied by a hint that he would receive no farther supplies in case he remained in Tunis. The poor Prince thus driven to extremities was obliged to yield; a Russian vessel was in consequence engaged to convey him to Derne, and he was to be escorted by a guard of honor consisting of forty Tripoline soldiers, who had been sent to Tunis for the purpose.

Had these arrangements proceeded much farther, there can be little doubt as to what would have been the fate of Hamet; but information of them was conveyed to Eaton by the Sapatapa, whose services he had engaged before leaving Tunis. He was then at Leghorn, awaiting the determination of his government; no answer to his communication with regard to the restoration of Hamet had arrived, but he had just received a letter from the Secretary of State which authorized him to suppose that his plan would be favorably received. Therefore considering that the present circumstances were too important to permit delay, he hastily purchased and manned a vessel of fourteen guns, called the Gloria, and sailed in her for Tunis, where he arrived on the 18th of March, 1802. The Bey instantly demanded of him a passport for Hamet and his suite, who were on the point of departure. This he of course refused. Hamouda became outrageous, threatened to imprison him, and to declare war against the United States; but threats only suggested new resources to this energetic man, and his determination was soon taken. In order to secure himself however, he called a consultation of the principal Americans then in Tunis who having approved his measures, the Gloria was despatched with letters, to be delivered to the commander of the first American ship of war which could be met with, communicating the state of the affair, and requesting assistance to prevent the Prince from entering the Tripoline territory. The frigate Boston was luckily soon found; her commander, O'Neill, readily agreed to what was requested, and having commissioned the Gloria as an United States ship, to act against Tripoli, he sailed for the coast of Derne, in order to intercept the vessel carrying Hamet. The Gloria returned in a few days to Tunis. In the meantime Eaton had, by a promise of ten thousand dollars to the Sapatapa, to be given in case of the success of his plans, opened a communication with the Tripoline Prince, whom he was not permitted to see. Every means was used to operate on his hopes, his fears, and even his superstitious feelings. The prospects of his restoration by the aid of the United States, were contrasted with the danger, nay the certainty, of death, to which he exposed himself, by confiding in his cruel and perfidious brother; the prophecies of a Marabout, respecting his being replaced on the throne of Tripoli, by a people from the setting sun, were gravely and ingeniously repeated; and when all these representations had proved ineffectual, he was plainly assured that he would not be allowed to reach Derne, but that he would be attacked on his passage by the American squadron, and treated if taken, as a Tripoline enemy. The miserable exile had no other resource than to throw himself on the protection of the American consul. It was therefore arranged that he should sail ostensibly for Derne, furnished with a passport and also a private letter from Eaton, to be delivered to any American commander or other authority with whom he might fall in; and that the vessel should on the way put into Malta, under pretence of avoiding the Americans and Swedes. This was done, and Hamet landed safely at that island on the 11th of April.

The news of his arrival excited the strongest interest throughout Barbary. The Bey of Tunis pronounced that all was over with Yusuf, unless he made peace at once. The people of Tripoli were also much excited, as they expected an attack to be immediately made. Yusuf, though greatly alarmed, continued his preparations for defence; and it is said, assembled in the course of the summer, fifty thousand troops about the city; this was probably however, an exaggerated statement. His naval force ready for sea, amounted to one vessel of eighteen guns, one of sixteen, three of fourteen, and one of ten; with these, Morat Rais when a little sobered, proposed to sail for Gibraltar, and after releasing and manning the two vessels there lying, to put out on the Atlantic, where he expected to reap a rich harvest of prizes. In order to escape observation, he had provided his sailors with the dresses of christian nations; but this _ruse_, as well as the plan it was intended to promote, were soon communicated to the watchful Eaton, and by him to the officers of the squadron.

However Tripoli was so carelessly blockaded, that some of the vessels got to sea, one of which captured the brig Franklin, of Philadelphia, and carried her into Algiers, where an attempt was made to dispose of her and her crew. The American Consul at Algiers, remonstrated against this proceeding, and endeavored to procure the surrender of the brig and men, on the grounds that the Dey was bound, as guaranty of the peace between the United States and Tripoli, to cause her {196} delivery. The Dey replied, that he had engaged to act only as mediator, but not to employ force in having the treaty respected; and that moreover the principal parties to it being then at war, and the United States actually holding Tripoli under blockade, the treaty as well as the guaranty were in fact at an end. However, after some delay, the Tripoline was ordered to quit the place, which he did, taking his prize with him, to the little port of Biserta, in the Tunisian territory, sixty miles from the capital; and the next day (July 8) the brig and her crew were advertised for sale at Tunis. What were the feelings of Eaton on this occasion may be conceived; his application to Commodore Murray who commanded the squadron nominally blockading Tripoli produced no effect; and to his mortification he saw the cruiser quit the place with the American captives in irons, (the brig being left at Biserta,) and heard of its safe entry into Tripoli actually in sight of the frigate Constellation. As a last resource, in order to alleviate the miseries of their captivity, he wrote a moderate and conciliatory letter to the Pasha, recommending him not to allow the American prisoners to be sold as slaves, but to have them treated with lenity, to refrain from farther hostilities, and even to receive Mr. Morris, the captain of the Franklin, as the agent of the United States until affairs could be arranged.

The American ships of war soon after quitted that coast, to which they did not return until the spring of 1803, leaving the consuls to defend as they could their refusal to grant passports for Tripoli. Eaton maintained his ground with obstinacy, the others yielded; the consul at Algiers gave his passport to vessels which he knew were to be laden with wheat for Tripoli; and the agent at Tangiers actually gave his, to one of the Tripoline vessels of war which had been lying at Gibraltar, and which accordingly sailed for Tripoli, laden with wheat from Morocco. These circumstances when known, put an end to all consideration and respect for the American consul, and even for the American name in Tunis; as Eaton says, "it was a matter of exultation at that piratical court, that _the American consul had been abandoned by his countrymen_, and the occasion was seized _to humble his pride_." He had involved himself in great expenses in furtherance of his plans respecting Hamet, without authorization from his government; a portion of the sums expended had been obtained in Tunis, and the ten thousand dollars promised to the Sapatapa as a bribe, and which had been forfeited by his treachery, were now demanded as the balance in a mercantile transaction. Neither party could bring any written proofs, the case was therefore referred to the Bey, who of course decided against Eaton, and the successful minister on retiring from the hall of justice, sarcastically remarked, that _in Tunis they knew how to keep consuls to their promises_. The demand for a frigate from the United States was renewed, which Eaton, in spite of threats and attempts to bribe him, having refused even to submit to his government, his brig, the Gloria, was seized and charged with the conveyance of a letter to the President, containing the requisition; she however got safely to Leghorn, where she was sold.

All these things Eaton could only represent to his government, which he did in forcible language; he demonstrated the weakness of the Barbary States, and showing that they had not a single ship capable of withstanding a sloop of war, again urged the employment of smaller vessels. Finally he expressed a desire to "_be supported or displaced_," and that "_if farther concessions were to be made, he might not be the medium through which they were to be presented_."

Although Eaton almost despaired of procuring the means for executing his plan upon Tripoli, yet he maintained an active correspondence with Hamet, for whose support he advanced the necessary funds. Soon after the arrival of that Prince at Malta, he had met with Captain O'Neill, of the Boston, who appeared ready to forward the project by every exertion in his power, as also did the Swedish commander. Commodore Murray too, who came there with the Constellation, thought better of the affair, and offered to take him to Derne; but he preferred going privately, in an English brig, which he had chartered, and at length sailed in November (1802) for that place, where he was received with every demonstration of affection by the inhabitants, and the surrounding Arab tribes. He was soon after joined by a nephew, who had been living in exile in Egypt, at the head of a considerable force; and thus considering himself strong enough to commence his march upon the capital, he despatched a confidential messenger to Eaton, in order to inform him of the state of his affairs, and to hasten the arrival of the expected succors; he even assured him that the appearance of a single American frigate before Tripoli, would be sufficient to cause its surrender.

The receipt of this information must have been martyrdom to Eaton; he restrained his vexation as he could, and kept the messenger concealed in his house. At length, on the 22d of February, 1803, Commodore Morris appeared off the harbor in the frigate Chesapeake, and soon after landed with one or two of his officers. The object of his visit was to contest the demand made by the Bey, for the restoration of some Tunisian property, which had been seized in an Imperial vessel while it was endeavoring to enter Tripoli. After some discussion, it was agreed that the property should be restored; but this compliance only emboldened the Bey and his minister, to demand immediate payment of all Eaton's debts in Tunis, real or pretended; and on refusal of both the commodore and the consul, the former was actually detained in Tunis, and not allowed to communicate with his ship. As they were thus completely in the power of the Bey, who had besides, at least the semblance of right in his pretensions, nothing was left but to pay the money, which was done. During these proceedings Eaton by his animated remonstrances, and by the charges which he openly advanced against the minister, had so far irritated the Bey, that he ordered him immediately to quit the place, declaring, "that he was a man of a good heart, but a wrong head; too obstinate and violent;" and that he "must have a consul more congenial with the Barbary interests." Eaton therefore took his leave, and quitted Tunis on the 10th of March. Before his departure he had introduced Hamet's agent to the commodore, and the plans and resources of that Prince were exposed to him. Morris however, either did not partake of Eaton's conviction relative to the practicability of the scheme, or did not anticipate from its success results so favorable to his country as to warrant his interference. He therefore refused all immediate {197} assistance, and only promised to appear before Tripoli in June, when, "_provided an equivalent were guarantied to the United States in the event of success_," he would furnish Hamet with "_twenty barrels of powder_." He did indeed appear before Tripoli about the end of May, with five frigates and a schooner; but, with the exception of an unsuccessful attempt to destroy some vessels laden with wheat, which had been chased into the harbor of Old Tripoli, (the ancient Sabrata) he confined himself entirely to negotiations. Yusuf demanded two hundred thousand dollars and the expenses of the war "_for a peace_," and on this being refused, he told the Commodore that "the business was at an end, and that he must depart." Morris quitted the coast immediately, leaving two frigates to blockade the port; he soon after received orders to return to America, where he was tried before a court martial, and received severe censure for his inactivity and incapacity. Captain John Rodgers who was left in command, succeeded on the 21st of June in destroying the Tripoline ship of war of twenty-two guns, which as before stated had sailed from Gibraltar, loaded with wheat by the Emperor of Morocco. With Hamet no communication appears to have taken place.

Eaton arrived at Boston on the 5th of May 1803, and in June proceeded to Washington, to adjust his accounts and to urge the adoption of more rigorous measures towards the Barbary powers. He appears to have been coldly received. His expenses incurred on Hamet's account, were not allowed by the Department of State, nor indeed were they completely admitted until they had been before Congress during its two ensuing sessions. His desire to be relieved from his situation, unless a more determined course were pursued, was considered as a resignation of his office, in which Mr. Cathcart had been appointed to succeed him; and instructions had been forwarded to that gentleman to negotiate both with Tripoli and Tunis, _on the amount_ to be paid as presents and yearly tribute. To crown all, a letter had been written to the Bey, in which Eaton was declared "_to have gone beyond the letter and spirit of his instructions_," and his acts were "_disclaimed as in opposition to his orders_." With all these circumstances he was not indeed made acquainted immediately; but the manner of his reception did not impress him favorably with respect to the members of the Administration, and much increased his natural irritability.

The American government did not however neglect to take advantage of his information and experience; and news having arrived of some success on the part of Hamet, it was determined to send a much larger force to the Mediterranean. This squadron sailed on the 13th of August, under the command of Commodore Preble; and after halting a few days in the Straits of Gibraltar, in order to settle affairs with the Emperor of Morocco at Tangiers, it joined the other ships off Tripoli in October. A circumstance here occurred of the most disastrous nature, and which probably contributed more than any other, to prevent the dethronement of Yusuf, or the termination of the differences between the United States and the Barbary nations, in a manner entirely satisfactory to the former. The frigate Philadelphia, while in chase of a Tripoline ship on the 31st of October (1803), struck upon a rock at the entrance of the harbor of Tripoli with so much violence, that she remained immoveable by any means at the disposition of the crew, and consequently defenceless. Her situation being ascertained in the city, a number of gun boats were instantly sent out, to which, as no resistance could be made, she was of necessity surrendered. The crew, consisting of three hundred, with their captain Bainbridge, were transferred to the city; two days after the ship was got off, towed into port, and being easily repaired, was likely to prove a valuable accession to the naval strength of the Pasha.

The capture of the Philadelphia was however calculated to produce a moral effect infinitely more injurious to the American cause than the mere loss of the ship, and her acquisition by Tripoli. The skill, and even the personal bravery of the naval men of the United States, had been rendered doubtful by the proceedings of the two previous years; these doubts now assumed the form of a certainty, the most unfavorable and mortifying; and unless something had been immediately done to retrieve the honor of the flag, it must have quitted the Mediterranean in disgrace, or designated every ship over which it waved, as the bearer of tribute.

But there were noble spirits in the American squadron who determined that this should not be. On the night of the 15th of February, 1804, Lieutenant Stephen Decatur, accompanied by seventy resolute men, entered the harbor of Tripoli, in a small schooner which he had previously taken and called the Intrepid, and succeeded in boarding the Philadelphia, then lying under the guns of the castle. In a few minutes the Tripoline crew were overpowered; many were killed, others swam to the shore, and communicated the astounding facts. A terrible fire was instantly opened upon the ship from the castle and batteries, aided by those of two vessels lying near; and it being impossible to carry off the Philadelphia, she was set on fire. The Americans retreated to the Intrepid; a breeze fortunately sprung up; they were soon beyond the power of their enemies, and reached the ship which awaited them, without losing a man. The Philadelphia was totally destroyed.

This heroic achievement restored confidence to the Americans, and determined Commodore Preble to make a desperate attempt upon the city. His force had however been much reduced by the loss of the Philadelphia and the recall of other ships; and judging that an addition was necessary to afford any prospect of success, he proceeded to Naples, where he obtained from the King the use of two bomb vessels and six gun boats. These were strong, heavy, flat bottomed vessels, bad sailers, but manageable by oars, and well calculated for harbor operations. The gun boats mounted each a long twenty four pounder, and were manned by thirty-five men; the bombs carried thirteen inch mortars and forty men; several Neapolitan gunners and bombardiers were also engaged to assist in working them. The whole American force thus amounted to one frigate, (the Constitution,) three brigs, three schooners, two bombs, and six gun boats, carrying in all about one hundred and twenty guns, and one thousand and sixty men; and with this armament Preble appeared before Tripoli on the 25th of July, 1804.

Yusuf was not however taken unawares, and he had made formidable preparations for resistance. The number of his troops in the city was supposed to be twenty-five thousand; the batteries mounted one hundred and {198} fifteen pieces of cannon; besides which, the harbor was defended by nineteen gun boats, two gallies, two schooners of eight guns each, and a brig of ten guns.

The weather was for several days unfavorable for an attack. At length on the 3d of August the American squadron approached the harbor, and began to throw shells into the town. The fire was returned from the batteries and vessels, and during five hours a constant cannonade was kept up on both sides. Three of the Tripoline gun boats were boarded and taken; their other vessels were materially injured, and much damage was done to the town and fortifications: but as nothing more could be effected, the squadron withdrew, having lost only one man, Lieutenant James Decatur, and had thirteen wounded.

The results not proving sufficient to bring Yusuf to terms, another attack was made on the 7th of August, which terminated less favorably to the Americans; one of their prizes having been blown up, and their whole loss amounting to fourteen killed, and four wounded, without having produced any notable injury to the Tripolines. On the evening of this day a frigate arrived from the United States, bringing information that a large reinforcement might be soon expected, under the command of Commodore Samuel Barron, who being the senior officer, would supercede Preble. This news caused a suspension of the attacks, during which Yusuf made offers of peace, on consideration of receiving five hundred dollars as the ransom of each of his prisoners. This offer was rejected at once, and the expected reinforcement not appearing, Tripoli was bombarded on the night of the 24th of August. On the 28th another attack was made, by which the castle and town suffered considerably, and three of the Tripoline gun boats were destroyed; and on the 3d of September another, with less success.

On the 4th a bold attempt was made to set fire to the vessels lying in the harbor, and injure the batteries. The schooner Intrepid, with which Decatur had executed his enterprise on the Philadelphia, was converted into a fire ship, being filled with powder and combustibles; and in it, with merely a boat attached in order to return after the fire had been communicated, Lieutenants Wadsworth, Somers and Israel embarked, and steered in the direction of the vessels. Two of the Tripoline gallies were seen to row towards the Intrepid, and place themselves one on each side of her; a terrific explosion then took place; the three vessels were shivered into atoms, and a number of shells fell, spreading destruction on the unfortunate town. Of those who had embarked in the Intrepid, nothing was ever heard. It is supposed that seeing escape impossible, they had involved themselves and their enemies in one common destruction.

No more attempts were made upon Tripoli during this season. The storms which prevail on that coast in the Autumn had commenced, and it was considered improper to expose the small vessels to their violence. They were therefore sent to Syracuse, the Constitution and two brigs remaining to keep up the blockade.

Information of the capture of the Philadelphia did not reach the United States until March, 1804; and it seems to have produced upon the American government the same effects which it had upon the officers of the squadron. It infused energy into its councils, and determined the President to act with more vigor than he had hitherto manifested; he resolved "to send to the Mediterranean a force which would be able, beyond the possibility of a doubt, to coerce the enemy to a peace, on terms compatible with the honor and the interests of the country." Four frigates were prepared for this purpose, and placed under the command of Commodore Samuel Barron, who was furnished with extensive authority, to act against or treat with the Barbary powers.

News had arrived that Hamet had met with some successes in his expedition from Derne against his brother, and the President "considering that concerted operations by those who have a common enemy were entirely justifiable, and might produce effects favorable to both, _without binding either to guaranty the objects of the other_," says in his instructions to Barron, "with respect to the ex-Pasha of Tripoli, we have no objection to your availing yourself of his co-operation with you against Tripoli, if you shall upon a full view of the subject, after your arrival upon the station, consider his co-operation expedient." Eaton had been appointed to accompany the squadron as navy agent for the Barbary states, with a view to his being employed, in case a junction with Hamet were determined on; but he was placed entirely under the orders of the Commodore, and is merely mentioned in the instructions to that officer as likely to be "_extremely useful_." Before the departure of the squadron, information was received that Hamet had been deserted by his followers, and had taken refuge in Egypt. Of his expedition no particulars appear to be on record, and no account can be obtained of the circumstances which led to his failure: but between Yusuf in possession, and Hamet as pretender, unsupported too by any man of strong character, and without resources, the contest could not have been doubtful. No change however was made in the destination of Eaton, who sailed with the squadron in the above mentioned capacity, in July, 1804, and arrived at Malta on the 5th of September following. He there learnt that Hamet, fearing to trust himself in the hands of the Turkish authorities in Egypt, had taken refuge among the revolted Mamelukes, in one of the provinces up the Nile. This did not discourage Eaton; determining at least to have an interview with the exiled Prince, he prevailed on Commodore Barron to commit the affair to his charge, and sailed with Captain Isaac Hull in the brig Argus for Alexandria, where he arrived on the 25th of November, 1804.

(_To be continued_.)

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

IMPROMPTU,

On seeing that the Publisher of the Messenger had changed the color of its covers.

So _you're changing your colors_, I see, master White, But say now d'ye think it is perfectly right? Yet I own, on reflection, it is not so wrong, And the reason, I think, is sufficiently strong: Give it up? Then I'll tell you at once to your shame, _You're a man of all colors yourself_--by your _name_; For all the seven colors, you know, must unite To make the commixture that people call _white_.

P. Q.

{199}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--On looking over a young lady's Album a few evenings since, I met with the following lines, of which, with her permission, I immediately took a copy. I now enclose them to you for insertion in the Messenger, hoping that some one of your numerous readers may not only be able to tell me in what language they are written, but let me still further into the secret by giving me a translation of them.

"'Adhmhur mar dhia neo bhasmhor 'ta "'N t'oglach gu caidreach a shuis re d' sqa: "Sa chluin, sa chìth re faad na hùin "Do bhriara droigheal, 's do fhrea gradh cùin."

I was also allowed to transcribe from the same source, two other pieces which I send you herewith, under an impression that they are well worthy a place in your interesting miscellany.

* * *

STANZAS

ADDRESSED TO MISS ----.

Younger heads will bow before thee, Younger hearts than mine adore thee, Younger lips due praises sing thee, Younger hands choice flowers shall bring thee-- But when Time's unmelting frost, Once hath chill'd Love's altar-flame, Breasts, to passion's impulse lost, Never after burn the same: Then what has Age like mine to do With youthful Beauty, pretty Lou?

Brighter eyes will sparkle near thee, Quicker ears rejoice to hear thee, Gayer forms around thee pressing, Woo thy gentle arms' caressing: But when Fate's severest blow, Bursts the heart's most cherish'd ties; Lays its long-nurs'd wishes low, Hope dismay'd from misery flies: Then what has grief like mine to do With joyous Beauty, pretty Lou?

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SYBIL'S LEAF.

Raven-hair'd! and yet so fair, in opening youth! Dark-eyed! with snowy brow of beaming truth! How can thy Destiny but happy be? Loved of a hundred hearts! bright rising star! Light that shall bless admiring eyes afar! How many breasts shall wildly throb for thee?

Thine too, for one of kindred worth shall sigh, With thought deep-seated in his soft blue eye, Fair, but with sun-tinged roses on his cheek; Liberal in speech, in action bold and free, Save when with timid love he bows to thee And silent muses what he dare not speak.

Thou hast not yet beheld, but shalt ere long-- And loved, drink in the music of his tongue, And feel thy bosom a strange thrill pervade:-- Fortune and health shall on your union smile, And lisping lips shall every care beguile, Till late in peace, thy lamp of life shall fade.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.--Ruth i. 16, 17.

TO MY WIFE.

Where e'er thou goest I will go, And share with thee in weal or wo-- And where thy wearied footsteps rest, Thy head shall pillow on my breast.

Thy people shall my people be-- Thy kindred find a friend in me-- Thy God shall be my God--one hope Shall bear our fainting spirits up.

My earthly joys with thee shall die, And in thy grave forgotten lie-- So God in justice deal with me, If aught but death part me and thee.

HANOVER.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE KISS.--_A la Moore_.

'Tis a sweet boy! his eye is bright, Smooth is his cheek, and velvet soft, And his rosy, pulpy lips invite The kiss I give, in sooth, full oft. How glows my eye, and my heart, how wild It beats, as I kiss the lovely child!

But there's a cause ye little ken, Why thus I love to kiss the boy! If _thou wert absent_, Julia, then, The kiss I love so soon would cloy, 'Twould not be half so oft as now, 'Twould not be half so sweet, I trow.

I mark when thy lip presses his, And, ere the dewy moisture's flown, I steal it with another kiss, _And dream I rip it from thy own!_ E'en _such_ a kiss thrills through my heart, What bliss would thine own lips impart!

P. H.

_Written in the summer of 1827_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LOVE--MUTUAL BUT HOPELESS.

O! the light of thine Eye is the beam that falls Through the narrow grate, on the Dungeon floor, To show the sad captive the strength of his walls, And remind him of joys he must taste no more.

And that melting voice is Love's whispered breath, By night through that grated casement stealing, To rouse him from slumbers as heavy as death, To hopeless wishes, and useless feeling.

But that voice is dear to his wasted heart, And dear to his eye is that lonely ray; Though they wound his bosom, he loves the smart, Nor wishes for death, but when these are away.

{200}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO DESPAIR.

Hail to thy tranquil and secure abode, The gloomy refuge of the tortured breast; Where anxious Care resigns his weary load; And wasted Sorrow sighs herself to rest.

No treacherous Hope here flatters and deceives, No shortlived Rapture cheats the ravished sense; No airy dreams delirious Fancy weaves; Hope--Rapture--Fancy--all are banished hence.

Here Fear, with startling cry, no more appals, For he who knows the worst no harm can dread: And keen affliction's dart as harmless falls, As the vain storm that pelts the senseless dead.

Here no _fierce_ Passions agitate the breast, But Rage is quelled, and Hate forgets his foe: Pride stoops; Ambition vails his haughty crest; And Envy covets nought that kings bestow.

But Love still feeds the never dying flame, Whose cold pale light scarce breaks the settled gloom, Like the Sepulchral lamp, whose livid gleam Watches above the Silence of the Tomb.

That light no more the dazzled sense beguiles; That flame no more the frozen bosom warms; Yet dear, as when, all bright in rosy smiles, It led my faithful Laura to my arms.

But she is lost; and now this calm abode Affords a refuge to my weary breast; And Care, at length resigns his weary load; And wasted Sorrow sighs herself to rest.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

My grandfather who had died at the age of eighty-six, was the first object I examined; his snowy locks had become, through the influence of the leaden mantle which enveloped him, of a blood color, &c. &c.--_Prince Puckler Muskau's visit to the vault of his ancestors_.

"Have ye torn away the fun'ral pall?-- Did ye strip each corpse to sight?-- Then leave me, in my ancestral hall, I visit the dead to-night--"

The clock struck twelve and I took the lamp With a solemn step and slow-- Down--down I went, and my echoing tramp Rang deep in the vault below.

I saw the dust of centuries round; And I felt my courage droop;-- My eyes were rivetted--strained--spell-bound-- By three of that awful group.

I stood in the charnel house of those, Whose blood in my veins now ran; My current of life seem'd nearly froze As I strove the scene to scan.

An aged man with his "_gory locks_" And sightless sockets was there,-- And _staring_ seem'd from his leaden box With a stern--reproachful air.

Wrapp'd in embroider'd cloth of gold, Lay a noble knight and tall-- And I knew at once the warrior bold, Who hung in my castle hall.

At head of his Cuirassiers,--there he Was charging the flying Swede; But here--oh pitiful sight to see! The victor lay low indeed.

In a gorgeous robe of silk, here lay The finest of female forms; I did but touch her--she pass'd away-- My hand was alive with worms.

I sunk on my knees in fervent prayer; Tears fell--and my bosom thaw'd; Horror gave place to the feeling, there Of trust in the mighty God.

I rose without or shudder or dread, And I kiss'd that aged face; I took a lock from the sightless head, And calmly quitted the place.

But never again till I drink the cup Of death--will I enter there-- The power of prayer, might bear me up-- But God, he hath said--forbear!!!

At the suggestion of a friend, whose fine taste selected the following effusion of the celebrated "Ettrick Shepherd," from some of the periodicals of the day, we gladly insert it in our columns. It is a most touching tribute of fraternal affection to an elder sister, from one of the most distinguished bards of modern times.

THERE'S NAE LADDIE COMING.

BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

There's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean, There's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean; I hae watch'd thee at mid-day, at morn, an' at e'en, An' there's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean. But be nae down-hearted though lovers gang by, Thou'rt my only sister, thy brother am I; An' aye in my wee house thou welcome shalt be, An' while I hae saxpence, I'll share it wi' thee.

O Jeanie, dear Jeanie, when we twa were young, I sat on your knee, to your bosom I clung; You kiss'd me, an' clasp'd me, an' croon'd your bit sang, An' bore me about, when you hardly dought gang. An' when I fell sick, wi' a red watery ee, You watched your wee brother, an' fear'd he wad dee; I felt the cool hand, and the kindly embrace, An' the warm trickling tears drappin aft on my face.

Sae wae was my kind heart to see my Jean weep, I closed my sick ee, though I wasna asleep; An' I'll never forget till the day that I dee, The gratitude due, my dear Jeanie, to thee! Then be nae down-hearted, for nae lad can feel Sic true love as I do, or ken you sae weel; My heart it yearns o'er thee, and grieved wad I be If aught were to part my dear Jeanie an' me.

{201}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMARKS ON THE REVIEW OF GOVERNOR TAZEWELL'S REPORT.

MR. WHITE:--I have just read the Review of Governor Tazewell's Report to the Legislature, upon the subject of a Deaf and Dumb Asylum, in your last number, and am sorry to find that, amongst many things which I like, it contains some misstatements which, I think, do great injustice to that document, and to its author; and which I must therefore beg leave to correct.

In the first place, in noticing that part of the paper in which the Governor argues that as the last census shews that the whole number of deaf mutes in our State is only about four hundred and twenty-two, and the experience of other States, particularly Pennsylvania and Connecticut, has proved that only one-fifteenth of the whole number in any community can be drawn to such an institution, it is fair to conclude that the actual number of pupils who could be drawn to our asylum would not exceed twenty-eight; the Reviewer remarks that the Governor "seems to have founded his argument upon the supposition that the deaf and dumb pupils to be educated at the proposed asylum in Virginia, are to be maintained from their own resources, or the private liberality of their friends; whereas the very object of applying for legislative aid, is to enable many of these indigent children of misfortune to obtain instruction at the public expense." But this is obviously a misapprehension of the document; for the Governor says expressly in a passage quoted by the Reviewer himself, "the question seems to be resolved into this,--Can the Legislature reasonably promise itself, that _by the employment of any means which it ought to use_, it may concentrate at any point within this State _sufficient inducements_ to draw thither the proper number of such pupils?" But it is quite apparent that among the "any means," and "sufficient inducements," which he was here speaking of, he included a provision for the support of indigent pupils, as a matter of course. Indeed, the very _object_ of the establishment, as the Reviewer himself remarks, _implies_ the propriety of such a provision, and the whole tenor of the Report accordingly takes it for granted throughout.

But the Reviewer asks: "If this was not the ground of the Governor's reasoning, why does he suppose that not more than one-fifteenth of the whole number of deaf mutes could be induced to resort to a seminary for instruction?" Why, for the reasons which he has so clearly stated, and which the Reviewer ought to have understood; that such had been the experience of other States, particularly Pennsylvania and Connecticut, and there was nothing to authorize the hope of a different result in our own case. Yet he asks, "Does he mean that a larger number could not be obtained if the public expense were proffered for their education and subsistence?" Undoubtedly he means this; for he says expressly in a passage which the Reviewer quotes, that in those States to whose experience he refers, "the _most liberal means_ have been employed to attract to their long established asylums _all_ of that class who might be induced to resort thither;" and he adds still more explicitly in another passage which the Reviewer does not quote, but which he ought to have read, speaking of the same institutions of Pennsylvania and Connecticut, "The only other aid" (besides acts of incorporation,) "which either of these seminaries has ever received since, from the several States within the limits of which they are situated, has been _the appropriation of a sum of money annually to pay for the instruction of a certain number of persons, the children of citizens of these States respectively, whose parents were in such indigent circumstances as not to be able to defray the charge of their education_." It is apparent, then, that the Governor's reasoning on this point is entirely sound; whilst the criticism of the Reviewer upon it is founded altogether upon a mere misconception of his own.

But taking it for granted that the number of pupils in our asylum would not exceed twenty-eight, the Governor proceeds to inquire whether it would not be better to provide for the support and education of them, that is, of the indigent ones of course, at the asylum of one of our sister States, rather than to establish a new seminary for them within our own bounds; and suggests several reasons in favor of such a course. First, it would aid the cause of science, which he thinks would be much better promoted, in the "more sublime and long-hidden" branches of it at least, by all communities sending in their contributions to a common stock, wherever that may happen to have been first begun, rather than by their separately exerting themselves to domesticate those mysterious novelties prematurely within their respective bounds. Secondly, it would save money, which is the sinews of charity as well as of war, and ought therefore to be husbanded with great care. And thirdly, and above all, the proceeding, or rather perhaps the principle which it involves, would tend to strengthen the union, and bind the states together. Thus he says: "To all this let me add, that if there is any thing better calculated than any other to cement our union, and to keep bright the chain which I trust will bind these states together while time lasts, it will be found in the contribution of each to objects approved by all, without any jealous regard to the actual spot at which such a general good may commence. If a generous spirit of this sort is but once manifested, its effects will be soon seen and felt by all. Acts of kindness will not fail to induce forbearance, and to generate sympathy. When each State shall feel that for the aid it requires to accomplish any object of general utility, it may rely confidently on its co-states, there will be no more applications to the federal government to pervert the language of the constitution, in order to accomplish the unholy scheme of robbing a minority to enrich a majority. Then those who contend but for the spoils of the vanquished, may be safely left to the contempt which such a motive cannot fail to inspire with all the generous and the good. It would have been worthy of Virginia to set such an example; it is worthy of her to imitate that which others have already taught."

Now these views of the Governor may not be exactly correct, and I freely acknowledge that I do not adopt them myself; but what is there in any of them, I ask, that ought to excite the alarm, or kindle the indignation of the Reviewer? Obviously nothing at all. Yet after quoting them at full length, he proceeds to comment upon them in the following words: "It is in these passages that we think lurks the fallacy, and we might add the _mischief_ of the Governor's views. He sets out first by deprecating all legislative interference on the subject." Where? In what part of the Report? For I {202} have not seen such a thought in it; and I have read the whole, though the Reviewer it seems has not; and the passages under his notice most certainly do not suggest any thing like it. On the contrary, they directly advise that the Legislature _shall_ interfere in the case, although not precisely in the Reviewer's way. But he goes on: "'Let us alone' is his cardinal maxim, and the maxim of the school of politicians to which he belongs. Let individuals take care of themselves, and of each other; but let not government presume to thrust its paternal care upon the community." And where does he get this idea from again? Not certainly from any thing in the Report before him. And was it right, then, was it courteous in him to travel out of the record to arraign the _political_ opinions of the Governor, and the school of politicians to which he belongs? Was it proper even to glance at such a martial topic in the amicable columns of the _Literary_ Messenger? Or if it was, and if the Reviewer believed that the favorite maxim of the Governor, and the school of politicians to which he belongs, is, "Let us alone," did he think it fair to represent him as holding it in all the extent of its terms, without limitation or reserve? Or, is the maxim itself utterly and absolutely false, to all intents and purposes whatever? And is there nothing--nothing at all--to which it may be properly applied? Is there nothing which the Legislature ought not to meddle with? If this is his opinion, it is easy to see to what class of politicians _he_ belongs, and it is one whose _latitudinarianism_--but I will not follow the bad example which he has set me, and abuse your peaceable pages to expose the danger of its doctrines, and the folly of its flights.

But the Reviewer proceeds: "In the next place, however, if the State, according to his Excellency's notions, will officiously obtrude into these private matters, why then let the funds of the Commonwealth go abroad and enrich some sister State. These kind offices will brighten the chain of union which binds the states together. They will teach us all to rely more upon each other, and less upon the general government.--This is the sum and substance of the Governor's reasoning; and dangerous and fallacious as we believe it to be, we feel the stronger obligations, coming from the high quarter it does, to resist and refute it if we can." But is this a fair representation of the Governor's reasoning? Is it not rather a gross caricature of it? For, has the Governor hinted any thing like a proposal that our State should send her funds abroad to aid all the institutions of her sister states, instead of keeping them at home to support her own? On the contrary, does he not say expressly, "I will not admit that there is a single citizen within the limits of Virginia more desirous than I am to domesticate here every thing needful to the well being of the State?" And does he not accordingly take good care to confine his recommendation of a contribution to the institutions of other states, to cases of a peculiar character, in which, as in the instance of a deaf and dumb asylum, the object in view is to furnish a small portion of our citizens with the means of access to the "more sublime and long-hidden truths of modern science?" And does he not, moreover, declare it to be a part of his plan that every other State shall reciprocate the generosity of ours, so as to return a pretty fair _quid pro quo_ into our exchequer? And what is there, then, that is so very "dangerous" in the Governor's reasoning? Nothing at all that I can see. Yet our Reviewer is so much alarmed at it, or rather at a phantom of his own imagination which he mistakes for it, that he flies off from the true point of inquiry, and instead of calmly answering the argument before him, as he might have done, breaks out into a warm and impassioned strain of protestation against a mere figment of his own, which is truly imposing; but unfortunately without object, and of course without point. Thus he asks, "did any one ever dream that Kentucky had given cause of offence to her sister states by erecting an asylum for the poor deaf mutes? We apprehend not." Why then does he ask the question? Has the Governor written any thing which fairly suggests such a singular query? Or was the Reviewer himself dreaming when he wrote? Yet he adds, "the truth is, that his Excellency the Governor is entirely mistaken in his views upon the subject!"--whereas the truth is, that his Highness the Reviewer is entirely mistaken in his views of the Report. But he keeps on, and adds: "What a ridiculous business it would be, if twenty-four families in the same neighborhood were to act upon the principle, that each was to take care of all the rest in preference to itself!" Very true; but it is his own idea. The Governor's seems to be, that if the good old lady at the head of any one of these families should choose to send her little deaf and dumb daughter to the learned French master who was teaching a class of _sourd-muets_ in her neighbor's house, instead of importing another Frenchman, (or Yankee, who stands ready to take any body's place,) to open a similar school in her own domicile, it might save money and increase love--especially if all the rest would act on the same principle in return. And is there any thing so very ridiculous in this? The same sort of hallucination runs through the remainder of the paragraph; but I cannot think it necessary to expose it any further.

I will only add that I agree entirely with the Reviewer in much, and perhaps all, that he has written so handsomely in favor of internal improvement, in the fullest sense of the phrase. I agree with him, more particularly, and most cordially, in thinking that we ought, by all means, to furnish and adorn our native state, as soon as possible, with every thing that can promote her happiness and honor, and make her as perfect and complete within her own limits, as any kingdom or commonwealth on earth can be. Of course, I agree with him also in condemning and stigmatizing, as he does, that abject and disgraceful spirit of apathy which has so long paralyzed our citizens, but which, I trust, we have now shaken off forever. But, at the same time, I am persuaded that Governor Tazewell would cheerfully unite with us in these views, to a considerable extent; and I cannot think it right or fair to charge him, either directly or by implication, with errors which, I am confident, he does not hold, and which, most certainly, he has not avowed in his Report.

A READER.

We extract the following from the "_Remains of the Rev. Charles Wolfe_," being the description of the "Dargle," or "Glen of the Oak," an enchanting scene in Wicklow county, Ireland, of which country Mr. Wolfe was a native.

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THE DARGLE.

We found ourselves at Bray about ten in the morning, with that disposition to be pleased which seldom allows itself to be disappointed; and the sense of our escape from every thing not only of routine, but of regularity, into the country of mountains and glens and valleys and waterfalls, inspired us with a sort of gay wildness and independence, that disposed us to find more of the romantic and picturesque than perhaps Nature ever intended. If, therefore, gentle reader, thou shouldest here meet with any extravagances at which thy sober feelings may be inclined to revolt, bethink thee, that the immortal Syntax himself, when just escaped from the everlasting dulness of a school, did descry a landscape even in a post,--a circumstance which probably no one had ever discovered before.

We proceeded to the Dargle along the small river whose waters were flowing gently towards us after having passed through the beautiful scenes we were to visit. It was here a tranquil stream, and its banks but thinly clothed; but at the opening of the Dargle-gate, the scene was instantly changed. At once we were immersed in a sylvan wilderness, where the trees were thronging and crowding around us; and the river had suddenly changed its tone, and was sounding wildly up the wooded bank that sloped down to its edge. We precipitated ourselves towards the sound,--and when we stopped and looked around us, the mountains, the champaign, and almost the sky had disappeared. We were at the bottom of a deep winding glen, whose steep sides had suddenly shut out every appearance of the world that we had left. At our feet a stream was struggling with the multitude of rude rocks, which Nature, in one of her primeval convulsions, had flung here and there in masses into its current; sometimes uniting into irregular ledges, over which the water swept with impetuosity;--sometimes standing insulated in the stream, and increasing the energies of the river by their resistance;--sometimes breaking forward from the bank, and giving a bolder effect to its romantic outline. The opposite side of the glen, that rose steeply and almost perpendicularly from the very brink of the river, was one precipice of foliage from top to bottom, where the trees rose directly above each other (their roots and backs being in a great degree concealed by the profusion of leaves in those below them,) and a broken sunbeam now and then struggled through the boughs, and sometimes contrived to reach the river.

The side along which we proceeded was equally high, but more sloping and diversified; and the wooding, at one time retiring from the stream, while at another a close cluster of trees of the freshest verdure advanced into the river, bending over it in attitudes at once graceful and fantastic, and forming a picturesque and luxuriant counterpart to the little naked promontories of rock which we before observed. Both sides of the glen completely enclosed us from the view of every thing external, except a narrow tract of sky just over our heads, which corresponded in some degree to the course of the stream below; so that in fact the sun seemed a stranger, only occasionally visiting us from another system. Sometimes while we were engaged in contemplating the strong darkness of the river as it rushed along, and the pensive loveliness of the foliage overhanging it, a sudden gleam of sunshine quietly yet instantaneously diffused itself over the scene, as if it smiled almost from some internal perception of pleasure, and felt a glow of instinctive exhilaration. Thus did we wander from charm to charm, and from beauty to beauty, endlessly varying, though all breathing the same wild and secluded luxury, the same poetical voluptuousness. This new region, set apart from the rest of creation, with its class of fanciful joys attached to it, seemed allotted to some creature of different elements from our own,--some airy being, whose only essence was imagination. As the thought occupied us, we opened upon a new object which seemed to confirm it. The profuse wooding which formed the steep and rich barrier of the opposite side of the river, was suddenly interrupted by a huge naked rock that stood out into the stream, as if it had swelled forward indignantly from the touch of cultivation, and, proud of its primitive barrenness, had flung aside the hand that was dispensing beauty around it, and that would have intruded upon its craggy and original majesty. It was here that our imaginations fixed a residence for the Genius of the river and the spirit of the Dargle. A sort of watery cell was formed by the protrusion of this bold figure from the one side, and the thick foliage that met it across from the other, and threw a solemn darkness over the water. In front, a fragment of rock stood in the middle of the current, like a threshold, and a spreading tree hung its branches directly over it, like a spacious screen in face of the cell. From this we began gradually to ascend, until _our_ side became nearly as steep as the opposite, while the wooding was thickening on both at every step; so that the glen soon formed one steep and magnificent gulf of foliage. The river at a vast distance, almost directly below us; the glad sparkling and flashing of its waters, only occasionally seen, and its wild voice mellowed and refined as it reached us through thousands of leaves and branches; the variety of hues, and the mazy irregularity of the trees that descended from our feet to the river,--were finely contrasted with the heavier and more monotonous mass that met it in the bottom, down the other side.

In stepping back a few paces, we just descried, over the opposite boundary, the top of Sugar-loaf, in dim and distant perspective. The sensations of {204} a mariner, when, after a long voyage without sight of shore, he suddenly perceives symptoms of land where land was not expected, could not be more novel and curious, than those excited in us by this little silent notice of regions which we had literally forgotten,--so totally were we engrossed in our present enchantment, and so much were our minds, like our view, bounded by the sides of the glen. This single object let in a whole train of recollections and associations: but the charm could not be more gradually and more pleasingly broken. The glen, still retaining all its characteristic luxuriance, began gracefully to widen,--the country to open upon us, and the mountains to rise; and at length, after a gentle descent, we passed the Dargle-gate, and found ourselves standing over the delightful valley of Powerscourt. It was like the transition from the enjoyments of an Ariel to those of human nature,--from the blissful abode of some sylphic genius, to the happiest habitations of mortal men,--from all the restless and visionary delights of fancy, to the calm glow of real and romantic happiness. Our minds that were before confused by the throng of beauties that enclosed and solicited them on every side, now expanded and reposed upon the scene before us. The sun himself seemed liberated, and rejoicing in his emancipation. The valley indeed "lay smiling before us;" the river, no longer dashing over rock and struggling with impediments, was flowing brightly and cheerfully along in the sun, bordered by meadows of the liveliest green, and now and then embowered in a cluster of trees. One little field of the freshest verdure swelled forward beyond the rest, round which the river wound, so as to give it the appearance of an island. In this we observed a mower whetting his sithe, and the sound was just sufficient to reach us faintly and at intervals. To the left was the Dargle, where all the beauties that had so much enchanted us were now one undistinguishable mass of leaves. Confronting us, stood Sugar-loaf, with his train of rough and abrupt mountains, remaining dark in the midst of sunshine, like the frowning guardians of the valley. These were contrasted with the grand flowing outline of the mountains to our right, and the exquisite refinement and variety of the light that spread itself over their gigantic sides. Far to the left, the sea was again disclosed to our view, and behind us was the Scalp, like the outlet from Paradise into the wide world of thorns and briers.

From the Cincinnati Mirror.

PHRENOLOGICAL EXAMINATIONS.

There never was an important discovery presented to the consideration of men, which was not opposed by all the force that scepticism could call to its assistance.--Truths, which at the present time are universally recognized, had to accomplish conquests over many obstacles, before their necessity or importance was admitted. The all-important and sublime discoveries of Galileo, Newton and Hartly, were first sneered at, then ridiculed, after a while considered, and subsequently adopted. Truths do not burst in splendor from heaven on the benighted understandings of men; but their progress ever has been and ever must be gradual. Night, in the intellectual as in the outward world, relinquishes its empire slowly; and hence, doctrines appertaining to science, which seem at this time to contain within themselves the qualities of their own illumination, were originally rejected as unworthy of the sanction of the understanding.

Phrenology has offered no exception to the general rule which we have referred to. Whether it be true or false, it has at least participated in the destiny common to truth. It has been met at every stage of its progress with whatever of reason, ridicule, or wit, subtlety or ingenuity could suggest. Ardent opponents have inflicted what they have supposed deadly wounds upon it, and have anticipated the epitaph which would be written to its memory. But these visions have not, unfortunately for the reputations of those who indulged them, been realized; and the period at which they predicted the extinction of the science, has been the season of its proudest triumphs. If it be a heresy, it is a bold one; and, like that of the Albigenses, spreads most where opposition is deadliest.

Phrenology is emphatically a science of observation;--by it, it has been built up; and on it, it mainly depends. Observation and application form the tests of scientific doctrines, and they are invoked as the formidable auxiliaries of this science. To a mind disposed to investigate before it decides upon the merits of doctrines, a few interrogations present themselves forcibly. Among the advocates of phrenology, have not some names, remarkable for ability and inquiry, been numbered? Were these men imposed on by the fallacies of the science, or did they wish to impose a fallacy upon the credulity of others? Are not these suppositions effectually silenced by an appeal to the well-determined moral and intellectual qualities of those advocates? If phrenology be false, how has it happened that a science which triumphantly appeals to observation, and which, in consequence, must be susceptible of easy support or overthrow, has for years sustained itself against the combined efforts of genius and intelligence? Is it asked why scientific individuals have not universally ranged themselves under the banners of this science? Two answers immediately suggest themselves:--First; the reluctance with which the human mind ever foregoes or substitutes its acquisitions; and, secondly, the disinclination which men always manifest at prosecuting inquiries into the nature of {205} doctrines which are not corroborated by previous studies, and which they are pleased to term innovations.

Phrenology must stand or fall by facts; supported by them, it must be sustained; opposed in this wise, it must fall. Without committing ourselves in favor of, or in opposition to its doctrines--for, in truth, we have not yet yielded its doctrines our assent--we desire to record a few facts which make for its truth, and which have come within our notice.

Doctor Powell, well known as an able and enthusiastic advocate of phrenology, at present lecturing in the city, confident in the truths of the science, pronounces upon character agreeably to the external configuration of the crania with fearlessness the most perfect. Since his arrival here, we have known him examine three different crania, which were presented to him for the purpose of testing the truth of phrenological doctrines. The two first were handed him by Mr. Dorfeuille, the intelligent proprietor of the Western Museum. The first one, which Doctor Powell saw, he immediately perceived the preponderance of the vicious propensities over the moral sentiments, and unhesitatingly said, its owner, according to the laws of the land, deserved hanging, if he were not actually executed. The second one was presented, and he forthwith pronounced its possessor equally bad with the former, although unpossessed of his recklessness, and greatly more cautious and secretive. Mr. Dorfeuille then stated, that the sculls belonged to two negro fellows who were executed some years ago in New Orleans, and whose heads after execution were stuck on pikes. The first fellow was notoriously vile and daring; the other was more shy, and against him no absolute proof could be brought; but he was convicted on evidence so strong as to defy the resistance of the judgment. The delineation of their characters upon the principles of phrenology he acknowledged to be most complete.

On last Monday evening, professor Cobb, of the medical college, sent a cranium to Doctor Powell for examination, in the presence of his class. He took it up and pronounced its prominent developments to be those of combativeness, destructiveness, secretiveness, acquisitiveness: he said that each of these propensities might have manifested itself singly; but the probability was that they co-operated, and the consequence was, that their subject was addicted to robbery on the highways, and was highly combative. After he had finished his examination, he called on professor Cobb to state what he knew of the character of the individual. He arose, and said that, so far as he was aware, the lecturer had determined truly. The skull had belonged to a Spaniard confined under suspicion of piracy, in the Cincinnati jail last winter, and who, while there, had committed suicide, and thus escaped trial.--An examination of his body proved what the lecturer had said in regard to his combativeness, as it was scarified in many places. We have since understood, that this Spaniard was arrested for attempting to stab a person in the street, and while in confinement, was recognized as a pirate, and, in order to avoid the consequences of a trial on the charge of piracy, he had cut the principal arteries of both arms, and died from the wounds thus inflicted. Dr. Powell had no intimation of the character of either of the individuals, which he portrayed with such exactness; but relied solely on phrenological science. If the doctrines be untrue, how are these results ascertained by them to be accounted for?

Our only object has been to give the lecturer as well as the science he espouses, the benefit of facts we have narrated, and to which they are so justly entitled. We leave comment for those who are curious upon the subject. We feel assured that what we have stated must be interesting to those who are desirous of investigating the science, for the purpose of determining the amount of plausibility on which it is grounded.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--As a subscriber and very sincere friend to your paper, let me beg of you to find room as soon as you can, for three extracts, all of which together, will not occupy more than three or four pages of the Messenger, and yet embrace as much deeply interesting matter on the all important subject of education, as can any where be found within the same compass. The first two you will find in the September number for the past year, of "_The Annals of Education_," a periodical published in monthly numbers of forty-eight pages each, for three dollars and fifty cents a year; or for three dollars if paid by the first of April, or for two dollars and forty cents if five copies are taken together and paid for in advance. Of this work I can affirm, without hesitation, that it contains more highly useful information on the subjects of which it treats, and at less cost, than all the other works together that are published in the United States on the same topics. Nay, I will venture farther to assert that there is not a parent or teacher in our whole country, who might not derive essential service from its perusal. This, my good sir, is no exaggeration, but my deliberate opinion; given, I acknowledge, with some hope of promoting the circulation of this highly valuable periodical from Yankee land, but without any other interest in it than every man ought to feel who is so thoroughly persuaded as I am, of the absolute necessity for educating our whole people on principles materially different from any that have yet been put into practice among us.

The third extract is from a new work by James Simpson, lately republished in New York and {206} Boston, on "_The Necessity of Popular Education as a National Object_." The short introduction is all that I will ask you to insert in your paper, as I have persuaded myself to believe that no friend to popular education can read it without feeling a strong desire to peruse the whole volume. It contains a mass of facts, illustrations, and arguments, exhibited in a style at once so perspicuous, forcible, and persuasive, as must carry conviction to every understanding capable of comprehending and feeling the vital importance of the subject in all its bearings, both upon individual and national happiness. In numbers one and two of the appendix, the topics of criminal and medical jurisprudence are treated of in a manner which, although concise, is well worthy the deepest attention of every legislator and statesman, for they contain hints for improving our criminal code that seem to me of the utmost importance to the general good.

Deem me not importunate if I petition you to publish _another_ extract of quite a different character from the foregoing. It is from the pen of the admirable _Mrs. Norton_, and expresses conjugal affection with so much touching pathos, that surely no married man, especially one from the Emerald Isle, can read it without deep emotion. It is called

SONG OF THE IRISH PEASANT WIFE.

Come, Patrick, clear up the storm on your brow, You were kind to me once,--will you frown on me now? Shall the storm settle _here_, when it from Heaven departs, And the cold from without find the way to our hearts? No, Patrick, no; surely the wintriest weather Is easily borne, while we bear it together.

Though the rain's dropping through from the roof to the floor, And the wind whistles free where there once was a door; Can the rain, or the snow, or the storm wash away All the warm vows we made in love's early day? No, Patrick, no; surely the dark stormy weather Is easily borne,--so we bear it together.

When you stole out to woo me, when labor was done, And the day that was closing, to us seem'd begun, Did we care if the sunset was bright on the flowers, Or if we crept out amid darkness and showers? No, Patrick; we talk'd while we brav'd the wild weather, Of all we could bear, if we bore it together.

Soon, soon, will these dark dreary days be gone by, And our hearts be lit up by a beam from the sky; Oh! let not our spirits, imbittered with pain, Be dead to the sunshine that comes on us then: Heart in heart--hand in hand--let us welcome the weather, And sunshine or storm, we will bear it together.

From the New England Magazine.

A GLIMPSE AT BASIL HALL.

At the palace of the Prince Borghese in Rome, several young English and American artists were engaged, last winter, in copying the renowned productions of the old masters. Portray to yourself, kind reader, two large halls--the walls of which are lined with paintings, and intercommunicating by a side door, now thrown open for the benefit of the parties. In the first of these apartments are erected three easels--before which, in the attitude of painters, stand--first, a Virginian, intent upon the exquisite Magdalene of Correggio,--opposite, the native of a country town of Great Britain--transferring, as nearly as possible, the Prodigal Son, of the great Venetian,--while, within a few feet of the former, a Londoner is travailing for the inspiration of Titian, by contemplating his "Sacred and Profane Loves." The artists may thus be said to occupy, relatively, the three points of an isosceles-triangle. Gaze now, through the above-mentioned passage, and behold, at the extremity of the second and lesser hall, the figure of a Baltimorean--fancying, perchance, the surprise of the natives when they see _his_ copy of the inimitable Cupid beside him.

These worthy followers of the rainbow art were wont to amuse themselves, and beguile the time, with conversations upon the merits and manners of their respective countries; and occasionally, by a very natural process, such amicable debates would assume not a little of the earnest spirit of controversy. Then would the brush fall less frequently upon the canvass--their eyes linger less devotedly upon the great originals around, and ever and anon the disputants would step a pace or two from the object of their labors, raise aloft their pencils--as though, like the styles of the ancients, they subserved equally the purposes of art and of warfare, or wave their mottled pallets as shields against the errors of argument. A full history of these discussions, hallowed by the scene of the combat, diversified by the characters of the combatants, and disguised by the nature of the points contested--would doubtless be a valuable accession to our literature. The great topics of national policy, domestic manners, republicanism, aristocracy, slavery, corn laws, etc. as unfolded, in the elegant and discerning disputations of the absentees in a Roman palace, would prove something new, vivid and seasonable. But to me falls the humbler task of narrating one scene of the drama, as illustrative of the wisdom and safety of keeping one's own secret.

On a day, when the war of words had ran unusually high, there was a momentary, and, as it were, a spontaneous quietude. After the manner of their predecessors in the same city--years bygone, the gladiators rested upon their arms. There was an interlude of _silence_. They gradually reassumed the appropriate occupations of the hour. A few unusually fine touches were bestowed upon the slowly-progressing copies--when the aspiring portrayer of the beautiful parable thus opened a new cannonade:

"Well, smooth over, as you may, the blot of slavery--and deny or palliate, as you best can, the charge of non-refinement, the world will never admit the existence of true civilization in a country where so barbaric a practice as _gouging_ prevails."

At the commencement of this speech, the pencil of the Virginian had stopped transfixed within an inch of the pensive countenance on his canvass; and with nerves braced in expectancy, he awaited the issue. And when the orator, like a second Brutus, paused for a reply, his adversary was mute--perhaps from indignation, probably in the absorption consequent upon {207} preparing to refute and chastise. The Londoner wheeled around, and, with a nod of congratulation to his brother islander, and a provoking and triumphant smile upon the Virginian, begged to be informed "of the origin and nature of the _American_ custom of gouging?" When lo! there were heard quick steps along the polished floors, and as the eyes of the artists followed their direction, the form of the Baltimorean emerged from the adjoining hall. His painter's stick, pallet and brush, were grasped convulsively in his left hand, as with energetic strides he reached the centre of the arena, and gazed meaningly upon the disputants.

"You would know, sir," he exclaimed, eyeing fiercely the hero of the British capital, "what is gouging? Go, sir, to Basil Hall--your literary countryman: when ascending the Mississippi, _he_ was put on shore by the captain of a steamboat for ungentlemanly deportment--and on the banks of that river, sir, _he was gouged!_" As the last emphatic words exploded, a gentleman, who had been viewing the paintings, abruptly left the room. The Londoner looked wonders, his compatriot tittered, the Cupid-limner wiped his brow. "Who was that?" inquired the Virginian. "That, sir, was Captain Hall!"

H. T. T.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE PASSAGE OF THE BERESINA.

"The moan of mortal agony which arose from the despairing multitude became at this crisis for a moment so universal, that it rose shrilly audible over the voice of the elements and the thunders of war, above the wild whistling of the tempest and the sustained and redoubled hourras of the Cossacks. The witness from whom we have this information, declares that the sound was in his ears for many weeks. This dreadful scene continued till dark, many being forced into the icy river, some throwing themselves in, betwixt absolute despair and the faint hope of gaining the opposite bank by swimming, some getting across only to die of cold and exhaustion."--_Scott's Napoleon, Vol. II. Page 385_.

What scene is here? The dying moan, the wailing cry Come on the gusty blast that speeds so swiftly by; The river rolls heavy as it struggles with dead, Who writhe in their blood ere the spirit hath fled-- And chafed by the winds in the wrath of the storm, Its red clotted waters flow tortured and warm. Thousands lie here; kindred and aliens in race, They are rigid and fixed in death's cold embrace; They clench and they cling in the last dying grasp, And the living, the dead, reluctantly clasp: Or, fearing a friend in his last cold embrace, They spurn him beneath to his dark dreary place. A many-voiced moan now saddens the air, Whose tones are all blent with wild curses and prayer; And the deep hollow moan that wails o'er the flood, As spirits pass away in storm and in blood. In the sad welkin tremble heart-rending shrieks, So piercing, that startled, the deep echo speaks. There's mirth that's of madness, one laughs in his fear, And prayer thrills in tones of the wildest despair; And the deep solemn curse from the blasphemer stern, Who weeps not, who wails not, tho' his dying soul burn. Oh spirits pass away so sad in their strife, That the living still cling more closely to life: With unearthliest cries, grim phantasied shapes Brood o'er the senses ere the spirit escapes; On the wings of the wind how swift speeds the blast, With pinions all viewless it fleets as the past;-- Oh say, does it bear the spirits that have fled, In the last bitter strife, ere the dying be dead? To the last dying sense comes a vision more dread, For Death flaps his wings o'er the fields of the dead: His deep hollow tones called away and away Spirits immortal, disengaged from their clay; And rearing aloft his deep sable plume, On wings of the wind rose in shadow and gloom, Still bearing them on with invisible trace, As he swept the broad fields of infinite space-- Whilst Terror, all wild in his deep, horrid lair, Made sad with his moans the invisible air.

The night wind sighs drear, in its last dying breath; The clouds fleet away, like the shadows of death, From the face of the moon, whose sepulch'red light Steals softly upon the dark bosom of night,-- As the last smile of hope, ere the spirit hath fled, Lingers tranquil and bright o'er the face of the dead.

ALPHA.

The lines which follow ought to be preserved in a more permanent form than the columns of a newspaper. They were written and published before Mr. Johnston's lamentable death. It will be recollected that he perished by the explosion of a steamboat, ascending the Red River.

After the above was penned, the melancholy intelligence reached us of Mr. Davis's death. Patriotism will mourn his loss, and the Columbian Muse hang a garland over his tomb.

From the Augusta (Geo.) Chronicle.

The following beautiful parody, which we met with in the hands of a respected friend, and were permitted by him to take a copy for publication, is attributed to the Hon. Warren R. Davis of South Carolina--a gentleman no less distinguished, admired and beloved for his many and striking literary acquirements, private virtues, social qualities, fine manners, polished, varied and brilliant wit and vivid fancy,--than for his ardent patriotism, open and fearless honesty, independence, eloquence, and disinterested devotion to his gallant and glorious state. It is said to have been written, on the sportive suggestion of the moment, as a contribution to the Album of the talented, accomplished and witty lady of the Hon. Mr. Johnston of the United States Senate from Louisiana. The old air of "Roy's Wife of Aldavalloch" is, we think, one of the most rare and beautiful specimens of that class of Scottish music, which was probably introduced from Italy, in the time of the brilliant but unfortunate Queen Mary.

PARODY.

Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The fairest flower that ever bloomed In southern sun or gay savannah.[1] {208} The Inca's blood flows in her veins--[2] The Inca's soul her bright eyes lighten; Child of the sun, like him she reigns, To cheer our hopes, our sorrows brighten. Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The fairest flower that ever bloomed In southern sun or gay savannah.

Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! She hath a way to win all hearts, And bow them to the shrine of Anna! Her mind is radiant with the lore Of ancient and of modern story-- And native wit of richer store Bedecks her with its rainbow glory. Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! She hath a way to charm all hearts, And bow them to the shrine of Anna!

Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The hapless bard who sings her praise, Now worships at the shrine of Anna? Twas such a vision, bright but brief, In early youth his true heart rended, Then left it like a fallen leaf, On life's most rugged thorn suspended. Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The hapless bard who sings her praise Wept tears of blood for such an Anna!

[Footnote 1: "The gayest scene in nature is a southern savannah, enamelled with its rich variety of flowers."--_Humboldt_.]

[Footnote 2: "The Incas claim their descent from the sun."--_Las Casas_.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BEAUTY WITHOUT LOVELINESS.

He looked on the chiselled _form_ and _face_, And the roseate blush beguiling, And the arch of the eye-brow's pencilled trace, And the lip in moisture smiling:

He looked on the raven _curls_ that fell O'er the _brow_ of Parian whiteness, And the _silken lash_ that softened the spell Of the _eye_ that swam in brightness:

He looked on the _slender hand_ that shone, Where the sparkle of gems abounded, Like the star of eve on her vesper throne, By the pearls of the sky surrounded:

He looked on the _arm_, as in floating grace, It waved o'er the chords entrancing, And the feathery _foot_, as it marked each trace Of the melody in dancing.

He looked on all these, while links of gold With the silken chain were blended; And yet in his bosom calm and cold, No wave of the soul ascended.

No rapture glowed in his tranquil gaze, The tremulous thought revealing; He looked for the light of soul in the face, And saw not a ray o'er it stealing.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HAPPY LOVE.

The Nightingale sings to the midnight air, All darkling and alone: And the Lover's lute, mid the gloom of despair, Gives forth its sweetest tone.

But the Lark springs up with the morn's first blush, And mounts the clouds above; As he sings to his mate, in the hawthorn bush, The tale of his happy love.

But hark, that note from the clustering shade! It has reached his listening ear; And, with pinions closed, to her leafy bed, He comes, like a falling star.

O! happy Love! O happy pair! O for that tuneful art! That I might breathe in my Lucy's ear The voice of a happy heart.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SORROWS OF LOVE.

TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL ON SEPARATION.

Oh! weep not tho' we're bid to part, Since time nor distance e'er can sever The links that bind my changeless heart, To thy angelic form forever.

As summer clouds that hide the sun, When once removed restore him brighter; This night of woe as soon as done, Will make our love-day morn the lighter.

Affliction now our hearts has proved, And shown our passion's depth more clearly; In joy we might have known we loved, But grief has taught us, oh! how dearly.

The foregoing was written by a gentleman of fine genius, and is published without the author's knowledge.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTEMPORAL LINES.

On hearing Mr. Wickham's Speech at the Bar of the House of Delegates, on the 6th instant.

When Wickham stood up at the bar of the House, And every one there was as still as a mouse, I trembled myself, (to acknowledge the truth,) Lest his age should forget the fine feats of his youth; And I thought that his Horace had warned him in vain, "Release the old racer in time from the rein, Lest he falter at length in a laughable pace, And finish his course in diverting disgrace." But soon, very soon, all my fears were relieved, And hopes took their places that were not deceived; For I saw that his motions were sprightly and strong, And, spite of his weights, he went gaily along, Till, safe at the goal, pleasure broke from my lips, And I cried out delighted, "hurrah for Eclipse!"[1]

_January, 1835_.

[Footnote 1: Solve senescentem maturè sanus equum, ne Peccet ad extremum ridendus, et ilia ducat. _Hor. Epist. Lib. i. 1._]

{209}

MRS. WOOD'S MANUSCRIPT POEMS.

The pious and excellent Mrs. JEAN WOOD, who died in this city some years since, was the relict of General James Wood, a distinguished officer of the revolution, and afterwards Governor of Virginia. The qualities for which she was remarkable, were familiarly known to a very large circle of friends, by whom, at least such as survive her, her memory is still held dear. She was indeed in the justest sense, a mother in Israel,--a lady of shining christian benevolence, whose kindly feelings towards her race did not consist in mere sentiment only,--but were evinced in a life of active, useful, and unostentatious charities and labors of love. Her piety moreover, though profound and ardent, was free from austerity; and there was a grace and cheerfulness in her manner and conversation, which won upon all of every age and condition who approached her. Well known as she was however, and universally respected for her virtues, there were but few comparatively who were apprised of her varied endowments or who knew that her practical good sense and experienced judgment were united to the lighter attractions and more ornamental graces of the intellectual character. Literature was to her the solace which refreshed the intervals in her works of goodness; it furnished that balmy repose to the spirit,--which it often needs amidst the conflicts and agitations of human life, even in its most favored condition. The proud, the selfish and avaricious, or the gay and luxurious, may each indulge in his own enjoyment or follow his own delusive phantom,--but next to the consciousness of doing good, there is no earthly happiness so pure and unalloyed as that which springs from the silent communion with our own spirits, or with the marvellous and multiform external objects which surround us. "There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know." There is an exalted sense of enjoyment in contemplating all that is beautiful and good in the moral and physical world, and this indeed constitutes the empire of poetry in its more general and unrestricted sense. We do not claim for Mrs. Wood very extraordinary powers in this enchanting department of literary effort,--for how few of the thousands who have ever essayed to climb the hill of Parnassus have reached its highest pinnacle; and on the contrary how many have been content to tune their unambitious lays in humble seclusion--without courting or even desiring renown. Mrs. Wood wrote neither for fame nor the public eye, and it is this circumstance alone which will impart an additional interest to the natural and unstudied effusions of her muse. Her numerous friends and relatives will at least experience a melancholy pleasure, in tracing in these _memorolabilia_ of their deceased friend, some of those qualities of mind and heart, which rendered her in life an object of respect and love,--and in death,--of veneration and regret.

The first poem we have selected, entitled "Retrospection," appears to have been written in 1809--when a severe illness threatened the life of her husband. In the frame of mind natural under such circumstances, she recalls the principal sorrows of her life, and among them there was none more poignant than the loss of an only child, a daughter of eighteen years old. The closing lines will indicate the source to which she was accustomed to look in the season of human affliction.

RETROSPECTION.

Why should mysterious Heaven bestow A warm and feeling heart-- Yet doom it naught but pain to know, And rankle in its smart?

That it might agonize and bleed At every suffering pore, The soft affections why decreed To centre in its core?

The tender ties my heart has proved That heart has held most dear, And those most dearly, fondly loved, Have cost the bitterest tear!

A tender parent's weeping nurse My early youth I pass'd; And Heaven did but those tears disperse To bid them flow more fast:

For rich in worth, a youth appear'd-- I gave my virgin heart; But Hymen scarce our vows endeared Ere we were doomed to part:

He, through war's ravaged fields to roam Eight sad revolving years-- I, droop'd, a widow'd wife at home, In unavailing tears: But ah! the pang was yet to feel, (The worst the heart can know,) The pang no earthly power can heal, The climax of all woe!

To me a cherub fair was given, I placed it next my heart; It seemed the choicest gift of Heaven-- My bosom's dearest part: While yet I mark'd each opening charm That graced its baby brow, Disease approach'd, in direful form, To lay each promise low.

And oh! how worse than death to see The ruins of a mind, Which, in its dawning, seem'd to be For better hopes design'd; To watch with anxious hopes and fears The daily deep'ning gloom, Till eighteen sad and suffering years Had laid her in the tomb.

Though keen the parting pang I felt, And did my child deplore; Yet soon in gratitude I knelt-- _Her_ sufferings were no more. My mind's composure once regain'd, A competence still ours; My loved companion, too, remain'd To cheer my lonely hours:

Fondly I hoped life's evening shade Might yet in peace descend, And grief no more my heart invade Till closing life should end. {210}

But now alas! the transient calm Flits fast and far away-- The hope that o'er my fancy swam, And soothed my wasting day; For dire disease again appears To break the mild serene; Again commands my streaming tears, And clouds our closing scene!

Why, then, my God! thus closely twine Around this bursting heart, Those fond affections which are mine, Such misery to impart! Dare I, presumptuous, seek to know What mocks our mortal sight; Enough for me, thou will'st it so-- It, therefore, must be right.

The piece which follows, our readers will agree with us, is not only very agreeable verse, but what is still better, is replete with pure moral sentiment.

THE CAPTIVE BIRD.

Say, little caged flutterer, say, Why mournful waves thy drooping wing? Why silent sit, the live-long day? Nor Vespers chaunt, nor Matins sing.

When first a captive thou wert made And in thy wiry dwelling swung, Suspended in the leafy shade Or sunny door, you gaily sung.

My careful hand supplied thee store Of ripest berries from the hill; Thy cup replenished, strewed thy floor With glittering gravel from the rill.

Beneath the same luxuriant vine, The same kind hand supplies thy fare; The sun's first cheering rays are thine, Yet thou art sad and silent there.

Ah! little captive, couldst thou see What passes in this wayward breast, Thou'dst ask, perhaps, the same of me, And why vain wishes break my rest.

Thou'dst ask me, why this quiet shade Which late a paradise I deem'd, Though still in verdant sweets array'd, A melancholy prison seemed?

And bid me mind, each passing day That wholesome viands crown'd my board, That flowers and fruits and sunshine gay For me, too, vernal sweets afford.

Nay, more,--that liberty is mine And lends a ray to every joy-- While sad captivity is thine, Mingling with all its sad alloy.

Thou "still small voice" that will be heard, Whose whispers thrill the inmost soul! Reproving friend--beloved and feared-- Conscience, this is thy mild control!

Oft hast thou urged this conscious truth, When gloomy tears have fill'd mine eye; Or discontent, with brow unsmooth, Was fain to force th' unwilling sigh.

'Tis thy reproving voice I hear, When from the poor and lowly cot Content and cheerfulness appear, Though mark'd by penury their lot.

Then shall I bear a pining heart-- While friendship, health, and peace combine Life's dearest comforts to impart-- Ah! shall a thankless heart be mine!

No sure--content's too cold a name For what my bosom ought to feel; Thus favored, gratitude's sweet claim With thanks unceasing bids me kneel:

Bids me, thus lowly bending, vow Before the awful throne of Heaven-- Children of want, to share with you The good its gracious power has given.

In the lines which we next select, it will be perceived that to minds of delicate fibre and poetic temperament,--the most familiar objects in nature will often suggest mournful images and recollections. A flower will awaken affecting reminiscences of some long lost and beloved object.

THE BELLE DU JOUR, OR CONVOLVULUS MINOR.

Sweet floret! beauty of a day, And transient as thou'rt sweet; Scarce opening to the morning ray Ere shrinking from its heat:

Noon faded sees each early charm, Thy blue eye closed in death; And evening's breeze, thy wasted form Wafts lightly o'er the heath.

While thus, sweet child of summer skies, I see thee bloom and die; What tender recollections rise To prompt the pensive sigh:

For once in this lone bosom grew As fair, as sweet a flower, That smiled and budded forth like you In morn's propitious hour;

But ah! while joy and hope were new And promised bliss secure; Like you, it drooping faded too-- And sunk to bloom no more.

Oft as I through the twilight gloom A wandering mourner stray; Pale shadowy tenant of the tomb, She seems to cross my way:

For every object, every scene Does my lost love recall, From cheerful morning's rising beam To mournful evening's fall.

Our readers must not be induced to cast aside the {211} following poem, from its length. It is full of genuine feeling and pious sentiment.

EVENTIDE.

[Written in a dejected and visionary state of mind.]

Sweet beams the cheerful morn o'er happy hearts, And every smiling scene new bliss imparts; Each gay unfolding bud, each new born flower Exhaling odors, owns the sun's warm power; The new-waked birds their notes of gladness raise, The trembling dew-drop rainbow tints displays, In pendant beauty gems the lofty bough, Or glitters in the velvet turf below.

On active wing abroad, the industrious bees Their busy hum mix with the passing breeze, The light breeze curls the silver-bosom'd flood, Or freshening whispers through the waving wood; The sun, now mounting, gilds the eastern skies, Bright'ning the landscape with its glowing dyes-- Gay beauty smiles along each field and grove-- Congenial smiles--for youth, for joy, and love.

But when the soul, long since, has ceased to prove The tender fallacies of youthful love-- And soberer joys, no more, the way adorn, The sad heart, sick'ning, turns from sprightly morn-- Turns, pensive eve, to seek thy milder charms, And dewy haunts, which no gay sunbeam warms.

When closing day shuts o'er its busy cares, And onward stealing, twilight meek appears, Drowns in obscurity the distant scene, And casts a softening charm o'er all between-- 'Tis then the sad, the lacerated mind, Does in thy gentle gloom a soother find-- Sighs with less pain beneath its load of cares, And mourns its sorrows with relieving tears.

Disrobed of gayer tint and gaudy hue, Sweet Eventide! thy objects meet the view; In modest russet clothed each shrub and flower, Shades ever sacred to thy silent hour-- Shades how congenial! every heart must find, Which long, long suffering, feels, but is resign'd. So we oft see in life's bright morn display'd, A youthful beauty gorgeously arrayed! Unbent by care, her form erect she bears, Bright are her eyes, unsullied yet by tears; By thought unclouded her fair polish'd brow, Nor does her buoyant heart a sorrow know: Gay as the lark's first carol is her song, As with light agile step she moves along; Each young unwary heart to love she warms, A sparkling wonder, and a blaze of charms!

But when this dazzling radiance is o'er And morn's bright beauties fade to bloom no more; When noontide clouds for evening showers prepare, And the gay crowd no longer hail her fair-- Then, if beneath this form so heavenly bright Some latent virtues rest--obscured from sight, (By suffering taught its own intrinsic worth) The struggling heart first learns to call them forth: Taught by her own to feel another's woes, The sweets of Heaven-born charity she knows; While sympathetic tears unbidden flow, And gentle pity does its balm bestow. Now softened every gaudy trait is seen To milder russet changed her vivid green; Her morning splendors caught the young and gay, But the meek mourner loves her eventide ray.

Ah! hour of twilight russet--thou art past-- And hope, sweet star of eve! has shone its last-- Nor can a ray of cheering light impart Where midnight darkness ever wraps the heart.

At thy soft silent hour, in pensive mood, Sweet eventide, I love to seek the wood; And as I, musing, wind my devious walk, With visionary forms hold fancied talk; Forms that the cold embrace of death enfolds, But which my soul in fond remembrance holds, Down the lone walk, or midst the cluster'd trees, I hear a well known voice in every breeze-- The passing object, or the shadowy green Through their tall bolls in dim perspective seen, Soft flitting forms present to fancy's eye, That seem to glide with gentle greetings by.

Hail gentle spirits! Shades of friends revered-- By tender recollections now endeared; And you, my earliest loss, parental pair-- Though o'er your tombs the oft revolving year Has shed its winters frost and vernal dew, Still faithful memory fondly turns to you-- For often in idea still are seen Your silver locks, and venerable mien. If conscience tells me I have err'd in aught, Your cold reproving frown straight strikes my thought; But if my heart acquits me of all guile, It feels the joy of your approving smile. A brother here, the worthiest of mankind-- Oft I recall--with pain and pleasure joined; Two sisters--one advanced in matron grace, Strong sense and feeling blended in her face; Plain worth and warm affections fill'd her heart, And to each action did their hue impart: Benevolence and truth still led her way And held their tenor through each well spent day: The other, just a bride, in youthful charms, With grace and beauty fill'd her husband's arms-- When Heaven, aware a mind so finely wrought, So mild, so gentle, so refined in thought, With erring mortals peace could never know, Hasted to call her from a scene of woe; And early placed her in those blest abodes Where care no more afflicts, nor grief corrodes. Sure, thou Supreme! of all thy works, the part Most form'd for woe, is the soft female heart; Her breast, the seat of innocence and love, Was doom'd, alas! composure ne'er to prove-- What others felt, with but a passing sigh, Kept the meek tear forever in her eye; The varying blush that mental suffering speaks In quick suffusion on her lovely cheeks-- Ah gentle Anna! leave thy Heaven awhile, Greet a lone sister with one tearful smile.

Aerial music oft I seem to hear In gentle breathings, strike my listening ear-- {212} Full and melodious sounds, in swelling strains, Then soothing soft, each dying note complains; High o'er my head in trembling cadence plays, Or lightly passes on the sighing breeze-- The ambient air a balmy fragrance fills, And the charm'd sense each earth-born sorrow stills; A lambent light pervades the dewy scene, Illumes each branch and brightens o'er the green. Sweet powers of Fancy! can this work be thine, Or are these sounds, these forms, indeed, divine? For see, where lightly borne on seraph wing, An angel band their hallelujahs sing-- Its course, a form etherial this way bends, Stooping to earth, and at my feet descends!

Oh, beauteous shade of what was once my child! Wept when I wept, and smiled but as I smiled; Phantom of what long filled this vacant heart, That still would claim thee as its dearest part-- That still must hold thy cherish'd memory dear, And greet thy much loved image with a tear. In thy translated spirit sure I trace Each mortal beauty of thy gentle face; Shaded by silken curls of auburn hue, Meet thy soft eyes of mild etherial blue; Their look of patient innocence still feel Touch my heart's finest nerve, with tender thrill, See them in silent fondness fix'd on mine, See thee for my maternal kiss incline-- With offer'd lip and fond extended arms, While love ineffable my bleeding bosom warms!

Oh vision fair, of many an airy dream! Of all my youthful hopes the darling theme; Wreck of an anxious mother's early cares, Loved object of her late regrets and tears-- Why, beauteous messenger, why hither sent, On what mild purpose is thy errand bent? For thou couldst only leave the blest above On errands mild, and purposes of love. Comest thou to warn me from this life of pain? To bid me hope we soon shall meet again? Sure in thy dulcet voice I hear thee say, "Come, poor lone mourner, come to peace away:" Welcome the sounds, for wretched must I be While weary life divides my soul from thee. Ah, no! that softly sorrowing look declares Thou comest to chide my impious grief and tears-- Grief, that would thee recall to pain and woe, Tears, that alone from selfish motives flow: To bid me sink on an adoring knee And thank my God, whose mercy shelter'd thee! Who, while he seem'd, in each severe command, To press me with a harsh chastising hand, Prepared the balm that now my heartfelt woes And anguished bosom, can alone compose; And bad me know, in the conviction blest, Though here thy suffering body knew no rest-- That thy pure soul, as spotless as 'twas given, By his creating hand has wing'd its way to Heaven.

With sad solicitude 'twas mine to watch, In silent woe, my angel's midnight couch, Guide her uncertain steps the live-long day, Or pine in trembling terrors when away-- To see the impending stroke I could not ward, And mourn the sufferer that no love could guard; But this blest certainty my heart repays, And bids it throb with gratitude and praise. Yet pardon, Lord! my bosom's sorrowing swell, When on past scenes I yet too fondly dwell; And you who ne'er have felt the cruel pang, Who still can o'er your cherish'd darlings hang; Who have not learn'd how hard it is to part, And bear about a sad bereaved heart-- Or not possessing, ne'er conceive the charm With which maternal love the heart can warm-- With kind indulgence hear pale sorrow's moan, Nor lightly judge the woes you have not known.

Should the Supreme a cherub fair bestow, More sweet than all his hand e'er form'd below; While all that helpless infancy endears Wakes into life a mother's hopes and fears-- And if thy heart shall love as mine has loved, And prove the bitter pangs that mine has proved, Then may'st thou judge--for thou wilt truly know That keenest pang, a tender mother's woe; Then wilt thou, pitying, hear pale sorrow's moan, And kindly mingle with her sighs, thy own.

Thus, shadowy eve, allured and soothed by thee, A wand'ring visionary I shall be-- And when o'er earth thy dewy breezes sweep, Seek thy sequestered shades to muse and weep; Not bitter tears--or without comfort shed, A tribute to the loved, the honor'd dead.

Hail gentle spirits! while thus memory true In fancy's wanderings oft communes with you, This world recedes--the silent grave appears A blest asylum from all earthly cares! And faith, the hope inspiring, sooths my breast, That _there_ the sad and weary shall have rest.

We shall for the present, conclude with the following "_Lines written on hearing a lady use the expression of smiling autumn_."

SMILING AUTUMN.

Autumn, how should that languid air That smoothed thy brow erewhile, Be (though a frown thou dost not wear) Mistaken for a smile?

The glow that dyes thy tawny cheek, The gleam that lights thine eye, Nor smiling grace, nor joy bespeak-- Thy every breath's a sigh.

Or if, perchance, a transient smile Breaks o'er the fading scene, To cheer thy plaintive brow the while And wake its sad serene;

'Tis like the sickly smile that sits On hidden sorrow's brow, Or with the last faint hectic flits When life is ebbing low.

From such heart-chilling smiles as these Winter, I turn to thee-- Thy frowning skies and leafless trees More welcome are to me.

{213}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STUDY OF THE LATIN AND GREEK CLASSICS.

Of all the "death-bed sayings" on record, none please me more than that of Beausobre to his son: Go, said he,

"Argentum et marmor vetus, æraque et artis Suspice. Suspice, et forma non fragilis Movebit in pectore delectationis multum. Ibi, cum Euroauster, tum erit admiratio-- Flori felicitatis suavis et jucunda."

Moving among the solid temples of "silver," and of "marble," reared by ancient literature, the intruder finds the holy beauty around him giving softness to his step, and banishing all ungentle levity. The plastic mind gradually yielding to the touch of that loveliness which has crept in through the senses, becomes of itself grand and lovely. The heart too receives its coloring--even as the cheek is colored, when standing beneath the stained windows of some real temple.

These truths have come home to _me_, at too late an hour, and a quill or two will not be worn out sinfully, in an attempt to impress their importance upon younger men.

If I fail, as most probably I shall, the consciousness of having consumed a day in useful effort, will be a tolerable reward--perhaps reward enough.

"The inner man moulds the outer," is an old and true saw. Its truth may be seen, reader, by looking around you--indeed, by looking _at yourself_. If you are a philosopher--a genuine philosopher--your glass will image forth an aspect of serene dignity. If a sophist, one of perplexed cunning. In the first instance, your _manner_ will be lofty yet affable--a key to the better feelings of all:--in the latter grovelling, yet scornful--to every one food for the most unreserved contempt. Yielding that these different appearances are produced by the workings of the inner man, can you hit upon a mode for ennobling these workings, in themselves confused and feeble, so evidently effectual as the introduction of knowledge and its all-arranging hand? Some may say that the manner is of no moment. The effects produced under every one's own observation would, if remembered, serve to stifle this assertion. Why was it that the most eloquent of Grecians struggled for years to remove the defects of a faulty bearing, if no valuable end was to be attained?

It follows then that dignity and suavity are of service: that these--in many cases essential--are the offspring of a confidence in one's own knowledge. And now, I ask, whence may we draw richer supplies of this than from the pages of ancient writers? Are they not rife with all the useful reasoning--the philosophic intelligence--the happiness of application, that cultivated man could devise for the assistance of untutored intellect?

From the logic of the sage we learn, by a spirit of imitation natural to human beings, to quicken our own powers of reasoning. The perspicuity of arrangement and expression, so admirable in our master, becomes gradually a part of our own style. We are led by the strength of example to lop off the redundancies of a corrupt method, and by the acquirement of correct notions of purity, enabled to render our productions chaste and clear. And these improvements in the reasoning powers are effected at the same time that we possess ourselves of the richest treasures of lore!

But this is only one source of advantage among many as valuable. Wit, a power of the mind seldom granted with a liberal hand by nature--receives, in the course of communion with the playful and keen, a training of no little value. Charmed by the attic grace which softens and mellows the satire of our companions, (for let us conjure up at the hearthside the great masters of the past, and through their works hold with them 'pleasant converse,') our efforts will be to increase by farther intercourse, the small store already laid up perhaps unintentionally. Thus may we, if naturally possessed of wit, so polish and sharpen the gift of nature, that no armor may resist its progress: or, if destitute of this strong weapon, form for ourselves one less beautiful indeed, but of scarce less real worth.

Without this chastening influence, native wit degenerates into a harshness excessively grating to the ear of refinement, and productive of no single good effect.

Thus is improved or created a quality allowed by all to be of much utility in the contests between mind and mind. And what is life but a field of conflict, wherein the passions of one--perpetually at strife with those of another--are forever calling to their assistance the weapons of intellect!

I have before spoken of the effect produced on the manner by a confidence in one's acquired resources. Carrying this a step farther, I will remark, that many of the qualities regarded as amiable among men, such as urbanity and modesty, may be gained not only by the act of storing the mind, but from the actual lessons and counsels of the bland teachers from whom these stores are received. Will any one deny the happy consequences of an urbane and modest deportment, in man's intercourse with his fellows? Surely none would so far forget the beauty of virtue as thus to sneer at its manifestations.

We can scarcely find among the various pursuits of men, one in which the pursuer may not be assisted by the experience and lessons of his predecessors on the same path. The painter esteems himself happy when able to collect in his studio the meanest of the antique models. The sculptor contemplates among the relics of the past those master-efforts, so deservedly famous, and is indefatigable in a study essential to the production {214} of purity in his own manner. Extend this to eloquence. Most truly the orators of antiquity have been sturdy pioneers upon a noble path, and to neglect their guidance would retard the pursuer of the same course, and entangle him in many difficulties. Indeed, with the works of these, elocutionists have invariably recommended familiarity. The strength of Demosthenes,--_monte decurrens velut amnis_--the 'abundant grace' of the polished Tully, are of themselves milk for a giant's nurturing. But they have not come forth alone from the wreck of time. They are attended by worthy companions.

The depths of a strong mind teem with the seeds of fine thought. Ideas lofty and rich are then in embryo, and it is a tedious but an essential task to bring them to maturity. The lessons and practice of those by whom excellence was most nearly approached, cannot do other than afford aid of the strongest nature to the student, who has in immediate view an anxious care of these germs, and looking forward to the season when a gigantic growth has rewarded his culture, longs with a virtuous ambition for its coming, that he may scatter among men the fruits of mature strength. Let all remember this, and seek not only rule of guidance, but successful illustration among the pages of the past.

It would be no difficult matter to point out other important qualities, ripened by a study of the ancient classics. To show how strongly assisted the organs of judgment, &c. may be by the strength-infusing food of knowledge, winnowed as it has been by time, would be truly _labor absque labore_. But I have already trespassed on the reader's courtesy, and shall leave the unfilled catalogue to be completed, if he thinks it worth the while, at his own leisure.

It has been my object to show that "the classical student's own good and that of his fellows, would be advanced by his assiduity:" and as I have not yet remarked distinctly upon the latter, I will do so now, and briefly.

Men unable individually to defend and protect their rights, enter into compacts for mutual assistance. Certain laws are drawn up, guiding the administrator of justice. This justice is the main duct by which the social body is supplied. With it, order and tranquillity shed their light upon a nation's progress towards happiness. Without it, the members within, and the body sinks under a benumbing paralysis. It is, then, the part of every good citizen to see that justice be maintained free from impurity, and by precept and example to enliven its energies. And what is it that gives weight to counsel, if it be not the adviser's learning and reputation?

"Insani sapiens nomen ferat, æquus iniqui."

What, in a just man's practice, so softens down to our feelings all necessary roughnesses, as a secret veneration for himself?

I have shown, or attempted to show, that the character becomes chaste by communion with those exalted spirits from whom are drawn the supplies of wisdom; and we now see that both the possession of these supplies and the reputation gained thereby, are of service to the public--moreover that skill, necessary in the management of public affairs, is generated, or to say the least increased--so rendering the ruler more capable of furthering the interests of the ruled.

We see then, that the individual and the public good are advanced by the study in question. Let us now examine whether this advancement may not be effected by confining ourselves first to translations, secondly to our own legitimate literature.

With regard to the first, others have pointed out the futility of all such transfers. The Turk exchanges his turban and robe for the habiliments of the Christian. Through the mask of this assumed garb what eye can detect the original Mussulman? Is he swarthy! others of his adopted brethren are equally so. Does the tuft of long hair by which Houri hands are to draw the faithful into Paradise, differ from the unshorn locks of those around him? his assumed head-gear conceals the difference.--Thus does he lose all trace of his former being, and since the assumed qualities sit on him but indifferently, the change is always for the worse. Are we to doubt the truth of this illustration? All experience forbids us so to do. The sterling gold of Shakspeare--converted into French tinsel--was only so converted to meet with ridicule and contempt.

Secondly, may not these advantages be gained by researches into our own literature? I would say, in the first place, that this latter is but a branch engrafted on the ancient tree; and if we wish to effect thorough familiarity, we must examine downward--solving difficulties as we proceed--until we come to the root, from whence springs all lore. Farthermore:--Acquaintance with "our own literature" being but one move towards the attainment of thorough knowledge, this very admission stamps it as an inferior degree of excellence, and will any one doubt the utility of gaining the greatest in a generous pursuit?

This connexion of past lore with the present, suggests to me an important point, upon which I shall linger for a brief space.

Few are ignorant of the close connexion between the ancient and modern languages themselves. It was the influence of the polished and manly Latin that gave euphony to the barbarous jargon brought by the German tribes from their forests. It was this that spread over the nations of modern Europe, mellowing in one instance the roughness of the Norman idiom, and in fine, entwining itself inseparably with the mongrel plant {215} brought into being in England, after the conquest of Duke William. Indeed, so much incongruity pervaded this, that many great writers have believed it a vehicle too rude and perhaps unsafe, for the conveyance of their harvests to posterity. Under this belief Bacon wrote his "_Novum Organum_," as well as many of his more important works, wholly in Latin.

So close, therefore, is the union, that familiarity with one of the principal languages of antiquity has become absolutely essential to a _thorough_ intimacy with our own.

Upon the connexion with the other I will barely remark, that the precept and practice of learned men most assuredly carry a weight at home, and was it not natural for these, filled as they were with the beauty of that tongue, whose melody and richness had lent a charm even to the outpourings of wisdom, to introduce its merits into their own less noble one? This they have done; and so originated a connexion important and harmless, inasmuch as it has benefitted the one greatly, without injuring the other.

I will now observe upon the time of life most suited to an attainment of that skill, essential in opening to the neophyte these well-stored magazines of useful and pleasing information. If the candidate for distinction in any, the simplest profession, had at the time of entering upon it, yet to master the rudiments of his language, would he not contemplate the double task in despair? Knowing that the greatest genius on earth, if without the means of expressing the teeming thoughts of a crowded mind, is but a "mighty savage," he feels, if success be his object, the absolute necessity of beginning the almost endless labor. From childhood to manhood he should be furbishing this key to his mind's resources.

And the case is the same with regard to the study of the elements which throw open the riches of the past to our conception. These riches are very seldom possessed when the means of doing so are not gradually acquired in very early years. The hours are not then counted--the labor does not present itself in a huge and startling mass to the narrow view of youth, but is seen part by part as the student advances. With years of inactive life before him, his time is his own, and we may almost say unlimited. Undeterred by the calls of the world, he has leisure to possess himself of every requisite for enjoying the feast to be partaken of hereafter. Turn to one who, after neglecting the acquisition of that which he has at length learned to look upon as most valuable, attempts to rectify his error. With the duties of life accumulating every moment on his hands--with the toil to be endured spread out like a map before his eye, he rarely has energy enough to persevere. The task is given up as a hopeless one, and his judgment, on the ground of interference with essential duties, sanctions the decision urged by timidity. Then deprived of all means of gaining the treasure, he laments the error by which its acquisition was deferred until too late a season.

I have said nothing of the exquisite entertainment to be drawn from the study before us. My object has been to work on the feelings of real and palpable interest, so effectual in ruling men of the present day.

Let us now turn to a picture, to me of great beauty. The strifes and toils of the world are left behind us. We have sought the shades of retirement, to consume in domestic happiness the few remaining years of our earthly term. The merchant has come from the hills and valleys of the east to the banks of the Nile. He brings with him

"Munera terræ Et maris extremos Arabas distantes et Indos."

His wanderings have been among the groves of spice, and over the sands of the great deserts. His cheek has been shaded by the palm and the cool cedar, but it has too been blistered by a scorching sun. All this is at length passed, and chaunting the "Allah Acbar," wearied--yet joyful in his weariness--he plants his pavilion on the quiet shore, there in patience to abide the coming of Dyerm or Xebeck, appointed for his passage to the destined mart. Thus after experiencing the various fortunes of active life, we sink into ease.

To him who has no '_munera scientiæ_'--no attachment to polite research, from which to draw pleasure in the hours of solitude, this seclusion is worse than a foretaste of that grave so soon to succeed it. His mind is a mere void, aching to be filled. Accustomed to satiety, before the affairs of life were relinquished, the contrast is now all the more painful. It is this that accounts for the discontent of those "_refugees from the closed shop_," whom we see around us. But on this picture I do not love to linger. There is another, possessing in the home of his retirement, a home of placid delight. Surrounded by the fruits of mental exertion--the parent tree long dead--he revels among the richly flavored and the luscious, until existence becomes one continued feast. His influence in the world is undiminished--his works are remembered with feelings of reverence and affection. Afar from the restless crowd he is, as has been beautifully said, like the moon in her relation with ocean; and rendered no less influential by the tranquil steadiness with which he keeps aloof from the scenes of his influence. To such a man the treasures of ancient lore are invaluable; they are charms possessing power to call up the host of worthies, by nature and assiduous cultivation, great and excellent. In the sacred recesses of his studio he communes with these. He is cheered by his intercourse with companions so pleasing, and his path to the grave is smoothed by {216} flowers of the softest leaf. At length the drama draws to a close! Like the chaste Talbot, he breathes his gratitude to those who have been to him the fountains of 'sweet joy.' It is his last breath. Loved for his virtues, and venerated for his good works, he sinks to the grave, on whose brink he has long been lingering, and whose ideal horrors, the lessons of true knowledge have rendered to him objects to be welcomed, not dreaded--loved, not feared.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MEMORY.--AN ALLEGORY.

An evil genius visited the happy islands which repose upon the bosom of the deep blue sea. In these smiling gardens the blest recline, remote from the turmoil and confusion of life: there are trees loaded with golden fruits--flowers of a thousand hues, and sweet fountains of limpid water spread their silvery lines along the emerald lea. The melody of singing birds, the soft murmur of running streams, and sounds of distant music, fall upon the ravished ear. The wanton breeze steals fragrance from the flowers as it passes on, and sweet perfumes scent the air. Here childish innocence reposes on beds of flowers; there groups of maturer years recline on verdant knolls, enjoying the passing hour. Pairs wander arm in arm in pursuit of pleasures that never pall, and gay crowds lightly dance their hours away in mirth and song. The genius pronounces the fatal word, and each breathing figure is transformed to mute and changeless stone. The voice of mirth is hushed, the tones of music have fled, years roll away, and the living statues still look in marble coldness on the changing scene. Its flowers wither--its trees of golden fruits die one by one away--the birds flee from their green retreats, and the creeping serpent hisses in the tangled brake--tall rank grass covers the favorite walks, or choke the streams, whose turbid waters force their sluggish way. At length a passing vessel stops--a stranger wanders over the wondrous scene. On a pillar an inscription is engraved; he pauses to read the word, and instantly the spell is broken--the marble statues melt into silent shadows of the human form, and flitting forth in pairs and groups, they wander over their once loved home. They seek their familiar haunts; they search for the objects of their love; and each shadow as it passes, whispers, _gone_: and returning to their places, their forms resume their marble lineaments, and stand once more cold monuments of their former selves. Such indeed is the human mind. First comes youth's genial season; hopes linked with loves in happy pairs, wander around the smiling scene, which fancy decks with flowers. Here joy dancing to the song of mirth, lightly whiles his hours away; there young affections and gentle thoughts, like virgin sisters of a primeval race, pursue their quiet way to the bright abode which fancy hath created so beautiful and fair. But at length sorrow comes to breathe its spell. How many hopes, and loves, and pure affections, and pleasant thoughts, are changed and gone! Inurned in icy coldness, they are sepulchered in memory's cave; and yet, perhaps, some simple word of other times is breathed, its spell evokes departed joys and buried loves. Dim shadows of the past arise--they fleeting come. But fancy too is changed; it no longer forms the gay creations of its youth, but fills its gloomy fields with pictures at which the heart doth shrink. The very thoughts for which we sighed, are now without a home, and seek to pass away.

ALPHA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

The following lines were found, written in a "delicate bird-quill hand," on a blank leaf on the Petrarch of one, among the prettiest of my fair cousins. The authoress perhaps caught a certain quaintness of expression from the strained verses of the Italian lover; but the idea I am inclined to believe original, notwithstanding the assertion "This was stolen from Boccacio," with which the lines are capped. Stevens, the Puck of commentators, asks "What has truth or nature to do with sonnets?" and Byron echoes the question. There may be some truth in this, though the opinion of the first sprung from hatred towards Malone, and that of the latter from chagrin at his own want of success. If the proper characteristic of the sonnet be an artificial quaintness, my cousin has succeeded admirably,--which I presume Mr. White will have too much gallantry to deny.

THE CREATION OF THE ANTELOPE.

The tone of coming Ariel's voice was sweet To wise Prospero; he had flown the girth Of this green sphere, and gifts from wave and earth Were bound with flowers upon his pinions fleet, As singing came he to his master's feet. Four aspen leaves plucked in the shivering north-- The Palmiste bough and fruit--of eastern birth-- And leaf of Abelè--a thorny sheet-- Were there: And in a cask of quaint device Was pent the flash thrown from the gaudy plume Of Sopor's empress-bird, of thousand dyes-- Then by this flash begot--from glamour's womb, Gleamed into being two most gorgeous eyes Like those twin stars that lit creation's gloom.

And hoofs most delicate the wise man wrought Of Ariel's gift of restless aspen leaves: And skilfully as slim Tarantul' weaves The curtain to her silken couch, soon brought The sheet of Abelè to beauty: naught Torn from Earth's Edens by his wily thieves So soothed their master as this gem of leaves! With downy softness from his magic caught, It lay a snowy skin. Next of the bough And fruit pluck'd from the Palmiste's sinewy stem, A neck and graceful head formed he: Life's glow Then tinged each vein. "'Tis done--gleam thou bright gem," Pleased Prospero said, "on Hemalaya's brow, A living jewel to his diadem!"

E. D.

{217}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.--NO. 3.

BY A VIRGINIAN.

_Pittsfield, Mass., July 26th, 1834_.

One means by which Prussian tyranny sought to break down the spirit and health of Baron Trenck, during his long and rigorous imprisonment at Magdeburg, was to have him roused by a sentinel, every fifteen minutes of his sleeping hours. You can form a lively conception of the efficacy of the plan, if you have ever been compelled by exhausted nature to woo her "sweet restorer" in a stage-coach, over a very uneven road: but what think you of dozing it _outside_, on the driver's seat? Instead of _two_ this morning, the waiter called me at _one_; when I had not slept a single wink--("sleepless myself, to give my readers sleep.") Sickened by the motion of the close and crowded coach, I presently mounted beside the driver; where drowsiness soon overcame me. So, tying one arm with my handkerchief to the iron on the stage roof, I took, for about two hours, such slumber as was permitted by the heavings of our vehicle, on a hilly road: such slumber, as one might enjoy while tossed in a blanket, or "upon the high and giddy mast," rocking his brains, "in cradle of the rude imperious surge." On fully awaking, half an hour before sunrise, I found we were ascending a mountain (part of the Green Mountain,) by a gentle slope of three or four degrees, continuing for six miles. The scenery, (wildly picturesque in itself,) bursting thus suddenly upon the view, was particularly striking. Indeed, no day of my tour has presented a greater number of boldly beautiful landscapes. That I never try to spread these beauties upon my page, you must ascribe to the fear that they would but 'evanish' in the endeavor, and by no means to any profane contempt--unpardonable, you know according to Dr. Beattie, for

--------"the boundless store Of charms which Nature to her votary yields; The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even; All that the mountains sheltering bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of Heaven"--

I most devoutly worship them all. But humbler themes befit and demand my pen.

It is a New England custom, to bury all the dead of a township, or of a certain subdivision of it, in a common grave yard; usually, not within any village, and apart from any church. This yard is enclosed with a wall; and every grave is marked by a stone (commonly hewn marble,) with a neat and simple inscription of name and years, supplying "the place of fame and elegy." By a sort of tacit consent, each family is allowed to cluster its dead together in a separate portion of the ground; sometimes in a capacious vault, marked with the family name. The curious may at any time find an hour's amusement--aside from the more serious thoughts proper to the place--in reading, on the tombstones, the surnames common and peculiar to New England, and the Christian names--mostly scriptural--betokening the original and enduring sway of Puritanism. A southerner naturally wonders why the grave yards are without the villages. To an inquiry of mine into the reason, a _'cute_ female (evidently far wiser than her husband, who was also in company,) answered, that it was "to accommodate those who live at a distance." How it did this--or how, if the distant on one side were accommodated, those on the other were not equally incommoded--my sage instructress did not expound. The village itself (at least its ordinary _nucleus_, the meeting-house) is usually central to the town, for the equal convenience of all. It seems more probable that _health_, and the readier command of space, influence the location of burying grounds.

One of the objects that have struck me most pleasingly, is the _Liberty Pole_, in almost every village. Its use is to hoist a flag upon, on the Fourth of July, and other festal days. It figures exquisitely in "McFingal"--that best poem, of its length, that America has produced; so often quoted for Hudibras, and so inadequately honored, not only in the south, but here, in its native north. Do take down the book, or, if you have it not, go straight and buy it; turn to the second or third canto--I forget which--and be grave if you can, while you read how the Tory hero "fierce sallied forth" attended by

"His desperate clan of tory friends: When sudden met his angry eye A pole ascending thro' the sky:--"

the ceremonies of its rearing and consecration; the attack, not _wordy_ alone, of the hero upon it; his inglorious discomfiture; his wadling flight,

("With legs and arms he worked his course, Like rider that outgoes his horse;")

his fall, and decoration with tar and feathers; the hoisting of the tory constable by a rope fastened to his waistband,

"Till, like the earth, as stretched on tenter, He hung, self-balanced, on his centre;"

where, as Socrates (according to a witty comic poet of his day) got himself swung in mid air to clear his perceptions,

"Our culprit thus in purer sky, With like advantage raised his eye; And looking forth in prospect wide, His _tory errors clearly spied_."

I had enjoyed so many a laugh at the whole scene, that when a Liberty Pole was first shown me (at Hartford) by an interesting fellow traveller, it required all my phlegm to refrain from clapping my hands with pleasure.

* * * * *

_Albany, July 27_.

It was nearly eleven--two hours later than usual--when we arrived last night. A series of little casualties delayed us: a thunder storm, quite as magnificent as most that we have in Virginia, only our thunder and lightning are far superior; a tree, of eight or nine inches diamater, blown across the road by a _semi_-tornado that accompanied the cloud; and divers other detentions. The storm met us near the top of a mountain, upon the line of Massachusetts and New York; obliging us to halt, and fend off the rain as best we might, by buttoning down the curtains. The descent hitherward, winds, for perhaps a mile, along the steep mountain side; commanding a fine view of the pretty village of Lebanon, and its prettier valley. Near Lebanon is a settlement of Shakers. The only incivility I have {218} yet experienced from a stage driver, was a few miles this side of Lebanon; when, availing myself of a brief halt at a hotel to get some refreshment, I received an indistinct notice that the stage could not wait: and a minute or two after, some one called to me, "you are left, sir!" On going to the door, sure enough, the horses were in a sweeping trot, twenty or thirty yards (or, as they say here, four or five rods) off. I soon overtook them; and was admitted, the driver surlily grumbling at the unreasonableness of expecting him to _wait all day_. He was soured by being so late. And whoever considers how nice a point of honor--aye, and of duty, and interest--it is with that fraternity to be punctual, will not blame him very severely. They have been civil and obliging to me; the one by whom I slept yesterday morning, was even kind.

So well established is this good character of New England stage drivers, that ladies often travel by stage for scores of miles, with no other protector. And the driver does protect them, vigilantly. Every way, however, the freedom with which females trust themselves abroad there, and in the south, is remarkably different. I have seen handsome young ladies, of refined appearance, driving in a chaise, with no male attendant, to a town seven or eight miles from their home. And such things are of every day occurrence, attracting no especial notice. This freedom arises, I believe, from several causes. It is unquestionably owing, in part, to the sober, honest, and peaceful habits of the people, and to the certainty, that any wrong or insult offered to a female, would be promptly resented and punished; as in Ireland, under the reign of Brien the Brave, a beautiful damsel, richly attired, could walk alone, safe and fearless, from end to end of the kingdom.[1] Contiguity of residences aids this effect. Then, in the country villages of the north, there are many more ladies than gentlemen, from the emigration of the latter westward, and from their resorting to the maritime cities and to the ocean, for trade and seafaring employment. Besides, New Englanders have less time for pleasure than we have; and no Virginian will deny that "to tend the fair" is a _pleasure_. But the freedom of female movements is partly attributable also to the prevalence, among the New England men, of a less tender and obsequious _manner_ at least, towards the fair sex, than southrons habitually shew. They do not practise those minute, delicate attentions--that semi-adoration--ingrained in the very constitutions of our well bred men. (Not dandies--I speak of _men_.) Indeed our claim to superiority may be pushed still further. In affability to inferiors, our northern brethren are decidedly behind us. In their middling and lower classes, nay and in the lower _tier_ of their upper classes, this short-coming is particularly discernible: and extends even to their deportment towards equals. Clowns and servants--I beg pardon--"_helps_"--seem not to expect, or to relish, the courtesy which, in the Old Dominion, every true gentleman pays to the poorest man. Soon after entering the country, I found it necessary, if I would have respect from them, to abate much of the respectful address, which habit had rendered essential to my own comfort. Can these deficiencies of manner--supposing them to exist--and _my_ belief of them is confirmed by that of others--be ascribed to the utter proscription of _duelling_--that vaunted nurse of courtesy? I should rather attribute them to three other causes. _First_--a dislike to outward displays of emotion; a hard-featured sturdiness of soul, which, content to _feel_ kindly and deeply, and to _act_ kindly too in things of solid import, forgets or disdains the petty blandishments of _manner_, as idle forms, often the offspring of deceit, and unworthy of a mind bent upon substantial good. This estimable, but unamiable trait--derived purely from his sire, John Bull--makes Jonathan disliked on a superficial view. But those who consider him with candid attention, and bearing in mind the true saying of honest Kent, that

"They are not empty-hearted, whose low sound Reverbs no hollowness"--

perhaps find the unsightly iron casket stored with the richest jewels. _Second_--(a less creditable cause; applicable only to the imputed want of courtesy towards inferiors)--The employment of whites, as servants. A master cannot treat these as his equals: it is utterly incompatible with the relation. His demeanor towards them, he naturally extends to their kindred, and to their class; that is, to all the poor around him. According to that general principle of divine wisdom and goodness, which, by a counterpoise of good and evil, equalizes every human lot, the blighting curse of slavery seems to carry this mitigation along with it--a more delicate and scrupulous regard, in the free, to even the _minute_ gratification of their fellow-free. Hence--and from their greater leisure to cultivate _manner_--chiefly arises, we may suppose, the superiority of slave-holders in the several points of politeness. Just so, according to Montesquieu, good-manners characterize a monarchy. Those who can see in this, a recompense either for a privation of the glorious right of self-government, or for the unmeasured ills entailed by domestic slavery upon a community, are welcome to the consolation. _Third_--(applicable, like the last, only to intercourse with inferiors)--the system of electioneering practised in the northern states. Usage and public opinion allow no man to declare himself a candidate for office. His doing so, would be political suicide. He must be _nominated_ by a CAUCUS--or CONVENTION, as "ears polite" now require it to be called. The convention is got up in this wise: One, or two, or three, tolerably influential men, having a friend whom they wish to exalt, call a private meeting of those over whom their influence especially is, and after insinuating his merits into the minds assembled, get a resolution passed, for a general _caucus_, of the whole party, in the _town_, or election district. All who were at the private meeting, bestir themselves diligently to congregate at the caucus, such persons, chiefly, as they, or some of them, can control: and in this they are so successful, that a nomination there, of the individual designated by the first movers of the scheme, is almost sure to result. This nomination goes abroad, as made by a _meeting of the people_; and unless some more skilfully conducted or powerfully headed counter movement take place, our candidate may count with reasonable certainty upon his election. Such is the machinery by which aspirants get themselves hoisted into office; as explained to me by one familiar with it--who had actually profitted by it more than once--and who owned that it was rather a shabby {219} feature in the politics of his country. All aspirants, therefore, (and in our country, how few are not so--openly or covertly!) pay court, not to the people at large, but only to the known leaders of the caucus. Contemning the passive wires and puppets, they regard only the hand that works them. Thus the commonality, losing their importance in elections, lose their strongest hold upon the civility of their superiors. I need not run out the process. 'Twere well, if deprivation of bows, and smiles, and kind words, were all that the million suffer by the caucus system. But, by rendering them _insignificant in the body politic_, that system threatens popular government itself with overthrow. I wish, I long, to see my fellow Virginians copy our brethren of the north in many things: but _this system_, may they shun as the cholera! May they always adhere to their own frank and manly plan, of having the candidate appear before them, and face to face declare his sentiments and manifest his ability to defend the great interests with which he asks to be entrusted!

[Footnote 1: See T. Moore's Irish Melody--

"Rich and rare were the gems she wore."]

While talking of _manners_, it would have been seasonable to speak of the _impertinent inquisitiveness_, commonly ascribed to the Yankees. I have seen no trace of the fault: not even so much as our own people sometimes shew. While on foot, in the country, I was sometimes asked _where I was from_; but it was always where the question was suggested and justified by the course of conversation, or by the tenor and number of my own inquiries; or, to furnish a starting place for our colloquy--a platform whence to toss the ball of discourse: never, in a manner the least abrupt or offensive. Among the better classes, such as are casually met in stage-coaches and hotels, there was all the delicate forbearance in this respect, which marks true politeness every where.

Again--Our brother Jonathan is reputed, with us, a great sharper. _Yankee tricks_, and _Yankee knavery_, are ideas inseparable from the word _Yankee_. Now my own experience does not enable me to add a single one to the catalogue of anecdotes, by which that characteristic is supposed to be proven. Not a single cheat--not a single trick--was practised upon me during my sojourn in Yankee land: unless, indeed, it was so adroitly done, as to have been hitherto imperceptible to me. The fact is, our ideas on this point are derived almost entirely from those delectable samples of honesty, ycleped "Yankee pedlers," who for many years have so swarmed over the south: a race, by whom their countrymen at home protest, with hands uplift, against being judged; and by whom, in very truth, it is no more fair to judge them, than it would be to judge of us by the vilest scum of our society, who may have fled to Carolina or the Western forests, from the just punishment of their crimes, or from the detestation that dogged their vices.

It hardly needs be said--common fame loudly enough proclaims--that religion flourishes in New England, as much as in any part of the world. Yet it does not obtrude itself upon the traveller's notice. It is a quiet, Sabbath-keeping, morals-preserving, good-doing, and heaven-serving religion, free from several extravagancies, that have elsewhere crept into christianity. Meetings for eight, ten, or twelve days together, and suspending, meanwhile, all attention to important secular duties, I have not seen or heard of: even a meeting at all, on a working day, did not meet my view during the (nearly) four weeks of my stay; except funerals. The people seem to think both parts of the third commandment alike binding: "_Six days shalt thou labor_," as well as "_Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy_." Dancing is by no means proscribed, or unusual. It is taught at many or most of the high female boarding schools. Even in Connecticut, "junkettings" are not unfrequent, lively enough to have pleased our venerable Pendleton, yet "soberly" enough conducted, to have suited Lady Grace. At New Haven, within bowshot of Yale College, a dance was kept up for two successive nights till eleven or twelve o'clock, in an apartment just across the street from my lodging. True, I have seen no match for my father's friend and mine, Dr. K----, who, since the birth of his seventh grandchild, has so often realized that pleasing trait in the picture of French rural life--

"And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore, Has frisked beneath the burthen of three score;"

but I saw as great a wonder, in a church last Sunday. The music struck me as particularly fine; I doubted not that it was an organ; till, looking up to the gallery, there sat a gentleman scraping away with might and main _upon a violin_, and another upon a bass viol: accompanied by a flute, and an admirably tuned choir. "Our armies swore terribly in Flanders:" but it was nothing to the deep, anathematizing abomination with which some "unco guid" folks of my acquaintance (not of yours) would have beheld this uncommon mode of "hymning the great Creator." Even me, it affected very singularly: I thought of the war-lock-dance in Kirk Alloway; of Auld Nick in shape of "towsie tyke, black, grim and large," whose province it was to "gie them music;" how

"He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl;" While "hornpipes, jigs, strathpeys and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels:" "Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu' Which e'en to name wad be unlawfu':"

and I did not know what catastrophe might ensue, from the profanation. Happily, however, none occurred.

In the formalities of piety, the descendants of the Pilgrims are radically changed from the puritanical strictness of their forefathers. The quaint names, indeed, are retained; but the straight-lacedness they imply is gone: you find _Leah_, or _Naomi_, upon near approach, to be as arch a lass, and _Jeremiah_, or _Timothy_, as merry a grig, as any Sally, or Betty, Tom, or Bob, south of the Potomac.

No one in Massachusetts is any longer compelled by law to pay for the support of religion, its temples, or its ministers. The law, requiring the citizen to do so, only letting him choose the sect or the minister to whom his contribution should enure, was repealed last year. Each religious _society_--answering to _congregation_ with us--has a sort of _corporate_ faculty, involving the power to tax its members for church expenses, and to coerce payment by distress if it be withheld. Even this is a stride towards hierarchy from which _our_ lawgivers have shrunk ever since 1785; and which our people will probably never permit.

I must say more to you, of the goodly land I have {220} just left. My having quitted it, need subtract nothing from the credit attached to my observations: for I shall touch no topic, which is not as fresh in my mind, and as susceptible of truthful representation, as if the local scene itself stretched around me. Adieu

From the Western Monthly Magazine.

AMERICAN LITERATURE.--ITS IMPEDIMENTS.

We live in a country pre-eminently rich in mental and physical resources. We have whatever internally or externally is requisite to promote national greatness and prosperity. We live in the full possession and enjoyment of a government founded on the experience of the past, and reared by the genius and wisdom of an unrivalled ancestry. The mind here blooms and grows under the protecting wings of the Genius of Freedom--its native boldness and vigor unrestrained. Here it may be aroused to all that is noble in enterprise, or excellent in virtue. Here the aliments of its growth are as rich and as inspiriting, as they are abundant. It enjoys the choice fruit of the loftiest minds of departed ages; and may feast on the wisdom and learning of every modern age. It enjoys the bland influence of the christian spirit; and may attain a superior standard in moral greatness and power. But these are not the only advantages which tend to the development of American mind. In whatever direction we gaze, nature's beauties, as profuse and lovely as the stars of the sky, meet the vision. We behold landscape after landscape, enchanting beyond measure; the graceful undulations of luxuriant prairies; tall forests, clothed in the magnificent robes of summer, or cheerless with the storms of winter; noble and beautiful rivers, over whose placid waters genius and enterprise have scattered the wonders and researches of science; towering mountains, fairy groves, and silver-sparkling lakes. Add to these, the wild traditions of a people unknown to former minds: traditions, over which curiosity loves to linger, and philosophy to speculate; traditions, which, imbodying the terrific, the romantic, and the ennobling of the savage state, throw over the page of fiction a charm and an interest, enchanting and enchaining.

From this view, we might indulge the prophetic thought, that our national mind would attain to the highest degree of intellectual pre-eminence. Now, the mind is the prime source of literature, creating it, and giving to it an enduring form. If all its powers are fully developed in their varied beauty and might, that literature to which it gives character, will be of an exalted nature. Should then our national mind be made to appreciate its advantages, it naturally follows, that our literature will be all that is grand and sublime--will soar to the loftiest summit of the Olympian mount. But whatever will have a tendency to pervert these advantages, to draw the mind into pursuits below its real nature, will impede its growth. We behold around us such impediments. It shall be our object to exhibit a few of them, feeling convinced that if the obstacles which retard the transit of our literature in its ascent to greatness, be once known and surmounted, its destiny will be bright and glorious.

Individual character is the combined result of early impressions. The same is true in regard to national character. Whatever most influences the young mind, gives tone to its future action. Those circumstances, which most excite and agitate the mind of a nation, likewise mould and shape its future action. What has most deeply interested the American mind? If we trace back the chain of our history to the fearless days of our infancy, we shall find that its absorbing interests have been of a political nature. True, there were some minds among that matchless band of our New England ancestry, who, with the great volume of nature open before them, wrote with a spirit of inspiration, and soared to the high heavens of literature. They were few in number. We need not ask what now moves and engrosses the thoughts and feelings of the American mind. We need not now ask what form of character it is fast assuming: for it is truly becoming a political mind. Now, what will be the effect of such a cast of intellect in impeding the march of our literature, is obvious to any one of common discernment. The _mind_ that would create an exalted literature, should drink at all the fountains of knowledge; should be clothed in forms of grace and loveliness; should have all its powers and faculties developed; its delicate and masculine, its placid, its stormy and religious: it should be like Phidias' Minerva, perfect in all its proportions. Political pursuits do not produce _this mind_. If we examine them, we shall find their elements to be the united effects of _bad_ ambition and immature intellect. It is true, they encourage activity of mind; but it is not that kind of activity which develops its beauties and majesty. That mental action which they promote, has its origin in lawless passions, in inordinate and ungenerous emulation. The political aspirant of the day is attracted by the false glory which beams around our political temple, and thinks no means too low, too debased, to gain entrance there. It is true, politics may bring into the field of competition, timid and shrinking intellect; but they do not impart to it a masculine boldness and nobleness. They train it to deeds of cunning and hypocrisy. We have reference now to the general politics of the age. Party strifes, the natural result of excess in politics, keep the mind in an unhealthy state: at one time raising it to the highest pitch of excitement; at another, causing the most extreme depression. That calm serenity, which moderates and chastens its powers, passions and emotions, is a stranger in a political contest. That mind, inured to party feelings and party interests, can never attain its full vigor and manhood--such is the nature of excess in political pursuits. We would ask, do they cause a full development of the mental powers? Do they awaken the fancy? Do they clothe human thoughts in radiant and brilliant robes? Do they promote mental research? Do they create pure and soaring eloquence? or tune the lyre of poesy to notes celestial? Let the genius of American Literature, as she wings her slow flight upwards, give the answer.

This political spirit, contagious and diffusive in its nature, has spread itself throughout the entire frame of our government. All classes of society, from the proudest to the humblest spheres of life, have imbibed it, feel it, and act under its influence. It composes the chief interests, and engages the active feelings, of almost every community. Who can be insensible to the fact, that our universal mind has already assumed a political character? The aspect of the times prove it beyond the shadow of a doubt. The consequences to our {221} literature are obvious. The majority of our gifted, shining minds, prefer the honors of state to classic fame--rush headlong into fierce unnatural intellectual conflicts, rather than enjoy the calm, soul-ennobling, and sublime strifes of literary pursuit. The goddess of learning is uncourted in her temple. Pure mental illumination shines only on a few isolated spots. Public taste, which may be styled the protectress of literature in every country, instead of being refined and elevated, is corrupted and debased. In short, our literary mind, which, under the influence of our free institutions, might, like the eagle, soar with might and majesty, is chained down and impeded in its action.

It cannot be expected, that such a state of society would patronize noble, intellectual effort. Genuine literary merit, is unnoticed amid the whirl of party. The beauteous and serene beams of the star of science, are lost in the dazzling brightness of the political sun. How feeble the inducement held out in our land to the poet, the historian, or philosopher! The reading portion of our population is but a trifle, compared with the whole. We have a few mature minds, who, soaring above the common level, have taken their seats in the halls of literary eminence. Are they appreciated? Their names are unknown to a majority of the various classes of society? Who read the classic and eloquent orations of Webster and Everett, full of deep principles and splendid thoughts? Who, the placid, flowing and pathetic verse of Bryant, whose thoughts, so melancholy, yet so beautiful, steal over the soul like evening music on the still water? Who are delighted with the brilliant imagery, and chaste conceptions of _Cooper_ and _Irving_? Their productions, the results of long, close, and patient thought, serve for parlor-ornaments, and parlor-reading. They are not studied; and who, without studying, can master the real, pure meaning of a fine thought? A work on modern philosophy is rarely seen, even among the learned circles of society: it never reaches the great mass. How could it be otherwise, when the general mind is agitated and convulsed by political strifes! How could it be otherwise, when all that is beautiful in the heart, and sunshine in the intellect, is debased and destroyed?

We may be told, that learning has flourished in other countries, under similar inauspicious influences; that the mightiest geniuses the world has ever seen, wrote their superior works under the frowns of patronage. They were exceptions to all rule. There are few minds cast in the same moulds as those of Cervantes, Petrarch, Dante, Shakspeare, and Milton. If we mark the history of mankind, we will find, that there are now and then, in almost every nation, some unconquerable minds that would, in spite of circumstance, illumine the world. But the principle is a natural one. Mankind are fond of the fame of the moment; self-love is the predominant feature of human character. Men, in general, live not for posthumous glory. The present is more selfish than past ages. There is something exhilarating, spirit-stirring in the smiles and praises of our own countrymen. Genius, or _holy ambition_, then, cannot be aroused to vigorous action, unpatronized. Let it not be supposed, that we would have the mind think for gold. We would have it write,--and it would write, and that, too, with an immortal pen, in lofty and impassioned strains,--under the favor and good-feeling of society. But how can the literary mind be thus stimulated, when the general feeling of society is diametrically opposite to its interests? As well might we ascribe the splendid and magnificent architecture of the pantheon, to the skill and workmanship of the unlettered barbarian. We would not be misunderstood. We would not have our political interests forgotten. We would have them engage a share, but not the universal mind of the nation. We would have communities feel the same degree of interest in literary as in political greatness. We would have them combined; for their united results will increase our power, and throw around the arch of our glory, a radiance, lovely and sublime.

What periods in the history of mankind, are most distinguished for mental superiority? When did Grecian literature assume its brightest charms? Who has studied the character of the Pereclean age, and not experienced feelings of inexpressible delight, as he then beheld the mind in its noblest form? Then, the true value of mind was appreciated, and its efforts liberally patronized. Munificent gifts were the reward of mental exertion. Then, all grades of society, on the return of their Olympia, assembled with joyful hearts, to celebrate the festivities of mind. Then, art shone in original splendor; and science, in utility and nobleness, was unrivalled. Then, the muses were courted in their heavenly abodes, and Grecian poetry breathed a spirit of immortality. The tragedies of _Euripides_ and _Sophocles_ still illume the path of the modern dramatist. Then, the poor of Athens listened to the instructions of the divine _Socrates_. Then, the sacred groves and shades resounded to the eloquence of _Plato_, as the 'soul of philosophy' flowed from his lips. Then, Athens became the magnificent sun of all antiquity. It was no political age. All literary eras of the modern world, are analagous to the Pereclean of the ancient world. The most resplendent galaxys of modern mind have shone in times of the greatest literary feeling and patronage.

But this political influence of national feelings and interests will not be confined to the people. It will, indeed it has, entered within the walls of our academies and universities. Now, it is founded in reason and experience, that in the morning bloom of a literature, there is most need of active mental vigor. It requires untiring and unrelenting strength, to raise the stately pyramid. Alladin's magic lamp of Arabian story, is not an inheritance of this age. Such strength is in youthful mental cultivation. This invigorating influence must then come from our seats of learning. They are to our literature, what the consecrated groves and shades of Athens were to the Grecian--the resort of its protecting spirits. Here, the mind should be trained to action, should commence its acquisitions in knowledge. Here, it should be taught to think, and to feel, with depth and sublimity. Here, a fondness for whatever is great or commanding in human thoughts, should be created. Here, the characteristic features of such minds as Shakspeare and Milton, Newton and Franklin, should be studied; for like bright stars they will shed a cheering light on the obscure wanderings of the youthful intellect. When such is the case, and it never can fail to be, if our universities preserve their characters, the success of American literature will rest on a steadfast foundation. But such cannot be, when their interests and those of the people run in counter channels. In a {222} republic, where public opinion works such magic spells, it is the interest of the minority to yield to its sway. Upon a principle of human nature, the weak cling to the strong. Can, then, our colleges maintain their high, original standing? They must conform, in some degree, to the feelings of the mass of society. Besides, the youth who resort to them, come from the people, and must necessarily bear with them the malady of the people. Who will deny, that this political spirit is now, in many instances, the great stimulus of the American student? He seldom turns his aspiring gaze toward the celestial mount of the muses. He looks abroad upon society, and marks its character. His grasping mind longs for fame. He beholds but one road to eminence--the political. He beholds the splendid career of the mighty intellects of the land; marks a growing and powerful people doing them reverence; hears their name trumpeted by a thousand tongues; and like the Grecian hero, whose slumbers were troubled by the trophies of Miltiades, he burns for action. Nor is this all. In the political world, he sees mind battling with mind; all life, all activity, the congenial elements of panting, fiery ambition. In the literary world, he sees the mind pursuing a silent, unobserved, noiseless march; and not dreaming of the unfading brightness of its matured glories, he disdains its pursuits as unworthy of his attention. The result is natural. The grand, animating, and powerful thoughts of the splendid intellects of the past and the present, which, when sought, come all eloquent from the living page, never breathe their inspiriting energies into his mind. His course being finished, he rushes, full of sanguine hope, on the theatre of action, unskilled and unprepared. His success hangs on a point. An inordinate ambition urges him onward; he faces the storms and tempests, and opposes the thousand counter currents which run in, and keep in perpetual commotion the mountain wave of the political sea. His career is about closing, and, as he imagines, the diadem of glory about settling on his forehead; by some unforeseen stroke of bad fortune, he is hurled from his high elevation, sinks, and falls, and is heard of no more. In this way, many minds meet an unhonored and untimely end--minds, that might have proved great and useful to society--minds, which might have illuminated the arts and sciences with improved splendor--minds, which might have been 'founts of beauty' to our literature.

What preserves, in its original strength and grandeur, the rich and massy arch of German literature? The incomparable exertions of the German student. The German student! whose mind knows no other commune than the thoughts of the mighty dead. The German student! who knows the power and majesty of truth, and thinks no care, nor labor, too great to possess it; and whose intellectual eye takes in all that is lovely and sublime in creation. The universities of Germany are unequalled in the world. Is it wonderful that its literature is unequalled? But they are supported by the good feeling of society. Let then the current of public feeling be changed in our beloved land; let the American mind feel sensible of the importance of youthful mental cultivation; let the youthful intellect be taught to ascribe as much value, as much greatness, and as much immortality, to literary as to political interests. Let this be done, and our universities will surpass even those of Germany; will furnish to their country, instead of Schillers and Goethes, their prototypes, Shakspeares and Miltons.

But apart from these impediments to American literature, there is another. It glares in the face of every one. It lies in the periodical press. The benefits and glories of the press are familiar to every mind. Disseminating knowledge with unexampled rapidity, its influence is spread over and reaches the extreme borders of society. Being a universal mental aliment, it moulds, and fashions, and directs the thoughts and feelings of the man. Thousands on thousands of minds are developed by its effects, never enjoying any other. To the growing, varied classes of our society, it is the only light of information. How important that its action be pure, healthy, and vigorous! How important that it be the vehicle of virtuous and elevated thought! How important that it send forth on its hundred rapid wings and eloquence, which, like the written eloquence of the lamented Grimke, more enduring than marble or brass, should beautify the affections, and arouse to glorious action the intellect of this and coming ages! Thus mighty in its influence, and thus important in its character, it cannot maintain too high, too noble a standard. It should imbody whatever is great and excellent in human thought. It should teach the people how to apply the principles of science to the arts; and, therefore, should ever preserve, with vestal care, the temple of learning. In short, it should be the tribunal of public taste--an ordeal of criticism--severe, but highminded. Such being its characteristics, the periodical press will be the strongest pillar that shall support the towering fabric of our literature. It cannot fail to be, because through its instrumentality, public feeling is formed and swayed; and we have seen, that the right direction of this feeling will ever insure permanent, liberal, literary patronage. But what is the general character of this branch of the press? Is it a fountain from which flows the pure streams of knowledge? Is it a messenger of eloquent and exalted thoughts? Is it a friend to literature, or the efforts of original and powerful mind? Facts speak to the contrary. The majority of our periodicals, bear upon their very face, a political stamp. They contain in their broad folds, no more than the creations of rankling and disappointed passion, of unripened and undeveloped intellect. Do such minds as Johnson and Addison, spread beauty and interest through their columns? How paltry, how much to be lamented the spirit of their criticisms!--They breathe the essence of fanaticism. True, we have a few quarterlys and monthlys, that rise above the ordinary grade, and will compare, in all the excellencies of thought, with any productions of the kind, in any country or clime. The North American Review, is a fair and splendid specimen of what should characterize that department of our literature. Who ever closed its pages, beaming with a sun-like brilliancy, without having, in some degree, his knowledge enriched, his taste refined, his thoughts enlarged, and his intellect expanded? But shining only on the high peaks of society, its glorious beams never find their way to the mass: its influence, amid the universal debasement of the press, is unseen, unfelt. We have, likewise, a few literary papers; but in the delicate idea and beautiful expression of one of the contributors of the {223} Magazine, they are the mere "sprays of the intellectual wave." We repeat it, the periodical press is, in the strongest sense of the word, political. Now, it is plain to every observing mind, that being the most influential, it should be the purest and noblest portion of our literature. How far it falls short of such a standard, our national mind has fatally experienced. Our country's glory and pride, our own genius, our own talent, call loudly and decidedly for a reformation.

We have now set forth a faint view of some of the impediments to the growth of American literature. We have seen, that political pursuits do not tend to the full development and vigor of the mind, and that without such a cast of mind, there cannot be eloquent and sublime mental action. We have seen, that our nation's mind is absorbed in political interests; in short, that the age is too political. We would ask, if there is no necessity of a change? He who feels the heavenly glow of patriotic devotion, and hopes to see his country the brightest star in the firmament of modern glory, will return an affirmative response.

Our literature has not, as yet, assumed any permanent form. Its features are just beginning to develope. What character it will take, we cannot judge with any degree of certainty. Now, it is a familiar principle, that in the formation of the mind, there is need of the most unceasing care and attention, to shape and direct its budding energies to virtue and excellence. Let the American mind have this attention, and we have a literature purer, nobler, and richer, than has ever illumined mankind. Do we desire a glorious immortality? And is not literary immortality--the mind set forth in visible, enchanting, and enduring forms--far more desirable, than political? How has the greatness and grandeur of all antiquity, been perpetuated? Who will compare the Pereclean age of Greece--an age, as we have seen, when literature shone purely, brightly--with those that followed, when political feuds rent every state? Who will compare the fame of Homer, the mirror-mind of the ancient world, with the most distinguished politician of antiquity? of Milton, with that of Cromwell? of Shakspeare, with that of the profoundest statesman of the Elizabethan age. Political glory, is as the short-lived plant--literary, as the majestic oak. Political glory, is as the flashing meteor--literary, as the splendor of the noon-day sun.

H. J. G.

From Mrs. Jamieson's Visits and Sketches.

THE INDIAN MOTHER.[1]

There is a comfort in the strength of love, Making that pang endurable, which else Would overset the brain--or break the heart. _Wordsworth_.

[Footnote 1: This little tale (written in 1830) is founded on a striking incident related in Humboldt's narrative. The facts remain unaltered.]

The monuments which human art has raised to human pride or power may decay with that power, or survive to mock that pride; but sooner or later they perish--their place knows them not. In the aspect of a ruin, however imposing in itself, and however magnificent or dear the associations connected with it, there is always something sad and humiliating, reminding us how poor and how frail are the works of man, how unstable his hopes, and how limited his capacity compared to his aspirations! But when man has made to himself monuments of the works of God; when the memory of human affections, human intellect, human power, is blended with the immutable features of nature, they consecrate each other, and both endure together to the end. In a state of high civilization, man trusts to the record of brick and marble--the pyramid, the column, the temple, the tomb:

"Then the bust And altar rise--then sink again to dust."

In the earlier stages of society, the isolated rock--the mountain, cloud-encircled--the river, rolling to its ocean-home--the very stars themselves--were endued with sympathies, and constituted the first, as they will be the last, witnesses and records of our human destinies and feelings. The glories of the Parthenon shall fade into oblivion; but while the heights of Thermopylæ stand, and while a wave murmurs in the gulph of Salamis, a voice shall cry aloud to the universe--"Freedom and glory to those who can dare to die!--woe and everlasting infamy to him who would enthral the unconquerable spirit!" The Coliseum with its sanguinary trophies is crumbling to decay; but the islet of Nisida, where Brutus parted with his Portia--the steep of Leucadia, still remain fixed as the foundations of the earth; and lasting as the round world itself shall be the memories that hover over them! As long as the waters of the Hellespont flow between Sestos and Abydos, the fame of the love that perished there shall never pass away. A traveller, pursuing his weary way through the midst of an African desert--a barren, desolate, and almost boundless solitude--found a gigantic sculptured head, shattered and half-buried in the sand; and near it the fragment of a pedestal, on which these words might be with pain deciphered: "_I am Ozymandias, King of kings; look upon my works, ye mighty ones, and despair!_" Who was Ozymandias?--where are now his works?--what bond of thought or feeling, links his past with our present? The Arab, with his beasts of burthen, tramples unheeding over these forlorn vestiges of human art and human grandeur. In the wildest part of the New Continent, hidden amid the depths of interminable forests, there stands a huge rock, hallowed by a tradition so recent that the man is not yet gray-headed who was born its contemporary; but that rock, and the tale which consecrates it, shall carry down to future ages a deep lesson--a moral interest lasting as itself--however the aspect of things and the conditions of people change around it. Henceforth no man shall gaze on it with careless eye; but each shall whisper to his own bosom--"What is stronger than love in a mother's heart?--what more fearful than power wielded by ignorance?--or what more lamentable than the abuse of a beneficent name to purposes of selfish cruelty?"

Those vast regions which occupy the central part of South America, stretching from Guinea to the foot of the Andes, overspread with gigantic and primeval forests, and watered by mighty rivers--those solitary wilds where man appears unessential in the scale of creation, and the traces of his power are few and far between--have lately occupied much of the attention {224} of Europeans; partly from the extraordinary events and unexpected revolutions; which have convulsed the nations round them; and partly from the researches of enterprising travellers who have penetrated into their remotest districts. But till within the last twenty years these wild regions have been unknown, except through the means of the Spanish and Portuguese priests, settled as missionaries along the banks of the Orinoco and the Paraguay. The men thus devoted to utter banishment from all intercourse with civilized life, are generally Franciscan or Capuchin friars, born in the Spanish colonies. Their pious duties are sometimes voluntary, and sometimes imposed by the superiors of their order; in either case their destiny appears at first view deplorable, and their self-sacrifice sublime; yet, when we recollect that these poor monks generally exchanged the monotonous solitude of the cloister for the magnificent loneliness of the boundless woods and far-spreading savannahs, the sacrifice appears less terrible; even where accompanied by suffering, privation, and occasionally by danger. When these men combine with their religious zeal some degree of understanding and enlightened benevolence, they have been enabled to enlarge the sphere of knowledge and civilization, by exploring the productions and geography of these unknown regions; and by collecting into villages and humanizing the manners of the native tribes, who seem strangely to unite the fiercest and most abhorred traits of savage life, with some of the gentlest instincts of our common nature. But when it has happened that these priests have been men of narrow minds and tyrannical tempers, they have on some occasions fearfully abused the authority entrusted to them; and being removed many thousand miles from the European settlements and the restraint of the laws, the power they have exercised has been as far beyond control as the calamities they have caused have been beyond all remedy and all relief.

Unfortunately for those who were trusted to his charge, Father Gomez was a missionary of this character. He was a Franciscan friar of the order of Observance, and he dwelt in the village of San Fernando, near the source of the Orinoco, whence his authority extended as president over several missions in the neighborhood of which San Fernando was the capital. The temper of this man was naturally cruel and despotic; he was wholly uneducated, and had no idea, no feeling, of the true spirit of christian benevolence: in this respect, the savages whom he had been sent to instruct and civilize were in reality less savage and less ignorant than himself.

Among the passions and vices which Father Gomez had brought from his cell in the convent of Angostara, to spread contamination and oppression through his new domain, were pride and avarice; and both were interested in increasing the number of his converts or rather of his slaves. In spite of the wise and humane law of Charles the Third, prohibiting the conversion of the Indian natives by force, Gomez, like others of his brethren in the more distant missions, often accomplished his purpose by direct violence. He was accustomed to go, with a party of his people, and lie in wait near the hordes of unreclaimed Indians: when the men were absent he would forcibly seize on the women and children, bind them, and bring them off in triumph to his village. There, being baptized and taught to make the sign of the cross, they were _called_ Christians, but in reality were slaves. In general, the women thus detained pined away and died; but the children became accustomed to their new mode of life, forgot their woods, and paid to their Christian master a willing and blind obedience; thus in time they became the oppressors of their own people.

Father Gomez called these incursions, _la conquista espiritual_--the conquest of souls.

One day he set off on an expedition of this nature, attended by twelve armed Indians; and after rowing some leagues up the river Guaviare, which flows into the Orinoco, they perceived through an opening in the trees, and at a little distance from the shore, an Indian hut. It is the custom of these people to live isolated in families; and so strong is their passion for solitude, that when collected into villages they frequently build themselves a little cabin at a distance from their usual residence, and retire to it, at certain seasons, for days together. The cabin of which I speak was one of these solitary _villas_--if I may so apply the word. It was constructed with peculiar neatness, thatched with palm leaves, and over-shadowed with cocoa trees and laurels; it stood alone in the wilderness, embowered with luxuriant vegetation, and looked like the chosen abode of simple and quiet happiness. Within this hut a young Indian woman (whom I shall call Guahiba, from the name of her tribe) was busied in making cakes of the cassava root, and preparing the family meal, against the return of her husband, who was fishing at some distance up the river; her eldest child, about five or six years old, assisted her; and from time to time, while thus employed, the mother turned her eyes, beaming with fond affection, upon the playful gambols of two little infants, who, being just able to crawl alone, were rolling together on the ground, laughing and crowing with all their might.

Their food being nearly prepared, the Indian woman looked towards the river, impatient for the return of her husband. But her bright dark eyes, swimming with eagerness and affectionate solicitude, became fixed and glazed with terror when, instead of him she so fondly expected, she beheld the attendants of Father Gomez, creeping stealthily along the side of the thicket towards her cabin. Instantly aware of her danger (for the nature and object of these incursions were the dread of all the country round) she uttered a piercing shriek, snatched up her infants in her arms, and, calling on the other to follow, rushed from the hut towards the forest. As she had considerably the start of her pursuers, she would probably have escaped, and have hidden herself effectually in its tangled depths, if her precious burthen had not impeded her flight; but thus encumbered she was easily overtaken. Her eldest child, fleet of foot and wily as the young jaguar, escaped to carry to the wretched father the news of his bereavement, and neither father nor child were ever more beheld in their former haunts.

Meantime, the Indians seized upon Guahiba--bound her, tied her two children together, and dragged her down to the river, where Father Gomez was sitting in his canoe, waiting the issue of the expedition. At the sight of the captives his eye sparkled with a cruel triumph; he thanked his patron saint that three more souls were added to his community; and then, heedless of the tears {225} of the mother, and the cries of her children, he commanded his followers to row back with all speed to San Fernando.

There Guahiba and her infants were placed in a hut under the guard of two Indians; some food was given to her, which she at first refused, but afterward, as if on reflection, accepted. A young Indian girl was then sent to her--a captive convert of her own tribe, who had not yet quite forgotten her native language. She tried to make Guahiba comprehend that in this village she and her children must remain during the rest of their lives, in order that they might go to heaven after they were dead. Guahiba listened, but understood nothing of what was addressed to her; nor could she be made to conceive for what purpose she was torn from her husband and her home, nor why she was to dwell for the remainder of her life among a strange people, and against her will. During that night she remained tranquil, watching over her infants as they slumbered by her side; but the moment the dawn appeared, she took them in her arms and ran off to the woods. She was immediately brought back; but no sooner were the eyes of her keepers turned from her than she snatched up her children, and again fled;--again--and again! At every new attempt she was punished with more and more severity; she was kept from food, and at length repeatedly and cruelty beaten. In vain!--apparently she did not even understand why she was thus treated; and one instinctive idea alone, the desire of escape, seemed to possess her mind and govern all her movements. If her oppressors only turned from her, or looked another way, for an instant, she invariably caught up her children and ran off towards the forest. Father Gomez was at length wearied by what he termed her "blind obstinacy;" and, as the only means of securing all three, he took measures to separate the mother from her children, and resolved to convey Guahiba to a distant mission, whence she should never find her way back either to them or to her home.

In pursuance of this plan, poor Guahiba, with her hands tied behind her, was placed in the bow of a canoe. Father Gomez seated himself at the helm, and they rowed away.

The few travellers who have visited these regions agree in describing a phenomenon, the cause of which is still a mystery to geologists, and which imparts to the lonely depths of these unappropriated and unviolated shades an effect intensely and indescribably mournful. The granite rocks which border the river, and extend far into the contiguous woods, assume strange, fantastic shapes; and are covered with a black incrustation, or deposit, which contrasted with the snow-white foam of the waves breaking on them below, and the pale lichens which spring from their crevices and creep along their surface above, give these shores an aspect perfectly funereal. Between these melancholy rocks--so high and so steep that a landing place seldom occurred for leagues together--the canoe of Father Gomez slowly glided, though urged against the stream by eight robust Indians.

The unhappy Guahiba sat at first perfectly unmoved, and apparently amazed and stunned by her situation; she did not comprehend what they were going to do with her; but after a while she looked up towards the sun, then down upon the stream; and perceiving, by the direction of the one and the course of the other, that every stroke of the oar carried her farther and farther from her beloved and helpless children, her husband, and her native home, her countenance was seen to change and assume a fearful expression. As the possibility of escape, in her present situation, had never once occurred to her captors, she had been very slightly and carelessly bound. She watched her opportunity, burst the withes on her arms, with a sudden effort flung herself overboard, and dived under the waves; but in another moment she rose again at a considerable distance, and swam to the shore. The current, being rapid and strong, carried her down to the base of a dark granite rock which projected into the stream; she climbed it with fearless agility, stood for an instant on its summit, looking down upon her tyrants, then plunged into the forest, and was lost to sight.

Father Gomez, beholding his victim thus unexpectedly escape him, sat mute and thunderstruck for some moments, unable to give utterance to the extremity of his rage and astonishment. When, at length, he found voice, he commanded his Indians to pull with all their might to the shore; then to pursue the poor fugitive, and bring her back to him, dead or alive.

Guahiba, meantime, while strength remained to break her way through the tangled wilderness, continued her flight; but soon exhausted and breathless, with the violence of her exertions, she was obliged to relax in her efforts, and at length sunk down at the foot of a huge laurel tree, where she concealed herself, as well as she might, among the long, interwoven grass. There, crouching and trembling in her lair, she heard the voices of her persecutors hallooing to each other through the thicket. She would probably have escaped but for a large mastiff which the Indians had with them, and which scented her out in her hiding place. The moment she heard the dreaded animal snuffing in the air, and tearing his way through the grass, she knew she was lost. The Indians came up. She attempted no vain resistance; but, with a sullen passiveness, suffered herself to be seized and dragged to the shore.

When the merciless priest beheld her, he determined to inflict on her such discipline as he thought would banish her children from her memory, and cure her forever of her passion for escaping. He ordered her to be stretched upon that granite rock where she had landed from the canoe, on the summit of which she had stood, as if exulting in her flight,--THE ROCK OF THE MOTHER, as it has ever since been denominated--and there flogged till she could scarcely move or speak. She was then bound more securely, placed in the canoe, and carried to Javita, the seat of a mission far up the river.

It was near sunset when they arrived at this village, and the inhabitants were preparing to go to rest. Guahiba was deposited for the night in a large barn-like building, which served as a place of worship, a public magazine, and, occasionally, as a barrack. Father Gomez ordered two or three Indians of Javita to keep guard over her alternately, relieving each other through the night; and then went to repose himself after the fatigues of his voyage. As the wretched captive neither resisted nor complained, Father Gomez flattered himself that she was now reduced to submission. Little could he fathom the bosom of this fond mother! He mistook for stupor, or resignation, the calmness of a {226} fixed resolve. In absence, in bonds, and in torture, her heart throbbed with but one feeling; one thought alone possessed her whole soul:--her children--her children--and still her children!

Among the Indians appointed to watch her was a youth about eighteen or nineteen years of age, who, perceiving that her arms were miserably bruised by the stripes she had received, and that she suffered the most acute agony from the savage tightness with which the cords were drawn, let fall an exclamation of pity in the language of her tribe. Quick she seized the moment of feeling, and addressed him as one of her people.

"Guahibo," she said, in a whispered tone, "thou speakest my language, and doubtless thou art my brother! Wilt thou see me perish without pity, O son of my people? Ah, cut these bonds which enter into my flesh! I faint with pain! I die!"

The young man heard, and, as if terrified, removed a few paces from her and kept silence. Afterward, when his companions were out of sight, and he was left alone to watch, he approached, and said, "Guahiba!--our fathers were the same, and I may not see thee die; but if I cut these bonds, white man will flog me:--wilt thou be content if I loosen them, and give thee ease?" And as he spoke, he stooped and loosened the thongs on her wrists and arms; she smiled upon him languidly, and appeared satisfied.

Night was now coming on. Guahiba dropped her head on her bosom, and closed her eyes, as if exhausted by weariness. The young Indian believing that she slept, after some hesitation laid himself down on his mat. His companions were already slumbering in the porch of the building, and all was still.

Then Guahiba raised her head. It was night--dark night--without moon or star. There was no sound, except the breathing of the sleepers around her, and the humming of the moschetos. She listened for some time with her whole soul; but all was silence. She then gnawed the loosened thongs asunder with her teeth. Her hands once free, she released her feet: and when the morning came she had disappeared. Search was made for her in every direction, but in vain; and Father Gomez, baffled and wrathful, returned to his village.

The distance between Javita and San Fernando, where Guahiba had left her infants, is twenty-five leagues in a straight line. A fearful wilderness of gigantic forest trees, and intermingling underwood, separated these two missions;--a savage and awful solitude, which, probably, since the beginning of the world, had never been trodden by human foot. All communication was carried on by the river; and there lived not a man, whether Indian or European, bold enough to have attempted the route along the shore. It was the commencement of the rainy season. The sky, obscured by clouds, seldom revealed the sun by day; and neither moon nor gleam of twinkling star by night. The rivers had overflowed, and the lowlands were inundated. There was no visible object to direct the traveller; no shelter, no defence, no aid, no guide. Was it Providence--was it the strong instinct of maternal love, which led this courageous woman through the depths of the pathless woods--where rivulets, swollen to torrents by the rains, intercepted her at every step; where the thorny lianas, twining from tree to tree, opposed an almost impenetrable barrier; where the moschetos hung in clouds upon her path; where the jaguar and the alligator lurked to devour her; where the rattle-snake and the water-serpent lay coiled up in the damp grass, ready to spring at her; where she had no food to support her exhausted frame, but a few berries, and the large black ants which build their nests on the trees? How directed--how sustained--cannot be told: the poor woman herself could not tell. All that can be known with any certainty is, that the fourth rising sun beheld her at San Fernando; a wild, and wasted, and fearful object; her feet swelled and bleeding--her hands torn--her body covered with wounds, and emaciated with famine and fatigue;--but once more near her children!

For several hours she hovered round the hut in which she had left them, gazing on it from a distance with longing eyes and a sick heart, without daring to advance: at length she perceived that all the inhabitants had quitted their cottages to attend vespers; then she stole from the thicket, and approached, with faint and timid steps, the spot which contained her heart's treasures. She entered, and found her infants left alone, and playing together on a mat: they screamed at her appearance, so changed was she by suffering; but when she called them by name, they knew her tender voice, and stretched out their little arms towards her. In that moment the mother forgot all she had endured--all her anguish, all her fears, every thing on earth but the objects which blessed her eyes. She sat down between her children--she took them on her knees--she clasped them in an agony of fondness to her bosom--she covered them with kisses--she shed torrents of tears on their little heads, as she hugged them to her. Suddenly she remembered where she was, and why she was there: new terrors seized her; she rose up hastily, and, with her babies in her arms, she staggered out of the cabin--fainting, stumbling, and almost blind with loss of blood and inanition. She tried to reach the woods, but too feeble to sustain her burthen, which yet she would not relinquish, her limbs trembled, and sank beneath her. At this moment an Indian, who was watching the public oven, perceived her. He gave the alarm by ringing a bell, and the people rushed forth, gathering round Guahiba with fright and astonishment. They gazed upon her as if upon an apparition, till her sobs, and imploring looks, and trembling and wounded limbs, convinced them that she yet lived, though apparently nigh to death. They looked upon her in silence, and then at each other; their savage bosoms were touched with commiseration for her sad plight, and with admiration, and even awe, at this unexampled heroism of maternal love.

While they hesitated, and none seemed willing to seize her, or to take her children from her, Father Gomez, who had just landed on his return from Javita, approached in haste, and commanded them to be separated. Guahiba clasped her children closer to her breast, and the Indians shrunk back.

"What!" thundered the monk: "will ye suffer the woman to steal two precious souls from heaven? two members from our community? See ye not, that while she is suffered to approach them, there is no salvation for either mother or children? part them, and instantly!"

The Indians, accustomed to his ascendancy, and {227} terrified at his voice, tore the children of Guahiba once more from her feeble arms: she uttered nor word nor cry, but sunk in a swoon upon the earth.

While in this state, Father Gomez, with a cruel mercy, ordered her wounds to be carefully dressed: her arms and legs were swathed with cotton bandages; she was then placed in a canoe, and conveyed to a mission, far, far off, on the river Esmeralda, beyond the Upper Orinoco. She continued in a state of exhaustion and torpor during the voyage; but after being taken out of the boat and carried inland, restoratives brought her back to life, and to a sense of her situation. When she perceived, as reason and consciousness returned, that she was in a strange place, unknowing how she was brought there--among a tribe who spoke a language different from any she had ever heard before, and from whom, therefore, according to Indian prejudices, she could hope nor aid nor pity;--when she recollected that she was far from her beloved children;--when she saw no means of discovering the bearing or the distance of their abode--no clue to guide her back to it:--_then_, and only then, did the mother's heart yield to utter despair; and thence forward refusing to speak or to move, and obstinately rejecting all nourishment, thus she died.

The boatman, on the river Atabapo, suspends his oar with a sigh as he passes the ROCK OF THE MOTHER. He points it out to the traveller, and weeps as he relates the tale of her sufferings and her fate. Ages hence, when these solitary regions have become the seats of civilization, of power, and intelligence; when the pathless wilds which poor Guahiba traversed in her anguish, are replaced by populous cities, and smiling gardens, and pastures, and waving harvests,--still that dark rock shall stand, frowning o'er the stream; tradition and history shall preserve its name and fame; and when even the pyramids, those vast, vain monuments to human pride, have passed away, it shall endure, to carry down to the end of the world the memory of the Indian Mother.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NOTE TO BLACKSTONE'S COMMENTARIES,

VOL. I. PAGE 423.

_Being the Substance of Remarks on the Subject of Domestic Slavery, delivered to the Law Class of William and Mary College, December 2d, 1834_.

This subject is too interesting to be passed in silence. The time too is rife with proofs, that unless we mean tamely to surrender a most important interest, we must hold ourselves always on the alert to defend it with tongue and pen.

The short and compendious argument of the commentator, and his confident and peremptory judgment, seem to place us in the condition of convicted delinquents, and hardly to leave us the poor privilege of saying one word why sentence should not be passed upon us. And yet I hope to show, that this argument, so specious, is not less superficial, and that the conclusion, so promptly reached, has been attained by overlooking the most important considerations involved in the subject.

It was natural, and it was right, that Mr. Blackstone should manifest a zeal for the institutions of his own country, disposing him to excuse what might be amiss, to vindicate what might be questionable, and to place in the highest relief and in the most favorable light whatever is praiseworthy. But while I acknowledge this, I cannot allow to him, and them who think with him, a monopoly of this pious reverence for the institutions of their forefathers. I would rather follow their example, and, cherishing this sentiment so essential to the preservation of every thing that is valuable, would ask, on behalf of it, the like indulgence to what may be urged in defence of domestic slavery.

I shall not stop to show (what is incontestibly true) that it has done more to elevate a degraded race in the scale of humanity; to tame the savage; to civilize the barbarous; to soften the ferocious; to enlighten the ignorant; and to spread the blessings of christianity among the heathen, than all the missionaries that philanthropy and religion have ever sent forth. This would be no vindication, for he who can make the wrath of man to praise him; who can overrule evil, and make it an instrument of good, might have made it conducive to these ends, however wicked in itself it might be. "Be it a spirit of health, or goblin damned," on _his_ errand it has gone forth. "Be its intents wicked or charitable," it is _his_ instrument, in _his_ hands, doing _his_ work. When that is done, and not till then, it will cease, as will all things else, when their appointed course is run, and their appointed end fulfilled.

It is hardly necessary to expose the sophistry by which Mr. Blackstone affects to prove, that slavery cannot have had a lawful origin. We do not pretend to trace our title to its source. We have no call to sit in judgment between the conquered African and his conqueror. We rest our defence on principles which legitimate our title, whatever its origin may have been. Yet it may not be amiss to say a few words to show the fallacy of those plausible and imposing dogmas, with which we too often suffer ourselves to be talked down.

"Slavery," says Mr. Blackstone, "cannot originate in compact, because the transaction excludes the idea of an equivalent." For an answer to this specious fallacy, I shall content myself by referring you to the masterly essay of Professor Dew, who has so clearly exposed it as to leave me nothing to add.

But the commentator farther tells us, that "slavery cannot lawfully originate in _conquest_, as a commutation for the right to kill; because this right rests on necessity; and this necessity plainly does not exist, because the victor does not kill his adversary, but makes him captive." Is this a fair inference? Let us examine it.

There is a triple alternative in the case: to kill, to enslave, or to set at large. It may be practicable to do either of the two first; and yet dangerous in the extreme to do the last. With a savage and treacherous foe it is always so, unless his power of annoyance be completely annihilated. And how can this be between two tribes of nearly equal force? Among such is one victory an assured pledge of future and _bloodless_ victory to the end of time? May it not, must it not, often be, that the victorious party can have no security against future and fatal mischief, but in the destruction, or something equivalent to the destruction, of the vanquished? This is obtained by deportation to distant lands, by which alone, or by incarceration, or something equivalent, or by extermination, or a near approach to extermination, the enmity of a savage neighbor ever {228} can be rendered harmless. The necessity of the case, so long as it exists, justifies the choice of these alternatives. Among these, no argument is necessary to prove that foreign slavery is the mildest. But were this not so, the laws even of civilized war do not peremptorily dictate to the victor the choice he shall make among these remedies. He may kill; he may incarcerate; or he may enlarge on parol, clogged with such conditions as he may please to prescribe, according to the nature and measure of a necessity, of which he is the only judge.[1]

[Footnote 1: It may be said that the laws of civilized war do not permit that prisoners be slain or incarcerated; for that if this be done, _the other party may retaliate_. This will prove, that he who is cruel to his prisoners, _does a wrong to his own people who may happen to be in his enemy's hands_; but that is all. The laws of civilized warfare acknowledge the right to retaliate, and therefore _make a case_, if there was no other, where slavery by conquest would be lawful. Even though he who first enslaves his prisoners be wrong; yet _ex concessis_ he who retaliates is right. Can Mr. Blackstone tell us which of the savage African chiefs began the game?]

When Col. Campbell, at the head of a few militia, stooped from the mountains of Virginia on Carolina, and bore off the corps of Col. Fergusson in his pounces, had he been pursued and overtaken by Tarleton, he must have killed his prisoners. He could not have held them, and to have enlarged them would have been to sacrifice the lives of thousands. He who doubts this, knows nothing of the horrors of the tory war that raged in that quarter. If he had had no place of refuge, he might have handed them over to any custody, civilized or savage, in which they might have been removed from the theatre of war. This is one example among ten thousand, to show that the captivity of an enemy by no means implies the security of the captor, should he allow his prisoner to go free. The snared tiger is in your power: you may kill him--you may cage him. "_Therefore_," says Mr. Blackstone, "you are under no necessity to do either, and the noble beast has a fair claim to his liberty."

But I have given too many words to the exposure of this grave sophistry. In self-defence it might have been pardoned; in crimination it is intolerable.

But, as I remarked in the outset, we have nothing to do with the origin of any particular _mode_ of slavery. In some shape or other it exists, and has existed every where, since first the decree went forth, which cursed the earth, and denounced to man, "that in the sweat of his face he should eat the fruit thereof." Here is its origin; and, as might be expected of any thing so originating, the thing is evil in itself, and in all its modes. The problem is to choose among them. To the practical man it is a thing of small difficulty; _left to itself_, it assumes, in every country, the form and texture best suited to the physical peculiarities of that country, and the condition of society there. But we have grown so wise, that we leave nothing to itself. The world is full of associations and combinations of men, who make it the business of their lives to regulate every thing but what concerns themselves. We every where find a sort of moral treasuries of supererogatory virtue, made up by voluntary contribution, for the benefit of all who do not affect to be wiser and better than their fathers. Turn where we will, we have the edifying spectacle of one half the world repenting for the sins of the other half.

While the discussion of this subject was confined to ourselves; while they who denounced the practice of domestic slavery were such as could not condemn others, without standing self-condemned, we heard them patiently, as we hear from the pulpit the meek expostulations of the humble and contrite. Their interest afforded a pledge that they would not rashly carry their doctrines into practice: their self-rebukes excused them from the charge of arrogance; and the sincerity of their enthusiasm commanded our respect and sympathy. But since we have seen one community rashly overturning the domestic institutions of another; and hear from our northern neighbors an avowal of the like benevolent design toward us, it is time to look into the subject more narrowly. Let us understand it well. If we are wrong, the discovery of our fault may prepare us to bear, with becoming meekness, the impending judgment. If we are right, an understanding conviction that we are so, may be necessary to man our hearts and brace our nerves for the impending struggle.

I have said that slavery exists every where--originating in the decree which makes labor the price of subsistence. The correlative of this proposition is that _subsistence_ is the _wages_ of labor. I shall pass by the hackneyed topic of the process by which it inevitably happens, in all societies, that some men rise to affluence, while others remain as they began. So it ever has been, is, and will be, whether we find out how it comes to pass or no. There will be rich and poor. The rich man will not dig the earth: the poor man must. He becomes the rich man's servant, and the wages of his abject toil are food and raiment. This, his condition, is compulsory and inevitable; and compulsory toil for food and raiment,--what is it but slavery? True, the compulsion is not that of his fellow-worm. But is it the less crushing, because it is enforced by one from whose power there is no escape?

But are food and raiment the wages to which labor is every where stinted? Yes. Circumstances may make occasional differences in the price of labor, as in the settlement of a new country; but the same law which governs the price of every thing else, governs also the price of labor. This is, in every case, the cost of production; and food and raiment are the cost of the production of labor.

A few remarks will show the modifications to which this rule is subject, and will prove, that strictly speaking, it admits of no exception, though its modifications may occasionally afford, to individuals, an escape from the _class_ of _laborers_ into that of _employers_.

In a society perfectly stationary, (if there be such a thing,) where the wants of the whole community, and the nature and amount of labor necessary to supply those wants, and the subjects of labor are the same from generation to generation, there will be a steady demand for a new laborer, to supply the place of each one that dies off. Hence the average wages will be such as to enable each pair to produce and bring forward another pair; or, in other words, they will enable a man and his wife to rear two children. If, on an average, they are more than this, then on an average, more than two children will be reared; the number of laborers will be increased; the supply will exceed the {229} demand; the competition will reduce wages below the standard of the cost of production, until the surplus laborers are starved off; and they will then return to that standard, and settle there.

In a society retrograde in its condition, the average of wages will be less than enough to support a laboring pair and two children. There will always be a stock of surplus labor to be starved off, and a ragged lazaroni will mark this condition of society.

In a society advancing in all things, there must be an increasing supply to keep up with the increasing demand. Competition among employers will enhance the price of labor, and this will enable the laboring class to reproduce itself in an increasing ratio. And this it will do, for he who said "increase and multiply, and replenish the earth," has commanded it.

It is thus perfectly true of _labor_, and the _laboring class collectively_, that the cost of production is the measure of price; and that food and raiment for the laborer of today, and for those future laborers who are rising up to supply the future demand, are all that enter into the cost of production. The seeming exceptions to the rule do but confirm it, and show how its author has rivetted it on the necks of men, _that they shall not escape from it_. It is the brazen collar which marks the laborer "THE BORN THRALL OF NECESSITY." His wages are never increased beyond the wants of his own individual nature, but for a purpose, to which the law of that nature makes it sure that he will apply them; the reproduction of _just so many_ others (neither more nor less) as the exigencies of society may require, to follow in the same dull round of labor in which his life has been spent.

There will indeed be individuals who may seem to form exceptions to this rule, in every state of society. The laborer, whose superior strength or skill commands more than the average of wages, will have something to spare. So too, he who, from prudence or coldness, remains unmarried; because his wages are established according to an average of the necessities of the laboring class, from a part of which he keeps himself exempt. Such a man, if industrious, frugal, provident and thrifty, will improve in condition, and eventually _emerge from the class of laborers into that of employers_. But the condition of _the class_ remains unchanged. As _he_ rose from it, some one, unperceived, came into it, to supply his place; and others to meet the new demand occasioned by the addition of one more to the number of employers. Thus it is, and so it must be, that the proportional number of the laboring class never diminishes, while society advances; and, the more rapid the advancement of the whole, the greater the proportion of laborers to employers, and the greater the competition for employment. There is, of course, a progressive reduction in the price of labor, accompanying this progressive increase of the number condemned, by impealable laws, to this low and hard condition.--There they are, forever toiling and sweating in the dark and cheerless abodes of poverty, aliens to the society in which they breathe, whose comforts are ever in an inverse ratio to the sum of general prosperity.

But "in this lowest depth there is yet a lower deep." While superior strength and skill, and exemption from family burdens, enable some to escape to the upper air, others, under the pressure of disease, infirmity and numerous children, sink into that gulph from which there is no return. Of these we take no note. The few whom fortune favors, come with _eclat_ upon the stage of higher life, and are pointed out as brilliant examples of the blessings of a system of free labor. The countless victims of her malice

"Drop from existence like the withered leaf That from the summer tree is swept away, Its loss unseen."

This compendious view of the condition of what is called "_free labor_," in the various stages of society, is verified by the observations and explained by the researches of the political economists. I take it as I receive it from them, confirmed in my conviction of its truth, by my own experience and reflections.

Let us place along side of this a view of the condition of slave labor, as ascertained by observation, and by the laws that determine that condition.

Of slave labor then, as of free labor, it may be said, that its wages are food and raiment for the laborer of to-day, and for those future laborers who are rising up to supply the future demand. Thus much they have in common. I shall not pretend to point out all the differences between the two, but shall remark on some of the most obvious and important.

To the slave these wages are paid in kind, and can therefore be always made precisely adequate, and no more. To the free man they are paid in money, and may become deficient or superfluous, from a state of scarcity or abundance. In the last case a slight advantage is afforded to those who need it least; in the first a ruinous loss is sustained by those least able to bear it.

To the slave, his due proportion of the common fund, paid to labor as a whole, is measured out with unerring accuracy. Among free laborers, some receive too much, and others, in a like degree, too little. For be it remembered, that the average wages of free labor are given, not merely as the price of the labor of the day, but also to indemnify the daily expense of producing that amount of future labor, which the future demand is to render necessary. He therefore who labors only, but rears no children, receives more than his just share. He defrauds the concern, by drawing from the common income a portion he has not earned; while others, whom nature has burdened with more than the due proportion of children, earn more than they receive, and suffer for want of the necessaries of life. This is historically as well as theoretically true.

The slave is said to labor, uncheered by hope. This may be so. To those who know him best, he certainly seems a stranger to despair. Metaphysicians, I think, tell us that _hope will not be without its objects_. But it must be confessed there are things which the slave cannot hope for, though the freeman may. On the other hand, he is free from many anxieties to which the freeman is exposed. In this sense of security he has something which may well be offset against the freeman's hopes, and which some (and they not the least wise) may deem a fair equivalent to men of sordid habits and untaught minds; and such are the great body of laborers, bond or free.

Among slaves, the _individual_ is the slave of an _individual_ master. Among free laborers, the _class_ is held in vassalage by the _class_ of employers. Collectively the one class may be said to be the slave of the other. I shall not go into a minute examination of this matter. {230} As our controversy is with Mr. Blackstone, I shall use no authority against him but his own. Hear what he says of the law of England, his boasted home of freedom. "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 _compelled, by two justices_, to go out to service in husbandry or certain specific trades." This 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.

In sickness, the slave looks for support to a master who is interested to maintain and cherish him, and who, for the most part, knows and loves him. What is the freeman's equivalent? Hear Mr. Blackstone:--"There is no man so wretched or indigent, but he may demand a supply sufficient for all the necessities of life, from the more opulent part of the community, by means of the several statutes enacted for the relief of the poor. _A humane provision;_ yet, though dictated by the principles of society, discountenanced by the Roman laws. For the edicts of the Emperor Constantine, commanding the public to maintain the children of those who were unable to provide for them, _in order to prevent the murder and exposure of infants_, were rejected in Justinian's collection." Who ever heard of infanticide by a slave?

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. That such compulsion is often necessary, all reason and experience prove. But to a people jealous of freedom, it is a delicate question whether such a power over the citizen 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. It might be too much to say, that this consideration alone would warrant the _introduction_ of domestic slavery. _Lycurgus thought so._ But we, _finding it among us_, think we follow the example of that wisdom which _used_ to characterize our English ancestors, in turning it to use, as a safeguard of our political freedom. We have learned too, from a great master in political science, himself an enemy to slavery in all its forms, that in every country where domestic slavery exists, "those who are free, are by far the most proud and jealous of their freedom. Freedom is to them not only an enjoyment, but a kind of rank and privilege. Not seeing that freedom, as in countries where it is a common blessing, and as broad and general as the air, may be united with _much abject toil, with great misery, with all the exterior of servitude_, liberty looks, amongst them, like something that is _more noble and liberal_.... Such were all the ancient Commonwealths; such were our Gothic ancestors; such, in our days, were the Poles; _and such will be all masters of slaves who are not slaves themselves_. In such a people, the haughtiness of domination combines with the spirit of freedom, fortifies it, and renders it invincible."

Such is the lesson read to us sixty years ago, by one who wished us well, and who thoroughly understood the character of our people, and the causes that had influenced in the formation of that character. It is of a piece with the general maxims of that school of practical wisdom, and sound political philosophy, in which our fathers learned the grand principles imbodied in our institutions. In that school, every thing was conceded to liberty; nothing to licentiousness: every thing to religion; nothing to fanaticism: every allowance was made for the natural and untaught feelings of the human heart; none for sickly artificial sensibility. Its maxims were drawn from experience, observation and reflection _on man as he is_; not from fanciful speculations on _man as he might have been_, had it pleased God to have made him differently. But since that day great light has risen on the world, and the descendants of these statesmen now find, that the imperfect vision of their fathers did but "see men, as trees walking." The present generation see clearly, and renouncing all respect for those whom God commands to honor living, and to reverence in death, bless themselves, saying, "If we had been in the days of our fathers we would not have been partakers" in their sins. Even so let it be. Let them desecrate and demolish the tombs of their fathers, to build up a monument to their own praise. But what spell is upon us, that we should follow their example, and signalize our ingratitude to the men to whose teachings we owe all that is valuable in our institutions, by joining in a crusade against our own rights, and "lending an active compliance to our own ruin?"

_We_ certainly have reason to believe that the existence of domestic slavery among us has been of singular advantage in preserving the free spirit of our people. Slave labor pre-occupies and fills the low and degrading stations in society. Menial offices are altogether discharged by it; and all the tasks of mere brute strength are left to it. To the freeman belong those services which imply trust and confidence, or require skill; which therefore command higher wages than mere animal labor, and give a sense of respectability and a feeling of self-respect. I know we are told that if we wish to see the perfection of free government, we must look elsewhere. We look; and we do indeed see the theory of democracy carried to its full extent, but we behold no practical results which we at all envy. We do not find that any good has come from elevating the whole class of laborers, in all its servile and degraded branches, to the sovereign privilege of voting. We believed _a priori_ (and observation proves that we were right) that the first and only use the hireling would make of his political franchise, would be to sell it to the demagogue. _But though convinced of this, the experience of other states justifies a doubt, whether_, IF ALL OUR LABORERS WERE FREEMEN, _it would be possible to withhold from them the privilege of voting_. We know that it has been elsewhere wrung from the reluctant grasp of the freeholders, who deeply, _but silently_, lament the forced concession. Our statesmen have been _privately_ admonished by them to profit by the experience of their error, and hold fast by our institutions. _Publicly_ indeed, we are taunted with what are called the aristocratic features of our government; but we know, and the enemies of freedom know it too, that when power has {231} marched unchecked and unchallenged over the prostrate democracy of free labor and universal suffrage, it has always found here the most formidable barriers to its progress.

* * * * *

I take the liberty of appending, by way of note, a quotation from the same statesman, whose words I have already used, which shows that this idea of the connexion between DOMESTIC _slavery_ and MUNICIPAL _liberty_, is not new. Our _former oppressors_ were aware of it sixty years ago, and seriously meditated the destruction of the latter by the abolition of the former. The following extract may show where our _present oppressors_ got the first hint of that scheme of interested philanthropy which proposes to strip us of our property for the good of our souls.

Mr. Burke says, (in 1775) "With regard to the high aristocratic spirit of Virginia and the southern colonies, it has been proposed, I know, _to reduce it, by declaring a general enfranchisement of slaves_. This project has had its advocates and panegyrists; yet I never could argue myself into any opinion of it. Slaves are often much attached to their masters. A general wild offer of liberty would not always be accepted. History furnishes few instances of it. It is sometimes as hard to persuade slaves to be free, as it is to compel freemen to be slaves; and, in this auspicious scheme, we, should have both these pleasing tasks on our hands at once. But when we talk of enfranchisement, do we not perceive that the American master may enfranchise too, _and arm servile hands in defence of freedom?_ A measure to which other people have had recourse more than once, and not without success, in a desperate situation of their affairs.

"Slaves as these unfortunate black people are, and dull as all men are from slavery, must they not a little suspect an offer of freedom from that very nation which has sold them to their present masters? From a nation, one of whose causes of quarrel with those masters, is their refusal to deal any more in that inhuman traffic? An offer of freedom from England would come rather oddly, shipped to them in an African vessel, which is refused an entry into the ports of Virginia or Carolina, with a cargo of three hundred Angola negroes. It would be curious to see the Guinea captain attempting at the same instant to publish his proclamation of liberty, and to advertise his sale of slaves."

This last absurdity, our northern _guardians_, _pastors_, or _masters_, (I am not particular about the designation,) have wisely avoided. As long as the slave trade was allowed, they were only anxious to secure to themselves a monopoly of the advantage of carrying it on. Having lost this, they seek an equivalent by putting a new face on the matter.

Let me not be understood as bringing this charge against all who are engaged in this crusade against our rights. Like all other crusades, it is the work of a few knaves and many dupes. The latter are, proverbially, the tools of the former. Without them, the knave cannot carry on his trade. There are things to be done which he cannot do in person, and which are best accomplished by the clumsy zeal of bungling philanthropy. The fate of the West Indies is a case in point. The case of the tame bear, set by a mischievous wag to keep the flies off of the face of the sleeping hermit, is another.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NAPOLEON'S GRAVE.

BY R. H. WILDE, _Of Georgia_.

Faint and sad was the moon-beam's smile, Sullen the moan of the dying wave, Hoarse the wind in St. Helen's isle, As I stood by the side of NAPOLEON'S GRAVE.

And is it _here_ that the Hero lies, Whose name has shaken the earth with dread? And is _this_ all that the earth supplies? A stone his pillow--the turf his bed!

Is such the moral of human life? Are these the limits of glory's reign? Have oceans of blood and an age of strife, A thousand battles, been all in vain?

Is nothing left of his victories now But legions broken--a sword in rust-- A crown that cumbers a dotard's brow-- A name and a requiem?--dust to dust!

Of all the Chieftains whose thrones he reared, Were there none whom kindness or faith could bind? Of all the Monarchs whose crowns he spared, Had none one spark of his Roman mind?

Did PRUSSIA cast no repentant glance? Did AUSTRIA shed no remorseful tear, When ENGLAND'S FAITH, and thine HONOR, FRANCE, And thy FRIENDSHIP, RUSSIA, were blasted _here_?

No!--Holy leagues, like the heathen Heaven, Ungodlike shrunk from the giant's shock, And glorious TITAN--the unforgiven-- Was doomed to his Vulture and chains and rock.

* * * * *

And who were the gods that decreed _thy_ doom! A German _Cæsar_--a Prussian _Sage_, The _Dandy Prince_ of a counting room, And a _Russian Greek_ of the middle age!

* * * * *

Men called thee _Despot_, and called thee true; But the laurel was earned that bound thy brow; And of all who wore it, alas! how few Were as free from treason and guilt as thou!

* * * * *

Shame to thee Gaul! and thy faithless horde! Where was the oath which thy soldiers swore? Fraud still lurks in the _Gown_--but the _Sword_ Was never so false to its trust before!

Where was thy vet'rans boast that day "The old guard dies," but it "never yields!" Oh! for one heart like the brave Desaix, One Phalanx like those of thine early fields!

But no! no! no! it was FREEDOM'S charm Gave _them_ the courage of more than men; _You_ broke the magic that nerved each arm, Though you were invincible only then!

* * * * *

1823.

{232}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SONG OF THE SEASONS.

BY ZARRY ZYLE.

Methought I heard a whispering on the strings Of hidden harps, in airy form that play, And lend their voice to fair imaginings, And wake young thoughts which in their cradles lay. I wished to set the prisoned minstrels free, Like liberated Ariels to sing, And lend a voice to all that eye could see, From the first dawn of the green light of spring, To the last lowering sweep of winter's stormy wing. _William Naylor's MSS._

I.

A Maiden sang at morn beside a leaping rivulet-- Blithe merriment was on her lip and in her eye of jet; Young Spring had shaken from his locks the amethystine beam-- O, it was sweet to hear the hymn of forest girl and stream!

A pale youth paddled wantonly far o'er a sunny lake, And smiled to see the infant leaf in newborn gladness quake; He had brooded the winter through, until his cheek grew pale With dreaming mighty deeds, and now it freshened in the gale.

A white roe wandered where sweet herbs and tender grass were peeping-- His snowy head was poised in pride, his chainless heart was leaping; The bugle-bee had called the herd from icy solitude, And he had come at bugle call--fleet centaur of the wood.

A robin bowed her golden breast and spread her gauze-wing forth, And aye poured she in carol fond her long imprisoned mirth; No mournful tones, no lute-like wail, were with her music blent; 'Twas--like the fife's shrill voice--a gush of unmixed merriment.

II.

The maiden wild and rivulet were louder in their glee, The hidden weed waxed lush beneath its woven canopy, Old summer's conch o'er air-waves lured his fragrance-breathing throng, All joy had deepened on the earth, and warmth and light and song. The youth had seen the singing girl and bowed his soul to love; Ambition--aspirations--all the subtle springs that move Man's sleepless youth, were cast aside; old summer's beamy heat Had fired their souls, and low he knelt in fondness at her feet.

The roe leapt on: the robin wove her nest of downy hair, And light with bliss high hovered as a blossom floats on air-- Girl, brook, and youth had ripened in the gladness born of spring, Joy still inflamed the wild-deer's heart and plumed the wild-bird's wing.

III.

The marigold and rose had left the valley and the hill, The pansy frail was sere in dust and dead the daffodil; The aster tall yet wore its leaves, the "golden rob" its flowers, But beauty and perfume had gone with summer's radiant hours.

From morn to night through forest glades with naught his path to cheer, The roebuck wandered moodily, o'er leaves all crisped and sere; The bird still sang, but bridal song had changed to widow's wail, And mourning she but grieved the more that grief might not avail.

But ah! the saddest change of all--the chilling blight had come On hearts within whose holy bowers young love had made his home; The verdure had departed thence, the vermeil tenderness And frosty winds had brought to dust the growth of early bliss.

The maiden heard the murmuring stream but murmured no reply, A melancholy coldness dwelt within her shrouded eye, She scarcely heard _his_ burning prayer whose love no change might quell, And only lived enough to breathe an icy "fare-thee-well."

IV.

The sombre autumn-sky no more sent down its mournful rain, A dim and sickly veil had long o'er hill and hollow lain, But death at last had trampled on the few remaining flowers, All save the restless mandrake died with autumn's last sad hours.

The mandrake yet remained, and when the keen frost pierced his breast, Sent forth his voice in agony upon the soughing blast: It told of happiness too ripe, of dewy rapture fled, Of ecstacy, and green of heart, with vanished verdure dead.

The quiet snow came lightly through the thick and misty air, And slantingly descended when the cold wind left his lair; The cold wind! aye, the wind had chilled since buoyed on sunny mirth Young Euroauster came to woo the virgin bloom of earth.

I saw no more the antlered stag--his rocky solitude Was fitter palace for the king than lea or roofless wood; The robin's song had died away as all things else must die-- Death's sleet had bound her ribbed wing and dimmed her gleeful eye.

I saw the maiden, but alas! the snow thro' ether gliding, Was not more chill than she, erewhile so tender, so confiding; I saw the youth--to him naught here might honey-balm impart, He wandered from the haunts of men in brokenness of heart.

Oh, is there not a sympathy of all-controling power The mother and her brood between--old earth, weak man, frail flower? From some hearts soon the fetters fall, as spring frees lake and river, But many with the withered leaf, wear ruin's chain forever.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

MR. WHITE,--

The prominent characters in the following pages are fictitious; but the circumstances narrated are founded on fact, and the descriptions correct. The author was an actor in the scenes, and visited the places described. She has not however, relied solely on her own observations and the oral communications of others, but consulted the best guide books and historical traditions.

LETTER FIRST.

Voyage--Havre de Grace--Light Houses--Frescati Baths, and Sea Bathing--Tower of Francis the First.

HAVRE DE GRACE, ----.

_My Dear Jane:_--

The last wave of your handkerchief, when we parted from you at Southampton, made me feel quite sad for some time; but the bustling scene around me at length diverted my thoughts from their gloomy course, and I employed myself in observing the rapid movements of the sailors, as they obeyed the orders of their captain, who had the voice of a stentor, and took no pains to soften it. Our fellow passengers were an elderly gentleman and his two sons, whom he was going to place at a boarding school near Havre. We reached this celebrated port in the evening, and I am happy to tell you (_now that it is over_,) not without an adventure. Our parents and Edgar were not very sea sick, but alas! for Sigismund and myself; we were the _Jobs_ of the party. I mean as regards _suffering_, not _patience_; for of the last we both stood in need. I already detest the sea, and dread re-crossing it. But all this time you are unacquainted with our adventure; it was this. When within a few miles of Havre, a sudden squall arose, and for more than an hour our situation was truly terrifying. Fortunately the wind blew from the land, or we should have been wrecked on the "iron bound coast" which was very near us. The sails of our small vessel flapped with such violence, that the {233} captain says they must have been torn to pieces if they had not been perfectly new. We have occupied ourselves since our arrival here, in walking about the town and riding in its neighborhood. Yesterday we visited the two light houses on Cape la Héve, and ascended one of them to view from its roof the surrounding country, which is beautiful, and bounded on three sides by the ocean. We purchased of an old woman residing in the light house, some specimens of shell work; and I chose for you a little dog, ingeniously made of small white shells, whose tiny black eyes shine as brightly as your own. This morning we surveyed the Frescati Baths, and the reservoir for oysters in front of them. The baths are kept in elegant order, and the spacious mansion containing them presents a handsome exterior. I did not relish the oysters; they taste of copperas, as do those we get at home--and this is natural enough, as they come out of the same waters. On the shore, contiguous to the bathing establishment, we witnessed the amusing spectacle of ladies and gentlemen in Turkish costume, struggling in the briny element, whose billows almost threw them down, although supported by the arms of sturdy sailors, and clinging to ropes suspended from stakes on the beach. Last night we went to the theatre, and were much entertained by the performance of Lepeintre, an excellent comic actor from Paris. Havre is enclosed by lofty walls, outside of which are deep moats, and the borders of these are covered with a bright verdure. In the town there is a pleasant walk shaded by lime trees, and the square in front of the theatre is laid off in gravel walks, with seats on each side. Here the gentry of the city, and hosts of children, with their nurses to guard them, assemble every afternoon. It is also usual for a military band to play there at sunset. The most interesting object in Havre is an old structure called the "Tower of Francis the First," in which that monarch was sumptuously feasted by the [primeval] inhabitants of this place, three centuries ago. But money must have been of extreme value, and provisions very cheap in that age, as it is said the banquet cost only thirty pounds; or perhaps what then was considered a _feast_, would in these days of luxury be thought an _ordinary meal_. The following anecdote will give you an idea of the strength of the edifice. A crazy soldier once shut himself up in it while the garrison were dining, and although he was strongly besieged, maintained possession for two hours ere he was overcome. As we are to rise at five o'clock to-morrow morning, for the purpose of embarking for Rouen in the steamboat, I most retire to rest. Accept our love, and remember us affectionately to aunt Margaret and Albert. I hope you had a safe journey home from Southampton, and found all well at the Lodge. Yours,

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER SECOND.

The Seine--Quillebeuf--Candebeck--Curious Rite at the Village of St. Arnold--La Mailleraie--Abbey of Jamièges--Charles the Seventh and Agnes Sorrel--Chateau of Robert le Diable--Arrival at Rouen.

ROUEN, ----.

_My Dear Jane:_--

What a silly creature you are to be sure!--to have preferred the shades of Morren Lodge, and the company of good aunt Margaret, (not to say that of somebody else, for fear of a blush,) to accompanying us in our present tour! I am more and more enchanted as we proceed, and cannot help bewailing your decision, whenever we are partaking of any pleasure or amusement. 'Tis true, you tell us that after your marriage next spring, Albert intends visiting the continent; but dear me! how many things may occur in the meanwhile to alter your plans. Nay, the knot may never be tied--for its no "wonder of wonders" now-a-days for lads and lasses to change their minds. And should you prove a "constant couple," and the wedding take place, I doubt that Albert will be able to tear himself from his books and musty parchments. You know I've often told you, that he never would have fallen in love with your ladyship, I'm convinced, had he not surprised you that eventful morning in papa's study, reading the life of the American President Thomas Jefferson, while the rest of us were playing at battledore on the lawn; and this you may tell him if you choose. "Well, enough of rattle, Leontine, (I hear you say,) and do let's have something interesting." So you shall, sister Jane; and I hasten to give you an account of our voyage from Havre to this ancient capital. It was delightful! We were favored with clear skies and propitious breezes, and remained on deck the whole day to enjoy the scenery, for the banks of the Seine are highly cultivated, and at every turn present beautiful points of view. We glided by many villages, and several monasteries and castles. Among the former I will only mention Quillebeuf and Candebeck. Quillebeuf is famous for its ninety-nine pilots; and as the navigation there is extremely dangerous for vessels, they have full employment. It is remarkable that their number has always been ninety-nine from time immemorial. Candebeck is situated immediately on the bank of the river, and Vernet, the celebrated marine painter, pronounced the view from its quay one of the most beautiful water prospects in France. An old lady on board the steamboat, told mamma and myself, as we were passing Candebeck, that a few miles from it there is a village called St. Arnold, which contains a pool of stagnant water, that many credulous people believe efficacious in healing cutaneous diseases, and that at a certain period of the year, numbers who are afflicted with such disorders go to bathe in the pool. First, however, a particular ceremony must be performed, or the water will have no effect. Each applicant for health, must _steal_ from the neighboring woods a stick, and cast it down to assist in forming a pile. In the evening this is set on fire by the curate of the village, who comes forth dressed in his sacerdotal robes, and accompanied by priests chanting a hymn. When the smoke begins to darken the air, a white pigeon is let loose from the spire of the church, and the poor deluded sufferers firmly believe it to be the holy ghost descending from heaven to cure them! Quillebeuf and Candebeck are both associated with historical recollections. The former was fortified by Henry the Fourth, who considered it an important point, and wished to have it called Henry'sville, after himself. This was not done however, and since his death the fortifications have been destroyed. It was at Candebeck that William the Conqueror crossed the Seine in 1047, on his way to Arques, to quell a sedition among the people there, under the Count of Arques. It was governed by the {234} famous Talbot during the reign of Henry the Fifth of England, and the inhabitants distinguished themselves by their bravery in a combat with the English. At one period it was noted for its manufactures of hats and gloves; and at that time no one of _bon ton_ would wear a hat that was not made at Candebeck. The revocation of the edict of Nantz proved a death blow to the industry of this town. Soon after leaving it, we passed the Chateau of La Mailleraie, once the residence of Mademoiselle De la Vallière, during her youth. The mansion is spacious, and its gardens and thickets looked very inviting. In 1824 the Duchess of Berri visited this retreat, and breakfasted in the garden; and to commemorate this circumstance, a white marble column has been erected there. I wonder they did not surmount it with a _coffee-pot_. Beyond La Mailleraie the scenery is rather monotonous, but at length you approach the Abbey of Jamièges, (founded by Saint Philibert,) and the landscape becomes lovely. This noble ruin, with its numerous Gothic windows, was a majestic spectacle. Being situated on a peninsula, round which our course extended, we had a view of it for a considerable time; at last, to my regret, it faded from our sight. Charles the Seventh built a fine villa in the neighborhood of Jamièges, and here the beautiful, but sinful and unhappy Agnes Sorrel, resided. At her death her heart was deposited in the Abbey, and her body carried to Loches, where it was interred with great ceremony in the choir of the collegiate church, for Agnes had been extremely munificent to the canons of Loches, giving them two thousand crowns and quantities of jewels, tapestry and pictures; and these crafty ecclesiastics paid her remains all due respect during the life of Charles the Seventh, her royal lover; but after his demise, while Louis the Eleventh was visiting their church, knowing that he detested Agnes, and designing to flatter him, they pointed out her tomb and requested permission to have it removed. "I consent," replied the monarch, (indignant at their duplicity and ingratitude,) "but you must first restore the riches she lavished upon you." The last object I will now describe to you is the Chateau of "Robert le Diable," a wicked wretch, whose crimes sullied the earth, and whose spirit is believed by the superstitious still to haunt the places that witnessed them. The scanty remains of his fortress are just visible on a rocky height on the southern bank of the Seine. Beneath the steep you behold La Vacherie, a neat little country seat that is worthy of notice, as being the residence of Madame Bocage when she composed her "Colombiade." We landed at Rouen about six o'clock, and are located in a comfortable hotel, where papa says we will remain until we have seen all the curiosities of this interesting old city. You will therefore hear from me again ere our departure. Yours truly,

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER THIRD.

Description of Rouen--Cathedral--Church of St. Ouen--Picture Gallery and Library in the Hotel de Ville--Square of Joan of Arc--Theatre--Dress of the Norman Peasants.

ROUEN, ----.

_My Dear Jane:_--

According to your request and my propensity to scribbling, I intend to be very circumstantial in my details. Pray don't grow tired of them, or if you do, keep it a secret, and my vanity may prevent my suspecting such a misfortune. Mamma gives me great credit for being so industrious with my pen. Sigismund and Edgar keep a journal; but that requires more exactness than I possess, so I prefer writing a letter when the humor takes me. We have been out _sight seeing_, every morning and afternoon, until to-day. A brisk rain now confines us to the house, and affords me leisure for again conversing with you. I will commence my agreeable task with a description of the town. Its environs are beautiful, but the interior rather gloomy--the streets are generally so narrow and the houses so old. It was formerly surrounded by walls and moats; the walls have been pulled down, and the moats filled up and converted into public walks. At Rouen, the ancient Dukes of Normandy held their courts, and it contains many vestiges of their magnificence. The palace of justice is a vast Gothic structure of the reign of Louis the Twelfth. Beneath it are prisons, to which they were conducting two culprits as we entered. One of its various halls is of immense extent, and has a singular vaulted ceiling, that reminds you of the hulk of a vessel reversed--a comparison by the by, that is not original with me. The venerable cathedral, with its lofty spire and painted windows, engaged us a long while. The spire is three hundred and eighty feet high, and visible seven or eight leagues. There are two towers; one of them denominated the _butter_ tower, because the expense of erecting it was defrayed with money that had been paid by the people for permission to eat butter during lent! It contained an enormous bell, nearly equal in size to that at Moscow, and the founder of it is said to have died in an ecstacy at its completion. This wonderful bell was destroyed during the revolution. Many illustrious persons are buried in the cathedral. Among them, Henry the Fifth of France, Richard Cour de Lion, the Duke of Bedford, and the Cardinals of Amboise. The monument of the two Cardinals is superb, and covered with arabesque work. They are represented kneeling on its summit. Above them is a gilded equestrian statue of St. George, their patron; below them (ranged in niches on the front of the tomb,) are small marble figures, emblematical of the virtues they possessed. Opposite this mausoleum is another, equally remarkable. It is dedicated to the Grand Senéschal Brezé, the husband of Diana of Poitiers, and governor of Rouen in the sixteenth century. Of the numerous statues that adorn this tomb, that which represents the Senéschal as an extended corpse is the most striking, and it is inimitably executed. The pinched nose, tight drawn skin, hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes, give it the exact appearance of a dead body. Over the grand altar of the church hangs a fine painting, by Philip de Champagne; the subject of it is the adoration of the Magi, and the light is ingeniously and beautifully reflected from the infant Jesus, (the _light_ of the world,) upon the surrounding objects. But enough of the cathedral, Allons á Saint Ouen, famous for its fine interior perspective, which is curiously and perfectly delineated by reflection on the surface of the holy water, in the baptismal font, near the chief portal of the church. St. Ouen was originally a Benedictine abbey. Its architect Berneval, is buried in one of the chapels, and there is an _improbable_ tradition concerning {235} him, viz: that he was hung for assasinating his apprentice, who by excelling him in carving some trifling ornament for the ceiling, had excited his jealousy. The painted windows of St. Ouen are beautiful, and shed a mellow lustre over its triple aisle, which we regretted to exchange for the glare of the sun without; but time pressed, and we hastened to view the picture gallery and public library in the Hotel de Ville--neither of them extensive, though worthy of examination. We next proceeded to the square of Joan of Arc, where a statue of her is erected on the spot upon which she was burnt as a sorceress in 1430. Last night we went to the play. The theatre is a handsome edifice, and the ceiling exhibits the apothesis of Piérre Corneille. You behold him crowned by tragedy, while painting and sculpture vie in copying his features, and fame sounds his praise to the world. Apollo sheds over him his brightness, and time with his scythe drives away envy and other evil genii inimical to his glory. The ladies here dress well and tastefully, but the costume of the peasants is very queer. It is the same throughout Normandy. They wear high crowned muslin caps, tight boddices, full plaited short petticoats garnished with rows of black velvet, blue stockings clocked with red, and black sharptoed shoes, cut low on the instep, and ornamented with rosettes. They always have a gold cross, suspended from a black ribbon encircling the neck, and a pair of gold earrings. But here am I continuing to scribble, and the weather has cleared off and the carriage is ordered for a drive, and I verily believe coming to the door. There! papa calls me to descend. In haste, farewell.

LEONTINE.

We refer the reader to the editorial head for some remarks upon the following article.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DOOM.

MR. WHITE,--I am about to do a very foolish thing, no less than to write a tale of a mournful love _affaire_. What has afflicted me with the propensity, in truth I cannot determine; but though I am conscious of the folly, I console myself by the unanswerable question, Why shall not I write as well as other fools?

What I am about to write is the authentic history of a most melting love _affaire_, which took place in this goodly city within the last five years, and with the persons concerned in it, many of the fair and fashionable here are, or rather were, acquainted. It was related to me by the young gentleman himself; of him I will give a short account. Ten years ago George B----, and myself were schoolfellows, but associated little together except in school hours. He was a light-hearted and joyous fellow enough, but at times as moody as the ---- himself, and he always delighted, to an immoderate degree, in the little misfortunes and calamities that befall schoolboys. If a poor fellow in climbing over a paling encountered any little point or nail, whereby his nether garment was lacerated, he it was that first made the discovery, and raised the war whoop. Consequently he was half feared, and, when absent wholly hated by all of us, though in his company we all strove to be on good terms with him. After he left school I saw no more of him for some years, and when he again came to Richmond, we met on the civil and polite footing of passing acquaintance, until an accident brought us together and originated a friendship between us.

One evening in June, 1832, when the thermometer stood at 94°, I had managed to convey myself about a mile up the river bank for the purpose of bathing, and going into the water I splashed about with great vigor, thinking about Leander's remarkable feat in crossing the Hellespont, until I felt a great desire to try whether I might not aspire to equal him, or at least E---- P----, who swam from Mayo's Bridge to Warwick wharf some years ago. Accordingly after screwing up my courage grievously, I approached slowly a furious and turbulent stream, which tumbled over a ledge of rocks, producing some appalling waves and eddying whirls, commonly known as "sucks." I stood on a rock near and contemplated it for some moments, until perceiving that my ambition had very sensibly diminished and was rapidly taking French leave, I was about to retire without attempting the crossing, when I unfortunately discovered a head on the opposite side, very quietly watching my proceedings,--whilst its owner was luxuriously rocking himself about in the calm element. Ashamed to retreat, while one who had accomplished what I shrank from, was perhaps chuckling at my fears, I sprang forward, and ere I was well aware what was the matter, found myself lifted up, dashed down, whirled around, my limbs pulled and jerked hither and yon by the infernal waters, whilst the waters above were foaming over my head and plashing into my face. Finally, I was wearily and faintly struggling, almost bursting with suppressed respiration; and with a horrible distinctness, memory was holding up to my mind's eye every sin wherewith she could charge me,--when my arm was seized and myself dragged along by a powerful hand. When I recovered consciousness, I was seated on a rock near shore, and the person to whom I owed my life was standing by--it was my old schoolfellow, George B----. I muttered something about gratitude, when he cut me short by telling me he would have saved the life of a drowning dog with as much alacrity as he had saved me, and that he would, he thought, deserve my gratitude more for advising me not again to be fool enough to venture into deep water until I could swim. This, I thought, was rather taking a liberty; but he had just saved my life, and I said nothing more while we were dressing ourselves. Then slowly walking towards the city, we chatted about schooldays and schoolfellows. From that day we gradually became better acquainted, until in a few weeks we were intimate associates. It was but natural that I should be attached to a person who had rescued me from a watery grave, yet I could not but see that with many very admirable qualities of heart and mind, there were some glaring defects and vices about him. He was generous and liberal to excess, and to the necessities of the indigent his hand was never closed; he was a true friend, but a bitter, unrelenting enemy; he cherished revenge as food fit for gods, and therefore the more delightful to men; no Indian was ever more unforgiving. In person he was tall and spare; his face was not remarkable for comeliness, though the features were good; but his eyes gave the charm and power to his dark pale face; they could fascinate and charm as well as threaten and command. {236} With a fine and highly cultivated taste, and a strong well-informed mind; simple in his habits and addicted to no species of intemperance or dissipation; and with a fortune which placed him out of the reach of want, yet not enough to dissuade him from exertion, George B---- seemed destined to play with honor and success the part of a man among his fellows.

Our friendship had endured for nearly a twelvemonth, and the gay winter of 1832-3 had passed. B---- had been absent from town about a month, when one evening, near the end of May, I met him on the capitol square; he had arrived a few days before. An uncommon gloom was seated on his brow; but I was in no melancholic mood myself, and after a few minutes he seemed to regain his habitual carelessness of look and manner. We strolled off, jesting and telling anecdotes, until we arrived at the hill which overlooks the armory. It was a Sabbath evening; and, according to the _commendable_ custom of the young gentlefolk of Richmond, frequent parties of six or eight ladies, with their attendant beaux, passed by the foot of the hill and proceeded up the bank of the canal. As the ringing laugh of some dashing belle reached us where we sat on two granite blocks on the top of the hill, B---- would amuse me by relating some ludicrous anecdote or odd circumstance connected with the fair laugher. What a quantity of scandal did he impart to me, which, had it been proclaimed from the house tops, would have procured him the honor of martyrdom--as surely as that the satire which is so delightful to female ears when pointed against their friends, seems too horrible when turned against themselves.

They passed from our sight, and in a few moments B---- became silent, and sat with his cheek leaning on his hands. I looked down at the beautiful river and the city spread out before me, built on the side of a sweeping hill, like a vast amphitheatre, so beautifully and faithfully delineated in Cooke's picture, and very soberly speculated on the probabilities of our ever having such a city as New York or Philadelphia. I tired at length of such inconclusive speculation, and turning to my companion with intent to enliven him a little, said, "B---- you have never told me of any _affaire du coeur_ in which you were a party; tell me who is or was the goddess of your profane idolatry."

He started as if I had stabbed him, and gazed at me with a fixed stare. I have said that his eyes were remarkably piercing; and I looked away from his glance, fearing lest, inadvertently, I had awakened a painful recollection.

"Tell me," said he, "are you superstitious! Do you think that beings superior to the laws of humanity have ever appeared to mortals or conversed with them?" "Not in these latter days at all events," replied I, "or else I should never have played the many mad pranks that I have done, on dark still nights, in grave yards and church porches, where the gentry you speak of would be met with, I imagine, if any where." "Ah," said he, as if swallowing down a groan, "you jest lightly; but I will tell you that which will somewhat shake your incredulity." In spite of me, his manner made some impression on me, though I half suspected it to be a mere _ruse_--but my attention became strongly riveted, as he went on with his story.

"Five years ago," said he, "I was entering my seventeenth year, and began to think myself a man, especially as I had been for one session to college. It was during the first vacation that I went down to ---- county to see my guardian, and to wage war on every living winged creature, from a sparrow to a turkey buzzard; and during the continuance of fair weather, I never looked into any thing bearing the likeness of a book, unless it was to tear out the blank leaves for wadding. But one cold, raw, windy, drizzly day, after satisfying myself that there was no more likelihood that the rain would cease, than if it had been the commencement of the deluge, I desperately picked up a book, and going to my sleeping apartment, threw myself on my bed and fell to reading. I forget what it was, but I know it was some extravagant Italian or Sicilian romance, in which ghosts, angels and devils mixed themselves up with the human actors, with very little ceremony. It interested me though wonderfully, and I continued hard at it until late at night, when having finished it, I got into bed and lay half thinking, half dreaming, about what I had been reading. A while after, I heard my name called in a voice which seemed to be near me. I shivered with dread--but made no answer. Again my name was pronounced; and the voice continued--'Look! behold her who will blight and wither up thy happiness and life, and drive thee to an early tomb.' Unconsciously I sat up and looked around; the room was as dark as midnight, and the wind sighed mournfully as it swept through the trees in the yard. Suddenly a light glanced before my eyes; I looked and saw a room handsomely furnished, with a small round table in the centre, and near it a sofa. A young lady was standing, apparently just risen from the sofa, with one hand resting on the table, and the other extended pointing at me. Her eyes were fastened on my face, with a look of proud, bitter scorn. I was as one fascinated: she slowly turned her face from me and waved her hand--then all vanished. I sunk back on my pillow with a feeling of utter despair: it passed off, and I longed for revenge. I said aloud, 'devil or angel, grant that I may inflict misery equal to what I shall suffer, and see her sink before me into the grave, and then I will not repine at my destiny.' With a perfect distinctness I heard the words, 'Thy wish is granted.' A feeling of gratified revenge stole over me, and I sunk into a deep sleep.

"I awoke in the morning, and having peeped from my window and found the weather as bad as ever, I again pressed my pillow with design to woo a morning nap. All at once I recollected the extraordinary vision or dream of the past night--every circumstance clearly presenting itself to my mind--every look and gesture of the figure, and every word uttered, seemed engraved on my memory--I tried to convince myself that it was a dream; I argued with myself and resolved that it was a dream--but something within me said, 'it is no dream.' For several days I thought of nothing else; but at sixteen we are not fond of a long continued musing about any thing, good or bad; and in the excitement of hunting, fishing, and going to meetings on Sundays, the impression wore off by degrees.

"I returned to college, studied hard, frolicked harder, and was indefatigable in every piece of mischief which could be devised by the collective wisdom and ingenuity of eighty boys; and having several times narrowly {237} escaped suspension and once been threatened with dismission absolute, I finished the course, and came to Richmond to amuse myself in every way I could find out; and for want of other matter to engage me, to dip a little into the sublime study of the law. The winter of 1831-2 was commencing. The redoubtable cholera had not yet arrived in America; but all were dreading it. Folks here seemed determined to take time by the forelock and live merrily while they could. I made acquaintances; and received invitations to parties, of which I attended many, where I cannot aver that even my small stock of ideas was much augmented, though on the score of creature comforts they were very pleasant; and by dutifully and honestly paying the expected visit after, acquired the repute of an honest, polite and agreeable young man. Some unthinking youths are so shortsighted as to care very little about paying a visit after a party, though they are very particular in paying it _before_ one is to take place. That was not my plan: I was always addicted to the calculation of chances, and argued that as one party had been given at a particular house, possibly, nay probably, (bating accidents) another might be in the course of time. Upon this principle I acted, and do not think that I ever lost by it. The winter passed and summer came on.--I went to the White Sulphur Springs, and by eating huge dinners and suppers, and drinking the dreadful waters; galloping about the mountains in Miss ----'s train, and occasionally walking five or six miles to fish, I got into prodigious health--my limbs grew firm and hard as iron, and I felt strong enough to brain a wild bull, or hug a bear to death. But I grew tired of this life, and early in the fall came back to Richmond to see what in the deuce the people were doing with the cholera. The newspapers said the city was as silent and gloomy as a charnel house.

"Every thing, however, must end; and the cholera's day passed;--by the middle of November every dead person was forgotten, and every one living seemed to forget what it was to die. The fashionables came back in throngs about the time the Legislature commenced its _very necessary_ and _exceedingly laborious_ annual session; and no one who had not seen, as I had, piles of coffins six feet deep, waiting for the graves which were to receive them, could have believed that death and desolation had so lately hovered over the city.

"Several parties had been given, and the regular routine had commenced. On the evening preceding Christmas day, I went to a large party at Mr. ----'s. I was idly engaged--now in managing a jelly, now in munching a devilled biscuit, when among the new faces shewing themselves about the room, I discovered one which drew my attention forcibly. It was not a very beautiful face certainly--but there was about it--a nameless something which convinced me that she was an uncommon character. On her pure white high forehead, was stamped the seal of bright intelligence, and her mouth, which was rather large, indicated a world of humor. I thought I had seen the face somewhere--but where and when I could not tell. I inquired her name; Miss ----, staying with her aunt Mrs. ----, I was told. Now I certainly had never seen Miss ----, though I had heard of her; for her father lived within a few miles of my guardian's farm--but her face haunted me as that of one I had known in days gone by. I was standing with my arms folded, looking the picture of gravity, when the beautiful young mistress of the merriment making came to me, and desiring me not to get asleep, with an applauding laugh at her own wit, said, 'come, I will introduce you to a lady who has eyes as expressive as your own, and whose vivacity will rouse you, if any thing can.' I languidly inquired who the lady was to whom she was so very complimentary--she pointed out Miss ----, and I consented at once. The introduction was duly gone through with, the pleasure of the lady's hand for a dance asked and granted, the four cotillons which constitute the regular allowance performed, and we seated ourselves on a charming sofa that it really was a delight to repose on. She danced no more that night, nor did I--but we talked about every thing and about nothing. I listened to her musical voice and looked at her dark lustrous eyes, until I determined with myself that I admired her very hugely, and when I attended her to her carriage at one o'clock, and heard her say that she would be glad to see me again, I felt as grateful as though she had done me a kindness.

"For a fortnight, I was assiduous in cultivating her good graces, until I flattered myself that I was looked on as by no means an ordinary acquaintance. About this time morning rides were all the rage. Among all the young ladies in the city, residents or visiters, Miss ---- was the only one who could at all manage a steed--but what of that? Young men talked constantly of ----; how deucedly well she sat a horse; trotting, galloping, at full speed, 'twas all one to her; indeed in all, save perhaps one particular, she was a perfect Diana Vernon--and no wonder that fashion and the desire of notoriety should induce many young ladies, who knew as little about riding as they did about the Bible, to try to rival her. Miss ---- was no exception. I was riding one morning with a party of ladies and gentlemen, when the horse of one of the gentlemen took fright at something, and off he started. We rode rapidly after him to see what would be the result. The horse was dashing down the road like the wind--suddenly he stopped short, and his unlucky rider darted from his saddle like a bull-frog in full leap, and plunged head foremost into a pile of brushwood, where his legs alone remained visible, gesticulating vigorously. Up we rode in great horror, thinking the poor fellow's neck was broken to a certainty; but no such thing--his time was not yet come. We hauled him forth, and found, that with the exception of a few digs and scratches about his face, he was a whole, though a miserably crest-fallen man. That evening I related the adventure of our morning ride to Miss ----, and instead of operating as a damper to her desire of riding, she became more resolutely bent on it--nothing would do but I must ride with her next day. Accordingly, next morning we started; she riding a quiet looking pacing nag, and I on that large fiery grey horse that broke my barouche to pieces, the day you rode with me to Fairfield and nearly broke our necks into the bargain.

"I felt uncommonly dull and sleepy that morning, and was so absent that at length I fairly wore out my companion's patience, which, by the way, was not equal to Grissel's, and in order to rouse me from my dreaming fit, endeavored to give me a smart cut with {238} her switch, which missed me--but took effect on my horse's flank. He sprang forward, and kicking violently, pitched me from the saddle, and down I came luckily on a soft sandy place. I jumped up and saw Miss ----'s nag rearing and plunging furiously, and her rider clinging to the saddle with one hand and the mane with the other. In an instant I was at the animal's head, and seizing her nose with a powerful grasp held her quiet, while I lifted Miss ---- from her saddle. Her face was pale, her lip quivered with terror, and she trembled so violently that I was obliged to put my arm round her waist to support her. I congratulated her on her escape from the danger, and proposed that we should continue our ride, as my horse had stopped near us and was attentively looking on, promising her at the same time to be very attentive during the ride, and not compel her to lash my horse in order to draw my notice. 'No,' she said, 'she could not, she would never attempt to ride again.' I became uneasy and earnestly besought her to permit me to lift her to her saddle, adding, that should our mishap be known, we should be rallied to death about it. At length she consented to ride slowly home. Neither said any thing to any one about our ride--but I could not forget that my arm had encircled ----'s slender waist. I became absorbingly devoted to her; and one day when I found her alone, with her cheek resting pensively on her little hand, I was foolish enough to tell her that I believed I loved her, and said a deal of nonsense besides, to which she listened with quiet resignation, and when I had finished, she tendered her hand to kiss.

"About ten days after this event, my guardian came to town, bringing with him his daughter, a beautiful little creature, with whom I had been brought up as a brother. The day after their arrival, there was a party, to which I was to attend Miss ----. My guardian was an elderly, staid gentleman, fond of his ease, and made it a point of conscience to go to his rest at ten o'clock regularly, and I thought it was incumbent on me to go with his pretty daughter. I therefore wrote a short note to Miss ----, telling her how matters stood, and thought nothing more about it until we arrived at the party, where I looked in vain for her. 'She will be here after a while,' thought I--and to pass off the time agreeably, I danced with my fair companion. The night wore away, and still the girl I wished most to see did not arrive, nor could I conjecture the cause of her absence. Next day I went with my guardian and my sweet cousin, as I called her, to see some paintings at the Museum, and other sights; and the day after, she insisted that I should accompany her in a shopping expedition. Now there is nothing in the shape of labor or suffering that I would not sooner undergo, than accompany a lady, and more especially a very fair young lady, shopping; they look at a thousand things, ask one's opinion or advice about every thing, and as a matter of course, follow it in nothing--besides all that, I was very anxious to see Miss ---- that morning; but was obliged to submit.

"Next morning I paid her an early visit--she was sitting at the table writing as I entered. As she looked up at me I thought I noticed somewhat of displeasure in her eyes, and it occurred to me at once that perhaps she was not pleased at my failure to attend her to the party. If so, her pettishness was obviously unreasonable in the extreme, and I forthwith determined to anger her a little, if I discovered my surmise to be well founded.

"I talked to her for some time very courteously. Her brow began to clear up, and I feared lest she should become entirely good humored and leave me no opportunity to vex her; so I spoke of the party, mentioned some who were there, and how delightful the whole affair was: eatables, drinkables, music, ladies and all, charming; and amongst other things I dilated with great emphasis on my cousin, praised her beauty, her gracefulness, her wit; spoke of the admiration she excited, and concluded by declaring that she was by far the most interesting girl I had seen there--and I ran my fingers through my curling hair, and thrusting my right leg out before me, gazed complacently at the toe of my pump.

"Miss ---- looked at the fire and twisted the unfortunate pen she held in her hand, into many unnatural shapes--but said nothing.

"'Well,' resumed I, 'I could not imagine why you were not there; I looked for you once or twice during the evening, and was astonished when I heard that you had not come.'

"'Oh, I received your note telling me that you would accompany another lady, and not wishing to go abegging for an escort, resolved to stay at home.'

"'What a pity!' said I, 'if you had been there I should have had nothing to wish for; as it was, the evening passed delightfully--I scarce left my little cousin's side. Yesterday she carried me shopping with her all the morning, and the day before I went with her to see the Ariadne. She is very much like the picture, and has the same beautiful fair complexion, the same blue eyes and yellow hair, which I admire so much, you know.'

"I looked up at Miss ----; she was gazing fixedly at me. I noticed a tear in her eye, as she turned away and rested her cheek on her dear little hand. I began to think matters were becoming too serious.

"'Sweet ----,' I began, in an altered and earnest tone.--She raised her head suddenly and I trembled at her glance.

"'_Sweet_ ----,' she repeated, with scornful emphasis--'George, I owe you my life, and for that I shall always feel gratitude. I have loved you for yourself--for I thought you generous, sensible and sincere. Your present conduct shews how much I have been deceived in you, and the love I have been proud to feel is lost in contempt.' She rose from her seat as she spoke.--Heaven and Earth! The figure seen in my almost forgotten vision stood before me. I was motionless with horror--a dagger of ice seemed slowly to pierce my breast--I covered my eyes with my hand and groaned:--Too fearfully were the words of doom fulfilled.

"I rose slowly from my chair, bowed low to ---- and leaving the house, hurried to my room and threw myself on my bed. There I writhed in convulsive agony, and in the frenzy of unutterable despair cursed the hour in which I was born. The criminal who, in the confident hope of pardon, and indulging in dreams of long life and happiness, is suddenly dragged forth to the gallows, feels not a tythe of the utter desolation I then felt. By degrees my frenzy subsided, and a dull stupor was coming over me,--when the word '_Revenge_' {239} was muttered in my ear. I remembered the promise. '_Revenge_ is mine, and I will wreak it to the uttermost.' I became perfectly calm--it was the calm of despair. I had nothings to hope for but revenge, and then, come what might, I would be ready to meet it! 'Yes,' said I aloud, 'I will twine myself round her heartstrings--she shall love me devotedly, fatally, and I will requite her with a contempt colder than the snows on Cotapaxi, and a hate more intense than its fires.'

"In a few days my guardian left town with his daughter. I went about as usual and frequently met Miss ----, to whom I always spoke with an air of grave politeness--but never alluded to her displeasure. I soon saw that her anger was passed like a summer cloud, and that she was not at all indisposed to a renewal of our former intimacy. One evening at a party somewhere, I was engaged in a lively conversation with her, and was quietly offering her many little polite attentions, from which a casual observer would have inferred that we were excellent friends--but there was nothing of confiding, affectionate interest in my tone or looks: all was the calm, cold, habitual politeness of a thorough bred man of the world. After a silence of some minute or two, she said kindly, 'George, I am sorry for what I said in my hasty anger and would be delighted if you would forgive and forget it'--and she offered me her hand. I would have spurned it from me--but the time was not yet come. So I took her hand in mine, and with a grateful pressure, thanked her for her condescending goodness. 'Now,' said she, with one of her most endearing smiles, 'we are good friends again.'

"For an instant my dire resolution seemed melting away--but I steeled myself relentlessly, and swore by my own head to pursue my revenge. From that day forth I was unremitting in my endeavor to gain her whole heart--every word and look was directed to that end. For hours have I sat with her, pouring out for her attentive ear whatever my more masculine studies had made me conversant with, but which to her had been as a sealed book.

"At length I saw that I had succeeded; her whole being seemed bound up in my love, and I felt that my victim was in my power. 'Now for revenge,' I muttered, as I walked slowly to the door and rang the bell. The room was empty as I entered; I sat down and pondered over the best and surest mode of attaining my wish. Presently I heard a light step hurrying down the staircase, and slackening in speed as it approached the door. I threw a slight expression of gloom over my features; the door opened, and Miss ---- entered and greeted me with a mingling of cordiality and bashfulness which at one time would have brought me on my knees before her: now it was of no avail. She soon noticed the sadness of my looks, and inquired the cause. 'I was thinking,' I replied, 'of a past and most painful event. It was here, in this room, that I heard, from lips that were dearest to me of all on earth, words which stunned me more than a thunderbolt would have done, and she who spoke them sate where you now sit.'

"'Hush, sweet; hush,' said she, playfully putting her hand on my mouth, 'and do not again allude to an occurrence which I regret so much. Indeed,' she continued, while her eyes filled with tears, 'indeed, I would do any thing to convince you how much it has grieved me.'

"I smiled fondly, and rising from my chair, seated myself by her side, and took her little hand in mine.

"'F----,' said I, 'you have told me that you loved me, and I believed you; I need not say how dearly I have loved you. Listen, dear girl, to what my love compels me to tell. Until this day I have been accustomed to think of myself as one beyond the reach of poverty, although not rich: this very day I have learned that I am well nigh pennyless. Our engagement is yet unknown to any save ourselves, and it remains with you to say whether it shall continue. I release you entirely from your promise, and never by word or deed will I reproach you, should you listen to the voice of prudence, and decline linking your fate to that of one who has nothing save the gushing tenderness and love of a passionate heart to offer you. If your generous mind reject the thought of discarding me for my poverty, think on all you will have to undergo; the loss of all that custom has rendered almost necessary; "the proud man's contumely--the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;" perchance the bitings of absolute penury;--and tell me, can you leave family and friends, and your childhood's home, and endure all for the sake of my love?'

"My arm had encircled her waist, and I gazed steadfastly on her face. The proud blood rose in her pale cheek as she answered, 'George, I do love you more than I know how to express, and ever for yourself alone. I can now show you how completely I am yours, for my love can end but with my life.'

"Wildly, fearfully, did the fiery blood bound through my tingling veins. I drew her to me; her head lay on my shoulder, and I covered with kisses her forehead, her eyes, her cheek, her lips. Tears of passionate love burst from my eyes, and I pressed her to my heart in an agony of uncontrollable delight. Slowly my calmness returned, and again 'revenge! revenge!' sounded in my ear.

"I withdrew my arm from her, but still retained her hand, and said in a quiet tone, 'Listen again, and swear by your hopes of heaven that you will divulge to no mortal ear what I shall say.' She did so, and I continued: 'Two months ago you told me that you scorned and despised me: I swore to requite it--and now I tell you, and I swear by the crown of the eternal king I tell you truly, that I abhor you; I scorn and hate you more than I do the wretch who has murdered her infant child.' I flung from me as I spoke the hand I held, and rising from my seat, stood with my arms folded, looking her full in the face.

"For a moment she gazed wildly at me, as if she did not comprehend what I had said; but as the dreadful truth forced itself on her mind her face became white as chalk, her eyelids quivered convulsively, and with almost a scream she fell back in a swoon. I raised her, and getting some water from a flower jar, I sprinkled it over her face, and supported her in my arms. In a few minutes she opened her eyes, and fixed them on me with a gaze of imperfect consciousness; my arm still supported her. 'Oh George, George,' she murmured, clasping my neck with her arms, and sobbing bitterly, 'how could you jest so cruelly with me? I know you were not in earnest; you could not speak so in earnest to your own F----; but your dreadful look frightened me almost to death;' and she hid her face in my {240} bosom, and sobbed as if her heart would break. For a few moments her sobs continued, and then she gradually recovered herself. I quietly unclasped her hands from my neck, and again rising from the sofa, said in a bitter tone, 'compose yourself Miss ----, and be assured that I am in earnest. Look on my face, and see a man marked for the grave--and you are my destroyer. You have blighted all my happiness in this world; and before the leaves which are new budding shall fall, I will be sleeping in my cold grave. But _now_ vengeance is mine, and I have repaid you; your death blow has been stricken, and soon, very soon, will you wither in your early tomb, where I shall speedily follow. Remember your dreadful oath.'

"She did not move nor weep, but her eyes were fixed on me with a fearful stare as the charmed bird regards the rattlesnake, and followed me as I moved from the room. Next day I heard that Miss ---- had been discovered in the room where I left her in a state of insensibility, and had with difficulty been aroused from it, but was alarmingly ill. Conjecture was at fault as to the cause of her illness; among the thousand and one suppositions none came near the truth, and nothing could be learned from her. She was obstinately silent, as the attending physician, a pragmatical, dogmatical fellow, chose to report. A week passed and she was thought somewhat better; and her father, who had hurried to town on hearing of her illness, insisted on carrying her to the country with him. Another week passed and I heard nothing of her. I became anxious; I wished to see her again; to mark the progress of death, and exult in the completion of my revenge. I went down to my guardian's house. They were all speaking of poor F---- when I arrived; she was not expected to live forty-eight hours.

"Next day my guardian, his daughter and myself rode over to Mr. ----'s to see F---- once more. Her mother was weeping and refusing to be comforted: she was her only child. I did not see her father; like Hagar, he had taken a last look at his child, and had gone into the woods to mourn unseen--he could not see his child die.

"My cousin and her father went into the dying girl's room, while I remained conversing with some of the neighbors who were there. After some time had elapsed they came out; she came to me weeping bitterly, and said that Miss ---- desired to see me alone. I almost trembled, but hastened to the room; no one was there save the dying girl. There she lay, her dark hair loose over her pillow, her fine face attenuated and white as alabaster; one hand was exposed to view--it was shrunk almost to nothing--but the lustre of her eyes was yet undiminished. I moved to the bedside and gazed in silence on the yet living remains of the most angelic spirit that I have met with in my intercourse with my fellow mortals. 'George,' said she in a weak voice, 'in a few minutes I shall breathe my last, yet I love you as fondly as ever, notwithstanding your cruel treatment of me. Oh speak to me, George! tell me that you love me, and I will forgive you and die contented.' My desire for revenge melted away; I felt almost choked with emotion, and throwing myself on my knees I kissed her emaciated hand and wept tears of bitter regret: inextinguishable love burned in my heart, and I moaned in her ear, 'F----, my sweet, sweet F----, I do love you, and have ever loved you more than all the world holds beside, but it was fated that thus it should be!' A smile of delight spread over her face, her dying hand pressed mine--and in a whisper almost inaudible she said, 'Farewell, we will meet hereafter.' Her breathing fluttered and ceased--she was dead. I imprinted a last kiss on her face, still lovely even in death, and left the room.

"I saw her body committed to the earth and her grave sprinkled with early violets; and when all was over, we left the bereaved family to their sorrows.--Since that day I have impatiently awaited the approach of death, but my sufferings have not terminated as soon as I wished. At times a dreadful feeling of remorse has seized me, and in agonies that cannot be described have I writhed during many sleepless nights--but I was a mere instrument in the hands of unalterable fate.

"A few days since I came to Richmond to arrange some business. To-morrow I shall leave this city for New York, where I shall stay for some weeks. After this day I shall never see you again."

He ceased. I wished to say something, but his recital had made so strong an impression on me, and he seemed so fully fixed in the belief of his approaching death, that I was silent. The shades of evening began to deepen around us, and the full moon rose struggling through a bank of clouds. "Come," said B----, "go with me to my room; I have something to give you as a memento of me." We went to his room and he took from a desk a dirk of beautiful workmanship, the handle richly ornamented with gold, and giving it to me said, "take this and keep it. I have been strongly tempted to use it against myself, but have refrained, for it shall not be said that I feared to live. Farewell. I have something to do, and you will excuse me." I wrung his hand and we parted. I never saw him again; but in the latter part of July I heard that he had returned from New York in a low state of health, having, as was said, wasted rapidly in a consumption. Early in August he died, making it his last request to be buried by the grave of Miss ----. It was complied with, and before he completed the twenty-second year of his age, he slept by the side of her he had loved. Peace to their ashes!

BENEDICT.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE CHANGES OF NATURE.

Cum polo Phoebus roseis quadrigis.--_Boet: Lib. ii. Met. iii._

How oft when Sol, in rosy car, Pursues his radiant race, The malice of the evil star Sheds paleness o'er his face!

How oft when Spring sets out her flowers, And opening blossoms play, An angry cloud, with chilling showers, Sweeps all their charms away!

How oft when Ocean smiles serene, Composing all his waves, A sudden storm confounds the scene, And sailors find their graves!

Oh! then, since this is Nature's style, Still changing from her birth, Why trust her false, deceitful smile? Why look for rest on earth?

{241}

ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. By the author of Pelham, &c. 2 vols. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1834.

The "Messenger" ought to have contained an earlier notice of this fashionable and brilliant work. If our readers have not seen it, we would advise them by all means to send forthwith to the bookseller and purchase a copy. We are free to confess that it has raised Mr. Bulwer fifty per cent. at least in our estimation,--yet we do not think it by any means a faultless performance. Mr. Bulwer's pictures, in all his works that we have read, are too gaudy,--too highly wrought,--and therefore too much above nature,--and want the delightful repose and serene features which distinguish the great Scottish magician. He is, nevertheless, an author of vivid and powerful fancy, of extensive learning, and of high capacity to seize upon his readers and enchain them by fine imagery and impassioned eloquence. The work before us is one of undoubted merit. The subject is of great historical interest, and the author has contrived to reanimate the "city of the dead" with a group of actors who, with some exceptions, admirably sustain their respective parts, and contribute their due share to the continued interest and final catastrophe of the story. We shall not attempt any analysis of the book, for that would be to deprive such of our readers as have not seen it, of much of that exquisite pleasure which attends the progressive developement of the plot, and the gradual disentanglement of all the intricacies in a work of fiction. The tragical story of Pompeii is familiar to classical readers, and especially the graphic account of its doom by the younger Pliny, who was an eye witness to the calamity. Its discovery and partial restoration in latter times,--the laborious excavations which have brought back its temples, its theatres, its triumphal arches and spacious edifices, to the light of day;--its antique curiosities and fine paintings, rescued as it were from a dark interment of seventeen centuries, and now exhibited in their original form and freshness, are all circumstances of powerful interest,--but have been so frequently referred to by tourists, antiquarians and others, that they do not require any particular notice at our hands. We regard Mr. Bulwer as highly fortunate in the choice of his subject; and, as he enjoyed great advantages by his presence on the spot, he has contrived to embellish his story by a variety of interesting details derived from actual inspection. The minute account, for example, of the dwelling of Glaucus, in the third chapter,--of the complicated arrangement and splendid ornaments of the various apartments, is not the creation of fancy but a lively representation of a living model. By the way, since this same chapter contains a very curious account of a Pompeian supper, besides some other interesting matters, we are tempted to insert the whole in our columns, especially as many of our readers may have no opportunity of seeing the volumes from which it is extracted. The _umbra_, who is introduced as one of the guests, is a species of animal not peculiar we believe, to the Roman age. Society has in all ages abounded in parasites and toadies, who, for the sake of a plentiful repast and _fashionable_ company, have very willingly echoed the sentiments of a rich patron. Glaucus, one of the principal personages in the tale, had assembled a small party to partake of his luxurious bounty,--and the chapter opens with a fine description of the host himself. We introduce it to our readers.

* * * * *

Heaven had given to Glaucus every blessing but one: it had given him beauty, health, fortune, genius, illustrious descent, a heart of fire, a mind of poetry; but it had denied him the heritage of freedom. He was born in Athens, the subject of Rome. Succeeding early to an ample inheritance, he had indulged that inclination for travel so natural to the young, and had drunk deep of the intoxicating draught of pleasure, amid the gorgeous luxuries of the imperial court.

He was an Alcibiades without ambition. He was what a man of imagination, youth, fortune and talents readily becomes when you deprive him of the inspiration of glory. His house at Rome was the theme of the debauchees, but also of the lovers of art; and the sculptors of Greece delighted to task their skill in adorning the porticoes and _exedra_ of an Athenian. His retreat in Pompeii--alas! the colors are faded now, the walls stripped of their paintings!--its main beauty, its elaborate finish of grace and ornament, is gone; yet when first given once more to the day, what eulogies, what wonder did its minute and glowing decorations create--its paintings--its mosaics! Passionately enamoured of poetry and the drama, which recalled to Glaucus the wit and the heroism of his race, that fairy mansion was adorned with representations of Æschylus and Homer. And antiquaries, who resolve taste to a trade, have turned the patron to the professor, and still (though the error is now acknowledged) they style in custom, as they first named in mistake, the disburied house of the Athenian Glaucus, "THE HOUSE OF THE DRAMATIC POET."

Previous to our description of this house, it may be well to convey to the reader a general notion of the houses of Pompeii, which he will find to resemble strongly the plans of Vitruvius; but with all those differences, in detail, of caprice and taste which, being natural to mankind, have always puzzled antiquaries. We shall endeavor to make this description as clear and unpedantic as possible.

You enter then, usually, by a small entrance passage (called _vestibulum_) into a hall, sometimes with (but more frequently without) the ornament of columns; around three sides of this hall are doors communicating with several bed chambers, (among which is the porter's,) the best of these being usually appropriated to country visiters. At the extremity of the hall, on either side to the right and left, if the house is large, there are two small recesses, rather than chambers, generally devoted to the ladies of the mansion; and in the centre of the tesselated pavement of the hall is invariably a square shallow reservoir for rain water (classically termed _impluvium_,) which was admitted by a hole in the roof above; the said aperture being covered at will by an awning. Near this impluvium, which had a peculiar sanctity in the eyes of the ancients, were sometimes (but at Pompeii more rarely than at Rome) placed images of the household gods; the hospitable hearth, often mentioned by the Roman poets, and consecrated to the Lares, was, at Pompeii, almost invariably formed by a moveable _brasier_; while in some corner, often the most ostentatious place, was deposited a huge wooden chest, ornamented and strengthened by bands of bronze or iron, and secured by strong hooks upon a stone pedestal so firmly as to defy the attempts of any robber to detach it from its position. This chest was supposed to be the money-box or coffer of the master of the house; though, as no money has been found in any of the chests discovered at Pompeii, it is probable that it was sometimes rather designed for ornament than use.

In this hall (or _atrium_, to speak classically) the clients and visiters of inferior rank were usually received. In the houses of the more "respectable," an _atriensis_, or {242} slave peculiarly devoted to the service of the hall, was invariably retained, and his rank among his fellow slaves was high and important. The reservoir in the centre must have been rather a dangerous ornament, but the centre of the hall was like the grass-plat of a college, and interdicted to the passers to and fro, who found ample space in the margin. Right opposite the entrance, at the other end of the hall, was an apartment (_tablinum_,) in which the pavement was usually adorned with rich mosaics, and the walls covered with elaborate paintings. Here were usually kept the records of the family, or those of any public office that had been filled by the owner: on one side of this saloon, if we may so call it, was often a dining room, or _triclinium_; on the other side, perhaps, what we should now term a cabinet of gems, containing whatever curiosities were deemed most rare and costly; and invariably a small passage for the slaves to cross to the farther parts of the house without passing the apartments thus mentioned. These rooms all opened on a square or oblong colonnade, technically termed peristyle. If the house was small, its boundary ceased with this colonnade, and in that case its centre, however diminutive, was ordinarily appropriated to the purpose of a garden, and adorned with vases of flowers placed upon pedestals, while under the colonnade, to the right and left, were doors, admitting to bed rooms,[1] to a second _triclinium_, or eating room, (for the ancients generally appropriated two rooms at least to that purpose, one for summer and one for winter, or perhaps one for ordinary, the other for festive occasions;) and if the owner affected letters, a cabinet, dignified by the name of library,--for a very small room was sufficient to contain the few rolls of papyrus which the ancients deemed a notable collection of books.

[Footnote 1: The Romans had bed rooms appropriated not only to the sleep of night, but also to the day siesta (_cubicula diurna_.)]

At the end of the peristyle was generally the kitchen. Supposing the house was large, it did not end with the peristyle, and the centre thereof was not in that case a garden, but might be perhaps adorned with a fountain, or basin for fish; and at its end, exactly opposite to the tablinum, was generally another eating room, on either side of which were bed rooms, and perhaps a picture saloon, or _pinatheca_.[2] These apartments communicated again with a square or oblong space, usually adorned on three sides with a colonnade like the peristyle, and very much resembling the peristyle, only longer. This was the proper _viridarium_ or garden, being usually adorned with a fountain, or statues, and a profusion of gay flowers: at its extreme end was the gardener's house; on either side beneath the colonnade were sometimes, if the size of the family required it, additional rooms.

[Footnote 2: In the stately palaces of Rome, the pinatheca usually communicated with the atrium.]

At Pompeii, a second or third story was rarely of importance, being built only above a small part of the house, and containing rooms for the slaves; differing in this respect from the more magnificent edifices of Rome, which generally contained the principal eating room (or _coenaculum_) on the second floor. The apartments themselves were ordinarily of small size: for in those delightful climes they received any extraordinary number of visiters in the peristyle (or portico,) the hall, or the garden; and even their banquet rooms, however elaborately adorned and carefully selected in point of aspect, were of diminutive proportions; for the intellectual ancients, being fond of society, not of crowds, rarely feasted more than nine at a time, so that large dinner rooms were not so necessary with them as with us.[3] But the suite of rooms seen at once from the entrance must have had a very imposing effect; you beheld at once the hall richly paved and painted--the tablinum--the graceful peristyle, and (if the house extended farther) the opposite banquet room and the garden, which closed the view with some gushing fount or marble statue.

[Footnote 3: When they entertained very large parties, the feast was usually served in the hall.]

The reader will now have a tolerable notion of the Pompeian houses, which resembled in some respects the Grecian, but mostly the Roman, fashion of domestic architecture. In almost every house there is some difference in detail from the rest, but the principal outline is the same in all. In all you find the hall, the tablinum, and the peristyle communicating with each other; in all you find the walls richly painted, and in all the evidence of a people fond of the refining elegancies of life. The purity of the taste of the Pompeians in decoration is however questionable: they were fond of the gaudiest colors, of fantastic designs; they often painted the lower half of their columns a bright red, leaving the rest uncolored; and where the garden was small, its wall was frequently tinted to deceive the eye as to its extent, imitating trees, birds, temples, &c. in perspective--a meretricious delusion which the graceful pedantry of Pliny himself adopted, with a complacent pride in its ingenuity.

But the house of Glaucus was at once one of the smallest, and yet of the most adorned and finished, of all the private mansions of Pompeii; it would be a model at this day for the house of "a single man in Mayfair"--the envy and despair of the coelibian purchasers of buhl and marquetrie.

You enter by a long and narrow vestibule, on the floor of which is the image of a dog in mosaic, with the well known "cave canem," or "beware the dog." On either side is a chamber of some size; for the interior house not being large enough to contain the two great divisions of private and public apartments, these two rooms were set apart for the reception of visiters who neither by rank nor familiarity were entitled to admission in the penetralia of the mansion.

Advancing up the vestibule, you enter an atrinum, that when first discovered was rich in paintings, which _in point of expression_ would scarcely disgrace a Raphael. You may see them now transplanted to the Neapolitan Museum; they are still the admiration of connoisseurs; they depict the parting of Achilles and Briseis. Who does not acknowledge the force, the vigor, the beauty! employed in delineating the forms and faces of Achilles and the immortal slave!

On one side the atrinum, a small staircase admitted to the apartments for the slaves on the second floor; there too were two or three small bed rooms, the walls of which portrayed the rape of Europa, the battle of the Amazons, &c.

You now enter the tablinum, across which at either end hung rich draperies of Tyrian purple, half withdrawn.[4] On the walls were depicted a poet reading his verses to his friends; and in the pavement was inserted a small and most exquisite mosaic, typical of the instructions given by the director of the stage to his comedians.

[Footnote 4: The tablinum was also secured at pleasure by sliding doors.]

You passed through this saloon and entered the peristyle; and here (as I have said before was usually the case with the smaller houses of Pompeii) the mansion ended. From each of the seven columns that adorned this court hung festoons of garlands; the centre, supplying the place of a garden, bloomed with the rarest flowers, placed in vases of white marble, that were supported on pedestals. At the left end of this small garden was a diminutive fane, resembling one of those small chapels placed at the side of roads in Catholic countries, and dedicated to the Penates; before it stood a bronze tripod; to the left of the colonnade were two small cubiculi or bed rooms; to the right was the triclinium, in which the guests were now assembled.

This room is usually termed by the antiquaries of Naples, "the chamber of Leda;" and in the beautiful work of Sir William Gell, the reader will find an engraving from that most delicate and graceful painting of Leda presenting her new-born to her husband, from {243} which the room derives its name. This beautiful apartment opened upon the fragrant garden. Round the table of citrean[5] wood, highly polished and delicately wrought with silver arabesques, were placed the three couches, which were yet more common at Pompeii than the semi-circular seat that had grown lately into fashion at Rome; and on these couches of bronze, studded with richer metals, were laid thick quiltings covered with elaborate broidery, and yielding luxuriously to the pressure.

[Footnote 5: The most valued wood; not the modern citron tree. Some, among whom is my learned friend Mr. W. S. Landor, conjecture it, with much plausibility, to have been mahogany.]

"Well, I must own," said the ædile Pansa, "that your house, though scarcely larger than a case for one's fibulæ, is a gem of its kind. How beautifully painted is that parting of Achilles and Briseis!--what a style!--what heads!--what a--hem!"

"Praise from Pansa is indeed valuable on such subjects," said Clodius, gravely. "Why, the paintings on _his_ walls--ah! there is, indeed, the hand of a Zeuxis!"

"You flatter me, my Clodius; indeed you do," quoth the ædile, who was celebrated through Pompeii for having the worst paintings in the world; for he was patriotic, and patronised none but Pompeians,--"you flatter me: but there is something pretty--Ædepol, yes--in the colors, to say nothing of the design;--and then for the kitchen, my friends--ah! that was all my fancy."

"What is the design?" said Glaucus. "I have not yet seen your kitchen, though I have often witnessed the excellence of its cheer."

"A cook, my Athenian--a cook sacrificing the trophies of his skill on the altar of Vesta, with a beautiful muræna (taken from the life) on a spit at a distance: there is some invention there!"

At that instant the slaves appeared, bearing a tray covered with the first preparative initia of the feast. Amid delicious figs, fresh herbs strewed with snow, anchovies, and eggs, were ranged small cups of diluted wine sparingly mixed with honey. As these were placed on the table, young slaves bore round to each of the five guests (for there were no more) the silver basin of perfumed water and napkins edged with a purple fringe. But the ædile ostentatiously drew forth his own napkin, which was not, indeed, of so fine a linen, but in which the fringe was twice as broad, and wiped his hands with the parade of a man who felt he was calling for admiration.

"A splendid _mappa_ that of yours," said Clodius; "why, the fringe is as broad as a girdle."

"A trifle, my Clodius, a trifle! They tell me this stripe is the latest fashion at Rome; but Glaucus attends to these things more than I."

"Be propitious, O Bacchus!" said Glaucus, inclining reverentially to a beautiful image of the god placed in the centre of the table, at the corners of which stood the Lares and the saltholders. The guests followed the prayer, and then, sprinkling the wine on the table, they performed the wonted libation.

This over, the convivalists reclined themselves on the couches, and the business of the hour commenced.

"May this cup be my last!" said the young Sallust, as the table, cleared of its first stimulants, was now loaded with the substantial part of the entertainment, and the ministering slave poured forth to him a brimming cyathus--"May this cup be my last, but it is the best wine I have drunk at Pompeii!"

"Bring hither the amphora," said Glaucus; "and read its date and its character."

The slave hastened to inform the party that the scroll fastened to the cork betokened its birth from Chios, and its age a ripe fifty years.

"How deliciously the snow has cooled it!" said Pansa; "it is just enough."

"It is like the experience of a man who has cooled his pleasures sufficiently to give them a double zest," exclaimed Sallust.

"It is like a woman's 'No,'" added Glaucus; "it cools but to inflame the more."

"When is our next wild-beast fight?" said Clodius to Pansa.

"It stands fixed for the ninth ide of August," answered Pansa, "on the day after the Vulcanalia; we have a most lovely young lion for the occasion."

"Whom shall we get for him to eat?" asked Clodius, "Alas! there is a great scarcity of criminals. You must positively find some innocent or other to condemn to the lion, Pansa!"

"Indeed I have thought very seriously about it of late," replied the ædile, gravely. "It was a most infamous law that which forbade us to send our own slaves to the wild beasts. Not to let us do what we like with our own, that's what I call an infringement on property itself."

"Not so in the good old days of the republic," sighed Sallust.

"And then this pretended mercy to the slaves is such a disappointment to the poor people. How they do love to see a good tough battle between a man and a lion! and all this innocent pleasure they may lose (if the gods don't send us a good criminal soon) from this cursed law."

"What can be worse policy," said Clodius, sententiously, "than to interfere with the manly amusements of the people?"

"Well, thank Jupiter and the Fates! we have no Nero at present," said Sallust.

"He was, indeed, a tyrant; he shut up our amphitheatre for ten years."

"I wonder it did not create a rebellion," said Sallust.

"It very nearly did," returned Pansa, with his mouth full of wild boar.

Here the conversation was interrupted for a moment by a flourish of flutes, and two slaves entered with a single dish.

"Ah! what delicacy hast thou in store for us now, my Glaucus?" cried the young Sallust, with sparkling eyes.

Sallust was only twenty-four, but he had no pleasure in life like eating--perhaps he had exhausted all the others; yet had he some talent, and an excellent heart--as far as it went.

"I know its face, by Pollux!" cried Pansa; "it is an Ambracian kid. Ho!" snapping his fingers, a usual signal to the slaves, "we must prepare a new libation in honor to the new-comer."

"I had hoped," said Glaucus, in a melancholy tone, "to have procured you some oysters from Britain; but the winds that were so cruel to Cæsar have forbid us the oysters."

"Are they in truth so delicious?" asked Lepidus, loosening to a yet more luxurious ease his ungirdled tunic.

"Why, in truth, I suspect it is the distance that gives the flavor; they want the richness of the Brundusium oyster. But at Rome no supper is complete without them."

"The poor Britons! There is some good in them after all," said Sallust; "they produce an oyster!"

"I wish they would produce us a gladiator," said the ædile, whose provident mind was still musing over the wants of the amphitheatre.

"By Pallas!" cried Glaucus, as his favorite slave crowned his steaming locks with a new chaplet, "I love these wild spectacles well enough when beast fights beast; but when a man, one with bones and blood like ours, is coldly put on the arena, and torn limb from limb, the interest is too horrid: I sicken--I gasp for breath--I long to rush and defend him. The yells of the populace seem to me more dire than the voices of the Furies chasing Orestes. I rejoice that there is so little chance of that bloody exhibition for our next show!"

{244} The ædile shrugged his shoulders; the young Sallust, who was thought the best natured man in Pompeii, stared in surprise. The graceful Lepidus, who rarely spoke for fear of disturbing his features, cried, "Per Hercle!" The Parasite Clodius muttered, "Ædepol;" and the sixth banqueter, who was the umbra of Clodius, and whose duty it was to echo his richer friend when he could not praise him--the parasite of a parasite,--muttered also, "Ædepol."

"Well, you Italians are used to these spectacles; we Greeks are more merciful. Ah, shade of Pindar!--the rapture of a true Grecian game--the emulation of man against man--the generous strife--the half-mournful triumph--so proud to contend with a noble foe, so sad to see him overcome! But ye understand me not."

"The kid is excellent," said Sallust.

The slave whose duty it was to carve, and who valued himself on his science, had just performed that office on the kid to the sound of music, his knife keeping time, beginning with a low tenor, and accomplishing the arduous feat amid a magnificent diapason.

"Your cook is of course from Sicily?" said Pansa.

"Yes, of Syracuse."

"I will play you for him," said Clodius; "we will have a game between the courses."

"Better that sort of game, certainly, than a beast-fight; but I cannot stake my Sicilian--you have nothing so precious to stake me in return."

"My Phillida--my beautiful dancing girl!"

"I never buy women," said the Greek, carelessly rearranging his chaplet.

The musicians, who were stationed in the portico without, had commenced their office with the kid; they now directed the melody into a more soft, a more gay, yet it may be a more intellectual, strain; and they chanted that song of Horace beginning "Persicos odi," &c. so impossible to translate, and which they imagined applicable to a feast that, effeminate as it seems to us, was simple enough for the gorgeous revelry of the time. We are witnessing the domestic and not the princely feast--the entertainment of a gentleman, not of an emperor or a senator.

"Ah, good old Horace," said Sallust, compassionately; "he sang well of feasts and girls, but not like our modern poets."

"The immortal Fulvius, for instance," said Clodius.

"Ah, Fulvius the immortal!" said the umbra.

"And Spuræna, and Caius Mutius, who wrote three epics in a year--could Horace do that, or Virgil either?" said Lepidus. "Those old poets all fell into the mistake of copying sculpture instead of painting. Simplicity and repose--that was their notion: but we moderns have fire, and passions, and energy--we never sleep, we imitate the colors of painting, its life and its action. Immortal Fulvius!"

"By-the-way," said Sallust, "have you seen the new ode by Spuræna, in honor of our Egyptian Isis?--it is magnificent--the true religious fervor."

"Isis seems a favorite divinity at Pompeii," said Glaucus.

"Yes!" said Pansa, "she is exceedingly in repute just at this moment; her statue has been uttering the most remarkable oracles. I am not superstitious, but I must confess that she has more than once assisted me materially in my magistracy with her advice. Her priests are so pious too! none of your gay, none of your proud ministers of Jupiter and Fortune; they walk barefoot, eat no meat, and pass the greater part of the night in solitary devotion!"

"An example to our other priesthoods, indeed!--Jupiter's temple wants reforming sadly," said Lepidus, who was a great reformer for all but himself.

"They say that Arbaces the Egyptian has imparted some most solemn mysteries to the priests of Isis," observed Sallust; "he boasts his descent from the race of Ramases, and declares that in his family the secrets of remotest antiquity are treasured."

"He certainly possesses the gift of the evil eye," said Clodius; "if I ever come upon that Medusa front without the previous charm, I am sure to lose a favorite horse, or throw the _canes_[6] nine times running."

[Footnote 6: _Canes_, or _caniculæ_, the lowest throw at dice.]

"The last would be indeed a miracle!" said Sallust, gravely.

"How mean you, Sallust?" returned the gamester, with a flushed brow.

"I mean what you would _leave_ me if I played often with you; and that is--nothing."

Clodius answered only by a smile of disdain.

"If Arbaces were not so rich," said Pansa, with a stately air, "I should stretch my authority a little, and inquire into the truth of the report which calls him an astrologer and a sorcerer. Agrippa, when ædile of Rome, banished all such terrible citizens. But a rich man--it is the duty of an ædile to protect the rich!"

"What think you of this new sect, which I am told has even a few proselytes in Pompeii, these followers of the Hebrew God--Christus?"

"Oh, mere speculative visionaries," said Clodius; "they have not a single gentleman among them; their proselytes are poor, insignificant, ignorant people!"

"Who ought, however, to be crucified for their blasphemy," said Pansa, with vehemence; "they deny Venus and Jove! Nazarene is but another name for atheist. Let me catch them, that's all!"

The second course was gone--the feasters fell back on their couches--there was a pause while they listened to the soft voices of the South, and the music of the Arcadian reed. Glaucus was the most rapt and the least inclined to break the silence, but Clodius began already to think that they wasted time.

"_Bene vobis_ (your health,) my Glaucus," said he, quaffing a cup to each letter of the Greek's name, with the ease of the practised drinker. "Will you not be avenged on your ill-fortune of yesterday? See, the dice court us."

"As you will!" said Glaucus.

"The dice in August, and I an ædile," said Pansa, magisterially; "it is against all law."

"Not in your presence, grave Pansa," returned Clodius, rattling the dice in a long box; "your presence restrains all license; it is not the thing, but the excess of the thing, that hurts."

"What wisdom!" murmured the umbra.

"Well, I will look another way," said the ædile.

"Not yet, good Pansa; let us wait till we have supped," said Glaucus.

Clodius reluctantly yielded, concealing his vexation with a yawn.

"He gapes to devour the gold," whispered Lepidus to Sallust, in a quotation from the Aulularia of Plautus.

"Ah! how well I know these polypi, who hold all they touch," answered Sallust, in the same tone, and out of the same play.

The second course, consisting of a variety of fruits, pistachio nuts, sweetmeats, tarts, and confectionary tortured into a thousand fantastic and airy shapes, was now placed upon the table, and the ministri, or attendants, also set there the wine (which had hitherto been handed round to the guests) in large jugs of glass, each bearing upon it the schedule of its age and quality.

"Taste this Lesbian, my Pansa," said Sallust; "it is excellent."

"It is not very old," said Glaucus, "but it has been made precocious, like ourselves, by being put to the fire; the wine to the flames of Vulcan, we to those of his wife, to whose honor I pour this cup."

"It is delicate," said Pansa, "but there is perhaps the least particle too much of rosin in its flavor."

"What a beautiful cup!" cried Clodius, taking up one of transparent crystal, the handles of which were wrought with gems, and twisted in the shape of serpents, the favorite fashion at Pompeii.

"This ring," said Glaucus, taking a costly jewel from the first joint of his finger and hanging it on the {245} handle, "gives it a richer show, and renders it less unworthy of thy acceptance, my Clodius, whom may the gods give health and fortune long and oft to crown it to brim!"

"You are too generous, Glaucus," said the gamester, handing the cup to his slave, "but your love gives it a double value."

"This cup to the Graces!" said Pansa, and he thrice emptied his calix. The guests followed his example.

"We have appointed no director to the feast," cried Sallust.

"Let us throw for him, then," said Clodius, rattling the dice-box.

"Nay," cried Glaucus; "no cold and trite director for us; no dictator of the banquet; no _rex convivii_. Have not the Romans sworn never to obey a king? shall we be less free than your ancestors? Ho! musicians, let us have the song I composed the other night; it has a verse on this subject, 'The Bacchic Hymn of the Hours.'"

The musicians struck their instruments to a wild Ionic air, while the youngest voices in the band chanted forth in Greek words, as numbers, the following strain:

THE EVENING HYMN OF THE HOURS.

I.

Through the summer day, through the weary day, We have glided long; Ere we speed to the night through her portals gray, Hail us with song! With song, with song, With a bright and joyous song, Such as the Cretan maid, While the twilight made her bolder, Woke, high through the ivy shade, When the wine-god first consoled her. From the hush'd low-breathing skies, Half-shut, look'd their starry eyes, And all around, With a loving sound, The Ægean waves were creeping; On her lap lay the lynx's head; Wild thyme was her bridal bed; And aye through each tiny space, In the green vine's green embrace, The fauns were slyly peeping;-- The fauns, the prying fauns-- The arch, the laughing fauns-- The fauns were slyly peeping!

II.

Flagging and faint are we With our ceaseless flight, And dull shall our journey be Through the realm of night. Bathe us, O bathe our weary wings, In the purple wave, as it freshly springs To your cups from the fount of light-- From the fount of light--from the fount of light: For there, when the sun has gone down in night, There in the bowl we find him. The grape is the well of that summer sun, Or rather the stream that he gazed upon, Till he left in truth, like the Thespian youth,[7] His soul, as he gazed, behind him.

III.

A cup to Jove, and a cup to Love, And a cup to the son of Maia, And honor with three, the band zone-free, The band of the bright Agiaia. But since every bud in the wreath of pleasure Ye owe to the sister Hours, No stinted cups, in a formal measure, The Bromian law make ours. He honors us most who gives us most, And boasts with a Bacchanal's honest boast He never will _count_ the treasure. Fastly we fleet, then seize our wings, And plunge us deep in the sparkling springs; And aye, as we rise with a dripping plume, We'll scatter the spray round the garland's bloom. We glow--we glow. Behold, as the girls of the Eastern wave Bore once with a shout to their crystal cave The prize of the Mysian Hylas, Even so--even so, We have caught the young god in our warm embrace, We hurry him on in our laughing race; We hurry him on, with a whoop and song, The cloudy rivers of Night along-- Ho, ho!--we have caught thee, Pallas!

[Footnote 7: Narcissus.]

The guests applauded loudly: when the poet is your host, his verses are sure to charm.

"Thoroughly Greek," said Lepidus: "the wildness, force, and energy of that tongue it is impossible to imitate in the Roman poetry."

"It is indeed a great contrast," said Clodius, ironically at heart, though not in appearance, "to the old-fashioned and tame simplicity of that ode of Horace which we heard before. The air is beautifully Ionic: the word puts me in mind of a toast--Companions, I give you the beautiful Ione."

"Ione--the name is Greek," said Glaucus, in a soft voice, "I drink the health with delight. But who is Ione?"

"Ah! you have but just come to Pompeii, or you would deserve ostracism for your ignorance," said Lepidus, conceitedly; "not to know Ione is not to know the chief charm of our city."

"She is of most rare beauty," said Pansa; "and what a voice!"

"She can feed only on nightingales' tongues," said Clodius.

"Nightingales' tongues!--beautiful thought," sighed the umbra.

"Enlighten me, I beseech you," said Glaucus.

"Know then," began Lepidus--

"Let me speak," cried Clodius; "you drawl out your words as if you spoke tortoises."

"And you speak stones," muttered the coxcomb to himself, as he fell back disdainfully on his couch.

"Know then, my Glaucus," said Clodius, "that Ione is a stranger, who has but lately come to Pompeii. She sings like Sappho, and her songs are her own composing; and as for the tibia, and the cithara, and the lyre, I know not in which she most outdoes the Muses. Her beauty is most dazzling. Her house is perfect; such taste--such gems--such bronzes! She is rich, and generous as she is rich."

"Her lovers, of course," said Glaucus, "take care that she does not starve; and money lightly won is always lavishly spent."

"Her lovers--ah, there is the enigma! Ione has but one vice--she is chaste. She has all Pompeii at her feet, and she has no lovers: she will not even marry."

"No lovers!" echoed Glaucus.

"No; she has the soul of Vesta, with the girdle of Venus."

"What refined expressions!" said the umbra.

"A miracle!" cried Glaucus. "Can we not see her?"

"I will take you there this evening," said Clodius; "meanwhile," added he, once more rattling the dice--

"I am yours!" said the complaisant Glaucus. "Pansa turn your face!"

Lepidus and Sallust played at odd and even, and the umbra looked on, while Glaucus and Clodius became gradually absorbed in the chances of the dice.

"Per Jove!" cried Glaucus, "this is the second time I have thrown the caniculæ" (the lowest throw.)

"Now Venus befriend me!" said Clodius, rattling the box for several moments, "O Alma Venus--it is Venus herself!" as he threw the highest cast named from that goddess,--whom he who wins money indeed usually propitiates!

"Venus is ungrateful to me," said Glaucus, gayly; "I have always sacrificed on her altar."

"He who plays with Clodius," whispered Lepidus, "will soon, like Plautus's Curculio, put his pallium for the stakes."

"Poor Glaucus--he is as blind as Fortune herself," replied Sallust, in the same tone.

"I will play no more," said Glaucus. "I have lost thirty sestertia."

"I am sorry," began Clodius.

"Amiable man!" groaned the umbra.

"Not at all!" exclaimed Glaucus; "the pleasure of your gain compensates the pain of my loss."

The conversation now became general and animated; the wine circulated more freely; and Ione once more {246} became the subject of eulogy to the guests of Glaucus.

"Instead of outwatching the star, let us visit one at whose beauty the stars grow pale," said Lepidus.

Clodius, who saw no chance of renewing the dice, seconded the proposal; and Glaucus, though he civilly pressed his guests to continue the banquet, could not but let them see that his curiosity had been excited by the praises of Ione; they therefore resolved to adjourn (all at least but Pansa and the umbra) to the house of the fair Greek. They drank, therefore, to the health of Glaucus and of Titus--they performed their last libation--they resumed their slippers--they descended the stairs--passed the illumined atrium--and walking unbitten over the fierce dog painted on the threshold, found themselves beneath the light of the moon just risen, in the lively and still crowded streets of Pompeii. They passed the jewellers' quarter, sparkling with lights, caught and reflected by the gems displayed in the shops, and arrived at last at the door of Ione. The vestibule blazed with rows of lamps; curtains of embroidered purple hung on either aperture of the tablinum, whose walls and mosaic pavement glowed with the richest colors of the artist; and under the portico which surrounded the odorous viridarium they found Ione already surrounded by adoring and applauding guests.

"Did you say she was Athenian?" whispered Glaucus, ere he passed into the peristyle.

"No, she is from Neapolis."

"Neapolis!" echoed Glaucus; and at that moment, the group dividing on either side of Ione gave to his view that bright, that nymph-like beauty which for months had shone down upon the waters of his memory.

* * * * *

Glaucus is a noble character throughout; educated of course a heathen, but endowed with some of those higher faculties of reason, which enabled him in the end to surrender the charms of a poetic mythology for a purer and brighter faith. Ione, "the beautiful Ione," is an almost perfect model of Grecian loveliness and accomplishment; and her brother Apæcides, furnishes an affecting illustration of great powers and virtues rendered prostrate by an overwrought sensibility and enthusiastic temperament. Arbaces, the dark, wily, revengeful Egyptian, is the demon of the tale. In profound earthly wisdom and diabolical depravity, "none but himself can be his parallel." The "Asiatic Journal," whose editors or reviewers we take to be much wiser than we are, asserts that the character of Nydia is not an original creation of Mr. Bulwer's; but that the dwarf _Mignon_ in the _Wilhelm Meister_ of Goethe, is the exact prototype not only of the blind flower girl, but of the fantastical Fenella in Scott's Peverill of the Peak. The "Journal" also maintains that the witch of Vesuvius, is of the true Meg Merrillie's family. In regard to the first supposed resemblances,--never having seen Goethe's work, we profess our entire incompetency to judge; but we do most fervently protest against any comparison between our old favorite Meg and that most execrable hag whom Bulwer has placed in the caverns of Vesuvius,--the perusal of whose accursed incantations deprived us of several hours of our accustomed and needful rest.

Whilst Mr. Bulwer has rendered to the Egyptian and a few others the just reward of their transgressions, we think that poor Nydia has been hardly dealt by. What a fine opportunity it was to illustrate the power of christian faith in soothing even the sorrows of unrequited love. We do not say this reproachfully however, because we think that Mr. Bulwer has endeavored at least, to do justice to the christian character and principles, in his work. Olynthus is a fine specimen of that heroic courage which, especially in the early ages of the church, was content with ignominy, chains and poverty in this life, and courted even martyrdom itself, in the bright anticipation of eternal bliss.

Having thus candidly stated our impressions of Mr. Bulwer's work, justice requires that we should spread before our readers the well sustained vindication of one of our own countrymen, who complains that his literary rights have been grossly violated by this eminent transatlantic author. Mr. Fairfield, the editor of the _North American Magazine_, a man of unquestionable genius, and a poet of no ordinary strength, has fearlessly thrown the gauntlet, and charged the proud Briton to his teeth with literary piracy; an offence in the republic of letters, which ought at least to be rebuked by stern denunciation, as no corporal or pecuniary punishment can be inflicted. This piracy it seems, has been committed by Mr. Bulwer upon the lawful goods and chattels, the genuine offspring of Mr. Fairfield's own intellectual labors. We confess that we are struck with the plausible and curious coincidence, to speak technically, between Mr. Fairfield's _allegata_ and his undeniable _probata_. If the English novelist has decked himself in borrowed plumage, he ought to be forthwith stripped of it, and the stolen feather should adorn the brow of its real owner. The sin of plagiarism however, though never so distinctly proved, ought not in strictness to detract from the genuine and acknowledged merits of an author. Mr. Bulwer may have done great injustice to our countryman, and yet have some redeeming beauties to atone for his transgression. In compliance with Mr. Fairfield's request, we insert with pleasure the whole of his interesting article.

From the North American Magazine.

THE LAST NIGHT OF POMPEII;[8] _versus_ THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.[9]

[Footnote 8: The Last Night of Pompeii: A Poem, and Lays and Legends. By Sumner Lincoln Fairfield. New York: 1829.]

[Footnote 9: The Last Days of Pompeii: By the Author of Pelham, Eugene Aram, England, and the English, &c. 2 vols. 12mo. New York: 1834. Harper and Brothers.]

While we have never failed to acknowledge and applaud the brilliant imagination and the eloquent and fascinating style of Mr. E. L. Bulwer, we have never feared to assert that he was a sophist in ethics and a libertine in love, and that _effect_ was apparently the only law which influenced his mind or guided his pen. Better disguised, but not less pernicious in principle and evil in action than the Tom Jones and Count Fathom and Zeluco of Fielding, Smollett and Moore, his characters not only exist in, but actually create an atmosphere of impurity which infects the very hearts of his admirers. He invests the seducer with irresistible attractions, and paints the highwayman and the murderer as examples for imitation. But even in the execution of his execrable purposes, he is not original either in his plots or his sentiments. The old Portuguese Jew Spinoza and his disciples Hobbes, Toland, Shaftesbury and Bolingbroke have abundantly supplied him with infidel arguments; and the profligate courtiers of Charles the Second have contributed their licentious stratagems and impure dialogues to augment the claims and heighten the charms of his coxcombs, libertines and {247} menslayers. Mr. Bulwer has read much and skillfully appropriated, without acknowledgment, all that has suited his designs. He has artfully clothed the lofty thoughts of others in his own brilliant garb, and enjoyed the renown of a powerful writer and profound thinker, when he was little more than an adroit and manoeuvering plagiary. This we long since perceived, and therefore denied his claims to a high order of genius, though we readily accorded to him the possession of much curious knowledge and a felicitous use of language. We never imagined that the labors of an unrewarded and little regarded American could be deemed by the proud, _soi-disant_ highborn, and affluent Mr. Bulwer as worthy of his unquestioning appropriation. We fancied that so deep a scholar would continue to dig for treasures in ancient and recondite literature, and pass triumphantly over the obscure productions of a poor cisatlantic. But we erred. As a member of the British Parliament, Mr. Bulwer is accustomed to the creation of laws; and he seems to have made one expressly for his own profit and pleasure--namely, the law of literary lawlessness. We knew that he was well content to demand high prices for his immoral novels from his American publishers; but, until this time, we were not aware that he considered any thing but gold worth receiving or plundering from Yankeeland. With his usual tact, he has managed to secure, in no slight degree, from our labors, that which those labors failed utterly to receive from our unlettered countrymen; and it is our present purpose to demand back our own thoughts, which are our property and the heritage of our children.

It is now three years since 'The Last Night of Pompeii' was written and published; and, among other English men of letters, a copy of that poem with a letter, which was never answered, was sent to Mr. Bulwer, who was, at that time, the editor of the London New Monthly Magazine. Affliction fell heavily on our heart during the spring of 1832, and, becoming indifferent to poetic fame and every thing not involved in our bereavement, we bestowed no thought upon the poem or its reception. Time has passed on; we have been intensely occupied with other concerns, and have not been anxious about it since. The apathy, if not contempt, with which American poets have ever been treated, has driven Percival into solitude, Bryant and Prentice into politics, Whittier into abolition schemes, Pierpoint into phrenological experiments, and all others far away from the barren realm of Parnassus. But lo! the poem, which was printed by hardwon subscription and left unwelcomed but by a few cheerful voices, when transmuted into a novel by Bulwer, becomes a brilliant gem, and illumines the patriotic hearts and clear understandings of the whole Western World! Who is a Yankee poet that he should be honoured? but to whom is the English Bulwer unknown? We live, however--thanks be to Providence! to claim our own and expose all smugglers, though the redrover Saxon seems to think that the Atlantic is a very broad ocean, and that the democrats of the West are very little capable of appreciating any compositions but his own.

Had Mr. Bulwer confined himself to the almost literal adoption of our title, or had certain passages in his novel betrayed even great resemblances to others in our poem, we should have said that the coincidences were somewhat remarkable, and then dismissed the matter from our thoughts. Many examples in literary history might be presented to prove that men may think and describe alike without plagiarism, but, when the incidents and descriptions are as nearly identical as prose and poetry can well be, we cannot deduce the charitable conclusion that the very strong likeness is accidental. Our readers shall judge whether, in this case, it is so.

The characters in the poem are few--in the novel many--but, in both, the whole interest depends on the adventures of two lovers. In the poem these lovers are Pansa and Mariamne, a Roman decurion and a captive Jewish maiden, both Christians; in the novel they are Glaucus and Ione, Greeks and pagans. With us, Diomede was the prætor and Pansa the victim; with Bulwer, the former is a rich merchant, and the latter, ædile of Pompeii. Here, then, there is no similarity, nor is there but one deserving a remark, until Arbaces--an Eugene Aram antiquated--one of Bulwer's learned, wise and soliloquizing villains--seduces Ione to his mansion of iniquity. The first coincidence, to which we refer, is the scene of the sacrifice,[10] and the oracular response. The description in the novel reads thus:

"The aruspices inspected the entrails."--"It was then that a dead silence fell over the whispering crowd, and the priests gathering around the cella, another priest, naked save by a cincture round the middle, rushed forward, and dancing with wild gestures, implored an answer from the goddess."--"A low murmuring noise was heard within the body of the statue; thrice the head moved, and the lips parted, and then a hollow voice uttered these mystic words:

"There are waves like chargers that meet and glow, There are graves ready wrought in the rocks below, On the brow of the Future the dangers lower, But blessed are your barks in the fearful hour."

[Footnote 10: Vol. i. p. 42.]

That in the poem is as follows--the oracle preceding the description of its effect upon the superstitious multitude.

"The aruspices proclaimed the prodigies. 'The entrails palpitate--the liver's lobes Are withered, and the heart hath shrivelled up!' Groans rose from living surges round; yet loud The High Priest uttered--'Lay them on the fire!' 'Twas done; and wine and oil poured amply o'er, And still the sacrificer wildly cried-- 'Woe unto all! the wandering fires hiss up Through the black vapors--lapping o'er the flesh They burn not, but abandon! ashes fill The temple, whirled upon the wind that waves'" etc.

_The Oracle_.

"'Ye shall pass o'er the Tyrrhene sea in ships Laden with virgins, gems and gods, and spoils Of a dismembered empire, and a cloud Of light shall radiate your ocean path!' Breathes not the soul of mystery in this?"

"And the prostrated multitudes, like woods Hung with the leaves of autumn, stirred; then fell A silence when the heart was heard--a pause-- When ardent hope became an agony; And parted lips and panting pulses--eyes Wild with their watchings, brows with beaded dews Of expectation chilled and fevered--all The shaken and half lifted frame--declared The moment of the oracle had come! A sceptre to the hand of Isis leapt And waved; and then the deep voice of the priest Uttered the maiden's answer, and the fall Of many quickened steps like whispers pass'd Along the columned aisles and vestibule."

Both oracles partake the same mystic character and {248} allude obscurely to the same fearful and overwhelming event.

The character of Arbaces, the Egyptian Magus, is peculiarly after Bulwer's own heart--for he is an entire, thorough, irredeemable demon, who weeps over venomous reptiles and kills innocent men: but a very large portion of his mystic discourse, which appears on pages 81-2-3-4 of volume first, is borrowed, as customary, without even an apologetic allusion, from Moore's Epicurean. We leave that poet to reclaim his property, and proceed to assert the identity of our own. In the novel, Arbaces beguiles Ione into his house, with the resolution to possess her by fraud or violence. In the poem, the priest of Isis inveigles the virgin of Pompeii into his lascivious temple with the same intent. Both the priest and Arbaces, having conquered every obstacle, are rapidly advancing to the accomplishment of their evil designs, when they are interrupted, and their victims rescued by the very same awful occurrence;

"At that awful moment," says Bulwer, "the floor shook under them with a rapid and convulsive throe--a mightier spirit than that of the Egyptian was abroad! a giant and crushing power, before which sunk into sudden impotence his passion and his arts. It woke--it stirred--that dread Demon of the Earthquake," etc.[11]

"I woo no longer, thou art in my grasp, And by the Immortals I disown, thou shalt"--

Says our unsainted priest of Isis, when the victim cries exultingly--

"'It comes! the temple reels and crashes--Jove! I thank thee! Vesta! let me sleep with thee!' And on the bosom of the earthquake rocked The statues and the pillars, and her brain Whirled with the earth's convulsions, as the maid Fell by a trembling image and upraised A prayer of gratitude; while through the vaults, In fear and ghastly horror, fled the priest, Breathing quick curses mid his warning cries For succor; and the obscene birds their wings Flapped o'er his pallid face, and reptiles twined In folds of knotted venom round his feet. Yet on he rushed--the blackened walls around Crashing--the spectral lights hurled hissing down The cold green waters; and thick darkness came To bury ruin!"

[Footnote 11: Vol. i. p. 159.]

The denouement of the scene is the same in the novel and the poem--a statue, hurled from its pedestal, strikes the unhallowed violator to the earth. There is no scene in Baron more actually transcribed from the Andrian of Terence than this from 'The Last Night of Pompeii!' But the scene in the amphitheatre, where the Christian Olinthus and the lover Glaucus are doomed to perish by the fangs of the famished lion, is still more strikingly similar than any in the novel, except the description of the destruction. Arbaces, actuated by unholy love of Ione, is the author of the disgrace and ruin of both these personages; and the prætor Diomede, in the poem, resolves to sacrifice Pansa to the African lion, because he loves and determines to possess Mariamne. The earlier scenes in the amphitheatre are the same; four gladiators are represented in sanguinary strife, and two as having perished, ere the command is given to bring the Christian and lover on the arena, and to loose the Numidian lion. In neither instance, however, will the noble beast attack his destined victim; but shrinks and cowers in utter terror, though goaded on to his dreadful feast. We now solicit a careful comparison of the scenes which succeed, with those which, nearly two years before Mr. Bulwer's book was conceived, we had wrought out with no slight study, and presented to our unregarding countrymen.

The closing scene in the Pompeiian amphitheatre, as represented in 'The Last _Days_ of Pompeii:'

"'Behold how the gods protect the guiltless! The fires of the avenging Orcus burst forth against the false witness of my accusers!'"

"The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian, and beheld with ineffable dismay a vast vapor shooting from the summit of Vesuvius in the form of a gigantic pine tree; the trunk, blackness;--the branches, fire;--that shifted and wavered in its hues with every moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare!

"There was a dead, heart-sunken silence--through which there suddenly broke the roar of the lion, which, from within the building, was echoed back by the sharper and fiercer yells of its follow beasts. Dread seers were they of the burthen of the atmosphere, and wild prophets of the wrath to come!

"Then there rose on high the universal shrieks of women; the men stared at each other, but were dumb. At that moment they felt the earth shake beneath their feet; the walls of the theatre trembled; and beyond, in the distance, they heard the crash of falling roofs; an instant more, and the mountain cloud seemed to roll towards them, dark and rapid, like a torrent; at the same time, it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashes, mixed with vast fragments of burning stone! Over the crushing vines,--over the desolate streets,--over the amphitheatre itself,--far and wide,--with many a mighty splash in the agitated sea,--fell that awful shower!

"No longer thought the crowd of justice or of Arbaces; safety for themselves was their sole thought. Each turned to fly--each dashing, pressing, crushing against the other. Trampling recklessly over the fallen,--amid groans, and oaths, and prayers, and sudden shrieks, the enormous crowd vomited itself forth through the numerous passages. Whither should they fly?"

Now let us present the description, given in 'The Last _Night_ of Pompeii,' of the horrors that succeeded the scene of the games:

"Awed, yet untrembling, Pansa calm replied, 'Ye hear no thunder--but Destruction's howl! Ye see no lightning--but the lava glare Of desolation sweeping o'er your pride! Death is beneath, around, above, within All who exult to inflict it on my heart, And ye must meet it, fly when, where ye will, For in the madness of your cruelties Ye have delayed till every hope is dead. Let the doom come! our faiths will soon be tried. Gigantic spectres from their shadowy thrones, With ghastly smiles to welcome ye, arise. The Pharaohs and Ptolemies uplift Their glimmering sceptres o'er ye--bidding all Bare their dark bosoms to the Omniscient God: And every strange and horrid mythos waits To fold ye in the terrors of its dreams.'"

"Like an earthshadowing cypress, o'er the skies Lifting its labyrinth of leaves, the boughs Of molten brass, the giant trunk of flame, The breath of the volcano's Titan heart Hung in the heavens; and every maddened pulse Of the vast mountain's earthquake bosom hurled Its vengeance on the earth that gasped beneath."

"From every cell shrieks burst; hyenas cried Like lost child stricken in its loneliness: The giant elephant with matchless strength Struggled against the portal of his tomb, And groaned and panted; and the leopard's yell And tiger's growl with all surrounding cries Of human horror mingled; and in air, Spotting the lurid heavens and waiting prey, The evil birds of carnage hung and watched." {249}

"Vesuvius answered: from its pinnacles Clouds of farflashing cinders, lava showers, And seas drank up by the abyss of fire To be hurled forth in boiling cataracts, Like midnight mountains, wrapt in lightnings, fell."

"All awful sounds of heaven and earth met now; Darkness behind the sungod's chariot rolled, Shrouding destruction, save when volcan fires Lifted the folds to gaze on agony; And when a moment's terrible repose Fell on the deep convulsions, all could hear The toppling cliffs explode and crash below, While multitudinous waters from the sea In whirlpools through the channell'd mountain rocks Rushed, and with hisses like the damned's speech, Fell in the mighty furnace of the mount."

"Oh, then, the love of life! the struggling rush, The crushing conflict of escape! few, brief, And dire the words delirious fear spake now-- One thought, one action swayed the tossing crowd. All through the vomitories madly sprung, And mass on mass of trembling beings pressed, Gasping and goading, with the savageness That is the child of danger, like the waves Charybdis from his jagged rocks throws down, Mingled by fury--warring in their foam. Some swooned and were trod down by legion feet; Some cried for mercy to the unanswering gods; Some shrieked for parted friends forever lost; And some in passion's chaos, with the yells Of desperation did blaspheme the heavens; And some were still in utterness of woe. Yet all toiled on in trembling waves of life Along the subterranean corridors. Moments were centuries of doubt and dread! Each breathing obstacle a hated thing: Each trampled wretch, a footstool to o'erlook The foremost multitudes; and terror, now, Begat in all a maniac ruthlessness, For in the madness of their agonies Strong men cast down the feeble who delayed Their flight, and maidens on the stones were crushed," etc.

Let the reader compare each of these extracts with the other, and form his own opinion of Mr. Bulwer's great powers and originality. These very remarkable coincidences are followed by others not less extraordinary and worthy of commemoration:

"But suddenly a duller shade fell over the air. Instinctively he turned to the mountain, and behold! one of the two gigantic crests, into which the summit had been divided, rocked and wavered to and fro; and then, with a sound the mightiness of which no language can describe, it fell from the burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of fire, down the sides of the mountain! At the same instant gushed forth a volume of blackest smoke, rolling on, over air, sea, and earth."

"Bright and gigantic through the darkness, which closed around it like the walls of hell, the mountain shone--a pile of fire! Its summit seemed riven in two; or rather above its surface there seemed to rise two monster-shapes, each confronting each, as demons contending for a world. These were of one deep blood-red hue of fire, which lighted up the whole atmosphere far and wide; but _below_, the nether part of the mountain was still dark and shrouded,--save in three places, adown which flowed, serpentine and irregular, rivers of the molten lava. Darkly red through the profound gloom of their banks, they flowed slowly on, as towards the devoted city. Over the broadest there seemed to spring a cragged and stupendous arch, from which, as from the jaws of hell, gushed the sources of the sudden Phlegethon."

Among the Death Cries of Pompeii, as we imagined them, is the following lyric:

"It bursts! it bursts! and thousand thunders blent, From the deep heart of agonizing earth, Knell, shatter, crash along the firmament, And new hells peopled startle into birth. Vesuvius sunders! pyramids of fire From fathomless abysses blast the sky; E'en desolating Ruin doth expire, And mortal Death in woe immortal die. Torrents like lurid gore, Hurled from the gulf of horror, pour, Like legion fiends embattled to the spoil, And o'er the temple domes, And joy's ten thousand homes, Beneath the whirlwind hail and storm of ashes boil."

Again says Mr. Bulwer, who boasts that he has succeeded where all others have failed:

"In the pauses of the showers, you heard the rumbling of the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea; or, lower still, and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant mountain. Sometimes the cloud appeared to break from its solid mass, and, by the lightning, to assume quaint and vast mimicries of human or of monster-shapes, striding across the gloom, hustling one upon the other, and vanishing swiftly into the turbulent abyss of shade; so that, to the eyes and fancies of the affrighted wanderers, the unsubstantial vapors were as the bodily forms of gigantic foes,--the agents of terror and of death."

Is there nothing similar to the preceding quotation in this?

"Vesuvius poured its deluge forth, the sea Shuddered and sent unearthly voices up, The isles of beauty, by the fire and surge Shaken and withered, on the troubled waves Looked down like spirits blasted; and the land Of Italy's once paradise became The home of ruin--vineyard, grove and bower, Tree, shrub, fruit, blossom--love, life, light and hope, All vanishing beneath the fossil flood And storm of ashes from the cloven brow Of the dread mountain buried in horror down. The echoes of ten thousand agonies Arose from mount and shore, and some looked back Cursing, and more bewailing as they fled."

------------"what a horrid gleam is flung Along that face of madness, as it turns From sea to mountain, and the wild eyes burn With revelations of the unborn time! We may not linger--shelter earth denies-- The very heavens like a gehenna lour-- And ocean is our refuge--on--on--on!"

We have seen how remarkably the lions agreed on the impropriety of making an amphitheatric meal of the lovers; now it appears that the tiger, who should have eat the Christian, was of the same mind.

"At that moment a wild yell burst through the air; and thinking only of escape, whither it knew not, the terrible tiger of the African desert leaped among the throng, and hurried through its parted streams. And so came the earthquake, and so darkness once more fell over the earth!"

Is it not strange that we should have conceived something much like this, and explained the motive, too, of such unreasonable conduct in any wild beast starving?

"Nature's quick instinct, in most savage beasts, Prophesies danger ere man's thought awakes, And shrinks in fear from common savageness, Made gentle by its terror; thus, o'erawed E'en in his famine's fury by a Power Brute beings more than human oft adore, The Lion lay, his quivering paws outspread, His white teeth gnashing, till the crushing throngs Had passed the corridors; then, glaring up His eyes imbued with samiel light, he saw The crags and forests of the Appenines Gleaming far off, and with the exulting sense Of home and lone dominion, at a bound, He leapt the lofty palisades and sprung Along the spiral passages, with howls {250} Of horror, through the flying multitudes Flying to seek his lonely mountain lair."

We shall not protract this investigation, though many similar passages might be produced to confirm our assertion that Mr. Bulwer has appropriated our thoughts, and throughout wrought our descriptions into his story, and won great profit and fame from the robbery. Those who read his book, will readily find many descriptions closely resembling one of the last given in the poem, which we here reprint, and many references to ancient authors for facts which he derived from us.

"Meantime, charred corses in one sepulchre Of withering ashes lay, and voices rose, Fewer and fainter, and, each moment, groans Were hushed, and dead babes on dead bosoms lay, And lips were blasted into breathlessness Ere the death kiss was given, and spirits passed The ebbless, dark, mysterious waves, where dreams Hover and pulses throb and many a brain Swims wild with terrible desires to know The destinies of worlds that lie beyond. The thick air panted as in nature's death, And every breath was anguish; every face Was terror's image, where the soul looked forth, As looked, sometimes, far on the edge of heaven, A momentary star the tempest palled. From ghastlier lips now rose a wilder voice, As from a ruin'd sanctuary's gloom, Like savage winds from the Chorasmian waste Rushing, with sobs and suffocating screams," etc.

But, though we have been more highly honored by this last _chef d'oeuvre_ of the honorable Eugene Aram than any author within our knowledge, yet others are entitled to their property. Speaking of the skeleton of Arbaces, Bulwer says--

"The scull was of so remarkable a conformation, so boldly marked in its intellectual, as well as its worse physical developments, that it has excited the constant speculation of every itinerant believer in the theories of Spurzheim who has gazed upon that ruined _palace of the mind_. Still, after a lapse of eighteen centuries, the traveller may survey that _airy hall_, within whose cunning galleries and elaborate chambers, once thought, reasoned, dreamed, and sinned, the soul of Arbaces the Egyptian!"

But Byron said, long ago, in Childe Harold, when gazing on a skull:

"Yes, this was once ambition's _airy hall_, The dome of thought, _the palace of the soul_," etc.

And, once more, the fashionable Pelham moralizes: "and as the Earth from the Sun, so immortality drinks happiness from virtue, _which is the smile upon the face of God_."[12] This he italicises as one of his most wondrous original reflections--yet it may be found in the Diary of a Physician.[13]

[Footnote 12: Vol. ii. p. 196.]

[Footnote 13: In the story called 'A Young Man about Town,' we think.]

Mr. Bulwer is particularly conceited and arrogant with respect to his subject. He asserts that all others have failed in attempting to describe the destruction of Pompeii, and that, therefore, he will stand alone, the intellectual monarch of the Ruins. The candid and modest and original gentleman probably forgot 'Valerius' and Croly and Milman and Dr. Gray and ourself; but the productions of such persons can be of little consequence to such a Paul Clifford in letters and Mirabeau in morals.

Mr. Bulwer, likewise, is ostentatious of his learning, and he quotes from ancient authors with an air of infinite self-complacency, though his citations had been conveniently collected, a _century_ since, in the Archæologia Græca of Archbishop Potter! These volumes now lie before us, and there may all his erudition be found within a very accessible compass. His theological knowledge or deistical design, we know not which, is not more profound or canonical; for he makes his Christian Olinthus say, that "eighty years ago," that is from the birth of Christ, "there was no assurance to man of God or of a certain or definite future beyond the grave"!!

We have now done with Mr. Bulwer, his immoralities, and his plagiarisms. We have sought to be very brief in our exposition, and, for the first time that we ever expressed such a desire, we request the literary periodicals, with which we exchange, to reprint this article.

* * * * *

VISITS AND SKETCHES, at Home and Abroad. By Mrs. Jamieson, author of the "Characteristics of Women," &c. in 2 vols. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1834.

We intended to notice these interesting volumes sooner, and recommend them to our readers as highly entertaining and instructive. Mrs. Jamieson's style, though not faultless, is very attractive; and certainly as a female writer, she is hardly surpassed in vigor and richness. The _first_ volume is principally devoted to sketches of art, literature and character, comprising _Memoranda_ at Munich, Nuremburg and Dresden. It also contains a vivid account of the celebrated Bess of _Hardwicke_, the _old_ Countess of Shrewsbury,--a visit to _Althorpe_, the ancient seat of the Spencers--and eloquent sketches of the private and dramatic life of _Mrs. Siddons_, and of _Fanny Kemble_. The _second_ volume opens with three interesting stories,--the _False One_, a pathetic oriental tale, a thousand times superior to Vathek,--_Halloran the Pedlar_, and the _Indian Mother_. It also contains a very amusing _drama for little actors_,--and concludes with the _Diary of an Enuyeé_, a performance of much and deserved celebrity. We shall make occasional selections from this work, for the benefit of such of our readers as have no opportunity of seeing the volumes themselves. For the present, we have transferred to our pages the "Indian Mother," a most affecting story founded on a striking incident related by Humboldt. The scene being laid in South America, the reader will be struck with the strong impressions made on Mrs. Jamieson's mind of that magnificent country, through the medium of description alone.

* * * * *

POEMS, by William Cullen Bryant. Boston: Russell, Odiorne & Metcalfe. 1834.

This new and beautiful edition of Mr. Bryant's poems has undergone the author's correction, and contains some pieces which have never before appeared in print. As the elegant china cup from which we sip the fragrant imperial, imparts to it a finer flavor, so the pure white paper and excellent typography of the volume before us, will give a richer lustre to the gems of Mr. Bryant's genius. Not that the value of the diamond is really enhanced by the casket which contains it, but so it is that the majority of mortals are governed by _appearances_; and even a dull tale will appear respectable in the pages of a hot pressed and gilt bound London annual. In justice to Mr. Bryant however, and to ourselves, we will state that our first {251} impressions of his great intellectual power--of his deep and sacred communings with the world of poetry--were derived from a very indifferent edition of his writings, printed with bad type, on a worse paper. Mr. Bryant is well known to the American public as a poet of uncommon strength and genius; and even on the other side of the Atlantic, a son of the distinguished Roscoe, who published a volume of American poetry, pronounced him the first among his equals. Like Halleck, however, and some others of scarcely inferior celebrity,--his muse has languished probably for want of that due encouragement, which to our shame as a nation be it spoken, has never been awarded to that department of native literature. Mr. Bryant, we believe, finding that Parnassus was not so productive a soil as the field of politics, has connected himself with a distinguished partizan newspaper in the city of New York. His bitter regrets at the frowns of an unpoetical public, and yet his unavailing efforts to divorce himself from the ever living and surrounding objects of inspiration are beautifully alluded to in the following lines:

I broke the spell that held me long, The dear, dear witchery of song. I said the poet's idle lore Shall waste my prime of years no more, For poetry though heavenly born, Consorts with poverty and scorn.

I broke the spell--nor deemed its power Could fetter me another hour. Ah, thoughtless! how could I forget Its causes were around me yet? For wheresoe'er I look'd, the while, Was nature's everlasting smile.

Still came and lingered on my sight Of flowers and streams the bloom and light, And glory of the stars and sun;-- And these and poetry are _one_. They, ere the world had held me long, Recalled me to the love of song.

* * * * *

LITTELL'S MUSEUM of Foreign Literature, Science and Arts. No. 151. Jan. 1835. A. Waldie. Philadelphia.

This valuable periodical has maintained a high reputation and extensive circulation for more than twelve years. The January number (1835) may be considered a new era in its history. The size of its sheet is enlarged, its type and paper are improved, and its contents display more richness and variety than usual. The plan of the "Museum" is certainly most excellent. It is to select and republish from all the British periodicals of high reputation, every thing which is either of _present_ or _permanent_ value, omitting the vast mass of matter which is local to Great Britain or not interesting to an American reader. It is in fact, a labor-saving machine, by which all the choicest flowers will be culled from British publications and transplanted in our own soil, leaving the weeds and trash on the other side of the Atlantic. We heartily wish Mr. Littell and his co-laborers increased success, and we shall occasionally draw upon his interesting paper for the use of the "Messenger." The diffusion of fine writing from abroad, will improve the taste and invigorate the efforts of our own countrymen.

NEW PAPER.

_The Southern Churchman_, edited by the Rev. William F. Lee, and published weekly in this city, has reached its fifth number. Almost every christian denomination among us, had the benefit of a paper devoted to its own peculiar interests, except the Episcopalians, until Mr. Lee commenced the publication of the Churchman. There can be no doubt of its success, under the management of an editor of Mr. Lee's distinguished talents and piety.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DANDYISM.

MR. WHITE:--The Optimists assert that this little world of ours, is continually and most marvellously improving in every thing. But, begging their pardon, I humbly conceive that this is claiming rather too much for its onward march towards perfectibility. Many notable instances might be adduced to prove that it is so; but I will go no further for such proof, than to contrast the Dandyism of the present age with that of the olden time. This term (by the way) although of modern coinage, is but a new name for an old thing. So old indeed, that, like the common law, it may be traced back to a period beyond which "the memory of man runneth not to the contrary." From the multitude of its votaries and the indefatigable diligence with which it has always been practised, it may justly be ranked among the arts; although we must admit it to be one of no very difficult attainment by any whose taste leads them to prefer general contempt to universal esteem.

The great aim of this art being to mar effectually whatever beauty either of person or countenance nature has bestowed on us, the task would seem to be one of very easy accomplishment for most men. A simple disfigurement therefore, would be no indication of genius, since the visages upon which the laudable experiment is most frequently tried, require very little aggravation to effect the object. But an entire metamorphosis in the appearance of the whole animal, or at least such a change as to render both its genus and species doubtful, being the grand desideratum; it is _here_ that the modern Dandies have betrayed a most woful and egregious poverty of invention, compared to those of former times. Of this I shall presently offer indisputable testimony.

The Dandies of our day however, may justly claim the palm of superiority, at least in _one_ particular; I mean, quo ad, _the head_, both inside and out: for, what with internal emptiness and external whiskers and mustaches, many have contrived to render not only the features of the face "perfectly unintelligible," (if I may borrow a phrase from the Pugilists,) but to disprove the long admitted dictum of philosophy, that there is no such thing in all nature as a vacuum. An instance of this most successful _face-marring_ has lately fallen under my own observation, which I will endeavor to describe, although in utter despair of doing justice to the original.

Many months ago, being in a much crowded public room, I was not a little startled by the sudden appearance of a most fantastic, grim looking biped moving among the crowd, which I first took for one of those strange animals then showing about the country, that {252} perhaps had escaped from his keepers. A more deliberate view, however, from a corner into which I had taken care to ensconce myself to keep out of harm's way, soon satisfied me that it was nothing more formidable than one of those harmless burlesques of manhood called Dandies, that so much resemble the Simia genus, as hardly to be distinguished from them. It had two large ropes (as they appeared to be) of tawny colored hair, hanging out from between the collar and the cheek bones, and reaching down some seven or eight inches over the breast. These I at first supposed might be the skins of a water dog's fore legs, forming the ends of some new fashioned comforter to keep the neck and cheeks warm in cold weather, to which these bipeds are particularly sensitive. But upon diligent inquiry among several, who seemed to be as much struck as myself with so uncommon and apparently formidable a looking animal moving upon two legs, instead of four, as might more reasonably have been expected, we were informed that these tawny appendages, in regard to which I had made such an egregious mistake, actually consisted of the united hairs of the throat and cheeks, so elongated by indefatigable culture, as to produce the grotesque appearance that had so strongly excited the wonderment of us all. The whole was surmounted by a pair of mustaches of the same tanned-leather color; which so completely obscured the countenance, that not a particle of it was discernible but the two lack-lustre eyes; and _the nose_, like a sort of watch-tower overtopping the wilderness of shaggy hair by which it was surrounded.

It is the recollection of this never to be forgotten figure of an entire stranger, seen for the first and probably the last time in my life, which induced me to claim for the Dandyism of the present day, a decided superiority over that of the by-gone times; at least so far as the disfigurement of the countenance can go towards the establishment of so enviable a claim. That it is indisputable, I think certain; for neither in the pictures nor histories of past ages which have reached us, can any thing be found at all comparable to what I have just endeavored to describe, but in language so inadequate, that I am almost ashamed to send you this communication.

The bodily disfigurements of our modern Dandies having a great degree of sameness in them, and being matters of general notoriety, 'tis needless to particularise them. But to give you an opportunity of judging whether I have unjustly charged them with poverty of invention, when compared with their prototypes of the olden time, I beg leave to present you with the description of an English Dandy of the fourteenth century. It is taken from Dr. Henry's History of England, and he quotes Camden, Chaucer, and Street, as his authorities.

"He wore long-pointed shoes, called _crackowes_ the upper parts of which were cut in imitation of a church-window. The points of these were fastened to his knees by gold or silver chains. He had hose of one color on one leg, and of another color on the other; short breeches which did not reach to the middle of his thighs, and disclosed the shape completely; a coat, one half white, and the other half black or blue; a long beard; a silk hood buttoned under his chin, embroidered with grotesque figures of animals, dancing men, &c. and sometimes ornamented with gold, silver, and precious stones. This dress, which was the very top of the mode in the reign of Edward the Third, appeared so ridiculous to the Scots, (who probably could not afford to be such egregious fops,) that they made the following satirical verses upon it:

"Long beards hirtiless, Peynted whoods witless, Gay coats gracelies, Maketh England thriftlies."

I would add to the above what the grave Doctor says of the fashionable ladies of those times; but being a great friend to the "womankind," as that queer, caustic old Batchelor Monkbarns used to call them, I forbear to run the risk of their displeasure, by disparaging their sex so much as I should be compelled to do, were I to repeat the Doctor's words. And now, my good sir, confidently trusting that you yourself, as well as your readers, will admit the irrefutable character of the proofs which I have adduced to establish my assertions, I bid you farewell, and remain

Your friend and constant reader,

OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.

P. S. For the satisfaction of yourself and readers, who might otherwise suspect me of malevolence towards some individual, (of which I know myself to be incapable,) I beg leave to assure you that, although the portrait which I have endeavored to sketch is not a fancy piece, my sole design in presenting it is _general_, not particular. It is to aid, as far as I possibly can, in banishing from our land a fashion, not only preposterous, absurd and filthy in the highest degree, but actually disgraceful to rational creatures. Let it go back to the savage Cossacks, from whom 'tis said to be borrowed, and no longer beastify (if I may coin such a word,) the appearance of the rising generation.

From the Augusta (Ga.) Sentinel, Jan. 15.

VARIETY.

_To the Editor of the States Rights Sentinel:_

SIR:--Some friends, whose opinions are entitled to deference, deem it incumbent on me to avow, or disavow the authorship of a dozen couplets, lately become a matter of grave and high controversy. Though supposed for twenty years past to be mine, they have recently been ascribed, by sundry acute critics, first to O'KELLY, and then to ALCÆUS. Disdaining, heretofore, to notice such charges of plagiarism, from a perfect confidence in the ultimate power of TRUTH, and a contempt for this petty species of annoyance, my silence is now broken, only in compliance with the wishes of those whom I esteem. Valuing these rhymes very differently from others, it becomes me, on so unimportant a subject, merely to avow myself the author. The lines in question, then, good or bad, are mine alone; neither Alcæus nor O'Kelly has the smallest right to them. Originally intended as a part of a longer poem, which, like the life of him for whose sake I projected it, was broken off, unfinished; they were published without my knowledge or consent, and, however the contrary may have been assumed, contain no personal allusions. Whatever _my_ life may be like, whether roses or thorns, the public is in no danger of being troubled with my confidence.

I am, sir, very respectfully, your obedient, humble servant,

RICHARD HENRY WILDE.

_Washington, 31st Dec. 1834_.

* * * * * {253}

[Communicated for the Southern Literary Messenger.]

The first advertisement of "WALTON'S ANGLER," appeared in "Captain Wharton's Almanacks" as Old Lily in his Life and Times calls them.

It runs thus: "There is published a Booke of eighteen pence price called the Compleat Angler, or the contemplative man's recreation; being a discourse of Fish and Fishing, not unworthie the perusall.

"Sold by Richard Marriott in St. Dunstan's Church Yard Fleet Street. 1653.

"Motto. 'And Simon Peter saith unto them, I go a fishing: they say unto him we also go with thee.'--_John_ xxi. & 3."

* * * * *

SHAKE-SPEARE.

The following, from an old paper, will no doubt interest some of our readers.

"We have lying before us a volume of Shakspeare, in a tolerable state of preservation, composed of several of his plays, published at London, in pamphlets, at different periods during his lifetime, probably from 1609 to 1612; and it is more than probable that the author superintended their publication in person. We think this edition will settle many points as to the true reading, in cases at present in dispute, and also give the correct spelling of the name of the immortal poet, which is Shake-speare, and divided in the same manner as above. The first is a part of the tragedy of Henry VI. entitled 'The Contention of the Two famous Houses of Yorke and Lancaster.'"

The next is,

"The TRAGEDIE of King RICHARD the Third. CONTAINING His treacherous Plots against his Brother _Clarence_: the pittifull murther of his innocent Nephewes: his tyrannicall Vsurpation: with the whole Course of his detested Life, and most deserved Death. As it has beene lately acted by the Kings Majesties Servants. Newly augmented, by William SHAKE-SPEARE. LONDON, Printed by _Thomas Creede_, and are to be sold by _Mathew Lawe_ dwelling in _Pauls_ Church-yard, at the Signe of the _Foxe_, 1612."

The third is quaintly entitled,

"THE MOST LAMENTABLE TRAGEDIE OF TITUS ANDRONICUS. As it hath svndry Times beene plaide by the KINGS MASTIES Seruants.--LONDON, Printed for _Eedward White_, and are to be sold at his Shoppe, nere the little North Dore of _Pauls_, at the Signe of the _Gun_. 1611."

The last is,

"THE FAMOUS HISTORIE OF TROYLUS _and_ CRESSEID, Excellently expressing The Beginning of their LOUES, WITH THE Conceited Wooing of PANDARUS Prince of _Licia_, WRITTEN BY WILLIAM SHAKE-SPEARE. LONDON, Imprinted by _G. Eld_, for _R. Benian_ and _H. Walley_, and are to be sold at the _Spred Eagle_, in _Paules Church yeard_, ouer against the great North Doore. 1609."

The address to the reader of this play, has too much originality and merit to omit.

"A neur writer, to an euer reader.

"Newes.

"ETERNALL reader, you haue heere a new play, neuer stal'd with the stage, neuer clapperclawd with the palmes of the vulger, and yet passing full of the palme comicall; for it is a birth of your braine, that neuer vnder-tooke any thing commicall, vainely; and were but the vaine names of commedies, changde for the titles of commedities or of playes for pleas; you should see all those grand censors, that now stile them such vanities, flock to them for the main grace of their grauities: especially this authors commedies, that are so fram'd to the life, that they serve for the most common commentaries, of all the actions of our lives, showing such a dexteritie, and power of witte, that the most displeased with playes, are pleased with his commedies. And all such dull and heauy-witted worldlings, as were never capable of the witte of a commedie, comming by report of them to his representations, have found that witte there, that they never found in themselves, and haue parted better wittied than they came; feeling an edge of witte set vpon them, more than euer they dreamed they had braine to grinde it on. So much and such savored salt of wittee is in his commedies, that they seeme (for their height of pleasure) to be borne in that sea that brought forth Venus. Amongst all there is none more witte then this: and had I time I would comment upon it, though I know it needs not, (for so much as will make you think your testerne well bestowed) but for so much worth, as euen poore I know to be stuft in it. It deserves such a labour, as well as the best commedy in Terence or Plautus. And beleeue this, that when hee is gone, and his commedies out of sale, you will scramble for them, and set vp a new English inquisition. Take this for a warning, and at the perill of your pleasures losse, and judgments, refuse not, nor like this the lesse, for not being suelied, with the smoaky breath of the multitude; but thanke fortune for the scape it hath made amongst you. Since by the grand possessors wills I beleeue you should haue prayed for them rather then been prayd. And so I leaue all such to bee prayd for (for the state of their wits healths) that will not praise it. Vale."

* * * * *

From the Albion.

One of the enormities of Protestantism, which shocks the Papists, is the marrying of our Clergy. What is to be said of the Roman Catholic Bishop England, who, going on a foreign mission, takes out with him _four nuns_?--

The English Bishop takes one wife, The Papist says, "O fie!" The Roman Catholic takes out four, And no man asks him, why?

Having shown this sprightly contribution to our Roman Catholic sub-editor, he begs leave to offer an explanation of the seeming inconsistency:--

To vindicate the Papist's life, See how the thing is done; The Protestant alone takes _wife_, The Catholic takes _nun_.

* * * * *

A late number of Frazer's Magazine contains an elaborate review of "Roberts' Life and Correspondence of Hannah Moore," in which are interspersed much of the keen sarcasm and provoking levity for which that periodical is distinguished. The reviewer concludes as follows: "For Mrs. Moore we have a high regard, as a staunch tory and good churchwoman, though of the so-called evangelical clique. She was however practical in her piety; and this is the sure test of sincerity. Be her name therefore honored! She {254} was an extraordinary individual, and would have been such had she not been an authoress. We esteem her personal character far above her literary. In the one she was truly great, in the other respectable and prosperous. To sum up all, she was a practically wise and prudent woman; nevertheless her prudence was an overmatch for her wisdom. To perfection she wanted two grave requisites--greater intuitive knowledge, and a _happy husband_. The first she derived at second hand and from shallow streams; the last she avoided altogether. She thus escaped one great trial; but they who retreat from battle have no claim to the victor's wealth."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SONG.

_Air_--"The Lass of Peatie's Mill."

How sweet it is to rove Through vallies rich and wide, Or with a friend we love O'er the still waves to glide! 'Tis sweet to see the day Withdraw her golden car, And watch the glimmering ray Of Eve's first silver star!

'Tis sweet to hail the dawn, In blushes ever new-- And mark the young, fleet fawn, Brush off the crystal dew! But sweeter far than Eve Or early Morning's prime, Are smiles that ne'er deceive, And love unchanged by time!

Tho' fickle fortune frown, And wealth withhold her store, What is a jewelled crown? A bauble soon no more. But love, pure love, is gold Which nothing can consume; And smiles that ne'er grow cold, Are flowers of fadeless bloom!

E. A. S.

EDITORIAL REMARKS.

We send forth our herald a fifth time, with renewed confidence in the kind disposition of our patrons to give it a glad welcome,--to visit its imperfections with sparing censure, and to regard with favor whatever merits it may possess, in sympathy for its Southern origin, and the probable advantages involved in its final success. We are much cheered by the somewhat unexpected, and perhaps unmerited plaudits of a large portion of the periodical press, and especially that part of it which has heretofore enjoyed a kind of literary monopoly--but which generously merges every thing like a feeling of rivalry in the more honorable and patriotic sentiment of devotion to the great cause of American literature. From our northern and eastern friends indeed we have received more complimentary notices than from any of our southern brethren without the limits of our own state. We say this not in a reproachful spirit to our kindred, but in a somewhat sad conviction of mind, that we who live on the sunny side of Mason's and Dixon's line, are not yet sufficiently inspired with a sense of the importance of maintaining our just rights, or rather our proper representation in the republic of letters.

With the almost unbroken voice of public approbation to cheer us along, we have nevertheless heard of a few whose tastes are so exquisitely refined that they cannot relish our simple fare. We are sorry, very sorry indeed, that they will not be pleased; and in proof of the sincerity of our grief, we hereby invite these accomplished gentlemen to _improve_ our pages by contributions from their own pens. We hold the opinion that they who undertake to denounce so boldly, ought to be prepared to back their judgments by their own performances.

We continue the original and excellent "_Sketches of the History and Present Condition of Tripoli, &c._" They increase in interest to an American reader, as they approach the period which records the hostile collisions of the United States with those formidable powers. The valor of Decatur, and self-immolation of Somers, Wadsworth and Israel, at the commencement of the present century, are still fresh in the memory of thousands.

The authors of the original articles "_On the Study of the Latin and Greek Classics_," and "_Memory--an Allegory_," evince no inconsiderable share of intellectual power. To the former especially we may be excused for remarking that, more simplicity in style would not detract from the vigor and originality of his thoughts. There are some persons who either from choice or the peculiar character of their minds, love to dress their sentiments in quaint and obscure diction, but _simplicity_ is at last the transparent medium which reflects more strongly and clearly the force and brilliancy of the understanding.

The able author of the "_Note to Blackstone's Commentaries_," is entitled to be heard, even on a subject of such peculiar delicacy--a subject upon which it is natural that the best heads and purest hearts should essentially differ. Whilst we entirely concur with him that slavery as a political or social institution is a matter exclusively of our own concern--as much so as the laws which govern the distribution of property,--we must be permitted to dissent from the opinion that it is either a moral or political benefit. We regard it on the contrary as a great evil, which society will sooner or later find it not only its interest to remove or mitigate, but will seek its gradual abolition or amelioration, under the influence of those high obligations imposed by an enlightened christian morality. These are our honest sentiments, which we do not espouse however in derogation of the equally honest convictions of other minds.

The "_Letters from a Sister_," the three first of which appear in the present number, and which shall be regularly continued, will be read with interest, notwithstanding the numerous diaries and epistles which treat upon the same subjects.

We entertained some doubt about the admission of "_The Doom_" into our columns, not because of any inferiority in the style and composition, but because of the revolting character of the story. The writer, with apparent sincerity, states it to be founded upon actual occurrences; but we confess that it seems to us a wild and incredible fiction. True or false however, we derive from it this sound and wholesome moral,--that sooner or later wickedness will find its just {255} reward,--and that of all the passions which ravage the heart and destroy the peace of society, there is none more detestable than revenge. The hero of the tale, who is described by his friend the writer, as "a light hearted and joyous fellow," was in truth a remorseless fiend; compared with whom Iago and Zanga were personifications of virtue; nor does the idle phantasy of a supernatural vision, or the pretended influence of fatalism, palliate the deep enormity of his crime. If the writer, who assumes the signature of "Benedict," really had such a friend, he should have drawn the mantle of oblivion over his dark frailties, and never have recorded them with seeming approbation. He should have avoided too, certain profane and unchaste allusions in his manuscript, which we have been obliged to suppress; for we scarcely deem it necessary to repeat that the "Messenger" shall not be the vehicle of sentiments at war with the interests of virtue and sound morals--the only true and solid foundation of human happiness.

We invite attention to the third letter from New England, by a Virginian,--whose talents, learning, and acute observation of men and things, and whose easy style of composition, qualify him in a high degree for the task of a tourist.

The paper from our friend "_Oliver Oldschool_" will we hope be read by the Dandies, if such creatures ever do read any thing calculated to produce improvement either in mind or morals.

The _selected_ prose articles in this number will, we doubt not, be read with pleasure and interest. The article on "_American Literature_," and the impediments which retard its progress, is entitled to a patient and deliberate reading. Its sentiments and language, if they should be so unfortunate as not to command, at least deserve attention. The author has happily combined solidity of argument with grace and beauty in composition.

As we intend from this time forward to be less indulgent than heretofore to our poetical contributors, so we hope that the specimens now presented, if not all of equal merit, have at least enough to save them from censure. It is not expected indeed that CRITICISM will be either silent or forbearing; for we have never been so fortunate as to light upon any production, in prose or verse, in which its searching and microscopic eye might not detect some slight blemishes.

It will be perceived that we are again favored with a piece from the pen of Mr. Wilde; and we seize this opportunity of expressing the great pleasure we feel in transferring to our pages (under the head of "Variety") the letter of that gentleman, in which he assumes explicitly the sole authorship of those beautiful lines, which have been alike claimed for an ancient Greek bard and a modern Irish poet. The enemies of Mr. Wilde's literary reputation will now recant their unmerited charge of plagiarism, and one of the most exquisite poems which the genius of our country has produced will remain the undisputed property of its owner.

The author of "_A Song of the Seasons_," who assumes the quaint cognomen of "Zarry Zyle," (we wish he had chosen some other,) is unquestionably a youth of talent, and acute perception of all those minute, lovely and delicate objects, both in the natural and moral world, which can only be discerned by minds of superior mould. We beg leave however to suggest for consideration, whether he does not take too much pains to appear obscure--whether he does not too studiously delight in dressing up his thoughts in that mysterious and eccentric form of expression, which has detracted so much from the usefulness and popularity of men of genius. But for this fault, Coleridge, we doubt not would have ranked among the greatest bards of the present age. As it is, his reputation is only seen through the dim shadows of twilight--it does not blaze with the splendor of open day. Simplicity, unaffected simplicity, is the great rule in composition, as it is in the manners and conduct of life; and he who departs from it, does so at the hazard of not securing the just reward of his merits.

VIRGINIA HISTORICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY.

The Anniversary Meeting of this Society was held on the 3d and 4th Feb. 1835, in the Hall of the House of Delegates. The first evening was exclusively devoted to the transaction of business. On the second evening a learned, elaborate and elegant address was delivered by Professor Tucker of the University, to a numerous auditory, and was listened to with great attention. Mr. Maxwell of Norfolk presented to the Society the identical pistol with which Captain John Smith killed the Turk Grualgo, at the siege of Regal; and in his peculiarly happy manner, dilated upon the singular good fortune and heroic qualities of that extraordinary man. We shall speak of this valuable relic of antiquity, and of the traditional history upon which the fact of its identity rests, more particularly, in the February number. It is with great pleasure that we announce to our patrons that the Proprietor of the "Messenger" is authorised, by a resolution of the Society, to insert from time to time in his paper, under the direction of the standing committee, such portions of the manuscripts, &c. belonging to the Society, as the committee may select for publication. In our next number we hope to avail ourselves of this privilege--and it shall be our endeavor to urge the claims of the Society to the general attention and earnest regard of the public.

This form of our _January_ number not having gone to press until _February_, has enabled us to pen the above.

EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF CORRESPONDENTS.

I send you these lines[1] without the writer's name. It is one of many instances in proof of what I have long believed, that selections might be made from the unpublished writings of Virginians, composing a volume of which any country might be proud. The writer of the above throws off such scraps at idle times, without effort, and without pretension. With so much of the inspiration of poetry, he has nothing of its madness, and will never consent to be known to the world as an author.

[Footnote 1: "Beauty without Loveliness." See article above.]

So it is in other branches of literature. A man who has sense enough to write a good book, very often has too much sense to publish it. In countries where the division of labor has made literature a separate trade, necessity often overrules the judgment of the writer, forcing him to publish against his will--_se invito_ as well as _invita Minerva_. No such necessity exists here, and hence, among us, few publish, but those who should be perpetually injoined the use of pen and ink. Thank {256} God, the literary reputation of Virginia has never suffered much by such scribblers. We have a few such, but their writings were too bad to do much harm; they never crossed the State line.

Might you not take a hint from this consideration? The merit of your publication will give a wide circulation to all that it contains. Are you not then bound to be chary in your selections, and not lend your wings to bear to distant lands the weak twitterings or the tuneless chatter of the Pie and Sparrow kinds? The nightingale does not pour her note until their noise is stilled. Print only for poets, and poets will write for you. This is the true solution of the difficulty you have so strongly stated in your last number.

It is not in Virginia alone, that the writings which are permitted to see the light afford an inadequate idea of the literary resources of the country. It is not fair to judge of the poetical talents of our northern neighbors by the labored dulness of a Barlow; or by the writings of a certain literary cabal, which is trying to push its members into notice by mutual puffing and quotation. Halleck is not one of the firm; and Halleck is a true poet. But his writings first came out anonymously; and it is the blaze of his genius which has betrayed him to the public eye. The darkness in which it shrouds itself, distinguishes it from all that shines only by reflected light. Men hunt for diamonds in the night.

Even in England, where the trade of literature embraces writers of a very high order, I am not sure that the very best minds are devoted to it. Some of the finest poetry in the language was found among the manuscripts of Judge Blackstone. Nobody knew that Charles Fox wrote poetry until after his death. But he did, and such as no writer need have blushed to own.

Among the caprices of the "_genus irritabile vatum_," is that of hiding their talents. Some, from sheer spleen, will not write. John Randolph used to say that he would go to his grave "guiltless of rhyme." Yet _he talked poetry_ from morning till night.

As I am out a purveyor for your journal, and not a contributor, I am bound to see that they, from whose writings I pilfer, come by no wrong. I must therefore enter a complaint on behalf of the friend whose letter I sent you, describing a scene on the Mississippi. His "clumps" of trees your compositor has cut down to "stumps." Can you wonder that your neighbor (_contemporary_ I believe is the word in fashion,) thought his letter but "_so so_?" He was no more bound to suppose that this was a misprint, than to reflect that a traveller, writing from the wilds of Missouri to a friend, might innocently make an unimportant mistake in quoting from a book that perhaps never crossed the Mississippi. But though he has to bear the brunt of the censure, it should in justice fall on you or me. The thing was well enough as a letter. The fault was in publishing it. But I shall attempt no defence. I thought it but "so so-ish" when I sent it to you, and therefore I said so. It was a plain unvarnished description, which had enabled me to see very distinctly what was well worth seeing, and I wished others to see it too. Had the composition been of a different character--had the painter thrust _himself_ between the spectator and his picture, or so glossed it over that every object was lost in undistinguished glare, I should have given it to the public eye by other means. I should certainly not have defaced with it your modest pages. It surely would not be hard to fix on some periodical in which any sort of tinsel would be welcome, and find itself in congenial company. Such is the proper receptacle for all the trumpery wares of frothy declamation, incongruous metaphor, false eloquence and flippant wit, which make up what is commonly called fine writing. There, in the gay confusion of glass bead and gewgaw, any bauble, however worthless, finds its place, escaping censure by escaping notice.

To take more shame to myself, I acknowledge that the misquotation struck me as I copied the letter. But the turn of the passage did not admit of its correction; and I did not think it worth while to append a note to tell what every body knows, and no one needs to know.

But I shall do better in future. While you continue to publish what I send you, I shall continue to cater for you. In doing this, I shall henceforth cross the t's and dot the i's in my copies, although this should have been omitted in the original. "I am wae to think" indeed, as Burns says, what small critics would do for want of such mistakes. A link in nature's chain (the last and lowest indeed) would be lost. The _auceps syllabarum_ "the word catcher that lives on syllables" would be starved out. The race would be extinct for want of food. The king of these insects bears among naturalists the formidable name of the _dragon fly_. The boys call him the _musquito hawk_. He shall have no more food from me. Your friend,

X. Y.

* * * * *

FROM EASTERN VIRGINIA.

... I yesterday sent you some lines composed "Lang Syne," and written from memory.... Do not print these things, I beseech you, unless you like them. At the hazard of rapping my own knuckles, I shall quarrel with you if you publish much trash. You may lose a subscriber by rejecting it; but you will gain ten by every number you issue in which every article is good. Horace tells us that neither gods nor men can endure middling poetry. And what shall be said of that which is not even middling? Let us take an example. Byron's name is sacred to the muses. No man whose lips are not touched with the fire of inspiration should be allowed to use it. Yet we have him shown up, and words put into his mouth in many a piece, the writers of which cannot even count their _feet_.

* * * * *

FROM NORTH CAROLINA.

"I was much delighted with the third number of the Messenger. It was really a fountain of pleasure to me, and I shall never forget the feelings which I experienced on reading the story entitled '_My Classmates_.' I must believe that there cannot be any thing than the most flattering hopes and prospects of your success in your truly laudable--your truly patriotic undertaking. The people of Virginia, if none others, will support its cause. They cannot--no, they will not--they have too much love for the honor of Virginia, to let the '_Messenger_' of science and literature suffer for the want of their most liberal patronage. But you are not laboring for Virginia alone: it is for the south--the _whole_ south; and might I not add, for the whole country? For who doubts but that the Messenger is destined to call into active exertion the genius of the south? And who would deny but the south has genius which would do honor to the _whole_ country in any walk? I shall never believe but that the land which produced a Henry, a Washington, a Marshall, a Madison and Monroe, can also under favorable auspices, produce a Cooper, Irving, Paulding, or _any man_. '_Go ahead_,' as David Crockett says, '_since you are right_.' I send you a subscriber."

* * * * *

FROM A DISTINGUISHED NORTHERN LADY.

"We are highly pleased with the Messenger. Its execution in the _mechanical department_, is peculiarly neat; I see no periodical, that in this point, will compare with it. And its contents are so diversified, that there must be something adapted to almost every taste--that is--every taste that has its foundation in correct principles."

TO CORRESPONDENTS, CONTRIBUTORS, &C.

We have on hand a variety of articles in prose and verse, which we shall dispose of as soon as possible. Some of these favors are of decided, and some of equivocal merit. Others are so illegibly written, that it passes our skill to decipher them.

{257}

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.] RICHMOND, FEBRUARY, 1835. [NO. 6.

T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.

VIRGINIA HISTORICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY.

We promised to present in our present number a more detailed account of the proceedings of the late anniversary meeting of this valuable institution, which we trust is destined to retrieve the character of our state from the charge of long indifference to the vast resources it contains, both in materials for scientific research and in memorials of its past civil and political history. We should sincerely lament if so noble an effort to diffuse throughout the country a taste for science and elegant literature, should fail for want of encouragement, but we think we perceive a growing conviction of its importance, and an increasing disposition to promote its objects. These objects, as declared in the constitution of the society, are "to discover, procure and preserve whatever may relate to the natural, civil and literary history of this state; and to patronize and advance all those sciences which have a direct tendency to promote the best interests of our citizens." What intelligent Virginian is there who does not feel inclined to co-operate in the attainment of so much good? Who does not desire that the strife and bitterness of politics should be allayed by the diffusion of a spirit which shall unite and harmonize the most discordant elements, and establish a point where all men of every sect and party may rally for the interests of their country, and forget the unhappy differences which distract and divide them. It is certainly an extraordinary fact that, with one honorable exception, no similar institution seems ever to have been established in Virginia, during the more than two centuries of its civilized existence. The exception stated is recorded by Gerardin, in his continuation of Burk's History. It was an association formed for literary and scientific purposes, as far back as the administration of Governor Fauquier, who was himself a lover and patron of learning; but it was principally indebted for its origin to Dr. Small, an able professor at William and Mary,--and afterwards among its members and most active friends, were enrolled the honored names of Jefferson and Wythe, John Page and the venerable Bishop Madison. The last gentleman was its secretary and curator, when the stirring and eventful scenes of the revolutionary war put a period to its existence.

The present society was organized in December, 1831, and there have been three anniversary meetings since, at each of which very able addresses were delivered. One only, (Professor Cushing's) has as yet been spread before the public; but we understand that the orations of Messrs. Maxwell and Tucker will also be published.

We stated in the last number of the Messenger that Mr. Maxwell presented to the society at its late meeting an ancient pistol, alleged on plausible authority to have been the property of Captain John Smith, the father of Virginia. We have not been able to learn the precise particulars of its history, but we understand there is no doubt that it was sent by a former Governor of Canada to General Washington as the property of Smith. It bears upon a silver ornament on its handle or butt, the initials J. S.; and in the form and shape of its barrel and some other peculiarities, it has undoubted marks of antiquity. There was another valuable relic presented to the society, through the standing committee, which deserves to be particularly mentioned. It is the _identical silver badge or medal furnished the King of the Potomac Indians_, under a law of the Colonial Assembly of Virginia, which passed in March 1661. See Hening's Statutes at Large, vol. 2, p. 142. This curious relic was found in the county of Caroline a year or two since, and presented to the society by W. G. Minor, Esq. of that county. On its face the words "Ye King of"--and on the reverse--"Patomeck," are engraved in the ancient orthography--and on both sides are rude devices, attesting the imperfect state of the arts at the period referred to.

The society has already collected many valuable mineral specimens and Indian antiquities--also various books and manuscripts,--a more particular account of which we shall spread before our readers in some of our future numbers. The trustees of the Richmond Academy have, we learn, assigned one of the rooms in the spacious building they have erected, for the uses of the society as a place of deposite and arrangement of its various acquisitions; and it is with much pleasure we perceive that the legislature, by a joint resolution, has directed the library committee to present to the society copies of such books, maps, &c. as belong to the library fund. These examples of liberality in our public functionaries, are proofs of the growing interest which is felt in the cause of science and literature.--James McDowell, Esq. of Rockbridge, has been selected to deliver the next anniversary address, and Professor Dew, of William and Mary, chosen alternate. The following gentlemen were appointed officers for the present year, to wit:

JOHN MARSHALL, _President_; PROFESSOR CUSHING, _first Vice President_; JUDGE CLOPTON, _second Vice President_; JAMES E. HEATH, _Corresponding Secretary and Librarian_; GUSTAVUS A. MYERS, _Recording Secretary_; WM. P. SHEPPARD, _Treasurer_; and Judge Francis T. Brooke, Dr. Robert Briggs, Conway Robinson, Robert C. Nicholas, Charles B. Shaw, John S. Myers, Dr. Richard A. Carrington and Rowland Reynolds, _Members of the Standing Committee_.

VIRGINIA GAZETTEER.

Our readers are probably most of them aware, that a work bearing the above title, has been for some time in the Charlottesville press, and will soon make its appearance before the public. We have been favored by the very deserving and enterprising publisher, Mr. JOSEPH MARTIN, with 240 pages of the volume, and have given them a cursory reading; not sufficient, indeed, to pronounce decidedly upon the character of the work, but enough to convince us of its great utility, and of the {258} general ability and industry with which it has been compiled. We shall take occasion when the work is published, to examine its contents more particularly;--for the present, we remark, that the editor in his preliminary and General Description of Virginia, has borrowed very copiously, and without acknowledgement, that we have seen, from an article bearing the title "Virginia," in the Americana Encyclopædia. Whilst it is not expected, that in a work like the Gazetteer, its whole contents should be original; it is but an act of literary justice, we conceive, that the sources from which material aid has been derived, should be acknowledged. Of course, we confine ourselves to such matter as is not original. We have taken the liberty to transfer to our pages, the account contained in the Gazetteer, of "_the City of Richmond_"--subjoining in the form of notes, a few observations rendered necessary by the change of circumstances, since that account was written.

RICHMOND CITY, the metropolis of Virginia, is situated in the county of Henrico, on the north side of James river, and immediately at the great falls, or head of tide water. Lat. 37° 32' N., long. 25° 54' W of W. Its location is uncommonly delightful, and has often excited the admiration of strangers. Perhaps the most glowing, and yet most faithful picture which has ever been drawn of its natural beauties, is from the pen of the eminent and lamented author of the British Spy. "I have never met," says that enchanting writer, "with such an assemblage of striking and interesting objects. The town dispersed over hills of various shapes; the river descending from west to east, and obstructed by a multitude of small islands, clumps of trees, and myriads of rocks; among which it tumbles, foams and roars; constituting what are called the falls; the same river at the lower end of the town, bending at right angles to the south, and winding reluctantly off for many miles in that direction; its polished surface caught here and there by the eye, but more generally covered from the view by the trees; among which the white sails of the approaching and departing vessels exhibit a curious and interesting appearance: then again on the opposite side, the little town of Manchester built on a hill, which sloping gently to the river, opens the whole town to the view, interspersed as it is with vigorous and flourishing poplars; and surrounded to a great distance by green plains and stately woods;--all these objects falling at once under the eye, constitute by far the most finely varied and most animated landscape that I have ever seen." The truth and beauty of the foregoing sketch may be realised from numberless positions or points of view, extending from the high hills to the west, which overlook the James river canal, as far as the Church Hill, the eastern barrier of the city. From the latter elevation, perhaps the landscape combines greater variety and grandeur, than from any other point. Shockoe hill, however, is the favorite residence of the citizens. This is divided from the other by the valley of Shockoe creek, and is a high and spacious plain occupied by the principal public buildings, and by numerous private edifices, some of which are of elegant and expensive construction. The _Capitol, or State House_, stands in the centre of a beautiful park or square, near the brow of the hill, and from its size and elevated position is the most conspicuous object in the city. The exterior of the building is of admirable proportions, and its fine columns of Ionic architecture seen from a distance, have a very imposing effect. It was formed from a model of the _Maison Carree_ at Nismes,--brought by Mr. Jefferson from France. Its interior construction, however, is neither elegant nor convenient. In a large open saloon or hall, in the centre of the building, is a marble statue of Washington, executed with great skill by _Houdon_, a French artist. There is also a bust of Lafayette, occupying one of the niches in the wall. Besides the statue it is still in contemplation to erect a superb monument to the memory of Washington on the capitol square. The fund which was dedicated to this object was originally raised by private subscription, and is now loaned out at interest by direction of the legislature. Its present amount is about $18,000. When this monument is erected, it will add to the attractions of one of the finest promenades in the Union. The square, which contains about nine acres, is enclosed by a handsome railing of cast iron, and is ornamented by gravelled walks, and a variety of forest and other trees. The _Governor's House_ is a plain, neat building, adjoining the square, and on a part of the public domain. The _City Hall_, which is also contiguous to the State House, is a costly and elegant building of Doric architecture. It is devoted to the use of the City Courts and Council, and other officers of the Corporation. The other public buildings, are the _Penitentiary_ and _Manufactory of Arms_--both extensive establishments, and well adapted to their respective purposes. The _Bank of Virginia_ and _Farmer's Bank_, are connected under one roof, and together constitute a handsome edifice on the principal street.

Richmond is not deficient in benevolent institutions. Besides a very spacious _Poor House_, which stands in the suburbs of the city,--there is a _Female Orphan Asylum_, supported in part by funds of the corporation, and partly by private liberality. Its funds have been principally raised however for several years past, by an annual fair held at the City Hall. This institution is incorporated by the legislature, and is under the management of female directors. There is also a _school for the education of poor children of both sexes_, upon the Lancasterian system, founded in 1816, which with some fluctuations in its progress, is still in a prosperous condition. It is now under the superintendence of trustees appointed by the City Council, and is sustained by an annual contribution from the Literary fund of the state, together with an appropriation from the city treasury. A suitable building was erected for the accommodation of the school, soon after its first establishment, and hundreds have received from it the benefits of elementary instruction, who would probably have been otherwise the victims of ignorance and depravity.

The city has not been so fortunate in other institutions for the cultivation of the mind. A few good schools it is true have occasionally existed, where a competent knowledge of the classics and some of the sciences might be obtained, but none of these sources of instruction have been commensurate with the wants of the citizens. It is a remarkable circumstance, that the metropolis of the state, containing as it does considerable wealth and population,--many distinguished and well informed men, and much boasted refinement, should yet be destitute of a single academical institution. As far back as 1803, a charter was obtained from the state by some of the prominent citizens, for the establishment of an academy by lottery and private subscription. A few thousand dollars were raised,--a site was injudiciously selected a mile beyond the limits of the city--and the basement story of the building erected, but no further progress was made. Within the present year, however, the vacancies in the Board of Trustees have been filled, and there is some prospect of reviving the institution.[1]

[Footnote 1: We are happy to have it in our power to state, that by the liberality of the City Council, an elegant and costly building has been erected by the trustees, which is now near completion. It may be mentioned, however, with regret, that an unsuccessful application has been made to the Legislature for an annual endowment out of the surplus of the Literary Fund--but it ought also in justice to be added, that measures have been adopted for collecting information preparatory to a just and equitable distribution of the Literary Fund surplus, by the next General Assembly. Indeed, the munificent patronage bestowed by the Legislature of 1834-5, upon works of internal improvement--is of itself, sufficient to exempt that body from the reproach of leaving to its successors, something to do for the great cause of education.]

Besides this marked deficiency in the means of educating youth, there are few or no associations of an intellectual character among persons of maturer years. Whilst the northern cities can boast of their literary and scientific societies, the capital of the ancient dominion scarcely contains one which deserves the name. An honorable exception, it is true, may be mentioned in the "Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society," which was established in 1831, and has since been incorporated;--but as its members are principally dispersed through the state, and few of the citizens of Richmond manifest any zeal in its welfare, it can scarcely be considered an association of the city, either in its {259} origin or character. About 20 years since a _Museum_ was erected principally by individual enterprize; which was designed as a repository of the fine arts, and of natural curiosities. This institution however, has for a long time languished for want of patronage.

Societies however of a moral and religious cast, are numerous, active and flourishing. Various associations exist for promoting temperance, for colonizing the free people of color, for aiding missionaries, for the distribution of the Bible and religious tracts, and for various other objects of a similar character. The encouragement also which is given to Sabbath schools is extensive and beneficial. The means of religious instruction are very considerable, and probably in due proportion to the wants of the city. The _Episcopalians_ have 3 churches or houses of worship;--the _Presbyterians_ 2, the _Baptists_ 3, the _Methodists_ 3, the _Roman Catholics_ 1, and this last congregation are now constructing a new and elegant building, which will probably rival any in the city for the style of its architecture. The _Baptist Seceders_ or followers of Alexander Campbell, have 1 place of worship,--the _Unitarians_ and _Quakers_ 1 each,--and the _Jews_ a handsome Synagogue in a retired and handsome situation.

The _Monumental Church_, one of the three belonging to the Episcopalians, and of which the venerable Bishop of Eastern Virginia has long been the Rector,--has acquired a melancholy celebrity from the circumstance that it occupies the site of the _Richmond Theatre_, which was destroyed by fire in December 1811; on which tragical occasion the Governor of the Commonwealth, and 70 or 80 respectable persons of both sexes perished miserably in the flames. Long will that mournful event be remembered by those who survived or witnessed its horrors!--Either from the deep impressions which it produced or from other causes,--the taste for theatrical exhibitions has not kept pace with the increase of wealth and population. The commodious Theatre which succeeded the old one,--which is placed in a far more eligible situation, and is of much safer construction, is only occasionally patronized, when the appearance of some attractive star, or celebrated performer, is announced.

Richmond was first established by act of Assembly, as early as 1742, and became the seat of Government of the state in 1779. Various legislative acts have passed from time to time enlarging its corporate powers and privileges. Nine persons are annually chosen from each of the three wards into which the city is divided, who when assembled elect out of their own body a recorder, and 11 aldermen, who exercise judicial functions. The same persons also elect from their own body, or from the citizens at large, a Mayor, who is both a judicial and executive officer. The remaining 15 members constitute the legislative council of the city, and as such, are authorised to raise and appropriate money, and to enact all such ordinances as are necessary for the due execution of the powers conferred by the charter. The valuation of real property within the city according to the assessment of 1833, was $6,614,550. The revenue raised for corporation purposes may be stated in round numbers at $60,000, besides which, the city contributed as its quota of the state tax in the year 1833, nearly $9,000. This large amount of taxation is principally derived from real and personal property, and from licenses to merchants, ordinary keepers, &c. The number of _wholesale_ merchants, paying license tax in 1833, as appears by the returns of the State Commissioner was 20;--retail ditto 326, auctioneers 7, lottery ticket venders 7, ordinary keepers 43, and keepers of houses of private entertainment 9. According to the same returns there were 739 horses and mules, 157 coaches, 9 carryalls, and 54 gigs.

The expenses of the city are considerable. The principal items of appropriation are $12,000 for a sinking fund, to pay the interest, and redeem gradually the corporation debt; $4,000 for the poor; $1,700 to the Lancasterian Free School and Orphan Asylum; $4,000 for repairing the streets; and $8,500 for the support of a night watch. The remaining expenses are on account of the public markets, fire companies, salaries of officers, paving of streets and various contingencies. The city debt at this time (1834) amounts to $136,150;--$95,000 of which, bearing an interest of 5 per centum only, was incurred on account of the _water works_. These works were commenced in September 1830, under the direction of Albert Stein, an accomplished Engineer from Holland, and were completed as far as originally designed, at the end of the ensuing year. Since that time, a second pump and wheel, and a third reservoir have been added; making the cost of the whole work about $100,000. The pumps are each calculated to raise from the river, and propel into the reservoirs at a distance of 800 yards, and at a considerable elevation 400,000 gallons of water in 24 hours. These pumps are designed to operate alternately, either being competent to fill the reservoirs in sufficient time. The reservoirs will each of them contain 1,000,000 gallons, and double lines of pipes extend from them to the pump house on the margin of the river. The main pipe from the reservoirs to the intersection of H and 1st streets is 2,058 yards in length; and the smallest pipes extend from this through the principal streets, lessening in diameter to the point of greatest depression from the level of the reservoirs, a distance of about three miles. Fire plugs are placed at convenient distances along the line of pipes, and afford an ample supply of water for extinguishing fires. In the lower part of the city the pressure is sufficient to force the water to the tops of the houses through hose, without the aid of engines. Three hundred and forty houses and tenements are already furnished with water, and the rents which are daily increasing, amount at this time, April 1834, to $4,000. The annual expense of superintendence, &c. is $1,000. These works may justly be considered the pride of the city. The water which they supply is not only pure and wholesome, but for a considerable part of the year is sufficiently clear to be used without filters.

The _exports_ of domestic produce from Richmond to foreign countries are very considerable. In the year 1833, their value in American vessels, was $2,466,360 00 And in foreign vessels, 498,131 00 ------------- Making the aggregate of $2,964,491 00

The value of domestic produce shipped coastwise to the principal Northern Cities, cannot be ascertained correctly. It is believed to be at least equal if not greater than the amount exported to foreign countries, and if such be the fact, the total value of produce shipped, may be estimated at nearly $6,000,000. The import trade, however, bears no proportion to the other. The value of merchandize imported into the district of Richmond from foreign countries for the year 1833, amounted to only $209,963, and the duties paid to the Government of the United States to $75,120. Of this latter sum, $7,197 was paid on merchandize brought by foreign vessels.

In 1833, 5 schooners, 9 barks, 37 brigs, and 30 ships, in all 81 vessels, cleared from the port of Richmond for foreign countries, the tonnage whereof amounted to 22,331, or an average of 275 tons to each vessel. In the same year 4 schooners, 6 brigs, 2 barks, and 3 ships entered from foreign countries,--making in the aggregate, 3,412 tons, or 227 to each vessel.

No inconsiderable part of the produce shipped from the city is brought down the James River Canal. This important improvement commences at Maiden's Adventure, on James river about thirty miles distant, and terminates in a deep and commodious basin in the heart of the town. The tolls paid to the James River Company on produce descending in the year 1833, amounted to $43,949, and on various articles carried up the Canal to $10,139, making in the aggregate, $54,088. Among the items brought down, may be enumerated upwards of 15,000 bbds. of tobacco, 152,000 barrels of flour, 133,000 bushels of wheat, 677,664 bushels of coal, 1,374 tons of bar and pig iron; and 2,230,900 lbs. of manufactured tobacco. Among the ascending articles may be mentioned, nearly 31,000 sacks of salt, 297 tons of bar and pig iron, and upwards of 3,000 tons of plaster, lime, &c.

The proximity of the coal mines to Richmond, constitutes that mineral a valuable article of commerce. Besides the quantity brought down the canal, there were more than 2,000,000 of bushels (4 pecks to the bushel) transported on the Chesterfield rail road in 1833, the tolls on which amounted to $87,813 30. The Chesterfield rail road, terminates on the Manchester side of the river, and deserves to be honorably mentioned as the first successful enterprize of the kind in the state of Virginia. It was planned and executed under the direction of Moncure Robinson, a distinguished Engineer, and it owes much in its original design and final accomplishment, to the perseverance and patronage of Mr. Nicholas Mills, one of the few proprietors of its stock, and an owner of one of the extensive coal mines at the upper termination of the road.

James river from Richmond to the ocean, presents a tedious and somewhat obstructed navigation. This with the circumstance that she is surrounded by rival towns, each having its peculiar advantages of location,--will probably prevent the metropolis from {260} ever attaining a high degree of commercial importance.[2] There is no doubt, however, of its final destination as a manufacturing city,--as there is probably no spot in the Union endowed by nature with finer facilities for that kind of industry. From the commencement of the rapids a few miles above, the fall is upwards of 100 feet to the level of tide water, and in all this space there is scarcely a limit to the extent of water power which exists. In the city and its vicinity, there are already several flourishing establishments which deserve to be mentioned. The _Gallego flour mills_ having been destroyed by fire in the spring of 1833, their present proprietor, Mr. Chevallie, is rebuilding them at a more convenient site on the bank of the James river basin, and upon a much more improved and enlarged plan. The mill house which is nearly completed, is six stories high from the foundation and covered with tin. It is 94 feet long by 83½ wide, and is calculated for 20 pair of stones to be worked by three water wheels. Connected with it, is another building 80 feet square, and four stories high, in which the wheat will be received and cleaned. The two together present a front on the basin of 163½ feet, and the whole appearance is very imposing. The old Gallego mills ground upwards of 200,000 bushels of wheat in the eight months preceding their destruction. It is probable that the operations of the new establishments will be much more extensive. The Gallego brand, and indeed that of the city mills generally, has acquired much celebrity in the South American markets and elsewhere.

[Footnote 2: The question as to the future commercial rank of Richmond, derives additional weight and importance from recent acts of the Virginia Legislature. The passage of the law for connecting the James and Kanawha rivers, and uniting the east and west by canals or rail roads--if the scheme should be carried out with energy and resolution corresponding with the noble spirit in which it has been adopted,--must undoubtedly make the Metropolis of the Old Dominion, a place of much importance. The contemplated rail road from Richmond to the Potomac, which has also received the fostering aid of the state, cannot fail likewise to produce consequences beneficial to the whole country, on the line of the improvement.]

_Haxall's Mills_, have also a high reputation: they are five stories high and of nearly equal dimensions with Chevallie's. They work 14 pair of stones, with four water wheels, and grind about 200,000 bushels wheat annually. This year that quantity will probably be exceeded, as it is contemplated to add four additional pair of stones.

_Rutherford's Mill_ works eight pair of stones by two water wheels, and grinds about 90,000 bushels of wheat annually.

_Mayo's Mill_ in Manchester opposite to Richmond, works six pair of stones by three water wheels, and grinds also about 90,000 bushels of wheat annually.

In the city and its vicinity, there are five corn or grist mills, two manufactories for cut nails, and rolling and slitting iron, two saw mills, and one iron foundery, whose operations are extensive.

_The Richmond Cotton Manufactory_ is a large and important establishment. It was established by Cunningham & Anderson, in the year 1829, and sold by them with all its appendages, to the Richmond Manufacturing Company, incorporated by an act of the Virginia Legislature in the winter of 1831. The building is of stone and brick, four stories high, 146 feet long, and 44 feet wide, situated upon the north bank of the James, a few hundred yards west of the Armory, receiving its water power from the James river canal, immediately below the Penitentiary. The water is also conveyed from the canal in iron pipes of six inches bore to the building, thence up the stair-way to within five feet of the eaves, from which in case of accident by fire, every floor except the upper one, can be flooded in a few seconds, by simply turning a cock and using a hose. In this factory are employed from 60 to 70 white operatives and 130 blacks, from the age of 14 and upwards:--a large proportion of both descriptions are females. It runs 3,776 spindles, and 80 looms, together with all the necessary preparatory machinery for spinning and weaving, of the most approved kinds, and consumes about 1,500 pounds of raw cotton per day.

The fabrics are heavy,--negro shirtings 29 inches wide, 4-4 sheetings and ¾ shirtings of No. 16 yarn, and cotton yarns from No. 5 to 20--all of which are celebrated for their superior quality. The capital employed is $120,000.

_The Gallego Manufacturing Company_ was incorporated in January 1834, and the capital subscribed is $150,000. The buildings, which it is supposed will be commenced the present year, will be located near the Gallego Mills. The _Franklin Company_ for the manufacture of paper, has also been recently incorporated, and the capital nearly subscribed.

Besides the manufactures produced at the Penitentiary on state account, the city has its due proportion of the various mechanic trades, and private manufactories. Of printing establishments there are as many as 11, (perhaps an undue proportion) from two of which there are issued daily, political and commercial papers,--from one, a semi-weekly political--from four, weekly Religious,--and from one, a monthly journal devoted to literature, &c. The others are either Book or Job Offices. The number of professional men is also considerable, and it is the more remarkable that so many members of the medical faculty should find employment in a city proverbial for the salubrity of its climate. Situated at the point of demarcation between the upper and lower districts, it is fortunately exempt from many of the maladies which are peculiar to both regions. It is neither visited by the enervating autumnal diseases of eastern Virginia, nor by the more violent and inflammatory attacks which belong to the upper country. The yellow fever, that scourge of cities more populous and commercial, has never prevailed.

The population of Richmond has nearly trebled in 30 years. By the census of 1800, the free whites numbered, 2,837 Slaves, 2,293 Free colored persons, 607 ----- 5,737

By the census of 1830, the free whites amounted to 7,755 Slaves, 6,349 Free colored, 1,956 ------ 16,060

The several classes have increased in nearly corresponding ratios.

Richmond has been frequently reproached for a want of hospitality, and if this virtue consists in unreserved and indiscriminate attention to strangers and visiters,--the reproach is probably not altogether unfounded. It must be acknowledged too, that the manners and customs of what are called the leading classes, are not characteristic of the old Virginia character,--which was frank, simple and unostentatious. In almost all considerable towns, even in republican America, artificial _castes_ or classes exist, which are founded principally upon the possession of wealth, or the mysterious refinements of fashion, and have but little reference either to moral or intellectual distinction. It is probable that this vice of cities is one of the chief sources of that prejudice which is felt towards them by the people of the country. These remarks, however, are not to be construed into a sweeping censure upon towns--for although in all dense populations, there is always a greater or less degree of human infirmity,--there is also an equal concentration of the more virtuous and noble qualities of our nature.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET--THE SEA.

BY A. L. B. M.D.

There's silent grandeur in the boundless waste Of Ocean's bosom when the winds are still, And quiet beauty, like the moonbeam traced In lengthened shadows on some snow-clad hill; There's fiercer grandeur in the chainless sea, When the storm-spirit wakes it from its rest, And the high waves are dashing wild and free, As the white foam they bear upon their breast. The thunder's voice is louder on the sea, The lightning flashes with a wilder glare, And landsmen know not of the dangers, he, Whose home is on the Ocean's wave, must dare; Yet it is pictured in its mighty roar, And in the wrecks which strew the rock-bound shore.

{261}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

And Present Condition of Tripoli, with some accounts of the other Barbary States.

No. IV.

Egypt was then in an unsettled state, and a few details respecting its situation may be permitted, although not absolutely connected with the present subject.

For many years previous to the invasion of the French (1797) Egypt had been nominally governed by a Turkish Pasha; but the power was in reality possessed by a soldiery of a peculiar and formidable character, who under Beys or Chiefs chosen from their own body, ruled the country with absolute sway. These troops were called _Mamelukes_, from the Arabic word signifying _slaves_, their numbers being recruited entirely by the purchase of young men from the regions of the Caucasian chain, who were transferred to Egypt, instructed in the use of arms, and at a proper age enrolled; they fought entirely on horseback, and were considered by Buonaparte as the finest cavalry in the world. No person born in Egypt could be enlisted; and marriage being discouraged, if not prohibited among them, they had no feelings which were likely to interfere with their _esprit de corps_. Each Bey held a particular district of the country in subjection, keeping as many Mamelukes as he could purchase and maintain, paying tribute to the Porte when he could not avoid it, and supplying his expenses by wresting from the miserable inhabitants every thing except the bare means of subsistence. The Pasha had thus little else to do than collect the tribute, which he effected by the aid of Turkish troops, and by fomenting dissensions among the Beys.

The Sultan had indeed made several attempts to recover his authority, of which the only one worthy of note was that conducted by the Capoudan Pasha Hassan in 1786, which is mentioned in the second number of these Sketches. This expedition was but partially successful. The Beys soon regained their power, which they exercised with additional insolence and rapacity towards all classes; and when the French under Buonaparte entered Egypt, it was ostensibly for the purpose of restoring the country to its former master, "_their ancient ally_," and of thus revenging the insults committed on citizens of the Republic by the tyrannical Mamelukes.

The invaders found twenty-three Beys united against them under the command of Mourad, the most powerful of these chiefs; their forces consisted of eight thousand Mamelukes, and a vast number of Arabs and irregular troops. European skill and discipline, as might have been expected, prevailed, and the Beys having been defeated in several desperate conflicts, lost their confidence in each other; some, among whom was Mourad, joined the Turks, others sided with the French, and the remainder endeavored to maintain their position in the upper country. When the French had been expelled, the Sultan was determined to re-establish his dominion entirely, and to extirpate the Mamelukes, if possible. In pursuance of this plan, at the time of Eaton's arrival, a desultory but devastating warfare was carried on between the Turkish troops and those of the Beys, who occupied the banks of the upper Nile and the _oases_ of the adjoining desert. It was with one of these Chieftains named Mahomed Elfi, that Hamet had taken refuge, and he was then at the village of Minieh, about one hundred and fifty miles above Cairo, at the head of a few refugee Tripolines and Arabs, closely pressed by the forces of the Turkish Pasha.

The arrival of an American ship of war created a great sensation in Lower Egypt, and many surmises as to its objects. The French consul Drovetti, an able but unprincipled man, who has until lately maintained a great influence in the government of Egypt, denounced Eaton and his followers as "_British spies who were endeavoring to open an intercourse with the Mamelukes_," and employed every dishonorable means to defeat their plans, and have them expelled from the country. They were however ably assisted by Major Misset, the British resident, to whom Eaton carried letters of recommendation from Sir Alexander Ball, Governor of Malta. After a few days spent at Alexandria they sailed for Rosetta, where having engaged a boat, they arrived at Cairo on the 8th of December. To this place they were fortunately accompanied by Doctor Mendrici, an Italian with whom Eaton had been intimate at Tunis, and who was then physician to the Pasha; he proved very serviceable in representing their objects in the true light, and in counteracting the artifices of the French consul.

The Turkish Viceroy of Egypt at that time was Koorsheed, who afterwards (1821-3) as Pasha of the Morea, distinguished himself by the defeat and destruction of Lord Byron's old friend Ali Pasha of Albania, and by his efforts to put down the insurrection of the Greeks, at its commencement; Mahomet Ali, who has since risen to supreme power in the country, was then merely the commander of the Albanian troops. Koorsheed is represented by Eaton as an intelligent and really high minded man; and after the true objects of the strangers had been made known to him by Mendrici and Misset, he did not hesitate to grant them a private interview, which took place on the 9th of December. In it Eaton played his part well, and succeeded so far in interesting the Pasha, that he agreed to assist him in his efforts to detach Hamet from the Mamelukes, provided the Prince should not have compromised himself, by any open act in concert with those rebels.

Eaton had previously despatched messengers to Hamet, from Alexandria, Rosetta and Cairo, directing him to proceed to Alexandria; and since his arrival at the capital, he had discovered three of the Prince's former high officers, who gave him more minute information as to their master's circumstances. There were great difficulties, not only in detaching him from the Mamelukes, but even in communicating with him to any effect. The war between the two parties in Egypt was one of extermination, and from the characters of the combatants on both sides, neither passports nor flags of truce were likely to afford much protection to their bearers; moreover, it was very improbable that Elfi Bey would suffer a person so well acquainted with his strength and his plans as Hamet must have been, to quit his encampment and go among his enemies. The enterprising American however exerted himself to obtain farther demonstrations from the Pasha, and to have every thing in readiness to proceed against Tripoli, in case he should get Hamet into his power. He sought out the refugee Tripolines, and enlisted recruits for the contemplated expedition, principally among the Franks, {262} Greeks and Levantines;[1] he also distributed his bribes among the officers of the Court with so much liberality and discretion, that at a second audience with the Pasha on the 16th of December, he succeeded in obtaining from him a passport and letter of amnesty for Hamet, which were immediately despatched by trusty messengers.

[Footnote 1: The natives of Europe, except those of Greece and Turkey, are termed _Franks_ in the East; and their descendants are called Levantines.]

At length on the 8th of January 1805, Eaton received a letter from Hamet, in reply to his first from Cairo, stating that he would proceed directly to Alexandria. On receipt of this, the American without delay set off for the latter place, where on his arrival he found a second letter from the Prince, expressing his unwillingness to trust himself alone in the power of the Turkish Pasha; and making an appointment with him on the borders of the province of Fayoom, near the site of the celebrated Labyrinth and Lake of Mæris. Eaton instantly determined to seek him there, and accordingly set out on the 22d, accompanied by Lieutenants Mann and Blake of the Argus, and an escort of twenty-three men. At the close of the next day, the party were arrested at the Turkish lines near Damanhour, about seventy miles from Alexandria, where the officer in command, a fierce and savage fellow, was at first inclined to treat with some harshness these strangers who were passing through the country with a body of armed attendants, _in search of a refugee Pasha_. But Eaton was never taken unawares; he flattered the Turk's vanity, by complimenting his military vigilance and discipline, and showing him the Viceroy's passport, gave him a handsome present, which secured respect for it. The commander being softened by these means, listened to the stranger's story, and introduced a young Arab Chief who declared that he knew Hamet well, and would bring him to the spot in ten days. Arrangements were made by which the Arab was despatched to Fayoom, Eaton agreeing to dismiss his escort, and to remain at Damanhour, with the officers and their servants, until the Prince arrived.

Notwithstanding these promises, the situation of the Americans was by no means agreeable: the Turk evidently mistrusted them; they were closely guarded, and they daily witnessed acts of barbarous cruelty, which impressed on them the necessity of proceeding with the utmost caution. Having reason to suspect that there was some hidden cause for this vigilance, Eaton sounded the Turk, and finally discovered that Drovetti had been tampering with him, and had instigated him to acts of violence against them.

At length on the 6th of February, Hamet actually arrived, accompanied by a suite of forty persons. As soon as he had received Eaton's first letters from Alexandria and Cairo, he determined to accept the propositions contained in them, and having succeeded in eluding the vigilance of his Mameluke friends, he escaped to Fayoom; of four copies of the Pasha's letter of amnesty, not one had reached him; the messengers having been seized and imprisoned by the Bey. On the day after his arrival Eaton set off with him for Alexandria.

On arriving at that place the Turkish Admiral, whose authority was paramount, refused admittance to the Prince and his followers, and declared his intention of not allowing them to embark from any Egyptian port. This was also the consequence of Drovetti's intrigues; but the refusal proved vain, for it had been already determined that the expedition should proceed by land, at least as far as Derne, in order to keep together the Arabs whom they might first engage, and to recruit from the tribes encountered on the way. This was a project which none but a man of Eaton's hardihood would have undertaken. The distance to Derne was at least six hundred miles, through a most desolate region, inhabited only by wandering barbarians, where supplies of food and even of water were uncertain; and he was to be accompanied by persons with whom, except a few, he was unacquainted; persons lawless and faithless, who hated him for his difference of creed, and who might well be supposed ready to sacrifice him at any moment, either under the influence of passion, or in order to obtain his property and arms.

This expedition being determined on, Hamet proceeded about thirty miles west of Alexandria, and established himself at a place near the sea called the Arab's tower, where he was soon surrounded by wandering Sheiks or Chiefs, offering their services and the use of their camels. Eaton went to Alexandria, and having obtained some arms, ammunition and money from the Argus, forwarded them to the camp. He then arranged with Captain Hull that the latter should proceed to the squadron, and get fresh supplies, with which he should sail for Bomba, a small harbor about eighty miles from Derne, there to meet the expedition.

Before proceeding farther, Eaton concluded a treaty in the name of the United States, with Hamet as Pasha of Tripoli, which was signed on the 23d of February, 1805. In this treaty the United States are made to engage--(Article second)--"_So far as comports with their own honor and interests, their subsisting treaties and the acknowledged law of nations, to use their utmost exertions to establish the said Hamet Pasha in the possession of his sovereignty of Tripoli_"--(Article third)--"_In addition to the operations they are carrying on by sea, to furnish said Hamet Pasha, on loan, supplies of cash, ammunition and provisions; and if necessity require, debarkations of troops also, to aid and give effect to the operations of said Pasha Hamet by land against the common enemy_." By Article eighth--"WILLIAM EATON, _a citizen of the United States now in Egypt, shall be recognised as General and Commander in Chief of the land forces which are, or may be called into service against the common enemy; and his said Highness Hamet Pasha engages that his own subjects shall respect and obey him as such_." The other articles provide for the indemnification of all expenses incurred by the United States, in executing the second and third articles, the liberation of all American prisoners, &c. A secret article stipulates _for the surrender of Yusuf, and of Morat Rais alias Peter Lyle, to the Americans, to be held as hostages, provided they do not escape by flight_. Finally, _the convention shall be submitted to the President of the United States for his ratification; in the meantime there shall be no suspense in its operations_.

That Eaton far exceeded the limits of his commission in making the United States a party to this treaty, a slight review of his powers will serve easily to show. Diplomatic powers he had properly none; he had left the United States as navy agent, and was throughout the whole affair entirely subordinate to the Commander of {263} the American forces in the Mediterranean. On leaving Malta, _verbal_ orders were given by Commodore Barron to him and to Captain Hull, "_to seek out Hamet and convey him to Derne or such other place on the coast, as may be determined the most proper for co-operating with the naval force against the common enemy; or if more agreeable to the Prince, to bring him to the squadron before Tripoli_." The same orders indeed also authorised them to "_assure Hamet that the most effectual measures would be taken with the American forces for co-operating with him against the usurper his brother, and for re-establishing him in the regency of Tripoli. Arrangements to this effect with him are confided to the discretion with which Mr. Eaton is vested by the Government_." How far this discretion extended, appears clearly from Eaton's own words in a letter to Colonel Dwight, written on the 9th of April, 1804, during his passage to Europe: "I am ordered on the expedition by Secretary Smith, without any special instructions to regulate my conduct; without even a letter to the ally to whom I am directed; without any thing whatever said to the Commander in Chief on the subject of supplies; nothing but a general and vague discretion concerning the co-operation, and nothing more to him of my agency in the affair, than that '_Mr. Eaton is our agent for the several Barbary regencies, and will be extremely useful_.'--I carry with me no evidence whatever from our Government of the sincerity of their intentions towards the friendly Pasha--I can say as a Spartan Ambassador to the King of Persia's Lieutenant when asked, 'whether he came with a public commission or on his own account?' 'If successful, for the public; if unsuccessful, for myself.'" We do not learn that he received any instructions from his government, subsequently.

From this we may conclude, that Eaton considered himself, as he indeed was, fully authorised to assure Hamet of the co-operation of the American forces for his restoration; and that in signing the treaty, he knew he was acting like the Spartan Ambassador--at a venture. Some such arrangement, must however be admitted to have been necessary; as without it he had no means in the event of Hamet's success, to secure those interests of his country which were the ultimate objects of his operations. His own opinion as to the validity of the Convention, is sufficiently shewn by his letter of May 1st, 1805, to Commodore Barron, in which he says, "The convention I have entered into with Hamet Pasha, may be useful in case he succeeds in getting repossession of his government; otherwise it can do no mischief, even if ratified, as will appear by the precaution in the second article,"--rendering the co-operation of the United States, _dependant on their own honor and interests, their subsisting treaties, and the acknowledged law of nations_.

The convention having been signed, and some difficulties respecting the transportation of provisions from Alexandria being arranged, Eaton and his followers joined Hamet at his encampment, on the 3d of March.

The force assembled at the Arab's tower consisted of about four hundred persons; being nine Americans, seventy odd Greeks and Levanters, Hamet with ninety persons in his suite, and a body of Arab cavalry under the Sheiks El Taib and Mohamet, with some footmen and camel drivers completing the number. The beasts of burden were one hundred and seven camels, engaged by Hamet, as Eaton thought, for the whole distance, at eleven dollars a head, and a few asses. All being now ready, the expedition against Tripoli really commenced on the 8th of March, and on the following day began a series of annoyances and difficulties, arising from the irresolution of Hamet, the intrigues of his followers, and the faithlessness of the Arab chiefs, which continued during the whole period. The Sheik El Taib who had been loudest in his expressions of devotion to Hamet, and of confidence in the success of his cause, began by hinting to the camel owners that they should demand their pay in advance, as the Christians would not fail to cheat them if they neglected this precaution. They followed his advice, and Eaton who knew them too well to trust them, having refused to comply with their demand, they refused to proceed. Hamet on this began to despond, but Eaton quieted this first symptom of disunion, by promptly calling the Christians under arms, and declaring his intention to return to Alexandria, abandoning Hamet and his cause. The feint was successful, and the march was resumed.

On the 13th they were met by a courier from Derne, bringing information that the whole Province had taken up arms in behalf of Hamet, and that the Bey was shut up in the castle. The receipt of this news gave them courage; it was however near being attended by fatal results; for Hamet's followers, who were in front, having discharged their arms in expression of their joy, the Arabs in the rear, apprehending that an attack had been made on them by some hostile tribe, determined to secure their own share of the plunder, by killing the Christians who were with them. This was prevented by the very proper observation of one of the Chiefs, that it would be better to wait until the result of the engagement in front was known.

On the 18th they reached a castle built of hewn stone, called Massarah, distant about two hundred miles from Alexandria, and occupied by an Arab Sheik; here Eaton first learned that the beasts of burden had been engaged by Hamet to accompany them only thus far. Their owners demanded immediate payment, and signified their intention of returning to Egypt. Three days were spent in altercations with them, after which they were paid by the surrender of nearly all the funds in possession of Eaton and Hamet. Attempts were then made to prevail on them to accompany the expedition to Bomba, a small seaport, at which an American ship of war was expected to bring them supplies; and on their refusing this, to march two days farther on, to a station where other camels could be procured. Fifty camels were engaged as far as the latter place; the others returned with their owners to Egypt. Meanwhile a report, said to have been brought by a pilgrim from Morocco, had become current in the camp, that a large force was on its way from Tripoli to oppose them, and that it had even passed Bengazi. This report was sufficient to render Hamet dispirited and mistrustful; he held consultations with his followers and the Arabs, from which Eaton was excluded; and it soon appeared that a plan was in agitation among them to arrest the progress of the expedition until information had been received of the arrival of the American ships at Bomba. Eaton on learning this, instantly ordered the rations of these persons to be stopped, resolving to seize the castle and to maintain himself in it with the {264} Christians, until they were relieved by an American detachment procured from Bomba or Alexandria; then to abandon Hamet to his fate. This decisive step produced its effect, and the march was resumed on the 21st.

The following day they fell in with a tribe of Arabs called _Ouedalli_, who had never before seen Christians, and what was strange, appeared to be totally unacquainted with bread; of money however they knew the value, and it being a scarce article among the invaders, they could only obtain supplies of meat by giving their rice and biscuit in return. Eighty of their warriors entered Hamet's service, and forty-seven tents of Arab families were afterwards added to their company; ninety camels being also engaged to Bomba. But just as they were about to march, a courier arrived from Derne, confirming the report brought by the pilgrim, of the advance of a Tripoline force; the greatest alarm ensued, the camel drivers fled, the Arab Chiefs became insolent, and Hamet despairing, seemed determined to go back to Egypt. Eaton again took the bold step of suspending rations until the camels returned, and the march was resumed. The Sheik El Taib the originator of all disturbances, on this withdrew, carrying with him in addition to his own followers, many of the new recruits, and hinting that he might probably be found with the enemy. Hamet prayed that a messenger might be sent to pacify him, and offer him terms; to this Eaton would not agree; he despatched an order to the Sheik to return to his duty, coupled with a defiance in case he should prove a traitor; and having brought the remnant of his forces to obedience, resumed his progress. Hamet became more fearful and irresolute every moment, and shewed every disposition to abandon the undertaking; he deprived the Americans of their horses, and on one occasion actually marched back a short distance; Eaton continued onwards, and his perseverance shamed the Prince, who returned, having succeeded by means of his principal officer, in bringing with him the deserting Arabs.

During this delay, Eaton employed his leisure moments in attempting to quiet the religious prejudices of the Arabs against himself and the other Americans; assuring them that in his country no form of worship or opinion was either enforced or excluded, all being free to act in this respect as their consciences dictated; and that God had promised the Americans a heaven different from those of Mussulmen or of Papists, to which however any good men would be admitted who chose to establish themselves in it. His expositions did not convince, but they served to conciliate. Whether they were warranted or not by the nature of the circumstances, each person must judge for himself; it may however be observed, that his declarations cannot be said to be insincere, as his ideas on religion seem never to have been fixed.

On the 1st of April new difficulties occurred. The Arab Sheiks demanded an augmentation of the ration, and on its being refused, openly threatened Eaton. He defied them as usual, and returned the threat, by giving notice to the Sheik El Taib that if any mutiny arose, he should instantly put him to death, as being the cause of it; they were thus again brought to obedience. The expedition had now reached the country anciently settled by the Greeks, and they frequently passed extensive tracts covered with massive ruins. Of the style and character of the architecture Eaton says nothing; he knew but little of ancient history, and was totally unacquainted with any of the fine arts; indeed, he was rather disposed to view a magnificent monument of antiquity as a degrading memorial of despotism. Of the wells and cisterns which he found among these ruins, he however, as may be supposed, always speaks in grateful terms. He confirms the accounts of the barrenness of the surrounding country, from which we are led to form the opinion that the wealth of these places must have been derived from commerce with the interior of Africa.

On the 5th they encamped at Salliaum, near Cape Luco, one of the few places mentioned by Eaton, which can be found on any map or chart. By the 8th they had arrived within eighty miles of Bomba, and had travelled about four hundred miles since leaving Alexandria. They had now but six days provisions left, and Eaton was of course most anxious to proceed; Hamet however objected, and resolved to await the return of a messenger whom he meant to despatch to Bomba. Eaton replied that if he stopped he must starve, and refused to give out rations. The Arabs determined to seize them, and the American drew up the Christians under arms in front of the magazine tent. After some time spent by the two parties in eyeing each other, the Arabs with Hamet at their head, prepared to make a charge; some of the Greeks and Levantines quailed, the others and the Americans stood firm; and Eaton advancing towards Hamet, reproached him with his rashness. As usual the superior character triumphed; the poor Prince embraced him, and on his promise to distribute rations after they had marched, the camp was restored to quiet.

On the 10th the messenger returned from Bomba, bringing the agreeable intelligence that the American ships were lying off that place; on the 15th they reached it, and what were the feelings of Eaton to find there not a vessel, nor a human being, nor a drop of water. The vessels had been seen, but had departed, probably considering the expedition as having entirely failed, as the time calculated for its arrival had long since elapsed. The provisions being exhausted, imprecations now burst forth from the whole Mussulman host on the Christians who had brought them to this terrible pass. Even in this situation Eaton did not despair; he ordered fires to be lighted on the hills as signals, and endeavored to devise some means of getting his little army on to Derne. The next morning all was confusion, and the Arabs were preparing severally to seek their own safety, when a ship was descried bearing down for the place; she proved to be the Argus, which had been sent with the sloop of war Hornet from Malta, with seven thousand dollars in specie, and supplies of provisions and ammunition. The supplies were immediately landed and distributed, as also were those from the Hornet, which arrived on the following day; and on the 23d the expedition again took up its line of march in good spirits.

Of the vast region traversed by the expedition since leaving Egypt, probably the only account in modern times is to be found in the journal of Eaton; with the exception of a few tracts offering pasture for cattle, it was totally barren, consisting of desert plains or rocky ledges. On the day of leaving Bomba they saw {265} the first stream or spring of running water, having been hitherto supplied entirely from wells and cisterns. They shortly after entered a beautiful and fertile district; as they advanced signs of cultivation increased, and it became necessary, in order to conciliate the inhabitants, to take active measures to prevent marauding or wanton injury of property. News arrived that Yusuf's army was approaching; but the prospect of a conflict which animated Eaton, depressed the spirits of the Prince in whose cause he was engaged, and served to excite the avaricious propensities of his Arab allies. Hamet and his followers again began their secret consultations. The Sheiks refused to advance, and the Bedouins, who had joined as independent partizans, remained within their tents. A promise of money by Eaton however prevailed; they resumed their march, and on the 25th encamped on an eminence overlooking Derne.

The country eastward of the Great Syrtis, forming the ancient Cyrenaica, is now called Barca, and is divided into two provinces, of which the capital of the western is Bengazi, a small town occupying the site of the ancient Berenice; that of the eastern is Derne. Each province is governed by a Bey, who is generally a member of the royal family. The Province of Derne is beautiful and fertile, and is considered the most valuable portion of the Tripoline dominions; it produces in great luxuriance, grapes, figs, melons, bananas, oranges, dates and other fruits of a tropical climate; and affords good pasture for cattle, of which many are exported for the supply of Malta and the Ionian Islands. The capital is a small and irregularly built town, situated near the seashore, at the mouth of a valley which extends for a considerable distance into the country; through this valley rushes a mountain torrent, which in the rainy season sometimes overflows the town, and in the summer is nearly dry; water for the use of the inhabitants, and for irrigating the fields and gardens, is however constantly and plentifully supplied by a spring gushing from the side of a hill above the town. Its distance (following the seashore) is about eight hundred miles from Tripoli, from Alexandria about six hundred; and it is considered on good grounds, as the remnant of Darnis, one of the principal ports of the Cyrenaica. About fifty miles west of it, are the massive ruins and extensive excavations which point out the spot formerly occupied by the wealthy and polished Cyrene.

The only regular fortification of the place was a battery near the sea, occupied by the Bey Mustapha, a cousin of the Pasha; his troops, about eight hundred in number, occupied the adjoining houses, in the walls of which they had pierced loopholes for their musquets. A few temporary parapets had also been thrown up in positions not covered by the battery. The inhabitants of the town were generally in favor of Hamet; those surrounding the Bey's residence, if similarly affected, were restrained by fear from any demonstration of their feelings.

On the 26th of April, the day after the arrival of the expedition in sight of Derne, Eaton sent a flag of truce to the Bey, demanding in the name of Hamet as rightful Pasha of Tripoli, quiet passage through the place, and provisions for his troops; promising in case of compliance, that he should not be removed from his government. The Bey instantly sent back the flag, with this short but expressive answer--"_Your head or mine._" In the course of the night the Argus, the Hornet, and the schooner Nautilus appeared; and on the 27th, Eaton having succeeded with great difficulty in landing a field piece from the latter vessel, determined on an immediate attack, it being his object to gain possession of the town before the arrival of the troops which were daily expected from Tripoli. Accordingly he himself advanced with some of the Christians and Arabs down the valley, towards the entrance of the place; Lieutenant O'Bannon with six Americans and fifty other Christians took post to the eastward, and brought the cannon to bear on the Bey's quarters; Hamet with about a thousand Arabs occupied a ruined castle on the southwest side of the town. At two o'clock the vessels stood in as near as possible, and fired upon the battery and houses occupied by the Tripolines. By this means, and by the active use of O'Bannon's field piece, the battery was soon silenced, and the Bey's troops rushing from their coverts upon Eaton's little band, which had now reached the entrance of the place, succeeded in throwing them for a moment into confusion. They were however speedily rallied, and being joined by a few of O'Bannon's men, were brought to the charge; the Tripolines were driven through the town to their former posts, which they were however obliged immediately to abandon, the greater part seeking refuge on the seashore, where they were exposed to the fire from the vessels. The battery was seized by the Christians; and the guns, found loaded and primed, were turned on the houses occupied by the Bey and his few remaining followers. Hamet's troops had remained very quiet during the affair, which was conducted almost entirely by the Christians; when success had been assured, some of them entered the town, which they began to pillage, others pursued the fugitives. It is believed that they lost none of their number. The Christians had fourteen killed, and several wounded; among the latter was Eaton, who received a ball in his wrist on entering the town.

Eaton was particularly anxious to secure the person of the Bey, with a view to his exchange for Captain Bainbridge; but he had taken refuge first in a Mosque, and afterwards in the Harem of an old and respectable inhabitant, who had two years before sheltered Hamet in a similar manner, when pursued by this same Bey. Preparations were made by the Christians to drag him from his place of refuge; but the inhabitants and the Arabs expressed so much dissatisfaction at the contemplated insult to what they considered most sacred, that it was found expedient to abandon the attempt. The proprietor of the Harem, though in favor of Hamet, declared his readiness to die rather than submit to such a disgrace. Eaton then attempted by stratagems to draw the Bey forth from his asylum; but they failed, and he at length escaped to the enemy, his protector afterwards openly avowing that he had assisted him in so doing, as he had formerly assisted Hamet.

Every exertion was then made to put Derne in a state of defence. Hamet took possession of his former palace, and endeavored to render it secure against any insurrectionary movement. Eaton established himself in the battery; parapets were thrown up in proper positions, and mounted with guns, to prevent the place {266} from being carried by a sudden attack. The Tripoline forces at length appeared on the 4th of May, in number between two and three thousand, under the command of Hassan Bey, with the Beys of Bengazi, and Ogna, and Hadgi Ismain Bey, as commander of the cavalry, acting under his orders. They took post about two miles above the town, on each side of the valley, nearly in the positions first occupied by Hamet's troops.

Hassan did not think proper to begin his operations immediately; at length on the 13th his troops rushed down from each side of the valley, upon a body of Hamet's cavalry which was posted below, about a mile from the town. The Arabs received them with great steadiness, and maintained their ground for some time, but being overpowered, fled in disorder into the town. The Tripolines pursued, and although galled by the musquetry from the houses, and by the guns of the battery and ships wherever an opening presented itself, they succeeded in reaching Hamet's palace. All was near being lost; the Arabs were giving way in all directions; the Christians were too few in number to quit their posts, and there was every prospect that Hamet would soon be either killed or made prisoner. Eaton then turned the guns of the battery upon the part of the town about the palace, and some of the Tripolines being killed, a panic seized the others, and they fled with precipitation, pursued by the Arabs, who behaved gallantly on this occasion. Of the Tripolines about eighty were killed or wounded; the loss on Hamet's side did not exceed twelve.

This defeat so much dispirited the Tripolines, that all the exertions of the Beys could not induce them for some time to make another attack; the Arabs obstinately refusing to encamp near the town, or to venture within reach of the cannon shot, with which they had hitherto been entirely unacquainted. Hassan finding bold and open measures ineffectual, resorted to others from which he anticipated more success; he offered six thousand dollars for Eaton's head, and double the sum for him if taken alive. This magnificent promise however produced no effect, doubtless from an apprehension that the task would be difficult, and the reward by no means certain. He then engaged the services of two expert women, who engaged to take off the troublesome infidel by poison; but Eaton having received notice of their plans, took precautions which rendered them ineffectual. The Beys in despair next endeavored to attain their object by an assault, to be made under cover of the camels, which were thus to form a moving parapet in front and on the flanks. But this proposal was attended with no success, the Arabs being as little inclined to risk the lives of their camels as their own. In this state of things the Pasha's army began to disappear; desertions daily took place, and on the 22d of May Eaton writes, "_We want nothing but cash to break up our enemy's camp without firing another shot._"

Partial attempts were however made on the 28th of May and the first three days of June, which were unsuccessful. On the 7th Hadgi Ismain Bey, commander of the Tripoline cavalry, quitted his post with some followers, and escaped to Egypt, carrying with him the military chest. The Bey of Bengazi was also reported to be wavering, and Eaton in his despatches to Commodore Barron, earnestly urged him to send a few marines and some money, by means of which he pledged himself soon to appear in Tripoli and liberate his captive countrymen.

On the 10th the Tripoline forces received a large accession, and the Beys determined to make a desperate effort. The action was begun by some of their cavalry, who attempted to descend a pass leading to the plain near the town; they were met by a body of Hamet's mounted Arabs, which resisted the attack gallantly, and succeeded in repelling it. Reinforcements appearing on each side, the action became general, and it was supposed that at least five thousand men were engaged. The Tripolines were driven off with some loss; but pursuit was impossible, and Eaton was obliged still to remain, hoping or rather wishing for the reinforcements he had so long requested. At Bomba and since his arrival at Derne, he had received communications from the commanding officer of the American forces in the Mediterranean, which gave him great anxiety, and his situation was every day becoming more uncertain and painful. His doubts were however terminated on the 11th, when the frigate Constellation entered the harbor, bringing despatches from Tripoli, dated the 6th; in order to understand the nature of these several communications, and of his feelings, it will be necessary to relate the occurrences at and before that city since September 1804.

(_To be continued._)

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMARKS ON A NOTE TO BLACKSTONE'S COMMENTARIES, VOL. I, PAGE 423.

MR. WHITE,--I have read the Note on a passage in Blackstone's Commentaries, which you gave us in your last, with some surprise. I had supposed before, that no gentleman of any intelligence could be found within the four corners of our state, who would seriously undertake to maintain that our domestic slavery, which is obviously the mere creature of our own positive law, is so right and proper in itself, that we are under no obligation whatever to do any thing to remove, or lessen it, as soon as we can. I had thought, indeed, that it was a point conceded on all hands, that, wrong in its origin and principle, it was to be justified, or rather excused, only by the stern necessity which had imposed it upon us without our consent, and which still prevented us from throwing it off at once, without a degree of danger which we could not properly encounter. And, at any rate, I had imagined that all of us were fully satisfied, by this time, that it was an evil of such injurious influence upon our moral, political, and civil interests, that we owed it to ourselves as well as to our subjects, to reduce, and remove it, as soon, and as fast as possible, consistently with the rights which we had created or sanctioned by our laws; and with other considerations which we were bound to regard. In all this, however, it seems, I was reckoning without my host, the author of the article before me, who has come forward, at this late hour, to assert the absolute rectitude and utility of the system, with all the power of his pen. I do not, however, by any means, feel disposed to question his perfect right to do so, or to deny for a moment the ingenuity with which he has labored to maintain his novel position. On the contrary, I freely acknowledge both; but believing at the same time, as I do, {267} that his reasonings are false in their principle, and pernicious in their tendency, I must beg leave to follow his annotations with a few remarks.

And first, the Annotator, after declaring that he has been impelled to defend our domestic slavery "by a pious reverence for the institutions of our forefathers," (a very honorable motive; but strangely misapplied,) proceeds to say: "It is hardly necessary to expose the sophistry by which Mr. Blackstone affects to prove that slavery cannot have had a lawful origin. We do not pretend to trace our title to its source. We have no call to sit in judgment between the conquered African and his conqueror. We rest our defence on principles which legitimate our title, whatever its origin may have been. Yet it may not be amiss to say a few words to show the fallacy of those plausible and imposing dogmas, with which we too often suffer ourselves to be talked down." Now I have always regarded the reasoning of Blackstone on this point as absolutely unanswerable; and I am happy to know that I am not alone in my opinion of its weight; for the late venerable Judge Tucker, I see, in _his_ note upon the same passage, (which I commend to all your readers,) after quoting it at length, adds these words: "Thus by the most _clear_, _manly,_ and _convincing_ reasoning, does this excellent author refute every claim, upon which the practice of slavery is founded, or by which it has been supposed to be justified, at least, in modern times." I will not, however, too hastily conclude against the Annotator's objections; but endeavor to weigh them with due care. He proceeds thus: "Slavery," says Mr. Blackstone, "cannot originate in compact, because the transaction excludes the idea of an equivalent." This is the substance of Blackstone's argument on this head; but does not give us a full idea of its force. His own statement of it is as follows: "But secondly, it is said that slavery may begin 'jure civili' when one man sells himself to another. This, if only meant of contracts to serve or work for another, is very just; but when applied to strict slavery, in the sense of the laws of old Rome or modern Barbary, is also impossible. Every sale implies a price, _a quid pro quo_, an equivalent given to the seller in lieu of what he transfers to the buyer; but what equivalent can be given for life and liberty, both of which (in absolute slavery) are held to be in the master's disposal? His property also, the very price he seems to receive, devolves _ipso facto_ to his master, the instant he becomes his slave. In this case, therefore, the buyer gives nothing, and the seller receives nothing: of what validity then can a sale be, which destroys the very principles upon which all sales are founded?" Now this seems to me to be pretty good logic; and how then does the Annotator answer it? Why he says: "For an answer to this specious fallacy, I shall content myself by referring you to the masterly essay of Professor Dew, who has so clearly exposed it as to leave me nothing to add." This is certainly judicious, and I cannot but commend him for his prudence, at least, in thus turning over the trouble of answering such an argument to another. How this latter gentleman, however, (who must take the compliment _cum onere_,) can have contrived to expose so clearly "the specious fallacy" which, it seems, lurks in it, I confess I cannot imagine; as I have not his "masterly essay" before me. No doubt his exposure must be clever; but, with all due respect for him, it is plainly impossible that it can be sound. As at present advised, therefore, I shall stick to Blackstone, or rather to his reasoning, which, as far as I can see, no human wit can ever refute.

But the Annotator takes upon himself to grapple with another argument of Blackstone, which he states in these words: "The commentator further tells us that slavery cannot lawfully originate in _conquest_, as a commutation for the right to kill; because this right rests on necessity, and this necessity plainly does not exist, because the victor does not kill his adversary, but makes him captive." Now this, too, I have heretofore taken for very sound logic; and why is it not perfectly so? Why because, says the Annotator, the conqueror may be in such a situation that he can only secure himself against the future hostility of his conquered enemy, by killing, _or_ by enslaving him; and if he may enslave him himself, then he may hand him over to another to deport him; which is the mildest mode of doing the thing. Of course, "the mere captivity of his enemy does not imply the security of the captor, should he allow his prisoner to go free." And he illustrates his argument on this point, very prettily, by a figure. "The snared tiger is in your power. You may kill--you may cage him. _Therefore_, says Mr. Blackstone, you are under no necessity to do either, and the noble beast has a fair claim to his liberty." This is a dexterous turn; but unluckily it proceeds upon a misconception of the true point of Blackstone's argument, which the Annotator ought to have perceived is itself an answer to another. The commentator, observe, is answering the argument of Justinian, that slavery may arise "_jure gentium_," from a state of war; that is, from the right of a captor to kill his enemy taken prisoner in battle. "But it is an untrue position," says he, "when taken generally, that by the law of nature or nations, a man may kill his enemy; he has only a right to kill him in particular cases, in cases of absolute necessity for self-defence; and it is plain this absolute necessity did not subsist, since the victor did not actually kill him, but made him prisoner." Now the answer is obviously complete, _so far as regards the point to which it applies_. But, says the Annotator, it does not settle the question. Perhaps not; nor does Blackstone say that it does; but it settles the argument of Justinian; and that is all that, considered as an answer, it was intended, or could be fairly required, to do.

But why does it not even settle the question? Why, because, says the Annotator, the conqueror has a right to dispose of his captive in such a manner as to protect himself from his future hostility; and if he may not kill, it does not follow that he may not enslave, or transport him, provided it is necessary for his own security, to dispose of him in that way. Very true; but this is new matter, which demands perhaps a new answer; but does not at all invalidate the former answer to the former argument. And with regard to this new matter too, Blackstone has, in my opinion, very fairly answered it in advance by what he immediately adds, but what the Annotator, (inadvertently no doubt,) has kept back. Thus he adds: "War is itself justifiable only on principles of self-preservation, and, therefore, it gives no other right over prisoners, but merely to disable them from doing harm to us, _by confining their persons_; much less {268} can it give a right to kill, torture, abuse, plunder, _or even to enslave_, an enemy, _when the war is over_." To expand this sentence a little. You may, says Blackstone, by the laws of war, put your enemy _hors de combat_; but you must do it, by the law of humanity, which is a prior and perpetual part of the same law of nature, with as little suffering to him as possible, consistently with your own safety. You may then, I grant you, take him prisoner, and "_confine his person_," that is, if you cannot venture to discharge him on his parole; but "_only while the war lasts_;" for the very foundation of your right to confine him grows out of the war, and vanishes, of course, with the return of peace.

Now it is obvious, I think, that this argument, duly considered, very fairly answers, by anticipation, the new matter which the Annotator has brought into view. For how, I ask, can a temporary right to confine your captive _durante bello_, become the basis for the transfer of an absolute right to enslave and deport him? Obviously, if I must even grant that you can transfer your right of self-defence, or the powers which it involves, to a neutral, (which I might well question,) you can only transfer it to the extent to which you possess it yourself. But your right over your prisoner of war ceases with your war against the nation, or tribe, to which he belongs. And what right, then, can you have to hand him over to an assignee, who you know will continue his dominion over him, (and over his children after him,) without putting it in your power again to restore him, as in duty bound, upon the cessation of hostilities, to his family and friends? Or what right can your assignee have to hold the prisoner under your assignment, one moment after your right itself has run out? Obviously, none at all. A holds a slave, who is to serve for the life of B, but to be free afterwards, and sells him to C in fee simple; what right has C to hold him after the death of B? Clearly none at all.

There is no escaping from the force of this argument, as far as I can see, but by maintaining, (as the Annotator indeed seems disposed to do,) that barbarians can have no peace with each other; but that war among them must be waged _ad internecionem_, to the point of mutual extermination, or something equivalent. But this notion is plainly more barbarous than the practice of the most barbarous tribes that we have ever read, or heard of; for there is not one of them that does not make peace, after its fashion; (or did not at least, before our European slavers taught them a different lesson,) and the act of making peace obviously implies that there can be, and is, a reasonable security against future hostilities, without the destruction of either party. And there is no tribe on earth, I suppose, (or was not before the slave-trade began,) so absolutely and desperately barbarous as to insist upon holding its captives after the war is over, and the treaty of peace fairly ratified by a smoking match, or a dance upon the green.

But the Annotator may yet say, (and does in fact,) that granting all this, the captor _may have been_ in the dilemma which he has supposed, _during the war_; that is, he may have been obliged to kill or sell his captives immediately, to save himself; and he puts a case to illustrate his argument on this point. "When Colonel Campbell, at the head of a few militia, stooped from the mountains of Virginia on Carolina, and bore off the corps of Colonel Ferguson in his pounces, had he been pursued and overtaken by Tarleton, he must have killed his prisoners. He could not have held them, and to have enlarged them would have been to sacrifice the lives of thousands. If, then, he had had no place of refuge, he might have handed them over to any custody, civilized or savage, in which they might have been removed from the theatre of the war." But this case is obviously an imaginary one; and such as could hardly have occurred in fact. It is remarkable indeed that the Annotator could find no example in all the romance of real life to suit the exigence of his argument; but was compelled to fabricate one for the purpose; or at least to piece out an actual occurrence, by a supplemental supposition or two of his own; and even then could not make it serve his turn. Thus Colonel Campbell was _not_ "pursued and overtaken by Tarleton," and, if he had been, would evidently have had to fight or surrender, and could have had no time to think about the supposed alternative of killing his prisoners, or handing them over to a third party, even if one had been there to receive them. And if you vary the case a little, so as to make him pursued, but not overtaken; the time that you will thus give him to hand over his prisoners to others, will equally suffice to enable him to escape with them himself. Or if you give him time enough to hand them over; but not enough to escape with them, (a point of nicety that is hardly conceivable,) then you also allow the pursuing enemy time enough, in all probability, to come up and recapture them from their new holders; the very thing to be avoided. The case, therefore, is evidently altogether fanciful, and proves nothing. At all events, it is quite clear that such a _nodus_ as it indicates could not have occurred in any single instance of the sale of captives for slaves, by any African chief, to the master of a Spanish ship. At least, it is quite fair to say that, in general, the mere fact of the captor's having sold his captive, even during the war, must be _prima facie_, if not conclusive evidence, that he could not have been in the dilemma imagined, of being obliged to kill, or to enslave him; for it must be obvious that if he had him so completely in his power as to be able to bargain, sell, and deliver him to the slaver, and to receive his money or goods stipulated for him in return; he could not have been very closely pursued by any barbarous Tarleton in his rear at the time, and could not have been under any pressing necessity to do either the one thing, or the other; but, for aught that appears, might have disposed of his prisoner in some more humane manner. The _onus probandi_, then, or burden of proof, to show that in point of fact the captor and vender of any African slave, _was_, in any case whatever, in the precise predicament supposed, must be on the Annotator; and can he bear it? Hardly, I suppose. But of what avail, then, can it be to his argument, that he can _imagine_ or _invent_ a case, (or a hundred cases, if he likes,) in which there _might have been_ a lawful origin of slavery, when he evidently cannot show that any thing like it has ever occurred in fact, from the first beginning of the slave trade down to the present time?

Thus it appears that the reasoning of Blackstone to prove the unlawfulness of slavery in its origin, is as strong as we have always thought it; and very easily defends itself against all that any ingenuity can urge {269} against it. But say that it is not so; and grant, if you please, for the sake of argument, that it is all "a specious fallacy" indeed; what then? Does it follow that slavery _as it exists in our state_, was just and lawful _in its origin_? By no means. For say that Mr. Dew has by some miraculous effort of intellect, very clearly established, in the face of Blackstone's demonstration, (and in the face of our Bill of Rights also,) that a man _can_ sell himself; can it be shown that, in point of fact, any single one of the slaves who were imported into our colony from the year 1620 to the revolution, _had_ actually sold himself to any one who claimed to be his owner? And say, also, that the Annotator has proved, against the unanswerable argument of his author, (and against the plainest principles of the law of nature,) that a conqueror may justly enslave and export his prisoner of war in any imaginable case whatever, can it be made to appear that any one of the Africans brought to our shore was really captured, and sold, in such a state of things? On the contrary, we have unhappily the most ample evidence from history, that the whole of our exotic slaves were either stolen from their native woods, and brought away against their will, or under false and fraudulent promises which were never performed; or bought for swords and rum, (fit price for such articles!) from those who had captured them, not in just and necessary wars of self-defence, but in predatory hostilities, excited and fomented for the very purpose, by the worst of pirates, the foulest and most deadly enemies of the human race.

But passing from this "grave sophistry," as he calls it, of Blackstone, the Annotator now comes to the consideration of those "principles" on which he chooses to rest his defence of slavery, and "which," he says, "legitimate our title, whatever its origin may have been." But can _any_ principles, I ask, do this? If slavery, as we have seen, is clearly wrong in its origin; that is, if it is, in itself, a violation of the law of nature, can any thing "legitimate" it; that is, make it lawful; by that law? Is not the law of nature, like its author, immutable, and eternal? And must not that, then, which is against this law in one age, be equally against it in another, and in every succeeding age, to the end of time? And if slavery, then, was unlawful in its origin, must it not be so now, and continue to be so forever? Or, can the mere lapse of time make it lawful? But that cannot alter the nature of things. Indeed I may remind the Annotator, that our municipal law even, while it legalizes slavery, does not allow any length of time to bar a claim to freedom; and much less, then, can the law of nature, which has no statute of limitations in its code.

But waiving this, let us see, for a moment, what these principles are which the Annotator supposes may "legitimate our title, whatever its origin may have been." What are they? Why, if I understand his view of the subject, (though it is not, I think, very clearly conveyed,) it is substantially this. By the decree of God, who has said, that "man shall eat of the fruit of the earth by the sweat of his face," there must always be a _working class_ of men, in every country, who must be satisfied to labor for their victuals and clothes; that being the natural and impassable stint of their wages. It makes no manner of odds, therefore, whether the members of this working class be free or slave: if they are fed and clothed, it is all that they have a right to expect, or any reason to demand. In point of fact, indeed, the slave of this class is perhaps rather better off than the freeman; since he is usually better fed and better clothed; and if he has no hope of any thing better, he has no fear of any thing worse; and, upon the whole, has a pretty considerable balance of comfort on his side. It follows from all this, that his master may, very _legitimately_, hold him down as a slave, _ad indefinitum_, (that is, till slavery "runs out" of itself, as he thinks it may in time,) without feeling any qualm of conscience in the case, or giving himself any trouble whatever about the matter.

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 {270} 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."

{271}

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. {272}

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_.

{273}

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.

The _natural_ course of these establishments, then, seems to be _down the stream of vice_. Great exertions may enable them to resist, nay to surmount and ascend the current; but so soon as those efforts cease, that instant the downward tendency prevails.[1] While the manufacturing system is young--while high protecting duties enable employers to give high wages--while a desire to conciliate favor to the system keeps both owners and operatives upon _their best behavior_--the favorable moral condition I have described may continue. But the oarsman cannot forever row up the stream; weariness, or confidence, or incaution, will, some day, relax his arm. In process of time, these promiscuous assemblages of hundreds and thousands will vindicate the justness of the reasoning, which argues the danger of contamination (a sort of _spontaneous combustion_) from so close a contact:[2] will shew themselves rank hot beds of vice; and make the lover of good morals grieve, that so many souls should ever have been seduced from the healthful air of field, and forest, and rustic fireside, to sicken and die in a tainted, unnatural atmosphere.

[Footnote 1: Non aliter quam qui adverso vix flumine lembum Remigiis subigit; si brachia forté remisit, Atque illum in præceps prono rapit alveus amni.]

[Footnote 2: In Godwin's Inquirer, are some very just and forcible observations on the corrupting effect upon youth, of too close and numerous an association with each other. He applies it to large boarding schools. The enlightened President of a Rhode Island University, on similar grounds (as he told me), does all that he can to discourage students from boarding and lodging in _College_. Observation and experience had shewn him the danger of _spontaneous combustion_, from the too near approach of human passions and weaknesses. The same principle applies to the case of Factory hands: only, here, are superadded, elements which incalculably enhance the danger.]

I mentioned _Lectures, and social Libraries_.--These, and similar institutions for diffusing knowledge among the multitude, are among the chief glories of New England. In all the cities, and many of the larger and middling towns (towns in the English sense,) there are Lyceums, Young Men's Societies, Library Societies, or associations under some such name, for mental exercise and improvement. A collection of books is a usual, and a philosophical apparatus an occasional appendage. Connectedly with these institutions, or sometimes, independently of them, Lectures on every variety of subjects that can instruct or profit mankind, are delivered by public spirited men--professional and unprofessional--sometimes, by farmers and mechanics themselves. They are gratuitous; and in a style plain enough to be understood by all classes of society, who flock to hear them. For these occasions, the first abilities of the country have now and then been put in requisition. Story, Everett, and Webster--alike with the village teacher and mechanic; have contributed their quota of MIND, towards the holy cause of Popular Instruction. A valuable lecture from each of these; from Mr. Everett indeed, two Lectures--are in Vol. 1 of the "American Library of useful knowledge." The name of this work at once suggests that a similar one, published by Mr. Brougham and his generous associates in Great Britain, in _fortnightly_ pamphlets, at a rate so cheap as to be within every laborer's reach; unfolding, in a familiar style, the useful parts of scientific and historical knowledge. To his share in this work, Brougham, you remember, having his hands already filled with pressing employments, was obliged to devote "_hours stolen from needful rest_." How magnanimous the spirit, which could prompt that "hardest lesson that humility can teach--a voluntary descent from the dignity of science,"[3] to explain the simple rudiments of knowledge to unlettered minds! the spirit, which could make genius and power drudge in the lowliest walks of learning, to open and smooth them for the ingress of {274} intellectual "babes and sucklings!" When will the great of Virginia deign this magnanimous descent? When will our Leigh, our Tazewell, our Barbour, our Rives, our Johnson, our Stanard, our Robertson--a generous spirit, from whose devotion to democracy, something might be expected towards fitting his countrymen for self government--when will they, and the host of talents besides that Virginia possesses, be found striving in this noble race of usefulness with Brougham, Jeffrey, McIntosh, Webster and Everett? That trumpet-call of the North American Review five years ago, which might have roused apathy itself to energetic effort in the cause of Popular Education, and which--whether it _betokened_ only, or _strengthened_, the beneficent operation of the spirit that has so long been diffusing through the North the blessed light of MIND--doubtless met a response in every Northern bosom; that trumpet-call, in Virginia, fell upon senseless ears. You indeed, I remember, echoed it; but trumpet-call and echo both, sounded in ears deaf save to the miserable wranglings of party, about the more miserable pretensions of opposing candidates: and, at this day, our people, and their leaders, are in a slumber as profound on this subject, as if we had no Literary Fund--no Primary Schools--no youth to educate--no country to save from the certain fate of popular ignorance.

[Footnote 3: Dr. Johnson.]

It is bed time, and I must forbear saying more at present. Yet I have not done with New England: there remain several topics, which I incline to touch. So you shall hear from me at my next stopping place.

* * * * *

_West Point, N. Y., July 28._

On board the Steam-boat this morning, I met ---- ---- and his family; who, without my knowing it, were in Albany all of yesterday. They have landed here too; and we expect to descend the river together to New York city, to-morrow. He has given me a very gratifying account of the Temperance reformation in this state. It seems to be triumphant, beyond all experience in Virginia, or even in New England. The _means_ have been, _perfectly organized action_--_great diligence of exertion_--and _the use of the_ PRESS. The organization consists in a regular and intimate concert, of _township_ societies with _county_ societies, and of these with the _State_ society. This powerful machinery has been aided by the active zeal, and generosity, of individuals, who have profusely lavished time, and toil, and money, to advance the goodly work. And by a judicious use of a great modern improvement of the Press, a monthly paper (the Temperance Recorder) is published, at the price of seventeen cents per annum: a copy of which, or of some other Temperance newspaper, it is believed, is received by almost every family in the state. Measures are taking to convey light thus to, absolutely, _every family_. Cannot something like this be done in Virginia? In Massachusetts, I perceived with regret, a strong disposition to invoke Legislative action in support of the Temperance Society: to get the making and vending of ardent spirits prohibited by Law. In New York, they disarm opposition of so plausible a pretext for hostility, by fixedly determining to ask--to accept--no such aid; but to rely exclusively upon _reasoning_, _the exhibition of facts_, _and the influence of example_--means, which have already achieved, what were seven years ago deemed chimæras, and which will doubtless be fully adequate to the consummation of this great work.--But I am digressing from my design, of dwelling a little longer on some features of New England.

_Manual Labor Schools_ (on the Fellenberg plan) have not multiplied there, or grown in esteem, as might have been expected from the forwardness of the people in adopting every valuable improvement; and particularly, from the congeniality of this one with their own long-cherished custom, of blending labor with study. Possibly, this very custom may, in their eyes, make the improvement unnecessary: since their youth already substantially enjoy its advantages. To study in winter--to work in summer--has, time out of mind, been the routine of New England education: differing from the Fellenberg method only in having the alternations half-_yearly_, instead of half-_daily_.--Franklin, the Trumbulls, Sherman, Dwight, Pickering, Webster, Burges, and all the illustrious self-made men, who have rendered that otherwise unkindly soil so verdant with laurels, were nurtured strictly in the discipline of _manual labor schools_: and perhaps the new method would be quite needless, were not the progress of wealth, luxury, indolence and pride, now rapidly swelling the numbers of those who, urged by no necessity, and relying upon no exertions of their own for distinction, would never feel the salutary influence of labor, if not sent to schools where it is taught; and were not the same progress multiplying those also, who never could procure instruction, except by the opportunity which this method affords them, of purchasing it by their labor. Perhaps too, the Common Schools (in which poor and rich are equally entitled to learn) may tend still more to render the new plan useless; as to the branches of knowledge taught in them.

_Infant Schools_ appear to have sunk a good deal in esteem, among intelligent people in New England. At Hartford, a lady, whose name (were it seemly to publish a lady's name) would give commanding weight to the opinion, told me that they were found hurtful both to body and mind: To _body_ (and this the physicians confirmed) by overexciting, and thus injuring, the brain and the nervous system: to _mind_, by inducing the habit of learning parrot-like, by rote--by sound {275} merely--without exercise of the thinking power. It seems agreed, that some features of the infant school system may advantageously be transferred to ordinary schools: for instance, the use of tangible and visible symbols and illustrations. And infant schools themselves are certainly well enough, for those children who would otherwise have to be left alone, or untended, while their parents are abroad or at work. But for _young children_, where the sternest necessity does not forbid, there is nothing comparable to _domestic education_; no care, no skill, no authority, like those of a mother--or of a father. And how few parents there are, who, by methodical husbandry of time, and reasonable exertion of intellect, might not find both leisure and ability to train the minds and form the habits of their offspring, for at least the first nine years of life!

The Common-school system, _as a system_, is certainly admirable. But some _minutiæ_ of its administration may be censured. Teachers are often tasked with too many pupils. I saw a young woman of twenty, toiling in the sway of fifty-two noisy urchins, with twenty of whom I am quite sure my hands would have been over-full: and it was said to be no unusual case. Then, _Webster's spelling book_ is in frequent use. There are half a dozen better ones. And the barbarous usage, of making a child go on to spell in five or six syllables, before he is allowed the refreshment of reading--instead of teaching him to read as soon as he can spell in three letters, and then carrying on the two processes together, to their mutual acceleration--is still kept up, as in our _old-field_ schools.--A usage about as worthy of this enlightened age, as the old rule, of whipping a boy for miscalling a word, or for not crossing a _t_. I was glad to see Warren Colburn's books--his Intellectual Arithmetic particularly--in pretty general use. His merit is, not so much that he has smoothed the road to that child-perplexing branch of knowledge (though in that respect he has entitled himself to every child's gratitude), as that he has rendered the study an improving exercise to the mind--a strengthener and quickener of the reasoning faculty; and has disclosed the _rationalia_ of many processes of calculation, as mysterious before to the young mind as so many feats of jugglery. A pervading fault in the management of the common-schools, is a _false economy_; shewn, in choosing teachers less by their proper qualifications, than by their cheapness. In Connecticut, more especially, this wretched mistake seems to prevail; as a curious fact, told me in Providence, strikingly illustrates. Of the many who go forth from the University there, and from several good Academies in the state of Rhode Island, to find employment as teachers in the adjoining states, few or none, it was said, found it in Connecticut: owing to the niggardly wages paid there. The man for their money, is he who _asks the least_.

Wide discretion, as to the classification of the Common-schools, and as to the extent of the studies in them, is given to the _Towns_. In some, the people, or their commissioners appointed to superintend the schools, are content with a single grade or _tier_, in which are taught merely the _necessary_ sorts of knowledge, from Arithmetic downwards. Others classify them, into 1st. _primary_ schools, where only spelling, reading, and writing, are taught: 2nd. _secondary_ schools, for the rudiments of Arithmetic, Geography, English Grammar, and further progress in reading and writing: 3rd. _Apprentices'_ schools, where the above branches are further taught, with the addition of some History, Book-keeping, and Geometry: 4th. _High_ schools, for Algebra, Geometry, use of the Globes, Latin, (and sometimes Greek) with perhaps the elements of Natural Philosophy. The classification sometimes stops at the third, sometimes at the second, tier. There are but few towns, in which it is carried to the fourth. Worcester is one of these: Boston, and Salem, are the only others that I heard of. In the first and second grades, boys and girls are schooled together: in the higher grades, male and female schools, are separate.

Latin and Mathematics are coming to be considered as a regular part of female education, throughout the North. But I have not ascertained satisfactorily, whether it is a mere smattering that is taught, or so thorough a course as may solidly improve the memory, taste, judgment and reasoning powers. In relation to women even more emphatically than to men, (it seems generally agreed) these studies are less to be prized, for any specific pieces of knowledge they furnish, than for the activity, strength, acuteness and polish, they give to the various powers of the understanding. The Yankees are too shrewd, and too habitually observant of practical utility, not to perceive this truth, and act accordingly.

The voyage hither from Albany abounds with captivating spectacles. For the first fifty miles, these consisted chiefly of waving hills, interspersed with modest but handsome country seats half-veiled by trees;--and of villages and landings, where, at intervals of four or five miles, our immense floating Hotel would halt to take in and land passengers--if halt it could be called, when her motion was not actually suspended, but only slackened, while by _her boat_, she rapidly communicated with the shore. The Catskill Mountains were in sight; and we were nearly entering the Highlands, so celebrated in the journal of every tourist, from Dolph Heyliger downwards, for their almost matchless combination of beauty and sublimity; when the _lean_ "orderer of all things," for reasons best known to himself and his employers, contrived to coop us all under hatches at dinner. A slender appetite, and a surmise that there would be something worth seeing, carried me on deck {276} before the rest were half done eating; when mountains, hemming in the majestic Hudson to a width of not more than five or six hundred yards, broke at once upon my view. They rise, from the water's very edge, within twenty or thirty degrees of the perpendicular, to a height of fourteen or fifteen hundred feet; their sides and summits undulating with various prominences and depressions, occupied by dark brown rocks, intermingled with scanty shadings of evergreens, stunted bushes, and shrubs. After sailing three or four miles between these awful embankments, we reach West Point. Here are quite too many pleasing objects, for enumeration; a skilful book-wright could make a volume of them. 'Kosciusko's Garden' is a romantic _sinus_, or recess, in the precipice which forms the eastern face, (upon the river) of the _table land_ called West Point. Hither, it is said, that hero used daily to retire for meditation and repose; and a shelf in the rock is shewn, as the couch where he often reclined. Nay, within a few inches of where his head probably used to lie, an indentation in the rock is pointed out, said to have been made by a cannon ball, fired at him from a British man of war that lay in the river: but this story "wants confirmation." You descend by a flight of stone steps to the "Garden," which is only ten or fifteen feet above the river. It is furnished with wooden seats; and with a neat fountain of whitish marble, in which bubbles up a bold vein of water.

On the north-eastern angle of the "Point," around which the river somewhat abruptly sweeps, is a handsome monument, erected by the Cadets some years ago, to the same hero. It is a plain marble column, about fifteen or eighteen feet high; with no inscription save the single word "KOSCIUSKO." This simple memorial is, in moral sublimity, scarcely inferior to that conception, one of the noblest of its kind in the whole compass of poetry--

"We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we _left him alone with his glory_."

There are few names which can justly be relied upon, thus to speak the epitaphs of those who bore them. Among those few, doubtless, is the name of KOSCIUSKO. History, and the halo thrown around that name by Campbell, will ensure it a place among the "household words" of Poland and America, and of every people who shall speak the language or breathe the spirit of either.

"Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked, as KOSCIUSKO fell!"

To be mentioned thus, and so deservedly--is to be embalmed in Light, and set conspicuously on high in the Temple of Fame.

A similar inscription is upon the tomb of _Spurzheim_, in the cemetery of Mount Auburn, near Boston. To me, this seems to be taking too high a ground for him: though you, who are a phrenologist confirmed, may not think so. Possibly, you are right. Contemporary celebrity is no measure of posthumous fame. PARADISE LOST was almost unknown till near half a century after its author's death: and he was contemptuously designated as "_One Milton_," by a man then conspicuous, but whose very name (_Whitelocke_) it has at this moment actually cost me _an effort_ to recollect. So, possibly, Spurzheim's renown may freshen with time; and a discerning posterity, honoring him above Napoleon, and even above Kosciusko, may apply the just saying of a _great_--that is a voluminous--poet:

"The warrior's name, Though pealed and chimed on all the tongues of Fame, With far less rapture fills the generous mind, Than his, who fashions and improves mankind."

Good night.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

CITY OF MEXICO--CHAPOLTEPEC.

May 25, 1825.--This morning we made our entree into the city of Mexico. Passing through the little villages of _Istapalapa_ and _Mexicalsingo_, we rode for several miles over a paved causeway--_calzada_--lined with the _schinus_,[1] aspins, and a species of willow very much resembling the lombardy poplar--in sight of the numerous towers and domes which rise above the scarcely visible flat-roofed houses of the city. The approach to it, but for this and other fine avenues, would be perfectly tame, as its situation is a level, whose elevation above the plain which surrounds it is quite imperceptible. From the gate--_garita_--we turned into the _Paseo de las Vigas_, a beautiful promenade on the bank of the canal, which leads from _Chalco_, through the eastern portion of the city, into the lake of _Tescuco_. We were here joined by the few American residents of Mexico, and accompanied by them, soon entered its streets, which in the suburbs are exceedingly filthy, but as we advanced, they were clean, well paved, but not wide, with good yet narrow sidewalks of broad flags of porphyry. My first feeling was disappointment--not so much with the city, as with the crowds of wretched ill-dressed people, of beggars, and poor half-naked Indians, bending under heavy burdens. There are no carts or drays for the transportation of goods, which are carried upon the backs of these poor creatures, who are enabled to carry a load of three hundred pounds, by means of a leather band or strap, the _cargador_ leaning forward at an angle {277} of about 45°, the burden resting on the back, supported by this strap. With so heavy a load they travel great distances, moving in a brisk walk or trot.

[Footnote 1: The _Schinus_ or _Arbol de Peru_ is a beautiful tree, somewhat resembling a willow; it is odorous, and bears in bunches a small red berry, which is almost as pungent as black pepper, as a substitute for which it is used by the poorer people.]

The houses of Mexico, some of which are very spacious and magnificent, are constructed generally of a light volcanic production called _tetzontli_, in some instances cut smooth and square, but more frequently rough, when the walls are plastered with lime and painted. The handsomest are built of light gray porphyry. They are mostly of two stories, some of three, with _axoteas_ or flat roofs. They have all open squares. A gate, large enough for carriages to pass through, leads from the street into the _patio_, or court yard. The basement upon the street is occupied commonly as a store or shop, and in the rear are the stables. Across the patio, fronting the gate, is the staircase, which leads to the _corridors_, or interior porticoes, which surround the area, and are ornamented with flowers. From the corridors, the doors open into the various rooms, which communicate with each other around the whole area, in instances where the house is so large as to occupy the four sides. It is an airy style of building, the windows being large, level with the brick floor, opening like double doors, and is well adapted to the delightful climate of Mexico. The most serious evil is the want of privacy to the chambers. Each window has its balcony.

The streets of Mexico run nearly from north to south, and from east to west, crossing at right angles. The greatest longitudinal length is about two miles--the latitudinal about a mile and three quarters;[2] but as the figure of the city is unequal, these lengths are far from uniform. In either direction the view is terminated by the mountains which bound the plain of Mexico. In the central and most frequented parts of the city, the streets are well paved and are kept clean; but apart from these, they are amazingly dirty--the drains passing through the centre being open, offensive both to the sight and to the smell.

[Footnote 2: This measure does not mean the distance of the opposite _garitas_ or custom-house gates from each other, which is considerably greater--but comprises the compactly built part of the city, not comprehending the scattered houses in the outskirts.]

The _Plaza Mayor_ is the principal open square in the centre of the city. On the northern side of it is the cathedral; the government house, formerly the vice regal palace, occupies its eastern side; on the southern and western sides are the _Cabildo_, (town-hall,) and colonnades or _portales_, within which are the principal stores, and where varieties of goods and trinkets, lottery tickets and shilling pamphlets, are sold. In the southeastern portion of this square stood the magnificent equestrian statue of Charles IV, raised on a fine pedestal, and surrounded by a handsome iron railing. It has been removed lately to the patio or court of the university, where it remains to be admired for its admirable workmanship in bronze, although it is seen to disadvantage in a compass too confined for it. In the southwestern part of this plaza stands a collection of stores, a sort of bazaar, called the _Parian_, which disfigures it extremely; but as the city derives a large revenue from the rent, there is little prospect of the levelling system being extended to this little town of shops.

The cathedral is a splendid edifice, with a front of three hundred and fifty feet, upon the plaza. It stands upon the same spot which the famous Aztec Temple of _Huitzilopochtli_ occupied. The eastern part of the front, built of red _tetzontli_, is a curious gothic, bearing a more antique appearance than the other portion, which last, indeed, is the front to the body of the edifice. This is built of gray porphyry, ornamented with pilasters and statues, and surmounted by two handsome towers. The interior is very rich and magnificent; the dome is lofty and supported by large stone columns. The grandeur of the whole is diminished greatly by the choir, which occupies a large portion of the nave, and is connected with the chief altar by a railing of bronze, surmounted by silver figures supporting branches for candles. A superb chandelier of silver is suspended nearly under the great dome in front of the grand altar, which is richly ornamented with gold and silver. The tout ensemble has an imposing effect; and at night, when illuminated, with the music of a full choir, instrumental and vocal, the impressions it makes are irresistibly strong. The depth of the whole edifice is about four hundred and fifty feet.[3]

[Footnote 3: The entire length of the interior of the cathedral is 373 feet--its width 179 feet. Those in the journal are the external dimensions. The structure was begun in 1573, and cost $1,752,000. It was dedicated in 1667. The grand altar bears a later date, and was dedicated in 1743.]

In the southwestern corner of the cathedral, inlaid in the exterior wall, is the celebrated calendar stone of the ancient Mexicans. It is a huge mass of gray porphyry, having a circular face seven feet in diameter, on which the figures that represent the months are sculptured in relief. In the centre is a head, from the mouth of which water seems to flow--surrounded by two circles, a large and a small one--the latter divided into twenty parts, with hieroglyphics which designate the twenty months of eighteen days each, into which the Mexican year was divided. The remainder of the face is ornamented with figures in relief.

The _Palace_, filling the eastern side of the _Plaza_, occupies a square of six hundred and sixty feet by six hundred, within which space are comprised the residence of the president, the offices of the different departments of the government, the senate chamber and that of the deputies, the mint, {278} prison, botanic garden, and the barracks of a regiment of infantry. On this spot Cortes fixed his residence after the capture of the city; but he exchanged it subsequently for the site of Montezuma's palace, on which now stands the _Casa de Estado_, the family mansion of the conqueror. This classic ground is to the west of the cathedral, fronting it; and the space, believed to have embraced the residence of the Mexican kings, is a square of about six hundred feet. On the northern side of this square passes the street running west, _Calle de Tacuba_, by which Cortes retreated on the memorable _noche triste_ (unfortunate night) when he was driven from _Tenochtitlan_, or _Tenictitan_, as Cortes writes the name of the ancient city.

The botanic garden occupies an inner _patio_, or court of the palace, and is altogether unworthy of the celebrity which it has obtained in foreign countries. It is confined and crowded. Collections of seeds sold by the superintendent at high prices, have, to the great chagrin of foreigners, been found invariably to comprise the most ordinary plants, when the most rare and valuable were promised to the purchasers. An additional garden has been laid out recently at _Chapoltepec_. There are two tall trees of the _Manitas_, in the botanic garden--all, with the exception of one at _Toluca_, that are said to be growing in the republic. The Professor of Botany, _Don Vicente Cervantes_, informed me that it is a common tree in Guatemala. The flower is exceedingly beautiful, of a bright scarlet color; its supposed resemblance to a hand, gives the name to the trees, _Arbol de las Manitas_--but it is far more like a bird's claws.

* * * * *

Less than a league from the city to the west, is the porphyritic rock of _Chapoltepec_,[4] which rises one hundred and sixty feet above the plain. On its summit is a palace or castle built by the Viceroy Galvez, but never finished. Towards the city it bears the appearance of a fortress, and the work is so constructed as to withstand a siege. The founder, no doubt, had it in view in its construction, as the resort of the Viceroy in case of insurrection among the people, of which there had been several instances. The view of the city and plain of Mexico from this spot, is remarkably beautiful. Baron Humboldt, whose enthusiasm sometimes led him to extravagance, thus eloquently describes it:[5] "Nothing can be more rich and varied than the picture which the valley presents, when, on a fine summer's morning, the heaven being cloudless and of that deep blue which is peculiar to the dry and rarified air of high mountains, we ascend one of the towers of the Cathedral of Mexico, or the hill of _Chapoltepec_. A beautiful vegetation surrounds this hill. The ancient trunks of cypress, of more than fifteen or sixteen metres[6] in circumference, divested of foliage, rise above those of the schinus, which, in figure, resemble the weeping willows of the east. In the depth of this solitude, from the top of the porphyritic rock of _Chapoltepec_, the eye overlooks a vast plain with well cultivated fields, which extend even to the foot of the colossal mountains, covered with perpetual ice. The city seems washed by the waters of the lake of _Tescuco_, whose basin, surrounded by villages and hamlets, reminds one of the most beautiful lakes of the mountains of Switzerland. Long avenues of elms and poplars lead on all sides to the capital. Two aqueducts, constructed upon lofty arches, cross the plain, and present an aspect both agreeable and interesting. To the north is seen the magnificent convent of Our Lady of _Guadalupe_, with the mountains of _Tepexacac_ behind it, among ravines which furnish shelter to dates and tufted yuccas. To the south, the whole country between _San Angel_, _Tacubaya_, and _San Agustin de las Cuevas_, appears an immense garden of oranges, peaches, apples, cherries, and other European fruit trees. The beautiful cultivation is contrasted with the savage aspect of the bald mountains which enclose the valley, and among which are distinguished the famous volcanoes of _Puebla_, the _Popocatepetl_, and _Iztaccihuatl_. The first forms an enormous cone, whose crater, constantly inflamed, throwing out smoke and ashes, opens in the midst of eternal snows."

[Footnote 4: _Chapoltepec_ signifies the mountain of grasshoppers; from _Chapolin_, a grasshopper, and _tepetl_, mountain.]

[Footnote 5: Vol. 2, Book 3, c. 8.]

[Footnote 6: About fifty English feet.]

A less enthusiastic spectator would subtract many of its beauties from this glowing description, and still could not fail to admire--to admire much and long, the prospect from _Chapoltepec_. He would see a fine city, with its sixty domes and twice as many towers, but the lake of _Tescuco_ is too distant and indistinct to seem to wash it with its waters--and he would look in vain for the villages and hamlets that surround it. The fruit trees of _Tacubaya_, _San Angel_ and _Agustin_ exist, but unfortunately are not seen. These villages are situated on the southwestern border of the plain, and abound in orchards, but these are shut from view by high stone walls. With like disappointment he would look towards the _smoking_ volcano of _Puebla_; the _Popocatepetl_ does indeed smoke, but the smoke is indiscernible except from the mouth of the crater itself--nor has it been known to throw out ashes since 1665, when it continued to discharge for four days. In other respects the preceding description is not too highly wrought.

* * * * *

About a mile from _Chapoltepec_ is situated the little village of _Tacubaya_, celebrated for its mills, {279} but chiefly for the _palace_ and garden of the Archbishop of Mexico. From this palace, which stands upon a commanding point above the village, the view is as extensive, and perhaps even more beautiful than that from _Chapoltepec_, inasmuch as this last is comprehended in it. The garden is laid out prettily, and contains some fine plants and fruits, but is very much neglected. A large orchard of olive trees adjoins it, which yield plentifully; but the olives, which may not be so well cured, are not as good as those imported from Spain. The cultivation of olive trees was forbidden under the Spanish government, lest it might interfere with the monopoly of the mother country, which exported in 1803, olives to the value of thirty thousand dollars.[7]

[Footnote 7: Humboldt, vol. 4, p. 374-564.]

In two subjoined articles, extracted from the "American Annals of Education," a very useful periodical, published in Boston,--are the same which are referred to by an intelligent correspondent in the last number of the "Messenger." (See page 205.) They are well worth the reader's attention.

HEINROTH ON THE EDUCATION OF INFANCY.

(Translated from the German.)

We have often put the question to parents, at what period of infancy moral discipline should begin, and we have heard various ages assigned, from six months to a year. But in watching the management of early infancy, in observing one child incessantly fed and dandled, and yet incessantly fretful, in seeing another burst into distressing outcries, if its wants were not gratified at the instant, in remarking how another would submit, with comparative quiet, to be laid down when it desired to move, and suppress its cries when its gratification was delayed,--above all, in seeing how the infant of poverty, or of savage life, submits to be left unnoticed and unattended, while its mother toils the livelong day for a subsistence, and can only snatch a few moments of repose to feed and fondle her nursling, we could not but ask, whether the _first want_ and the _first gratification_ do not in fact commence the course of moral discipline. Is not the question often, if not always, settled in early infancy, whether the appetites and passions shall be established with uncontrollable despotism before the dawn of reason, or whether they shall be kept in their appropriate and subordinate place, until reason assumes the throne? On points like this, we are anxious to present the results of wider experience and deeper research than our own; and we have been gratified to find in a work of Heinroth, Professor of Medicine in the University of Leipzig, opinions expressed which entirely accord with those which observation and reflection have led us to form. We present our readers with a translation of the passage, and earnestly recommend it to the attention of mothers especially, as containing the results derived from extensive experience, by a man whose medical knowledge, and whose reputation as a writer on education, give his opinion high authority.

"When a child enters the world, its education is commenced by its physical treatment,--by the manner in which its bodily wants are provided for. As it is the offspring of love, so it should be cherished in the arms of love, from the first moments of its life. We take it for granted that it is blessed with a healthful, virtuous, and affectionate mother. She is the angel who is to watch over that frail existence, and guard it from accident; she should suffer nothing in the elements of nature, nor surrounding circumstances, neither cold air, dazzling light, excessive heat, or oppressive clothing, to excite the child to pain. Even its first nourishment should not be given till the want begins, lest injurious excitement be the consequence; and it should not be given more freely, or more frequently than this want absolutely requires.

"The _first day_ of the infant's life must be greeted with _order_ and _temperance_; and both must preside over its whole future management. As one sense after another developes itself, each should be supplied with agreeable objects; for cheerful circumstances produce cheerful dispositions. No obstacle should be allowed to the free play of all the limbs and muscles--nothing which will hinder the development of life and strength--and no undue pains must be taken to excite even these; let them advance quietly and naturally.

"The look and voice of the mother's love should be the first food of the infant soul. Life itself is joy; let joy cherish the germs of life. The sight and the touch soon find appropriate objects; but even now must the spirit of education watch over the child. It must not grasp all in its reach; it must not touch the flame, or the knife, or in short, any thing injurious to it. As soon as it learns to hear, it learns to listen to its mother's voice, that is, to obey. The ear gradually becomes the spiritual leading-string of the growing man. The child cannot see and touch, without _desiring_, and does not desire, without exercising _the will_. His first will is _self-will_, and it soon takes root and strengthens, if the will of the mother does not promptly meet, and gently, but firmly check it.

"Here then, education must begin,--with the first want, and its supply. It begins, therefore, immediately, with the physical treatment of the child, for its first wants are only physical. Every mode of treating an infant is wrong which does not satisfy its wants in the right way, and peculiarly wrong is every unseasonable or excessive supply. The first wants of infancy are food, warmth, air, motion and sleep. A greater number of children suffer from an excess of these {280} comforts, than from too scanty a portion of them. It is true, bad nourishment, confined air, want of cleanliness and of free exercise, and unquiet sleep arising from these causes, destroy many children who are left to the care of hireling nurses. But on the other hand, a greater number suffer from the peculiar care of an over-anxious mother, from superfluous nourishment, and excessive wrapping, from guarding against all those influences of air, deemed pernicious, from artificial motion, and from the sleep thus artificially produced and maintained. In this way, many of the most favored nurslings leave the world when they have scarcely entered it. It is not however with the dead, but with the living that we have to do. Few mothers will allow themselves to be charged with too little care or indulgence; and even experienced nurses avoid it from prejudice and disposition. Let us then examine the errors in physical treatment, arising from excess, and particularly from excess in food.

"It is a most pernicious custom to stop every cry of a child with food, whether it is done from the idea that it needs so frequent nourishment, or to make it quiet. Inquire why the infant cries, and remove the cause, if it can be discovered. It will be more rarely the want of food, in proportion as it has been accustomed to regularity. If the child is irregularly fed, it acquires bad habits, it departs from _order_, ('Heaven's first law,') whose first principles should be implanted in man while instinct still governs him. But the infant who is thus accustomed to excess, soon becomes _inordinate_ in its demands, and TEMPERANCE and ORDER, the great pillars of life, are both overthrown. It will become greedy when it is unseasonably fed, even with simple food, and the evil becomes still greater when it is pampered with delicacies. An artificial necessity is produced for continual gratification of the palate, so that it will often not be pacified without having something pleasant to the taste constantly in its mouth; and upon this, the whole enjoyment of its young life depends. The sense of taste checks the progress of every noble sense; the child concentrates its whole thoughts on the enjoyment of this single appetite. In this way, it is prepared to become, not only an epicurean, but a sensualist; and the obvious evils of overloading the stomach and producing disease are not the only evils arising from this treatment. The _moral character_ is also injured before it is fairly developed. The child thus miseducated, becomes obstinate and self-willed. If its demands are not satisfied, (and its cries are demands,) it will soon learn to fret itself, almost into childish insanity. See now the seeds of moral corruption implanted in the physical soil, whose roots strike deeper in proportion as they are sown earlier!

"Whence is it that we so frequently see this pernicious physical treatment, and its natural fruits? Why do we see so many over-fed, gormandizing, ill-humored, selfish and self-willed children? The combined power of three great causes are at work: _maternal love_, _vanity_ and _ignorance_. We may venture to say, every mother in her senses loves her child more than she loves herself. How can she then refuse to give him any thing! Food is the most obvious comfort, the greatest pleasure he enjoys, and she gives it freely. She wishes her child to _thrive_, to become strong, vigorous and fleshy. And now _vanity_ comes in play. Every mother is vain of her child, and would fain have it the finest, and for this purpose also it is excessively fed. Yet this does not happen without the third cause,--_ignorance_. Ignorance does not perceive that the thriving of the child depends upon the quantity which it digests, rather than upon the quantity it swallows, and overlooks the great medium, which it does not understand, the organs of nourishment, whose office it is to prepare _nourishment_ for the body from the food which enters the stomach. Only so much food as the child really digests does it any good; what remains undigested is a source of evil.

"As these bad habits began with blind and injudicious affection, so they end with the same. How can one who loves a child so much, give it pain! When the necessary consequences of this treatment appear, and the child becomes ill-humored, selfish and self-willed, and beginning very early, to worry its mother; this blind and weak love, incapable of resistance, pleads, '_The poor child cannot understand yet._ The understanding is not developed the first year. Let it grow older, and then I will educate it.' In the meantime, before the understanding is developed, the child is _miseducated_ and _spoiled_. The first use it makes of the understanding, is in tormenting the mother; and it soon becomes a little tyrant. There are too many mothers of this sort, who are slaves to their children. They reap only what they have sown."

* * * * *

EFFECTS OF MATERNAL INDULGENCE.

We have expressed more than once the pleasure we felt on finding the subject of education occupy so much more attention of late in other periodicals, &c., and have given several extracts. We add another striking article from the Albany Journal and Telegraph.

'Messrs. Editors,--Of the solemn character of the duties devolving upon mothers, all writers agree to express the same sentiment. Where these duties are neglected, where a mother's fondness controls all without judgment and intelligence, the most unhappy consequences follow. I do not know where these have been drawn out in a more vivid and awful picture than in the late work, entitled Guy Rivers. It does not fall within your {281} line to have to do with such works, yet I trust you will allow me to furnish an extract which does fall in with the practical object of your paper. Guy is a highwayman--a murderer--a cold blooded murderer--an outlaw--of most violent, headlong passions, which pause at nothing where their gratification is concerned, and yet he is a man of great shrewdness and of superior natural intellect. At the point where the extract is made, this man's course is approaching its catastrophe. In his den he sees its approach, and his mind is occupied with bitter reflection. With his Lieutenant this is his conversation; and when I think of what I have known of maternal weakness, I shudder to think how near to the life the picture may be.

'"I do you wrong, Dillon--but on this subject I will have no one speak. I cannot be the man you would have me; I have been schooled otherwise. My mother has taught me a different lesson,--her teachings have doomed me, and these enjoyments are now all beyond my hopes."

'"Your mother!" was the response of Dillon, in unaffected astonishment.

'"Ay, man--my mother. Is there any thing wonderful in that? She taught me this lesson with her milk--she sung it in lullabies over my cradle--she gave it me in the plaything of my boyhood--her schoolings have made me the morbid, the fierce criminal, from whose association all the gentler virtues must always desire to fly. If, in the doom, which may finish my life of doom, I have any person to accuse of all, that person is--my mother!"

'"Is this possible? Is it true? It is strange, very strange."

'"It is not strange--we see it every day--in almost every family. She did not _tell_ me to lie--or to swindle, or to stab. No! Oh no! she would have told me that all these things were bad--but she _taught_ me to perform them all. She roused my _passions_ and not my _principles_ into activity. She provoked the one and suppressed the other. Did my father reprove my improprieties, she petted me and denounced him. She crossed his better purposes and defeated all his designs, until at last, she made my passions too strong for my government, not less than hers; and left me, knowing the true, yet the victim of the false. What is more,--while my intellect, in its calmer hours, taught me that virtue was the only source of true felicity, my ungovernable passions set the otherwise sovereign reason at defiance, and trampled it under foot. Yes--in that last hour of eternal retribution, if called upon to denounce or to accuse, I can point but to one as the author of all--the weakly, fond, misjudging, misguiding woman, who gave me birth. Within the last hour, I have been thinking over all these things. I have been thinking how I had been cursed in childhood, by one who surely loved me beyond all other things beside. I can remember how sedulously she encouraged and prompted my infant passions, uncontrolled by her reason, and since utterly unrestrainable by my own. How she stimulated me to artifices, and set me the example herself, by frequently deceiving my father and teaching me to disobey and deceive him. She told me not to lie, and she lied all day to him, on my account, and to screen me from his anger. She taught me the catechism to say on Sunday, while during the week, she schooled me in almost every possible form of ingenuity to violate all its precepts.

'"She bribed me to do my duty, and hence my duty could only be done under the stimulating promise of a reward. She taught me that God was superior to all, and that he required obedience to certain laws, yet as she hourly violated those laws herself in my behalf, I was taught to regard myself as far superior to him. Had she not done all this, I had not been here and thus: I had been what I now dare not think on. It is all her work. The greatest enemy my life has ever known has been my own mother."

'"This is a horrible thought, captain, yet I cannot but think it true."

'"It is true. I have analyzed my own history, and the causes of my character and fortunes now, and I charge it all upon her. From one influence I have traced another, until I have the sweeping amount of twenty years of crime and sorrow and a life of hate, and probably a death of ignominy, all owing to the first ten years of my infant education, when the only teacher that I knew was the woman that gave me birth."'

This is a fictitious tale indeed, but it is sadly true to nature. We have seen the victim of indulgence trained by the mere neglect of restraint to a violence of passion which reviled and abused the mother that bore him. We have known the abandoned son turn with doubled fist and furious gestures to his mother, and tell her,--"_You_ have trained me to all this." We have known those who escaped this dreadful fate, mourn through life, the mental suffering, or the bodily debility, which the mistaken indulgence of a mother's love had entailed upon them. And if the _man_ could always look back with the skill of Heinroth to his early childhood, even when no gross neglect of discipline was to be discovered, would he not accuse her early and excessive indulgence of his dawning appetites and craving desires as the source of that violence of passion--that obstinacy, which cost him so much painful discipline in youth, and perhaps still poison the peace of his manhood? Is there no argument, no appeal which can reach the heart of those mothers, who are sacrificing the future peace and character and hopes of their children, to the mere pleasure of gratifying them for the moment?

{282}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AN ADDRESS ON THE SUBJECT OF LITERARY ASSOCIATIONS TO PROMOTE EDUCATION.

_Delivered before the Institute of Education of Hampden Sidney College, at their last commencement, by_ JAMES M. GARNETT.

_Gentlemen Members of the Institute of Education:_

In compliance with the invitation with which your committee honored me some months ago, and for which I desire here publicly to make my acknowledgments; I now present myself to address you on the subject of "literary associations for the promotion of education."

Thus called upon for a purpose so philanthropic, a cause so truly glorious, and one moreover of such vital importance to our whole community, I could not hesitate to comply, however apprehensive I might feel of not being able to do full justice to the subject. I came to this determination the more readily, from the confident belief that the invitation would never have been given, had not the gentlemen members of your committee as well as those for whom they acted, been prepared to extend towards my deficiencies every indulgence which they might require. This brief explanation of the circumstances which brought me here, and of my own feelings on this highly interesting occasion, seems due not only to myself, but to the very respectable assembly in whose presence I now appear. Let me endeavor now to fulfil the duty, which I have undertaken to perform.

Literary associations for the promotion of education, unquestionably transcend in importance all other voluntary combinations of human beings that either _do_ or _can be imagined_ to exist for other purposes than mental culture, as far as the intellectual and moral powers of man surpass his mere animal appetites and passions: for it is by education alone--education I mean _as it should be_, that the former can be fully developed and perfected;--by education alone _as it should be_, that the latter can be so restrained and regulated as to minister to our comfort and happiness, instead of overwhelming us with irreparable misery and ruin. Obvious as this most momentous truth surely is, and deeply as we should imagine it would be felt by every rational being, it is but too certain that the number of those who do feel it in any such way, is most lamentably small in proportion to our whole population. This would be altogether incredible, were we to judge only from listening to our constant vauntings of the rapid progress of society in all the arts and sciences; of the multiplication and vast extent of modern discoveries; and the actual improvements in every branch of worldly knowledge. But when we use our _eyes_, as well as our _ears_; when we look immediately around us and view attentively our condition in Virginia, the striking want of public spirit in regard to the general instruction of the people, and the melancholy scarcity of "literary associations for the promotion of education;" it inflicts a pang of deep disappointment--of bitter mortification on the heart of every true, intelligent lover of his country. Travel through our sister states to the north and east, (as many of us would be much the better for doing,--to remove our senseless prejudices,) and we behold such associations, almost every where. No large city is without many of them; while they are found diffusing their incalculable blessings through nearly every little town and village, under some one or other of the various forms and titles which they there assume: such for example, as lyceums, conventions of teachers and other friends of the cause, institutes of instruction, and education societies. Their precious fruits manifest themselves in their numerous schools;--in their neighborhood libraries; in their public book stores; but above all in their multiplied places of public worship. These all combined in one view, present to the mind's eye of the contemplative patriot and philanthropist, a picture of social improvement and happiness, which it is impossible to mistake, or to consider without the most heartfelt emotions. The plain simple realities which we may there see, unaided by any of the fashionable magniloquence about "the march of intellect;" unvarnished by any false coloring or exaggeration whatever; force upon our minds a most thorough conviction, that the people of these happy states, owe the whole, either directly or indirectly, to their constant and zealous encouragement of associations for the promotion of education. These have been so ramified and extended among them, as now to embrace nearly every member of their several communities. Why, my friends, why let me most earnestly demand of you, should not we Virginians, "go and do likewise?" Why should not we profit by their meritorious example; and love them for it as we ought to do with a truly fraternal regard, instead of entertaining against them (as far too many of us do,) dislikes and animosities which are much more disgraceful to ourselves than injurious to them? And here permit me to remark, _en passant_, that were such regard cultivated and cherished, as it should be among all the states of this great confederacy, we should not only improve each other rapidly in every useful art and science; but the bonds of our fraternity, would be so increased and strengthened, that the whole world could not exhibit a government wherein all the numerous blessings of civilized life would be so widely diffused, so highly valued, so richly enjoyed.

But to return to our neglect of associations for the improvement of education. Shall we plead utter ignorance of their numerous advantages, their extensively beneficial effects, or shall we {283} acknowledge what I fear is the shameful truth, and what a very large majority of us may utter--each man for himself--the Heathen's confession: "_Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor?_" Shall we not hope however, that the glorious period of moral reform is not far distant; that the time is fast approaching when this wretched, debasing--nay, wicked habit of following the worse, where we both see and approve the better course,--is about to be eradicated in a great measure; by a vigorous enlightened prosecution of all the means necessary to effect a thorough change among us? To you, gentlemen members of the Hampden Sidney Institute, I believe Virginia is indebted for the first example of a voluntary association on a large scale, to promote education--an example which I most earnestly hope will be zealously followed in every part of our widely extended territory,--until the great, the vital object, which you so laudably aim to accomplish, shall be fully realized to the utmost extent of your wishes. It will be a time of heartfelt rejoicing, a day of glorious jubilee, to all who may live to see it--a day which even _we_ of the present generation may highly enjoy by anticipation, although we have little prospect of living to participate in all its precious blessings. By the way, how do _we_ obtain this power of anticipation, this faculty of feeling inexpressible delight in all the advantages, gratifications and enjoyments of those who are to live after we are dead and gone? Are we not indebted for it to _education_--to that moral and religious part of it which teaches us that we have immortal souls which connect us inseparably with future generations--which command us to provide as far as we can for _their_ happiness--which convince us that this very occupation, more than any other, will minister to our own felicity; and which in fact constitutes one of our most sacred duties upon earth? Oh! that we could all feel this momentous truth in the inmost recesses of our hearts! Utterly superfluous then would be not only the effort of the humble individual who now addresses you, but every other of a similar nature; for there would not then be a single member of society, possessed of the common capacities and feelings of humanity, who would not anxiously unite with heart, hand, and all available means, in promoting universal education, as the only practicable mode of insuring universal happiness. _This_, so far as it is attainable in our present state of existence, necessarily depends upon every human Being, of sound mind, understanding thoroughly all the various duties which he has to fulfil, as well as comprehending and feeling the utmost extent of his obligations to fulfil them--and _this_ again depends both upon _what_ and _how_ he has been taught; in other words, upon _education as it should be_.

To do justice as far as I possibly can to the cause which I am now pledged to support, I feel myself here bound to assert that in almost all our attempts to educate the youth of our country a most pernicious error is committed, either in regard to the meaning of the term _education itself_, or else in the methods pursued to accomplish our object. Should I succeed in establishing this charge, it will certainly result in the irresistible demonstration of that which I have been invited to illustrate--the great utility of voluntary associations, in some form or other, for the promotion of education. Admit the purpose to be essentially desirable, the obstacles to its attainment such as I believe they can be proved to be, and the necessity for such associations in the absence of all effective legislation, follows as an undeniable consequence. They naturally possess, in common with all other combinations of human effort to attain a particular end, far greater power of accomplishing _that end_, than the insulated and separate exertions of all the individuals concerned,--even supposing that every one would exert himself to the utmost, in his own particular way. This truth has resolved itself into the well known adage--"united we stand, divided we fall;" and I know of no more forcible exemplification of it, than in the present state of education among us Virginians. Individually consulted, we cry out nearly to a man, "let us educate our people!" but if called on for combined action, very few or none respond to the invitation. We have no common system--the result of general concert; no uniform plan, either as to the objects, or modes, or courses of instruction; no generally established class-books in the various studies pursued in our schools and colleges; no particular qualifications made indispensable for teachers; but each is left to the vain imaginings and devices of his own heart, or to be governed by the chance-medley, hap-hazard contrivances of individuals, very many of whom have neither the capacity, knowledge, experience, nor inclination to devise the best practicable methods for accomplishing the grand purpose of education. Politics, law, physic, absorb nearly all the talents of the State; while the vital business of instructing the rising generation; a business which requires minds of the very highest order and moral excellence to execute it properly, is generally left to be pursued by any who list--pursued far too often most reluctantly, as a mere stepping-stone to some other profession, and to be abandoned as soon as possible for almost any thing else that may turn up. The inevitable consequence is "confusion worse confounded;" driving parents and guardians to frequent changes both of schools and teachers for their children, where changes of books and modes of instruction follow, almost as matters of course; for those who are to handle the new brooms rarely believe they will be thought cleaner sweepers than their predecessors, unless they display their superiority by pursuing {284} some entirely different method. This petty ambition would be too ridiculous to deserve serious notice, were it not for the vast amount of evil which it produces, by not only retarding the progress of all youths under a course of instruction, but by constantly and powerfully tending to bring the whole class of teachers into general contempt. Under these circumstances, the existence of which none can deny, where shall we seek an adequate remedy for evils of such magnitude; where turn our eyes but to well organized voluntary associations for the promotion of education? These would collect and combine the powers, the talents, the knowledge of a very large portion of all the individuals in our society best qualified to accomplish the object. They would create a general taste, an anxious desire for intellectual pursuits; they would elevate the profession of the teacher to that rank which its vast importance to human happiness renders essential to its success; and would assuredly extend their influence to the remotest limits of our community, far more rapidly than could any scheme of legislative creation. It has been so in every other State, so far as the experiment has been tried. Why then should we doubt their success among ourselves? We who believe ourselves possessed of the wisest, the freest, the happiest government on earth, are incalculably more interested than any other nation (if our belief is true), in the cause of universal education; for on _its_ success, the very existence of free government itself, nay of individual and national happiness so far as government can affect either, must ultimately depend.

To this conclusion my own mind has been irresistibly brought by the whole course of my observations and experience for the last forty years of my life. But as some of my auditors may possibly differ from me, I will respectfully ask leave now to state more particularly my views of the great objects of education and the errors into which we have fallen in pursuit of them--errors which I verily believe will never be corrected but by voluntary and numerous associations, similar at least in design, to the one here established.

These objects are, _the perfecting of all our faculties, both of mind and body_; but chiefly, the full developement of man's _moral nature_, as the means of leading him thoroughly to understand, as well as voluntarily, constantly, and anxiously to aim at accomplishing all the glorious ends of his creation. Nothing deserves the name of education which does not tend directly and intelligibly to these great objects. Judge then, I pray you my friends, how little what is usually called education is entitled to be so styled! But first hear that you may judge. Is it not the sole aim in all our schools of the lower kinds to enable pupils to enter those of a higher grade, not by the evidences they can produce of advancement in the knowledge and practice of moral and religious principles, but by their proficiency in the elements of certain languages and abstract sciences? And what are the great, the ultimate purposes to be achieved after reaching these higher schools--the colleges and universities of the land? Are there any other, generally speaking, than merely to obtain a college degree--a diploma for a more extended proficiency in the same or other languages and abstract sciences? Is moral and religious acquirement ever made a pre-requisite? Is moral and religious conduct always rendered indispensable? Yet man without these is either a drone or a nuisance in society. Surely then, I may assert without fear of contradiction, that education conducted on any of the plans most prevalent among us, is really _not what it should be_,--for it continually places objects of scholastic pursuit in the highest rank, which have no just claim to any such elevation; but should ever be held subordinate to the far more exalted and all essential acquisition of sound, moral and religious principles. No more of these however, than will superinduce general conformity to college rules, and decency of general conduct, are ever required of candidates for collegiate honors; and all these may be and frequently are obtained without other proof either of moral or religious attainment, than what has just been stated.

This cannot be right. Man, in fact, _must be_ considered and treated from infancy to the last moment of his life as a being formed by his Maker for a state of existence far, very far different from the present--a state for which his sole business on earth is,--constantly to be preparing, by a diligent culture of _all_ his powers--by the beneficent use of _all_ his means; and by the faithful performance of _all_ his duties to himself, to his fellow creatures, and to his God. _This_ and _this only is education_. The learning of languages, arts, and sciences, which too often comprise the whole of education, furnishes him only with the stepping-stones, the scaffolding, and the tools to aid him in the erection of the grand edifice, which although based on earth, should rear its Dome to the highest Heaven, and be built for eternity as well as for time. But alas! these sciences, arts and languages, are almost always mistaken for the edifice itself--an edifice whose external decorations are much more valued and regarded than the great purposes for which it should be constructed: in other words, it is prepared more for show than use--more to attract the admiration of others, than really to benefit for all time the vain possessor who is to live in it, and to derive lasting security, comfort and true enjoyment from the skilful adaptation of all its various parts to the complete attainment of these inestimable blessings. To the mistake here figuratively expressed, more than to any other cause, we owe the countless failures, the innumerable, unsuccessful, heart-sickening efforts to educate the {285} rising generation: for scholarship, by which I mean a thorough acquaintance with all that is usually taught in our schools of the highest grade, is really and truly _not thorough education_, but a very inconsiderable and quite inferior part of the grand total. That which crowns the whole--that to which all else should be merely subsidiary--that which alone can elevate man from earth to Heaven,--is _moral and christian education_, producing constantly, by divine grace, _moral and christian practice_. It is _this_ and _this only_, which can enable us to meet as we should, all the changes and chances of this mortal life--to carry along with us into whatever calling or profession we may choose, all the requisite knowledge, ability and will, to render it most conducive not only to our own subsistence, comfort and happiness, so far as these are dependant thereon, but to the general good of the whole community in which we live. In other words, it is moral and christian education alone, that will give us both the power and effectual desire to fulfil every duty of the present life in such a manner as will best promote our own interests, temporal and eternal, as well as the great interests of society at large, in every way towards which we can possibly contribute. This efficient devotion of our powers and our means to the good of others, proceeding from a union of moral and religious principle, should ever constitute man's highest honor here below, since it is certainly the most important of all his earthly duties.

Literary institutions may bring to the utmost possible degree of perfection the methods of acquiring all languages, arts and sciences--they may invent matchless ways of making accomplished scholars, in the ordinary acceptation of the term--they may indoctrinate the youth of our country in every thing usually called scholastic learning--all this they may do with a rapidity and certainty heretofore inconceivable, yet they will fall immeasurably short of attaining the grand, the paramount objects of all which deserves to be called education, unless the fixing indelibly of moral and religious principles in the minds of all who are to be educated, be made the basis, the essence, and vital end of all instruction whatever. The idea is utterly preposterous that human beings ever can be taught to form adequate conceptions of the great purposes for which they were created--of the indispensable necessity of fulfilling most faithfully all their duties, in order to accomplish these purposes; and of the ineffable happiness both here and hereafter, that will be secured to all who do thus fulfil them, merely by teaching them all the languages, arts and sciences in the world,--if _that_ be omitted, without which all else is but mere dust in the balance,--I mean self-knowledge, self-control, self-devotion to duty as the supreme objects of our temporal existence. Do not, I beseech you, my friends, here misunderstand me. Far indeed, very far am I from underrating the real advantages, the true value of what is generally understood by the term scholastic attainments. No one can estimate more highly than I do, their power of extending our views, liberalizing our sentiments, enlightening our minds, strengthening our intellectual faculties, and exciting an ardent desire to increase our knowledge. Considered as the _means_ and not the _ends_ of education, I would always award to them the highest rank. But when we have said _this_, nothing more can justly be affirmed in their favor--if disconnected, as they too often are, from the ultimate and vital purposes of all perfect education. These undeniably are, (and it cannot be too frequently repeated,) to expand, to warm, to christianize the heart--to call into vigorous, untiring action, all our best affections, our noblest attributes, and to fit us thoroughly both for our present and future state of existence. Unless that which is called education will do _this_, we may safely assert that it is grossly _miscalled_, and that if it is never made to comprehend any thing more than what is generally understood by the term scholastic attainments, a mistake more fatal to the happiness of our species can scarcely be committed. Of this I would ask no better proof than would be afforded by an impartial examination of the actual acquirements, the conduct and the characters of those who are honored with the high sounding title of accomplished scholars. If they are really _better educated_, ought they not certainly to be not only wiser but _better men_, that is if education actually was what it most assuredly should be? But what is the fact? Do we find them better men, better citizens, better neighbors, friends and heads of families or states, than those who, with less scholarship, have had much more attention paid to their moral and religious education, than to those scholastic acquirements of which nothing but the most thorough, moral and religious instruction can teach us either the true value or the proper use? Gladly, most gladly do I admit that very many amiable men will be found among the former; for I am happy to say that I know many such--but it is equally true, that those praiseworthy traits of character and conduct which we frequently see apart from religious belief in christianity, form exceptions to the general rule that _un_belief in christianity tends certainly to produce both vice and depravity. Whereas immoral character and practice among professors of religion, form exceptions to the general rule that christian faith tends surely to produce christian conduct. The first class of persons are good in spite of their worldly creed--the latter are bad in direct opposition to what they believe to be right.

We shall never arrive at a clear, satisfactory conclusion in regard to this all important subject, education, but by first solving the questions, _what {286} are_ the paramount duties of the present life--_what_ the only means of securing their fulfilment? Are these duties _solely_ or even _chiefly_, to speak, or to understand a great variety of tongues--to measure the earth, the waters of the mighty ocean, nay the heavens themselves, with instruments and means of human invention--to wear away life itself in the vain attempt to discover the elementary principles of all visible things--to scan thoroughly the vast powers and possible expanse of human intellect--and to astonish the world by the perfection to which all human science, arts and accomplishments may be brought? Or, _are they_ that we should think wisely, act justly, and practice truth, industry, self-denial, and universal benevolence,--from the sincere, heartfelt, ever active love of our fellow creatures,--and willing obedience to all the commands of our God? Are the means to secure the fulfilment of all these most momentous duties, such as are usually adopted in our schools?--or, shall we not find them in very numerous instances nearly destitute of any but means rather of counteraction than promotion? By what other term can we characterize the usual school appliances, to the chief of which I beg leave to invite your special attention? These are, the fear of human punishments and disgrace, instead of the fear of offending our Maker--the stimuli of emulation and ambition: the first, to surpass supposed rivals and competitors for fame and fortune; the latter, to attain the worldly distinctions of high rank and emolument in what are called the "learned professions," or the celebrity of political power, and elevation above our fellow men. But will any sober, reflecting person say, that such appliances do not tend constantly, nay almost certainly, to make us fear man more than God--to inspire more dread of public sentiment than love of public and private duty--to poison our hearts with jealousy and envy, and to intoxicate us with pride, vanity and ambition, rather than to fix indelibly in our souls all those truly christian virtues, which man must not only possess but exercise--not only acquire but ardently cherish, to attain the great end of his being?

The answers to the foregoing questions involve matters of the deepest possible interest not only to the present, but to all future generations; for it depends entirely upon them, and the effects they may have on those who regulate and direct our schools of all kinds, whether the whole business of scholastic education shall be conducted in reference merely to the things of time, or to the immeasurably higher concerns of eternity. In judging of this matter, let us not trust entirely to the customary forms of expression, in which all our schools, from the highest to the lowest, publicly invite patronage. These are rarely deficient in promises that the moral and religious principles and conduct of the pupils shall be strictly attended to; which proves at least the general belief in the class of instructers, that the parents and friends of children attach great importance to these matters. But no one who has the least knowledge of the manner in which our schools are usually conducted, can be ignorant that such promises are much more a matter of form than substance, however sincere the individuals may have been in making them. "_Profession_," we all know "_is not principle_;" neither is it very generally followed by conformable practice. In nothing is this melancholy fact more conspicuous, than in the neglect, throughout our schools of every kind, of all such moral and religious instruction as would thoroughly convince the pupils that _this_ is deemed of infinitely higher value than every thing else which either _is_ or _can be_ taught at such places. But instead of such instruction, if we examine with a view solely to ascertain the truth, we shall find almost every where that the real, the constant, the supreme object, is to make what are called good scholars and learned men--men to make a figure in the world, and to be celebrated in the various walks of well disguised pride, vanity and ambition. To accomplish this object all efforts are strenuously directed, all appliances industriously used; while moral and religious principles, if inculcated at all, will be found to occupy rather a nominal than a real and efficient rank. If any doubt it, let them inquire as impartially as they can, what manner of men those are in general who constitute the educated class? Are they in most instances moral and religious persons, or _are they not?_ Do they seem better qualified or more disposed to fulfil the various duties of life, than those who have not been blessed with equal opportunities for intellectual improvement? If they do not, we may be absolutely certain that some radical errors have been committed in their education,--since the great object of all that deserves the name, assuredly is to make men, not merely more learned, but wiser and better--more intelligent and more virtuous, than they could possibly be without it. That they _would be so_ under a proper system of instruction--a system wherein mere scholastic learning, in the common acceptation of the term, should never be considered synonymous with education, none can possibly doubt who have ever paid the least serious attention to the subject, or who have any faith in the scripture declaration that, _if we train up a child in the way he should go, he will never depart from it when he is old_. Whenever, therefore, we witness any departure among such of our young people as are said to be well educated, it amounts to a demonstration that _they have not been thus trained_. If they had been, such departures would be very rare, instead of being most fatally common; nor should we find, even after making all due allowances for the frailty and depravity of our nature, these educated youths, in so many deplorable instances, despisers of religion, {287} loose in their morals, voluptuaries in practice as well as principle, ignorant or regardless both of their public and private duties, and devoted entirely to their own selfish, depraved gratifications. But the lamentable truth is, that in a vast majority of our schools, whatever promises may have been honestly promulgated to the contrary, the moral and religious principles of the pupils are _not made_ paramount objects of attention. On the contrary, it seems to be almost always presumed, that the great work of forming these principles has been accomplished under the parental roof, where alas! (to our shame be it spoken,) it is in thousands of instances utterly neglected! Each pupil is consequently left to form them for himself, after his last course of collegiate instruction, during which these all essential guides to present and future happiness are rarely put into requisition, farther than may be deemed necessary to the peace and good order of the establishment, or as a part of the mere compendious formulary of instruction. The fatal and almost certain consequence is, that multitudes of college graduates, after being emancipated from scholastic restraints, either plunge at once into the destructive vortex of folly and vice, or devote themselves so entirely to the pursuits of wealth, pride, vanity and ambition, as effectually to exclude from their minds all thoughts of another life. These minds, thus pre-occupied, have actually no place left for such ideas and reflections as tend to produce a thorough conviction of the necessity for making some preparation to quit our present state of existence, with a reasonable hope of infinitely greater happiness in the next we are destined to enter. That the one we are now in cannot possibly last beyond a period most fearfully brief, infidels as well as christians are compelled to observe; for none live to be capable of observation whose experience has not perfectly assured them, that all are doomed to die; none live to years of reflection, who can well avoid sometimes looking forward, however sceptically, to that awful doom, without many terrors and alarms as to what may follow so fearful a change. For _this change_, so absolutely sure, so truly appalling to man, christian education alone can effectually prepare us--and ought therefore most assuredly to be made the basis, the substantial part, the great end of all education whatever.

That we can never hope to see so desirable and highly important a reform accomplished without some other means, some other agencies than such as we have heretofore had, seems to me demonstrably true. It appears equally clear that they must be voluntary associations, in some form or other, for the promotion and improvement of education, consisting of true, sincere, persevering, efficient friends to the cause--no "sleeping partners," (as mercantile men say,) but all, both active and zealous to the utmost of their power. To expect such reform from legislation is a vain hope, unless we already had such law-makers in sufficient numbers for the purpose, as _that_ reform in our parental instruction, schools and colleges alone could produce. When such consummation can take place, all essential as it seems to our national welfare, and devoutly as every one may wish it, none but he who knoweth all things can possibly tell. But each of us may venture so far as to predict, that voluntary institutions and societies, similar, gentlemen, to that which you have established, hold out far more cheering promises of success than can be hoped for from any other source. They will serve as appropriate nuclei, (if I may thus apply the term) for attracting around them the scattered talent, the learning and active benevolence of society. When thus concentrated, they will perform for our intellectual world what the sun does for that magnificent world of effulgent stars and constellations with which _he_ is surrounded--by diffusing in every direction that genial light and heat, so essential to adorn, to sustain, and to invigorate both. What a glorious prospect! what a delightful anticipation! Shall we not then cherish it, my friends, as a _possible_ event--nay, as one which nothing is wanting to accomplish, but a general combination of the intelligence, the zeal, and active perseverance of the numerous and sincere, but too desponding, too supine friends to the cause of universal education?

You, gentlemen members of this institution, have commenced the noble work. Let your exertions then to sustain and carry it on never know a moment's intermission, and my life on the issue, but a few years will elapse before the happy effects of such efforts will be felt and seen to the remotest limits of our community. Your patriotic example will soon be followed in other parts of our beloved state; similar associations will be formed elsewhere; a similar spirit of benevolence will be awakened and exerted, until poor old Virginia will once more hold up her long drooping head among such of her sister states as have most advanced in all those useful arts and sciences, best calculated not only to adorn and embellish private life, but to secure both individual and national happiness.

Before I conclude, permit me to address a few remarks to _you_, young gentlemen, the cherished alumni of this college. Although not directly applicable to our main purpose, I hope they may be found to have an important bearing on it,--since I shall adduce a few practical illustrations of the fatal errors you may commit in regard both to professional and domestic duties, unless you adopt forthwith and forever, as constant guides, those good principles of education which voluntary and numerous associations for its improvement, seem alone capable of introducing into all our schools. You will be the first to enjoy the precious fruits of all such as the members of this institute will probably recommend. Suffer me then to add my {288} humble efforts to theirs for your benefit; and deem me not obtrusive, if they should partake somewhat of the admonitory character: for, be assured that my remarks shall all be such as a friend and father would make to those in whose happiness he felt the deepest solicitude.

If I have succeeded in my most anxious desire to impress upon your minds the thorough conviction that the principles of morality and religion, indissolubly united, _must_ form the beginning, the middle and the end of all that deserves the name of education, your first, your constant and supreme effort will be _to acquire them_. Then indeed, you may pursue the usual course of your scholastic studies, not only without danger of mistaking the means for the end, but with incalculable advantages both present and prospective; for all will be made conducive to the great, the eternal purposes for which you were created. Your knowledge of foreign languages and histories will contribute to convince you that there have been and still are nations, kindred and people like yourselves,--with similar wants, passions and capabilities, deserving your sympathy, your regard, your brotherly love,--that national antipathies should have no place in a human bosom--that national wars, except for defence, are national crimes; and that man should consider man his brother, in whatever condition or on whatever spot of the habitable globe he may be found.

Your mathematics will lead you to the conviction, strong and irresistible as the demonstrative principles and reasonings upon which the whole of this noble science depends, that nothing but a God of all perfect wisdom and love could have endowed you with faculties and powers capable of deriving not only the highest mental gratifications from such a source, but of applying the discoveries which produce these gratifications to an infinite series of the most beneficial purposes.

Your chemistry will aid in teaching you that none but a Being infinitely wise and of boundless power and goodness, could possibly have contrived and arranged such a vast multitude of substances, in all their endless variety of combinations and affinities, such an immense world of multiform matter--all as it would seem conducive in some way or other to human comfort, gratification, or high enjoyment.

Your philosophy and metaphysics, will draw you irresistibly to a great first cause--the supreme, beneficent, ever bounteous Author of all the objects of our senses, of all the powers and conceptions of our understandings; and will indelibly stamp upon your hearts the sentiments of adoration, love and obedience, as the only proper tribute you could pay to a Being, who, so far as we can comprehend his works, hath made them all subservient, either directly or indirectly, to our own happiness, both in time and eternity. These sciences will bring home to your bosoms and business the vital truth that you have minds of vast powers of comprehension--faculties capable of undefinable expansion; and souls of such godlike energies, aspirations and capacities of enjoyment, as nothing less than a God of all power, wisdom and love, could either have created or bestowed. In a word, whatever path you may pursue within the whole circle of scientific and literary research, it will lead you, if under the constant guidance of moral and religious principles, to the possession of the chief good here on earth, and to "that house above, not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."

There are indeed no circumstances nor situations in which you can anticipate even the possibility of being placed, unless bereft of all consciousness or sanity of mind, that can exempt you from the obligation of making these principles the chart and compass as it were, by which you are to steer your earthly course. Let us imagine a few of such as most commonly occur in our progress through life--such as are matters of choice rather than necessity--and we shall then more clearly see the indispensable use of such a chart and compass to direct us safely and happily in our unavoidable passage to realms of eternal duration.

Almost every man, for example, at some period of his existence, desires to become a husband--to unite himself for life to some individual of the other sex, as a means of enjoying far greater happiness than he possibly could in any single state. It is a situation in which millions voluntarily place themselves--a situation of vast and complicated responsibilities--involving numerous relationships and duties of the highest imaginable importance, upon which depend not only the domestic and social happiness of individuals, but the moral condition of whole communities and nations. Yet, how few of these millions, even among the most deeply versed in scholastic lore, unless they are men of the soundest moral and religious principles, are ever guided in their choice by any thing but fancy, whim, caprice, or some other far less excusable motive? Their scholastic acquirements alone, never avail them in the slightest degree. The eye is usually the sole guide--the appellate court of reason and judgment not being so much as even consulted. When married, they generally become parents, and thereby incur duties the moat sacred and of the most awful responsibilities; for they are _then_ answerable for the souls of _others_ as well as for _their own_--for souls, with whose happiness they are intrusted even by the God of the universe himself! Yet how, let me ask, are these momentous duties generally fulfilled, even by the best scholars, unless they are also moral and religious men? Instead of fulfilment, we too often behold total neglect, nay frequently the grossest, most shameful, most criminal violation; and all this too by individuals who have obtained the highest {289} collegiate honors. What is the fair inference from such facts? Why, that no education which has not the united principles that I am endeavoring to recommend for its basis, its means of completion, and its great end, can fit man even for the two most common and by far the most important conditions of life.

Let me call your attention now to a few of the chief professions in which the young men of our country are most apt to engage; and let us endeavor to ascertain how far mere scholastic acquirements, even of the highest grade, will enable you to pursue these professions with profit and honor to yourselves, and with benefit to the community of which you are members.

If you become physicians, without something more than the mere nominal worldy belief in the general utility of moral and religious principles, you will have nothing but the very feeble, seldom regarded check of worldy prudence, to restrain you from hurrying into the practice of the profession, before the proper preparation can possibly be made. Your own pecuniary emolument will become your chief object,--this you will be apt to pursue with no farther regard than your popularity requires, to the numerous risks you will incur of destroying both the health and life of others. You will hasten on in this course with a brevity of preparation far shorter than is deemed necessary to make even a good cook or washer-woman--although the thing to be practised upon, in the first case, is _human life itself_; while, in the latter cases, they are only the human appetite for food and some of the habiliments of the human body! Yet, it is upon the skill and humanity of the members of the medical profession, that society must depend for the alleviation or cure of all those indescribable miseries, under which, in the countless forms of sickness and disease, mankind are doomed to suffer to the end of the world--doomed alas! in a great measure, by their own vices and profligacy, superinduced by false education much more than by any naturally inherent defect either in their bodily or mental constitutions.

Should the profession of law be your choice, here also you will find that mere scholarship, mere literary and scientific acquirement, unsustained by deeply fixed, continually active, moral and religious principles, will avail you quite as little as in the practice of medicine. Instead of becoming "compounders of strife," as these principles enjoin us all to be, you will be much more apt to turn out encouragers of litigation. You will often without scruple aid the rapacious and vindictive in the gratification of their criminal passions, by defending them from the legal consequences of their indulgence. You will frequently vindicate the oppressor in his wrongs, assist guilt in seeking safety, and enable crime to escape its just and lawful punishment. Calumniators, thieves, robbers, and destroyers of life as well as of innocence, will be indebted to you for renewed opportunities of preying upon the peace, the property, the happiness of society. You will thus, as far as depends upon your professional labors, actually cherish crime, pervert justice, and defeat the ends of all those conservative laws which it should be _your_ peculiar province to expound, _your_ inviolable duty to sustain in all their purity and force, by never for a moment countenancing or aiding their violators. Then the appropriate punishment for every outrage against penal law would always follow every perpetration of unlawful deeds; for each fee offered by such enemies of mankind as commit atrocious crimes, would be considered and rejected either as the price of property wickedly gained--of innocence utterly ruined--of character irretrievably blasted, or of life criminally taken away. I do not speak of those doubtful cases wherein lawyers may be deceived by the _ex parte_ statements of their clients; but of such as carry deep and damning guilt in their very face--of those in which the applicants for counsel prove themselves, _by their own shewing_, to be _steeped_ as it were in infamy, iniquity and deadly crime--of those who practice injustice as a lucrative trade, ruin character by way of recreation, and destroy innocence as a pleasurable pursuit--of those who, as long as their money lasts, rely upon lawyers to defend them in making the property, the character, the happiness of others subservient to their own diabolical appetites and passions. Would all lawyers make it a point of conscience never to appear for such wretches, unless the courts assigned them as counsel, the criminals themselves would never be unjustly condemned; neither would they ever escape punishment, as they now often do, by the ingenious but highly pernicious sophistry of their hired defenders. Laws would then attain the great ends for which they were enacted, and our whole community would enjoy a far greater degree of safety from the perpetrators of crime than it has ever done heretofore.

Should political life be your choice, after finishing a scholastic course wherein both morals and religion have been so little regarded as not to be made paramount objects of pursuit, instead of becoming pure patriots, solely devoted to your country's good, you will be much more apt to turn constant calculators of the chances for personal aggrandizement--careful measurers and weighers of your own private interests against your public duties, and deep casuists in the means of evading or violating the last to promote the first, wherever your real purpose and only anxious desire may admit of probable concealment. You will become, with few exceptions, if possessed of sufficient talents and cunning, members of that most pernicious class of politicians called demagogues, who in fact have always proved the curse of every country {290} wherein they have acquired political power. These have patriotism, patriotism, continually on their lips, but never in their hearts and actions--deeming it much easier to feign love of country than really to possess and exert it--much more thrifty to wheedle and cajole the people for their own base selfish purposes,--than manfully and like true friends combat their prejudices and inform their understandings. You will reach the lowest, most despicable grade of political prostitution, by turning _man-worshippers_; and soon learn to offer up your incense in exact proportion to the vanity of your idols and their power to gratify your wants; until at last you will neither see, hear, nor understand any thing but as they wish you; and will call black white, or white black--just as they bid you do. To this wretched state of degradation and self-abasement do most politicians sink themselves, whose educations have not been firmly based on sound, moral and religious principles.

Let us suppose, lastly, that you should prefer the mercantile profession to any other, after acquiring all the learning to be gained in the customary course of education. What will probably be your practice as merchants, if the principles which I am recommending as the essentials of all education, have not been made so of yours? Will this practice be guided by the social or the selfish principle? Will it be, "_live and let live_," or "_live for self alone_?" But very little observation and experience will compel you to admit that the latter maxim will in most cases be the ruling one. Nay, it will not only rule you, but blind you also to the great truth which should always govern the whole mercantile class, that all fair commerce is nothing more than an interchange of equivalents--a supplying of each other's wants--by which both sellers and buyers are mutually benefitted--a bond of peace and union, instead of a war of cunning for the accumulation of pelf. In fact every thing called commerce or barter, wherein this effect of mutual benefit does not take place, so far as depends upon the intention of the parties, is neither more nor less than _fraud in disguise_--fraud concealed under the specious title of skill in trade--in other words, it is an unjust attempt on both sides to get some undue advantage in the traffic. Such attempts you never would make--indeed you could not possibly make them, were your hearts constantly and deeply influenced, during the whole of your scholastic course, by the pure, the genuine principles of morality and religion, while your conduct was regulated by them as the guardians of your honor, the preservers of your reputation, the unerring guides that point the way from time to eternity.

_These principles and these alone_ form our only safeguards against vice and crime--our only security for using whatever other education we may acquire, as rational and accountable beings should use all the powers of their minds and bodies. Once acquired and ardently cherished, they will prove to you "a refuge in every storm--a present help in every trouble"--the sweetest solace in all adversity--the ever faithful monitors and guides in prosperous fortune. Armed with such a panoply you may safely march through all the most perilous paths of life, without fear of serious injury; and proceed, rejoicing on your way, that you have neither lived nor labored in vain. _Yours_ will be the only true glory of the present life,--that of contributing to human happiness--_yours_ the sole victory worthy of beings endowed with such godlike faculties,--the victory over your own passions--and _yours_ the indescribable rewards after death, of those "who have done the will of their Father on earth as it is in heaven."

Look always to these principles as to the polar star of your earthly course--act up to them faithfully, under all the trying circumstances in which you may be placed; and each of you may then, in the confident hope of being graciously heard, begin and close every day of your lives with the comprehensive prayer of the pious Thomson:--

"Father of light and life! thou Good Supreme! Oh! teach me what is good! teach me thyself! Save me from folly, vanity and vice, From ev'ry low pursuit! and feed my soul With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure; Sacred,--substantial,--never-fading bliss!"

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE CONTRAST:

OR, A FASHIONABLE AND AN UNFASHIONABLE NEW ENGLAND WIFE.

Horace Lawrence and Ellen Frazier had been three years married, when Alpheus North, their friend, and nearest neighbor, brought home his beautiful bride, the accomplished Anna Weston.

They resided in a little village, the principal attraction of which was, that it was a good place for business. The village was, indeed, beautifully situated. From every point the landscape was diversified by hill and dale--the one crowned by here and there a towering oak,--the other shaded by the branching elm. The clear waters of the river, pursuing its rather circuitous course, might be seen from every eminence; and its passage being in many places obstructed, waterfalls added to the variety and beauty of the scenery.

But the inhabitants of the village had been influenced by other motives than the gratification of the eye, to locate themselves on this favored spot. The _useful_ was to them the only _truly beautiful_; and however much the admirer of the lovely and picturesque in nature might have regretted it, there men of business delighted in adding mill to mill,--and in seeing the fine river obstructed by {291} logs and slabs,--and every corner wearing the appearance of a lumber-yard. It was a real business place. The men were all intent on accumulating dollars and cents; and although among their wives and daughters, there was abundance of tea-drinking, visiting, and sociability,--and here and there an effort at the genteel,--there was neither science, nor literature, nor refinement in the place, excepting the little that just retained the breath of life, in the habitation of the aged pastor of the parish, and that which was enclosed in the room of the young physician.

Had he consulted taste alone, the village of L---- was the last place Horace Lawrence would have selected as his place of residence; for he was scientific, literary, and refined,--calculated at once, to enjoy and adorn polished society; but though the son of a gentleman, a finished education was all his father could give him;--of course he had his own fortune to make. He was a lawyer, and the village of L---- presented a fair opening for one of that profession.

As soon as his business was sufficiently established to warrant it, he had married. He did not choose Ellen Frazier because she was either the most beautiful, the most accomplished, or the most fascinating young lady of his acquaintance; but because she had superior strength of mind, and firmness of character,--was amiable, well-principled, and well-informed--and therefore likely to make a judicious friend, and a good wife and mother. She belonged to a family that had for successive generations ranked high in New England for learning and piety; but her father was in narrow circumstances; and all the money he had to spare, was expended on the education of his two sons;--so that Ellen was constrained to make the most of her resources, to acquire the education of a gentlewoman. But she loved knowledge,--and when that is the case, no one will remain in ignorance. She was not scientific, but her mind was richly stored with useful knowledge, which rendered her a valuable friend, and a most entertaining companion. And in her own mother she had been blessed with a living example of all that is most valuable in woman, in the several relations of life. Mr. Lawrence was not disappointed in his wife. She possessed his entire confidence; and every year witnessed an increase of his respect and affection for her. They were a well-matched, and happy pair.

Alpheus North was a native of the village of L----. His father was an untaught man, but shrewd and intelligent; and by dint of industry and frugality, arose from being a shoemaker, his bench his only property, to having money in the stocks,--two or three saw-mills on the river, and a very genteel house, beautifully situated in the outskirts of the village. Resolved that his son should be, what he was conscious he himself was not, namely, a gentleman, he spared no expense on his education. And he met the only return he wished;--Alpheus was a scholar, and an elegant man. He was more. For while his father had been thinking of his education and fortune, and providing for both, his mother had been thinking of his heart. She was an illiterate woman, but devotedly pious; and she thought little of the prospects of her children for this world, in comparison with their fitness for the next. Her first object had been to bring them up in "the nurture and admonition of the Lord;" and if all the holy desires of her heart were not satisfied in their behalf, they were certainly well-principled; reverencing the Bible, and respecting, if not possessing true piety. And Alpheus, the only son, was the most amiable, the most tender, the most hopeful of them all.

Mr. and Mrs. North died within a few months of each other, the year that Alpheus left college; and he inherited from his father the house in L----, beside other property to the amount of fifteen thousand dollars. Having no predeliction for either of the learned professions, and feeling strongly attached to his native place, he established himself at L---- as a merchant.

Anna Weston was the only child of parents, who, though neither well-educated, nor well-mannered, moved in the first circles in the town in which they resided, nobody knew why, and supported their station, nobody knew how. They always contrived to appear genteelly in their house, without any obvious means; for Mr. Weston's whole business seemed to be, the now and then taking the acknowledgement of a deed, or some other trifling business as a justice of peace; and no one could name any property as his,--whether houses, or lands, or money. This, however, only gave rise to idle speculation, and furnished conversation for those vacant minds, that can find no more entertaining or instructive subject of conversation, than the affairs of their neighbors; for he owed no man anything, and therefore no one was really concerned as to the exact amount of his property. The fact was, that both Mr. and Mrs. Weston were remarkably skilful in making a good deal of show, with very limited means; and their study from January to December was how to keep up appearances.

Anna was the idol of her parents. She was beautiful in person, and amiable in disposition,--with as much _tact_ as father and mother both. Her education was completely superficial; but she studied every thing _a little_,--and by usually being seen in the morning with a book in her hand, and often speaking of her favorite studies, it was taken for granted, that her mind was uncommonly well stored. But every thing about her character and acquirements was completely artificial, her sweetness of temper alone excepted.

{292} Anna was visiting an old school-fellow in Boston, when Alpheus North for the first time saw her. Her beauty instantly captivated his eye; her graceful, and somewhat showy manners, pleased his fancy; and her amiable disposition and sprightly conversation, engaged his affections. He was soon deeply in love; and before declaring himself, only wished to know, whether her principles were such as the son of a mother like his own could approve. He conversed with her on the subject of religion, and was delighted to find, not only that her feelings were tender, but that she was a member of the church in her native town. He at once offered his hand, which was accepted; and in due time he brought his beautiful bride to L----, after having taken her to Saratoga Springs, and one or two other places of fashionable resort.

Between Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, and Alpheus North, there was no ceremony. Similarity of education, and, on some accounts, congeniality of taste, had made them fond of each other's society from first acquaintance; and time had ripened this early preference into friendship. Mr. North was ever a welcome visiter at the house of Mr. Lawrence, where he was treated more as a brother than as a common acquaintance.

The next morning after his arrival at L---- with his bride, he called upon Mrs. Lawrence, to bespeak from her an early call; as Mrs. North must necessarily feel solitary among entire strangers; and, indeed, where there were none with whom she could wish _ever_ to be intimate, Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence alone excepted. He hoped he should now be able, in some degree, to requite the cordial hospitality that had been accorded to him, and which had constituted so large a share of his happiness.

In a short time an intimacy between the two families was established. Mrs. Lawrence could not, indeed, very frequently visit Mrs. North, as she had two young children; and her wish to promote the comfort of her husband, to superintend the general well being of her family, and take care of these little ones, kept her, the greater part of her time, within her own doors. But Mrs. North had no confinement,--and with the most graceful ease she waived ceremony, and at any hour of the day would put her blooming and smiling face into the nursery, the parlor, or whatever room Mrs. Lawrence might chance to be in, and be quite at home.

Two months had elapsed since Mrs. North came to L----, when one morning as she was sitting in the nursery with Mrs. Lawrence, she said--

"I look upon you with increasing astonishment every day, to see you always so cheerful and happy." Mrs. Lawrence looked up in some surprise, and inquired, "Why she should be otherwise."

"Why?--Because you are so perpetually employed--shut up in your own house. I should think you would be wretched!"

"I am so constantly, and necessarily, and, for a greater part of the time, so _interestingly_ employed, that I have no leisure to be unhappy," said Mrs. Lawrence, with a smile.

"Interestingly! Pardon me," said Mrs. North, "but can domestic concerns _ever_ be interesting?"

"How can you ask such a question, my dear Mrs. North?"

"Call me Anna, do--I hate _Mrs. North_ from an intimate friend,--especially one somewhat older than myself," said Mrs. North. "But tell me how you can be _interested_ in what I have thought must be irksome to every one."

"Every affectionate wife, my dear _Anna_," said Mrs. Lawrence, "must be _interested_ to promote the comfort and prosperity of her husband; every mother, especially every _christian_ mother, must be interested in the care and instruction of her children; and my Lucius is now two years old--capable, therefore, of receiving moral impressions that may endure through eternity;--and _every lady should strive to be so much of a lady_, as to have her whole household well regulated, and all domestic business well, and reasonably performed."

"O, certainly," said Mrs. North. "Yet every human being needs recreation. You will soon wear yourself out by such unceasing attention to domestic duties."

"By no means. You know that variety of objects and occupations is an antidote to exhaustion; beside, books and my flower-garden are a never failing source of pleasure and relaxation. Indeed, my dear Mrs. North, I wonder how a wife and mother can ever know _ennui_, or find much time to devote to general society."

"Would I had your resources," said Mrs. North. "But, really, were it not for you, I believe I should die of _ennui_ in this stupid, vulgar place, notwithstanding I have the kindest, and most attentive husband in the world. But he cannot always be with me, of course; and when he is attending to business, you are my only resource. Do you know that for a month past, I have been dreading the approach of this week?"

"On what account?"

"Because I thought that when Mr. Lawrence went to attend court, you would certainly go with him, after having been immured so long. I dreaded it so much, I could not even ask you whether or not you should go."

"I very seldom go anywhere with Mr. Lawrence, to be absent more than one day," said Mrs. Lawrence. "We do not feel quite easy to be from home at the same time."

"And do you ever go without him?" asked Mrs. North.

"Not very often; for when he is with me, home is much the pleasantest place in the world. My {293} friend," she added, with a smile, "you have not yet been a wife long enough to know much about it. Three or four years hence you will find employment enough; and that which, I doubt not, will prove so interesting, that you will not be willing to transfer it to other hands."

"Perhaps so--but, really, I do love society. I do love to drive about a little, and see the world, and the people that are in it. And, by the way, do you know that I go to Boston, with Alpheus, in a fortnight? Business calls him there,--and he says he cannot go without me. I am glad of it, truly. I should not like to ask him to take me with him,--and stay at home, alone, I could not!"

"I am glad you are to have the pleasure of a journey," said Mrs. Lawrence. "And there is no reason why you should not. Mr. North is, of course, at present, your principal care; and you have little else to do, but study to promote his happiness."

The journey to Boston on business was only the precursor of another, in a different direction, for pleasure; for Mr. North, himself, loved to visit different parts of the country; he took pride in the admiration and attention his young wife commanded; and, beside, he could not but perceive that L---- seemed more and more unpleasant to her, after every excursion,--and it was his constant desire to promote the happiness of one so tenderly beloved. Perhaps he took not the most certain way to increase her happiness;--but that was the fault of his head--not his heart!

Mrs. North never _teazed_, or even _asked_ her husband for any gratification. She was, at once too amiable, and too polite to do either; yet she had a way of her own--and a most graceful and fascinating way it was--of leading him on to propose the very thing she had resolved on,--and then yielding to his plan, with an air of relinquishing some more favored scheme of her own, for the pleasure of gratifying him. Indeed, every thing she did, was done in the most amiable and graceful manner--even to the spending of money, which she did with the air of a princess. And her husband sometimes feared she was a _little_ too profuse; but she dressed with such taste; was so generous, and so much the _belle_ wherever she appeared, that he could not find it in his heart to supply her purse less liberally.

For nearly three months Mr. and Mrs. North were scarcely at L---- for more than a week at a time; and the cold winds and bad roads of November, alone led them to settle quietly at home. On every return to L----, Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence had been duly visited; and now, when the autumnal campaign was fairly over, their society was more needed, more valued than ever. Scarcely twenty-four hours passed, without bringing Mrs. Lawrence the favor of a longer or shorter visit.

"And so, my dear Mrs. Lawrence, you have not been five miles from L----, since my journey to Boston last August?"

"I have not."

"Nor wanted to be, I suppose," said Mrs. North.

"All circumstances considered, I have not," answered Mrs. Lawrence. "It would afford me great pleasure to see various parts of the world,--in the Southern as well as Northern States of the Union,--in Europe as well as America; but as I am situated, by the providence of an all-wise Father, I must content myself with the knowledge of different places, that I can derive from books. And this, if not so satisfactory, is, at least, a cheaper mode of obtaining information, than travelling."

Two things in this answer struck Mrs. North. "A cheaper mode!" Yes--as Mr. Lawrence inherited no fortune, it was necessary for his wife to think of economy. How fortunate for herself that Mr. North's father was a rich man! "Knowledge--travelling to obtain knowledge!" The idea had never before occurred to her mind. She had always travelled solely for pleasure.

Mrs. Lawrence really felt attached to Mrs. North. Her amiable temper and pleasing manners had won her affections, and she wished to do her good. She soon learned that her friend had many false notions: that, in her estimation, wealth was the most valuable distinction; that show was elegance; and that dress and idleness were gentility. She saw, too, that she was nearly, or quite destitute of internal sources of happiness; that all the nobler powers of her mind lay dormant; that she seemed to have no idea of intellectual pleasures. Mrs. Lawrence had no conception of the difficulty of the task she wished to accomplish; she knew not how deep-rooted were the evils she wished to subdue; knew not that they were completely intertwined with her whole mental constitution.

Mrs. Lawrence often heard Mrs. North talk of books; and she directed her to a course of reading, which she thought would at once prove highly interesting and beneficial. But Mrs. North had never really read a book for pleasure, or for intellectual improvement, in her life. She had never been taught by her parents, and had never conceived the idea herself, that the object in the acquisition of knowledge, was to fit her for the discharge of duties to herself and others.

The knowledge she really possessed, was acquired for the express purpose of _display_--to give her distinction in the circle in which she moved. Of course she had gone about the acquisition of it, not as a pleasure, but as a task that must be accomplished. Mrs. Lawrence had likewise heard her speak of the benevolent societies with which she had been connected in her native place, and she strove to awaken her sympathies for the poor in L----, and excite interest in benevolent {294} enterprises of a higher order. But although Mrs. North would give freely, and, particularly if a subscription paper was handed about, would subscribe liberally, there was evidently no heart in her charities. She could find no pleasure in searching out the destitute and afflicted in her own person. If she heard of one who was sick, she would perhaps send them a sum of money preposterously large, that _Mrs. North might be spoken of as a most munificent lady_; but she could not have made a basin of broth, to have saved a life. She knew nothing of the system of benefitting the poor at a very trifling expense of time and labor, by making comfortable garments out of old ones that were lying useless, an encumbrance to closets and drawers. It is nearly useless to give such garments to the poor in an unprepared state; seldom have they sufficient ingenuity, or patience, or industry, to turn them to profitable account. Mrs. Lawrence was fully aware of this; and she was remarkable for the ingenuity and dexterity with which she would make a comfortable suit of clothes for a poor child, out of garments that appeared not worth a farthing. She was a blessing to the poor around her; and her husband had in no way to pay the penalty of her charities, as is sometimes, unhappily, the case. Mrs. Lawrence endeavored to interest Mrs. North in this way of doing good; but the attempt was fruitless. How could a lady degrade herself by attending to such occupations! How could the delicate and elegant Mrs. North bend her beautiful person over such work; or soil and deface her fair, round fingers by such menial employments! Equally unavailing were all Mrs. Lawrence's efforts, to interest her friend in the cultivation of flowers, or in any employment or pursuit, by which she could make herself happy in solitude.

The piety of Mrs. North was in perfect accordance with every other point in her character. At a season of revival of religion in her native place, many of her youthful companions becoming deeply interested in the subject, her sympathies were awakened; and she mistook these feelings, as is, alas, too often the case, for renovation of heart.--Beside, "religion walked in her golden slippers;" it was _fashionable_ to be benevolent, and charitable, and attend meetings; and Anna Weston went with others; and with others she publicly and solemnly "avouched the Lord to be her God," and consecrated herself to his service! But one view of her own heart she had never had. She still loved the world, and the things of the world, "the lusts of the eye, and the pride of life," and scarcely felt, or knew that it was wrong. She lived for herself; and she loved herself--supremely; and she was not conscious, much less was Mr. North, that her strongly expressed attachment to her husband, principally arose from the ability he possessed to gratify her in all the selfish desires of her heart.

Mrs. Lawrence could not but perceive that the feelings of Mrs. North were very superficial on the subject of religion; and she knew that the views that resulted in such practice, must be erroneous. As a christian, deeply interested in the honor of Him "who had redeemed her to God by his own blood,"--and anxious that every one of his professed disciples should "walk worthy of their high vocation," she often conversed with Mrs. North on the subject; and by the gentlest and most touching appeals, strove to touch her heart, and awaken and _enlighten_ her conscience. But here, too, she was unsuccessful. Mrs. North would so readily assent to all she said, with "Certainly"--"O, yes, every christian should feel and act thus,"--that Mrs. Lawrence felt that the case was, at present, hopeless. There was no _feeling_; there was not even _thought_;--it was a mere assent of the voice.

But an event was now in prospect that seemed to have a great effect on Mrs. North; and which frequently has a vast effect in deciding character. Life is always uncertain,--and, in a moment of reflection, every one is willing to acknowledge it; but when a lady has the prospect of becoming a mother, there is a definite period to which she looks forward, as the one in which she may be called from time into eternity. It is an unthinking woman indeed, who is never serious under such circumstances. Mrs. North was far otherwise. Life was very dear to her; since her marriage it had been a scene of unclouded sunshine. But now there was a dark curtain raised before her, beyond which she trembled to look.

Mrs. Lawrence was one of the most judicious of woman. She cheered and sustained her friend's spirits, not by leading her to forget, or think lightly of her danger, but by teaching her to look at it rationally,--and be in a state of preparation for her hour of trial.--And never had she been so much encouraged, for never had Mrs. North appeared so much as she wished to see her. Her feelings were very tender, and a review of the many blessings she had enjoyed, seemed to fill her with gratitude for the past; and inspire in her some degree of confidence for the future. She professed to hope, that whether she were to live, or to die, all would be well.

At length Mrs. North became the joyful mother of a fine son; and her feelings were in a glow of gratitude. Her heart seemed to expand with love for every one. Her husband--her friend--never had they been half so dear!--With her congratulatory kiss, while the tears of deep tenderness suffused her eyes, Mrs. Lawrence whispered--"Consecrate yourself, dearest Anna, and this precious little immortal, to the service of Him who has been your benefactor and preserver!" With tremulous lips, Mrs. North returned the kiss, and emphatically whispered--"O dear friend, may I {295} never forget the impressions of this hour? May I never forget the deep debt of gratitude I owe to my Father in heaven?"

But, alas, it was not the goodness of Ephraim alone that was "as the morning cloud, and the early dew!" for the greater part of the goodness of the whole human family is of the same transitory and fleeting nature. At the end of six weeks, when Mrs. North left her chamber, she was precisely the Mrs. North of the year before--equally thoughtless, equally negligent of duty. With pain Mrs. Lawrence witnessed all this;--with deep pain she saw indications that the character of a _fashionable woman_ must be supported at the expense of being an unnatural mother.

Physicians, when practising in fashionable houses, have a wonderful faculty of divining what prescriptions will be most agreeable. Mrs. North had a fine constitution; but like many women brought up with false notions, she conceived that firm health and refinement were incompatible with each other. Dr. G----, was very willing to humor her whim, as it was in no way detrimental to his pecuniary interest; and he cheerfully acquiesced in her recovering from her confinement as slowly as she pleased. And when, by her own confession she was well, he put the cap-stone to the favor in which he previously stood with her, by saying, what his shrewd observation told him would just accord with her wishes, namely--that her strength was quite unequal to the task of nursing; her babe must be sent from home;--the Dr. knew just the nurse for it--a fine, healthy, good-natured woman, who would take the best possible care of it, for two dollars a week; and Mrs. North must take a journey, as change of air and scene were indispensable to the perfect restoration of her health.

Mrs. Lawrence was truly grieved when she found this arrangement was made. She had foreseen the probability of it, but she could not be reconciled to the measure. She justly considered maternal feelings among the most sacred that belong to earth; and she knew that nothing more strengthens a mother's love, than the entire dependance of the child on her for comfort and happiness. She was fully convinced, that anything that weakens this tie, that nature has made so strong, must be injurious alike to both parent and offspring. She was musing on the subject when her husband came in.

"You look sad, my dear Ellen. What is the matter?"

"Mrs. North has put the dear little boy out to nurse."

"She is a fashionable woman! Did you not expect it?"

"I feared it--but I blame Dr. G----, for had he not have proposed it, I think Anna would have kept the poor little thing with her. He says, too, that she must journey to confirm her health."

"He knows his patient," said Mr. Lawrence.

"You are severe, my dear husband."

"Do you think so?--but time will show. Meantime I am going to take you a journey."

"Me! where?"

"To Fryburg. Business calls me there next week--I shall be absent from home but few days, and the excursion will do you good. Be it as it may with Mrs. North, change of air and scene are really necessary for you."

"But the children?" said Mrs. Lawrence.

"I have provided for them," said Mr. Lawrence. "Nurse Bevey has promised to come and take care of them during our absence?"

"Well, since you have arranged it all," said Mrs. Lawrence, "do propose to Alpheus that he and Anna accompany us. It may suffice,--and prevent them from taking one of those long journies that I begin to dread."

Mr. and Mrs. North were delighted with the proposal. Preparations were immediately commenced, and at the appointed time, they all set out on their excursion. We shall not travel with them. Suffice it to say, that on the evening of the second day after their departure, they arrived at Mrs. O----'s hotel, in Fryburg. Mr. Lawrence was rather impatient, as the journey might have been performed in much less time. But short stages, and long rests were necessary for Mrs. North--at least she said so--and Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence could not with propriety drive on before them.

On the morning after their arrival, on looking about them, the ladies were both in raptures at the scenery around. They had seen nothing like it before. But we will accompany them to the little Jockey-Cap mountain, which lies not far from a mile from Mrs. O----'s, which they ascended in the afternoon, and hear what they say of it there.

"This little mountain is not difficult of ascent," said Mr. Lawrence, when they had attained its summit--"yet it is rather wearisome, making ones way through the shrub-oaks--so do you, my dear Ellen, and Mrs. North, rest awhile on this table of granite, and amuse yourselves by picking out some of the well-defined garnets that are imbedded in the rock. When you are rested, you may come with us toward the verge of the precipice, and view the scenery around."

In a few minutes the ladies got over their fatigue,--and joined their husbands to enjoy the prospect.

"What is the name of this beautiful sheet of water on our left, Mr. Lawrence?" asked Mrs. North.

"It is called 'Lovell's pond,'" replied Mr. Lawrence. "It was on the margin of this peaceful _lake_, as it should be called, that Capt. Lovell and his company of militia, met Pangus, the Indian Sachem, at the head of a part of his tribe, {296} prepared for deadly conflict. In Lovell's company was a man named John Chamberlain. His rifle, as well as that of Pangus, had become foul from frequent firing. Standing but a few paces apart, each cleaned his rifle at the pond--and each commenced loading at the same moment,--while each watched the motions of the other with the most intense interest--knowing that he that was first ready to discharge his rifle, would undoubtedly be sole survivor. The rifle of Chamberlain was so much worn, that in being loaded, it primed itself. This circumstance decided the fate of the Indian Chief--he fell."[1]

[Footnote 1: After the "fight" at Lovell's pond, the remains of the Pigwacket tribe of Indians, left the woods and lakes of New Hampshire and Maine, for the broader waters and deeper forests of Canada. In 1777, Chamberlain had become an old grey-headed man,--living alone, and laboring in a saw mill to support himself. He was one evening informed that a young Indian had appeared in the Village, with rifle, wampum belt and tomahawk, having the noble bearing of old Pangus, the Sachem. Chamberlain instantly took the alarm; but old as he was, was not intimidated. Well knowing the Indian character and habits, about the dusk of the evening he put his mill in rapid motion, raised his coat as a "decoy"--and retired to a short distance to watch what might follow. In a short time he witnessed the cautious approach of the savage, who repeatedly advanced and receded, ere he aimed his rifle at the coat. As soon as he had fired, and raised himself to his full height, (which was above six feet) to ascertain the effect of his aim, Chamberlain discharged the same rifle that had taken the life of the Sachem. As the bullet went through his heart, young Pangus sprung some feet in the air, and fell lifeless in the stream below.]

"O, the ever wakeful Providence of our Heavenly Father," whispered Mrs. Lawrence.

"The beautiful swell of land, directly in front of us, and clothed with verdure to its summit, is Starkes-hill," said Mr. Lawrence; "that on our right, just back of the village, is Kearsarge mountain."

"And those beyond, piled one upon another, in seemingly endless succession--far--far as the eye can reach," cried Mrs. Lawrence, "are the celebrated white mountains of New-Hampshire. O, how sublime! how grand! how awful! And Mount Washington raises its towering head far above the others, as if to overlook, and guard them all. What majesty is here!--and how elevating to the soul, to view such specimens of our Creator's workmanship!"

"And what is the name of this beautiful stream, that flows between us, and the highlands?" asked Mrs. North.

"This river," replied Mr. North, "still retains its Indian appellation--the Saco!"

"And see," said Mrs. Lawrence, "how it winds around and about, as if reluctant to leave this broad and beautiful intervale, and striving to linger in it to the last possible moment."

"I have been told," said Mr. Lawrence, "that before some short canals were cut, to accelerate the passage of lumber down the stream, that the Saco ran upwards of thirty miles, in this place, in making the actual progress of only six towards the ocean."

"And then the beautiful, quiet village," said Mrs. Lawrence, "lying so securely amid its guardian mountains, with its long, straight street,--and its church and academy spires, pointing to heaven, speaking of spiritual and intellectual improvement. O, this scene is perfect in beauty!--and in grandeur! There the sublime and beautiful are most happily associated. The overpowering awe that steals upon one, while viewing those mighty efforts of creative power, which fills the soul with sensations altogether too big for utterance,--is modified, when the eye falls, and rests on the peaceful village, which speaks of human society, comfort and happiness. It seems as if the inhabitants, brought up with such scenes of beauty and sublimity constantly before them, must be more free from base and ignoble passions, than those who live and die amid scenery of a different character. Every spot on which the eye rests, speaks of the grandeur, the power, the benevolence--and, if I may so express myself, the _taste_ of the Divine Architect. I can conceive of nothing more beautiful--more perfect!--and nothing can have a more elevating effect on the soul of man! I must believe, with Dr. Dwight, that 'he who does not find in the various beautiful, sublime, awful and astonishing objects, presented to us in creation, irresistible and glorious reasons for admiring, adoring, loving and praising his Creator, has no claim to evangelical piety.'"

"You are an enthusiast, Mrs. Lawrence," said Mr. North, smiling.

"Perhaps I am. But nothing, after _moral grandeur_, touches my heart like the beautiful face of nature. Every flower and tree, and hill and valley that meets my eye, gives me delight,--and speaks to my soul of the glorious Being that made them:--how much more such a picture as is now spread before me!--My dear husband, when our children are old enough to appreciate its beauty, they must be brought to this spot. It cannot fail of having a salutary effect, both on the heart, and mind."

Mr. Lawrence pressed his wife's arm to his side, in token of approbation. His admiration was divided between the scenery before him, and a wife,--capable of deriving such exquisite delight, from so pure a source; and the piety of whose heart, gave a religious cast to every thing around her. He admired the grand and beautiful in nature,--but he admired her moral beauty and purity far more.

{297} Mr. North, too, highly enjoyed the natural magnificence presented to his view; but Mrs. North had felt far greater sensible delight, when, with a well-filled purse, she had visited a repository of rich and fashionable goods, or the shop of her milliner. Yet she tried to be eloquent in praise of the beauties on which they gazed; for admiration of them was certainly at that moment _fashionable_ on the summit of the Jockey-Cap; yet there was no heart in her exclamations of delight; there was no feeling in her expressions of admiration. Her remarks repressed rather than elicited enthusiasm. They were like a body without a soul.

On the third morning after their arrival at Fryburg, Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence prepared to return to L----. The latter was much surprised when she found that Mr. and Mrs. North were not to return with them.

"O, we are going through the _notch_ of the White Mountains," said Mrs. North. "We are told here, that the scenery beyond is infinitely more magnificent than this, and well worth a much longer journey to see."

"I doubt not its magnificence," said Mrs. Lawrence, "and should exceedingly like to view it; yet I much doubt whether any scene, in beauty of combination, can exceed that we have seen from the Jockey-Cap. But the little boy, my dear Anna!--Are you not anxious to see him?"

"O certainly--the little darling!--Yet he is in perfectly good hands, and a week or two can make no difference. He knows, as yet, no mother but nurse."

"Nor will he ever," thought Mr. Lawrence.--Mrs. Lawrence sighed.

"Will you take the trouble, my dear friend," said Mr. North, "to look in occasionally upon nurse, and see that she neglects not her duty?"

"O, do," said Mrs. North; "it will be a great relief to my feelings, to know that your vigilant eye, is now and then upon the dear boy."

A mingled expression of pity and contempt, sat on the features of Mr. Lawrence as he turned away; while Mrs. Lawrence promised to see the little one as often as possible, during the absence of the parents. They soon parted--the one pair for the _notch_,--the other for home.

"I am truly grieved," said Mrs. Lawrence, when they were fairly on their homeward journey--"I am truly grieved that Alpheus does not return to L---- with us. I had hoped, that on becoming a mother, Anna's character would undergo a change. I hoped she would learn to love home, and domestic scenes. It is to be lamented, that such qualities as she has, qualities that might make a superior woman, should all be lost in the woman of fashion--the votary of pleasure. Fain would I do her good if I could--but I know not how to acquire influence over her mind."

"It is a hopeless case," answered Mr. Lawrence. "Her character has no foundation: It is all superstructure. She never acts from principle. She has no strength of mind. I mean not that she is naturally deficient in intellectual powers; but she is a _parvenu_, and all her mental efforts, instead of giving and increasing mental vigor, are directed to the one object of making a show, and noise in the world. And as is almost universally the case with those of her class, she _overdoes_. She is thoroughly selfish; and ere any real improvement can rationally be hoped for, the present _edifice_ must be completely demolished, and a foundation laid, of new views, new motives, and new principles. Poor Alpheus! I pity him. The greatest defect in his character, is that love of show that he inherited from his vulgar father,--and by which he was governed in the selection of a wife. He is so amiable and indulgent in his disposition, that he permits her to lead him as she will. I foresee that she will be his ruin."

Mrs. Lawrence called to see the "deserted baby" as she called him, the next day after her return to L----, and continued to do so, once or twice a week, until the return of his parents, which was delayed for something more than a month. He grew finely,--and before his mother's arrival, was beginning to "_ca_" and "_coo_" and smile in the nurse's face. And Mrs. Lawrence felt that it would bring a severe pang to her heart, were the first smile and look of love of an infant of her own, bestowed on an hireling,--however worthy she might be. But Mrs. North had no _weakness_ of this kind; on the contrary, she was delighted with the happiness he manifested in nurse's arms, as it was incontestible proof of her faithful discharge of duty.

Eight years passed away, and in that time the number of Mrs. North's children increased to four; but never was a woman less incommoded by a growing family. Never was there one on whom care sat more lightly. A few months confinement to L---- now and then, was to her the most serious part of the business. Five or six weeks, of as many winters, during this period, had been spent in Boston or New-York; for a whole winter in L----, unless confined to her chamber, Mrs. North declared would kill her outright. And the expense was nothing to be thought of; for Mr. North _must_ go to purchase goods, and attend to other mercantile concerns; and taking her with him made but little difference, as she must be supported somewhere,--and her being with him made not a great difference in the length of his stay. The summers she passed in L---- were rendered tolerable, by the society of those fashionable friends she from time to time invited to her house.

Meantime, however, sagacious people began to whisper, that Mr. North's partner in business, Mr. Mason, (a young man whom he had taken into partnership, that his affairs might not suffer {298} from neglect, during his frequent absenses from home,) was growing rich,--not from dishonest practices, but by attention to business, and economy; while it was shrewdly conjectured that Mr. North lived to the full extent of his income, if not a little beyond it. Some persons of that class who can always foresee what will happen, predicted, that in five years the junior partner would be sole possessor of the stock in trade, if not the real estate of Mr. North.

At the close of the same period Mrs. Lawrence was the mother of five children. She had almost given up the hope of doing Mrs. North any personal good; but she watched over her friend's neglected children, during the long periods of her absence from home, with as much vigilance as was consistent with the faithful discharge of duty to her own. So far from exhausting,--her diligence increased her mental vigor; and her character was constantly improving in dignity, and in every christian grace. Mr. Lawrence had been unremitting in his attention to business,--and his property had gradually and constantly increased. His house contained every thing necessary for comfort, gentility, and intellectual improvement. All was in perfect _keeping_. Good judgment, and correct taste were manifest in every thing in and about the dwelling, while there was nothing like show or splendor.

"Your husband is now rich, my dear Mrs. Lawrence," said Mrs. North, after one of her visits to New York, "and I wonder you do not change, in some measure, your style of furniture and living. You should have an elegant centre-table in your drawing-room, and damask curtains, like mine, instead of those modest ones that now hang at the windows,--beside some beautiful ornaments for the mantel. And in your library, that you love so well, and which is so nobly stocked with books, you must have some such delightful _lounges_ and chairs as I saw in New York,--that you may be quite at your ease while reading. A few of these things would make your house look delightfully."

"I am quite satisfied with my furniture, my dear Anna," replied Mrs. Lawrence,--"and can enjoy a book as much, and understand it as well, in my old fashioned rocking-chair, as if reclining on the most delightful _lounge_ in the world."

"Undoubtedly you can; but why not pay some attention to fashion and elegance, both about your house and dress? I really wonder at the simplicity of your dress! Your apparel is always very well, certainly, as to material and form,--but it is too plain. I wish you would commission me to get some dresses for you;--you would look like another creature under my hands;--and you can perfectly well afford to consult your taste in these matters."

"Were the property of my husband twice as large as it is," said Mrs. Lawrence, "I could not feel justified in incurring unnecessary expense. We have now five children to educate; and that, of itself, will require a _little fortune_. And independently of that, I could never be at peace with myself, should I expend in unnecessary ornament, that which would make so many light hearts, and cheerful faces among the poor,--to say nothing of the more noble, more holy object, of ameliorating the condition of the heathen world."

Mrs. North colored slightly as she replied--"I know the tenderness of your conscience; but surely one so remarkably disinterested and benevolent as yourself, may occasionally indulge a little without compunction. Do you not carry your scrupulosity too far?"

"There is little danger of our erring on the side of benevolence," said Mrs. Lawrence. "And if, when we appear for final judgment, it be said to us, 'inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye did it unto me,' we shall hardly regret that we made not a more elegant and splendid appearance, while inhabiting, what will then emphatically appear to us, 'this _dim_ spot, called earth.'"

The following winter Mrs. North accompanied her husband to Boston. They had been absent nearly six weeks, when Mrs. Lawrence was one evening alarmed by the cry of 'fire,' and hastening to the door, she saw the flames bursting from that part of Mr. North's house, in which the nursery was situated. Giving hasty directions to her servants, she flew, with all possible speed, to the spot. Mr. Lawrence, and many others were already there, and had succeeded in rescuing all the children from the blazing chamber, though the third child was burned in a most shocking manner. All the children were immediately consigned to the care of Mrs. Lawrence, who had them instantly conveyed to her own house,--while a man was despatched to call Dr. G---- to the aid of the little sufferer.

Meantime the whole village was collected at Mr. North's house, which, by the most strenuous exertions, was saved from utter destruction, though greatly injured. The fire caught in the nursery, through the carelessness of the nursery-maid, who left the younger children, and a blazing fire, under the care of the elder,--while she joined the other servants in the kitchen, to talk over the gossip of the day.

In a short time, Dr. G---- arrived at the house of Mr. Lawrence, and after examining the suffering child, gave his opinion that he could not long survive the injury he had sustained.

As soon as Mr. Lawrence reached home, he despatched a letter and messenger to apprise Mr. and Mrs. North of the calamity that had befallen them; and in as short a time as possible they arrived at L----, the latter nearly frantic with grief.

When she could bring herself to see the little boy, that a few weeks before, she had left {299} blooming in health and beauty--now a spectacle of horror--she was overwhelmed. Bitter were the reproaches she expended on the negligent nursery-maid: but more bitter still her own self-upbraiding. Repeatedly was she on the point of making a most solemn asseveration that never again, for a day, would she leave her dear, _dear_ children. The moanings of the suffering child, seemed to rend her heart with anguish; and it appeared impossible that she could ever forgive herself.

She now appreciated the value of such a friend as Mrs. Lawrence. Her feelings were such, that she could do nothing for the afflicted boy; could not even remain in the room, while he was under the hands of the surgeon. Mrs. Lawrence was Dr. G----'s constant assistant,--and indeed almost the sole nurse of the child; from the hand of no one else would he willingly receive either food or medicine. Mrs. North looked on Mrs. Lawrence with astonishment; and could not but think, that with all her tenderness, there was a _hard spot_ in her heart, that enabled her to be useful in such a scene of suffering. Mrs. North had no knowledge of that true christian sympathy, firmness, and philosophy, that impels one to relieve, instead of flying from suffering; and she dignified her own weak and selfish indulgence by the name of sensibility.

"O, my dear friend, how can I ever be sufficiently grateful for your kindness? My _sensibilities_ are such, that it shatters my nerves to pieces to witness suffering in any one--how much more in one's own sweet infant! How must the dear boy suffer, were there no one to help him but his poor, _sensitive_ mother! It is really a misfortune to have a heart so feelingly constituted!"

The little boy lingered several weeks in great pain,--and then his liberated spirit took its flight from its decaying tenement. Three months after, Mrs. North became the mother of her fifth child; and as soon as she was able to go out, it was sent from home to nurse, like all its predecessors,--and she started on a journey to visit her parents. This journey was very well--very right; but Mrs. Lawrence feared that the impression made by her recent trouble, was fast fading away; that the rod of affliction would have no correcting influence;--produce no favorable change, either in character or conduct. When preparing to leave home, to have her mourning dresses of the most elegant, fashionable, and becoming kind, engrossed the whole woman, and left no room for any other thought or feeling. How inconceivably obdurate may the heart, even of a mother, be rendered by selfish indulgence!

The fears of Mrs. Lawrence were but too well founded. It was October when Mrs. North returned from her visit to her parents; and a few weeks after Mrs. Lawrence perceived there were great, and unusual preparations making for another journey. But she asked no questions. Her heart sickened; but she despaired of doing good, and was weary of giving unheeded admonitions; weary of attempting to touch a heart incased in the "triple mail" of vanity, selfishness, and love of pleasure.

Without inquiry she soon learned from Mrs. North, that she and Mr. North designed to spend the greater part of the winter in Washington. Mr. North had business as far as Philadelphia; they had both ever been anxious to visit the seat of government, and hear the eloquence of the senate; so good an opportunity might never again occur,--"and, really," Mrs. North added, "I have passed through scenes so _heart-rending_, so wearing to my constitution, that I need something more than ordinary, to restore me to myself again." She could leave home with an easy heart; for the unfaithful, _cruel_ nursery-maid was dismissed from her service; and she had engaged Mrs. Berry, Mrs. Lawrence's own good nurse, (at very high wages, it was true,) to take care of her children, and superintend her household while she should be absent. At the appointed time they departed.

"Why will you thus grieve, my dear Ellen?" said Mr. Lawrence. "It is utterly useless."

"I know it, Horace, yet how can I help it? O, how completely do the love of pleasure, and the pride of fashion, destroy all the best feelings of the heart!--all the finest sensibilities of our natures!--To see a woman, capable of better things, thus bent on gratifying herself, in despite of every call of duty, and warning of Providence,--and leading an amiable husband to neglect every thing but herself, is dreadful; and yet, it is for the poor neglected children I grieve. What is to become of them? What can be expected of them?--thus continually left to their own guidance."

"Nothing good, of course, Ellen. They are a set of untaught, ungoverned, unmannered little bears; and must continue so, unless they are so fortunate as to lose their mother, or she reform. But you have done, and are still doing, all that a friend can do, under such circumstances. Having, therefore, discharged your duty, be cheerful, and borrow not troubles that properly belong to another."

Mrs. Lawrence received frequent letters from Mrs. North, filled with glowing descriptions of what she was seeing, and hearing, and doing; and wishes that her kind friend were with her to participate in such pleasures--pleasures that would suit even the correct and refined taste of Mrs. Lawrence,--they were so intellectual. She frequently expressed regret that time flew so rapidly, as she dreaded to leave scenes so replete with pleasure. In every letter she would send _kisses_, or something _equally valuable_ to her dear little ones; but said she felt perfectly easy about them, under the care of good Mrs. Berry; and {300} having the eye of the best of friends frequently upon them.

Mr. and Mrs. North had been absent something more than two months, when Mr. Lawrence received a letter from the former, requesting the loan of a hundred or two of dollars. Mr. North said he had written to Mr. Mason for a remittance; but having a payment to make out, he had not been able to forward it to him. If Mr. Lawrence would oblige him, doubtless Mr. Mason would in a short time be able to reimburse him; if not, Mr. North would do so, immediately on his return to L----.

The very day this letter was received, Mr. Mason called at the office of Mr. Lawrence, to consult with him concerning what was to be done in the present juncture of Mr. North's affairs,--and as a preliminary measure, to secure to himself the store and goods it contained, which would scarcely be sufficient to satisfy his just demands. Mr. North's debts were numerous, and his creditors were becoming clamorous; and although Mr. Mason had written to him, he seemed not to be alarmed, and had given no directions.

Mr. Lawrence was unwilling to have any thing to do in this unhappy business; yet he could not refuse to assist an industrious and honest young man, who was in danger of losing the earnings of several years' close attention to business, should he refuse to lend his assistance as a lawyer. He therefore did what his sense of justice and duty demanded, though he pitied his inconsiderate friend; and he immediately wrote him, informing him of what was done,--and inclosing (which he knew must be a gift) a draft for the money of which Mr. North had requested the loan. He concluded his letter, by urging his friend's instant return to L----, if it were yet possible to give his affairs a favorable turn.

Three days after this, all property that could be found, belonging to Mr. North, was seized by his creditors.

"My dear Horace," said the greatly agitated Mrs. Lawrence, "what will Alpheus and Anna do?--what _can_ they do?"

"They must begin the world again, upon better principles," said Mr. Lawrence. "I hope they will learn wisdom from experience."

"But what can we do for them, my dear husband? You will receive them here when they arrive? Anna will feel so wretchedly!"

"For a day or two, certainly, if you wish it, my love."

"And for no longer? The contrast will be so striking, they will be overwhelmed! We must afford them all the assistance and consolation in our power?"

"Certainly!--but let us assist them in a rational way. They must feel the blow, and its consequences. We could do nothing to prevent it, short of utter ruin to ourselves. And it is necessary they should feel out; for nothing less could prove a cure for their folly. They must taste the bitter fruits of their extravagance. They must learn to live within their income, however small; and practise the self-denial that poverty demands. They must learn to be industrious, and support themselves by their own exertions."

"Poor Alpheus!--poor Anna!" ejaculated Mrs. Lawrence.

"If Alpheus had possessed either common firmness, or common prudence," said Mr. Lawrence, "or would Anna have listened to the admonitions, or followed the example of the best and kindest of friends, your sympathies would never have been thus called upon."

"O, make no comparisons,--it would be unjust," said Mrs. Lawrence. "Anna was never blessed with the instructions of such a father, or the example of such a mother as mine."

"True--and let us hope that this event will only prove a 'blessing in disguise,' to teach her what she would learn in no other way. Let us hope it will be for the best."

"O, may it prove so indeed!" said Mrs. Lawrence. "May the misguided and unfortunate Anna learn, that to be a _fashionable woman_, is not the way to be either respectable, or useful, or happy."

S. H.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HINTS TO STUDENTS OF GEOLOGY.

No. II.

BY PETER A. BROWNE, ESQ.

The most effectual way to guard against the dangerous tendency of theories is to collect and lay open to examination at one view some of the most celebrated of them, with which mankind have from time to time been furnished. Several of these will be found to be so obscure that astonishment is excited that they were ever dignified with the name of philosophy; others are so entirely inconsistent and at the same time have such equal claims to plausibility that they mutually confute each other; a few are so intimately connected with the truths that the study of geology and astronomy have displayed that it is difficult to escape the hazardous abyss into which they would lead--but the greater part are the effusions of fancy, and resemble more the emanations of a feverish or disordered brain than the cool dictates of reason and common sense. It is confidently believed that the student who will attentively read them _all_, will be very slow to adopt _any one_ of the number.

The most ancient Indian and Egyptian philosophers agreed in rightly ascribing the creation of the world to an OMNIPOTENT and INFINITE BEING, and it is a curious fact that they represented him as having _repeatedly destroyed_ and _reproduced_ the _world_ and its _inhabitants_. In "the Institutes of Menu," the sacred volume of the Hindoos, which were written eight hundred and eighty-eight years B.C., are the following verses:

"The Being whose powers are incomprehensible, {301} having created me, (Menu,) and this universe, again became absorbed in the Supreme Spirit, changing the _time of energy for the hour of repose_."

"When this power _awakes_, then has this world its _full expansion_; but when he _slumbers_ with a tranquil spirit, then _the whole system fades away_."

It is perfectly ascertained that the Greeks borrowed this idea of a former successive destruction and renovation of this world from the Egyptians. Plutarch tells us that it was the theme of one of the hymns of Orpheus; and it is well known that Orpheus, although a Greek poet, gained all his knowledge of astronomy, divinity, music and poetry in Egypt.

This most ancient Pagan theologist believed that all things were created by a Being whom he represents as _invisible_ and _incomprehensible_, and to whom he has given the appellation of THE COUNSELLOR _of_ LIGHT _and_ SOURCE _of_ LIFE; but he has degraded this sublime idea of the Almighty by supposing that from an egg, the progeny of _chance_, all mankind have been produced.

The philosopher _Leucippus_, who was also a Grecian, taught that "the universe was _infinite_; that it was in part a _plenum_ and in part a _vacuum_--that the plenum contained innumerable corpuscles or atoms of various figures, which, falling into the vacuum, struck against each other; and hence arose a variety of curvilinear motions, which continued till at length atoms of similar forms met together, and _bodies_ were produced. The primary atoms being specifically of equal weight, and not being able, on account of their multitude, to move in circles, the smaller rose to the exterior parts of the vacuum, whilst the larger (entangling themselves,) formed a spherical shell, which revolved about its centre and which included within it all kinds of bodies. This central mass was gradually increased by a perpetual accession of particles from the surrounding shell, till at last (says Leucippus) the EARTH was formed. In the mean time the spherical shell was continually supplied with new bodies, which, in its revolution, it gathered from without. Of the particles _thus_ collected in the spherical shell, some in their combination formed _humid_ masses, which, by their circular motion, gradually became _dry_ and were at length ignited and became STARS. The SUN was formed in the same manner in the _exterior_ surface of the shell; and the _moon_ in its _interior_ surface. In this manner the universe was formed."--Such a jargon of _learned nonsense_ requires no comment; yet Leucippus had for a time the reputation of possessing superior wisdom!

Epicurus adopted the idea of Leucippus as to the atoms, and imagined that they moved _obliquely_, and Democritus bestowed on them _animation_. Gassendi contended for atoms and a _void_, and Descartes asserted a _plenum_ and a subtle _matter_, which revolving in vortices was under the direction of an intelligent being.

Hippasus and Heraclitus maintained that the being who was the author of all things was _fire_.

Many of the ancient philosophers believed this world to be _eternal_--among these may perhaps be ranked Pythagoras, Aristotle, Socrates and Plato.

Zeno advocated with great zeal the theory of "two principles," _spirit_ and _matter_, one active and the other passive.

_Mahomet_ maintained that the world was created in two days, and the mountains were afterwards _placed_ upon it; and that during _these_ and two _additional_ days the inhabitants were formed; and in two more the seven heavens were created.

The waters of the deluge are ridiculously represented by him as being poured out of an _oven_. The Alcoran says that all men were drowned except Noah and his family; and that at an appointed time God said, "O earth swallow up the waters!" "and thou, O heaven, withhold thy rain!" and _immediately_ the waters abated. Is it not surprising that so many thousands should have adopted this theory.

Mr. Thomas Burnet was a man of genius and taste, a learned divine and a philosopher; but he suffered his imagination to take the lead of his judgment. He was the friend and object of admiration of Addison. His work is entitled, "The sacred theory of the earth, containing an account of the origin of the earth and of all the general changes which it hath already undergone or _is to undergo till the consummation of all things_." He taught that originally the earth was a _fluid mass_, composed of various materials; that of these the heaviest descended to the centre, and formed a _hard_ and _solid body_--that the waters took their station round this body--and that all lighter fluids rose above the water, forming first a strata of oily matter and next a strata of air--that the air was then impure, containing great quantities of earthy particles, which gradually subsided and composed a _crust_ of earth and oil--that this crust was the first habitable part of the earth and abode of man and other animals--that the surface was _uniform_, no _mountains_ nor _seas_ nor other inequalities were to be seen--that in this _state_ it remained about sixteen centuries; by which time the heat of the sun gradually drying the crust, produced cracks or fissures, which gradually penetrating deeper and deeper, finally perforated the entire crust--that in an instant the whole split in pieces and fell into the great abyss of water. _This_ (says Burnet) was the UNIVERSAL DELUGE!--That with these masses of _earth_ were carried vast quantities of _air_, and the masses dashing violently against each other, accumulated and divided so irregularly, that great _cavities_ filled with air were left between them--that the waters gradually opened passages into these cavities. In proportion as they were filled with water, the surface of the earth began to discover itself in the most elevated places, till at last the waters appeared no where but in those extensive valleys which now contain the ocean--that islands and sea rocks are small fragments, and continents are large masses of this ancient crust.

His theory was attacked and pretty roughly handled by his cotemporaries Erasmus Warren, John Keill and McFlamstead, the astronomer royal.

How Burnet could imagine that man and other land animals could have inhabited an earth which had a _plane surface_, it is difficult to conceive. If these animals resembled those that at present inhabit this planet, they could not have subsisted without water; and if this element was supplied by rain, and the earth had no inequalities of surface, the whole earth must have been covered by a sea or at least been a swamp. It was perhaps this reflection that generated the idea of Demailet, that man was originally a _fish_.

Mr. Robinson was a respectable clergyman of the English established church. In 1694 he wrote what he calls an _anatomical_ description of the earth. He {302} contends that matter at first consisted of innumerable particles of divers figures and different qualities; these he obliges to move about in a confused manner until the world was finally created, by the _infusion_ of a _vital spirit_. He is of opinion that the earth is a _great animal_; that it has a skin, flesh, blood, &c. He lays it down as incontrovertible, that the centre contains a vast cavity of a multangular figure, containing crude and indigested matter, endued with contrary qualities, and causing much strife and contention. When the airy particles prevail, they cause hurricanes; when the fiery ones are uppermost, earthquakes and volcanoes are the result. The mountain chains he takes to be real ribs, and finally he seriously tells us, that this vast animal is subject to fevers, agues, and other distempers. Yet Robinson had his day, and all his readers did not appear to consider him a lunatic.

Mr. John Woodward was a classical scholar and an eminent physician. He was _also_ a man of much observation; but he was infected with the disease of theory-making.

He agreed in part with Burnet, but _refined_ upon him.

He contended that the waters of the ocean were aided by a supply from the central parts of the earth in effecting the general deluge. He also believed that the _whole fabric_ was dissolved instead of the _crust_, as taught by Burnet. He said, that in order to assist in this general dissolution, the _power_ of attraction, of _cohesion_, was suddenly suspended. Every thing being thus dissolved and jumbled in one common mass, a precipitation took place according to the laws of gravitation. Locke pronounced a panegyric upon this theory!

Mr. William Whiston, a celebrated astronomer and learned divine, also gave loose to his fancy in an extraordinary manner.

He was of opinion that the ancient chaos from which this earth originated, was the atmosphere of a comet; that the detail given by Moses is not of the _creation_ of the world, but of its _passage_ from the state of a _comet_ to that of a _planet_, so as to make it habitable.

In the beginning, (says Mr. Whiston,) "God created the _universe_," but the earth was then an uninhabitable comet, surrounded by darkness; and hence, he says, we are told that, "_darkness covered the face of the deep_;" that it was composed of heterogeneous materials, having its centre occupied with a globular hot nucleus of about two thousand leagues in diameter, round which was an extensive mass of thick fluid; that this fluid contained few solid particles, and still less of water or air; that on the first day of the creation, the _eccentric_ orbit of the comet was exchanged for an ellipsis nearly circular, and every thing instantly assumed its proper place. The different materials arranged themselves according to the laws of gravity, and the annual motion of the earth then began. That the _centre_ of the earth is a solid body, still retaining the heat of the former comet; that round this is a heavy fluid and a body of water in concentric circles, upon the latter of which the earth is founded; that after the atmosphere of the earth had been thus freed from the earthy particles of that of the comet, a pure air remained, through which the rays of the sun instantly penetrated, when God said "_let there be light_." He ascribes to the _precipitation_ with which the earth was formed, the great difference _now found_ in the materials that compose its crust, and the mountains and vallies to the laws of gravity. He maintains that before the deluge the water of the present ocean was dispersed over the earth in small caverns, and that the mountains were at greater distances, and not so large as at present; but that the earth was a thousand times more fertile, and contained a great many more inhabitants, whose lives were ten times longer. All this he is of opinion was effected by the _superior heat_ of the nucleus; but that this heat augmented the passions and destroyed the virtue of man and the sagacity of other animals, and caused the universal sentence of death which was inflicted by the deluge. He says, that that event was occasioned by a change in the inclination of the earth's axis, occasioned by the tail of a comet meeting with the earth, in returning from its perihelium, when "_the cataracts of heaven were opened_." Newton denied that there was any thing in astronomy wherefrom to presume this change of inclination. But the celebrated Count de Buffon left his predecessors far behind, after premising that the sphere of the sun's attraction is not limited by the orbits of the planets, but extends indefinitely, always decreasing according to the squares of the augmented distances: that the comets which escape our sight in the heavenly regions are, like the planets, subject to the attraction of the sun, and by it their motions are regulated: that all these bodies (the directions of which are so various,) move round the sun, and describe areas proportioned to their periods; the planets in ellipses, more or less circular, and the comets in narrow ellipses of vast extent.--He asserts, that comets run through the system in all directions; but that the inclinations of the planes of their orbits are so very different, that though, like the planets, they are subject to the laws of attraction, they have nothing in common with regard to their progressive or impulsive motions, but appear in this respect to be absolutely independent of each other.

He then conjectures that a comet, falling obliquely into the body of the sun, drove off a part from its surface, and communicated to it a violent impulsive force. This effect he supposes was produced at the time when God is said, by Moses, to have "separated the light from the darkness," by which Buffon understands a _real, physical_ separation; the opaque bodies of the planets being detached from the luminous matter of which he supposed the sun to be composed, and he imagined that the part struck off was one six hundred and fiftieth part of the sun's body.

He informs us that this matter issued from the sun, not in the form of _globes_, but of liquid _torrents_ of fire; and that a projectile motion having been communicated by the stroke of the comet, the light particles separated from the dense, which, by their mutual attractions, formed globes of different solidities; and that the projectile force being proportioned to the density of the particles, determined the respective distances from the sun to which they would be carried. Our author having thus (at one blow of a comet) created the planets out of the superabundant materials of the sun, and having driven them to the distances of their spheres from that body, was put to a great straight to prevent them from obeying the law of projectiles, in returning whence they issued, and in obliging them to revolve round a common centre. This part of his theory is _very lame_ indeed. He first unphilosophically ascribes {303} this change of direction to an acceleration of velocity; and secondly, the acceleration he very erroneously supposed would take place by the anterior particles attracting and hastening the posterior ones, and by the posterior ones pushing forward or hastening the anterior ones. But appearing to be unsatisfied himself with this explanation, he next makes the shock of the comet remove the sun from its former situation--so that when the planets, according to the law of projectiles, returned to the place from whence they had departed, they did not enter into the sun again, who had thus _fortunately_ stepped out of their way, or Buffon's ingenious creation would have been entirely destroyed.

But to proceed. He supposes that the earth, having acquired its present shape by its motion while in a liquid state, the fire was eventually extinguished by its rapid passage through space, or after having consumed all the combustible matter it contained. Mr. Buffon acknowledges that the constituent parts of the earth's crust are now of very different densities; but he gives no satisfactory explanation for the change which must have taken place, if as he supposed, they were _once homogeneous_. Nor does he account for the separation of the _land_ from the _water_. It is true he leaves us to infer that such a separation took place; for he says, that "the motion of the _waters_ is _coeval with time_." He also says, that the waters occupy the lowest grounds, and that all the mountains have been formed at the bottom of the sea, by means of currents and tides. His primeval world must therefore have had cavities, in which the waters were preserved.

Such is the theory of the Count de Buffon, a gentleman of great ingenuity, taste and erudition; whose works, so long as he confined himself to _facts_ and _reasoning_, have been universally admired; but whose _theories_ have been as much ridiculed by _others_ as _he_ ridiculed those of Burnet and Whiston. Soon after the publication of this theory, Buffon was summoned before the Faculty of Theology at Paris, and there informed that fourteen propositions in his works were reprehensible and contrary to the creed of the church. One of these, which related to geology, was, "That the waters of the sea were concerned in producing the mountains and valleys of the land." And it is curious to remark that _this_, which was almost the only correct geological proposition in the whole work, Buffon _publicly renounced!_ Upon this theory of Buffon I would take leave, upon the highest modern authority, further to observe, that "from a long series of observations, made with powerful telescopes, Herschel discovered that the solar light and heat do not emanate from the _body_ or _nucleus_ of the sun, but from certain phosphoric and pyrophoric clouds, which are produced and developed in its atmosphere. That this immense ocean of light is violently agitated over its whole surface, causing those corrugations of its disc which he has so well described,--and which indeed, may be observed through a telescope of moderate powers, by even an unpractised eye. When this superficial structure is broken through and widely separated, we may discern the black veil of subjacent solar clouds, or even the solid dark nucleus of the sun itself. Hence Herschel accounts for the dark spots which are frequently observed on the sun's disc, and for the shelving margins which surround them.--Across these excavations of the phosphoric film, bridges of luminous matter, are seen to stretch, which extending in breadth, finally cause the dark chasm to disappear, and restore to the sun all its original brightness. The area of one of these black spots is often much greater than the whole surface of the terrestrial globe. When the storm subsides in the solar atmosphere, the equilibrium of its clouds replaces the layer of light. It is well known that these spots, first observed by Gallileo, led to the discovery of the sun's motion round its axis, and showed that this motion is accomplished in twenty-five and a half days."

Had Buffon been acquainted with these great excavations of luminous matter, he would probably have ascribed them to a projection of the solar substance giving origin to some new planet or comet, and causing diminution of the sun's heat proportional to the darkened portion of its orb. But Herschel has shown, on the contrary, that the seasons in which the solar spots are most abundant, are characterized not by decreased light and heat to the earth, but apparently by an opposite result. He hence infers, that these spots correspond, and are owing to an increased activity in the vibratory motions, by which the sun excites the ether, diffused through space.

The new improvements in optics, afford a very unexpected means of determining whether it be true, as Herschel imagined, that the solar light does issue from an incandescent solid or fluid. When such a body, raised to a very high temperature, becomes luminous, the rays which fly off in all directions, do not come from the _outer surface_ only, but also proceed, as the rays of heat do, from a multitude of material points placed beneath or within the surface, to a certain depth, extremely small indeed, but actually existing. Now, such of those rays as traverse the envelope of the heated mass obliquely, acquire and preserve a peculiar property, which can be rendered sensible by experiment; they are _polarised_. But if the same mass, instead of being rendered luminous by its proper temperature, be only covered with an exterior film of flame, which is the source of its light, the rays do _not_ then possess this property.

Science has thus been enabled to submit to this singular test, the light which the sun sends to us. M. Arago, the author of this beautiful experiment, has in fact discovered that the rays of the sun, when transmitted even obliquely, _are not polarised_.

These results are _fatal_ to the _theory_ of _Buffon_. Those who belong to his school, if any remain, can no longer contend for the _sun_ as the eternal _furnace_ from which to make _ignited spheres_; but on the contrary, the nucleus of that luminary may possibly enjoy a _habitable_ planetary temperature.

In 1788 Werner published, by his lectures, _his_ famous theory of the earth. He supposed that at some former period this globe had, for a long time, been covered with water to a greater depth than the original altitude of the highest mountains. That this immense body of water was then tranquil, or nearly so, and contained in solution all the materials of all the rocks of which the present crust of the earth is composed. That in this state, chemical deposites, exhibiting more or less of a crystalline structure, were first gradually made, and invested the nucleus of the earth. That these chemical deposites constitute the primitive rocks, including the {304} granite and trap, and are distinguished by their crystalline form, and by the total absence of organic remains. That during this period, most of the highest mountains were formed; but by a gradual subsidence of the waters the summits of these mountains were left naked, the tranquillity of the waters was disturbed, and currents were consequently produced. That by these currents the naked rocks were worn and partially disintegrated; and the grains or fragments thus produced, were diffused through the mass of water. That the rocks formed at this period would, of course, consist partly of chemical and partly of mechanical deposites. That they would also lie over the primitive rocks, but in consequence of the diminished altitude of the waters, they would appear at a lower level, often resting on the declivities of primitive mountains. That as organic remains make their first appearance in the rocks of this period, it is inferred that the rocky shores which had recently emerged from the great deep, were then passing into a habitable state. That the level of the great ocean continuing to sink, more extensive portions of the earth were left exposed to the increasing violence of the currents, and the solution, which was originally chemical, now became, in a great degree, composed of grains, or comminuted fragments, detached from the older rocks, and that hence the minerals of this period consist of mechanical deposites; that they lie over the two preceding classes and at a lower level, in consequence of the greater subsidence of the waters.

That extensive portions of the globe having now become dry, new species and genera inhabited the waters and dwelt upon the land, while numerous vegetables adorn the shores and other parts of the earth. Hence these rocks abound with organic remains, both animal and vegetable.

Doctor Hutton published his theory about the year 1795; he supposed that all the solid parts which form the crust of the present globe, have proceeded from the disintegration and destruction of former continents, by the gradual action of the atmosphere and water; that the ruins of those ancient continents were transported by water, and deposited at the bottom of ancient seas; and that these heterogeneous materials thus deposited, were consolidated by the action of subterraneous fires; and, by the same agents, were subsequently elevated to form the present continents. That gneiss and other stratified rocks were only softened, elevated, and sometimes variously inclined; while granite and other unstratified minerals were completely fused, and in many cases forced upwards by this powerful agent through the incumbent strata. That as _this_ earth had _arisen from the ruins_ of an _anterior world_, so _that_ had originated from the ruins of a _former_ one, and so _ad infinitum_.

Each of the two last theories obtained numerous advocates; and a flame of controversy respecting them was kindled, that for some years blazed throughout Europe with great fury. As usual, both parties claimed the victory; but impartial readers appear to think that while each party may lay some claims to correctness, yet as an entire theory both are in the wrong.

(_To be continued._)

A great mind may change its objects, but it cannot relinquish them; it must have something to pursue: Variety is its relaxation, and amusement its repose.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER FOURTH.

Bridge of Boats at Rouen--Ancient Custom--Old Tower and Town Clock--Church of St. Paul--Jugglers and Tumblers.

ROUEN, ----.

_Dear Jane:_--

"Another letter from Rouen!" you'll exclaim; yes, my dear sister, even so--for papa being well pleased with our accommodations here, and finding the town contains more curiosities than travellers are usually aware of, we have thus prolonged our stay; but to-morrow go we _must_, as our seats are engaged in the diligence for Paris. Since I wrote you three days ago, we have seen divers other objects worthy of notice, though not so interesting as those I have described to you. To-day we saw the bridge of boats which connects the city with the suburb of Saint Sévere; it rises and falls with the tide, and is divided into compartments that can be easily separated for ships to pass through at any moment. The invention of this bridge is attributed to an Augustin monk. A handsome stone bridge is now building over another part of the Seine.

Every evening at 9 o'clock we hear the tones of a clear sonorous bell, sounding what is termed the "_retreat_." This is merely the continuation of an ancient custom, practised during the Norman wars, when it was necessary to give a signal for those persons who might be without the city to enter, ere the gates were shut for the night. This bell is also rung on occasions of public ceremonies, festivities, or calamities, and is called the _silver_ bell, because according to tradition, it was made of _money_ raised from taxes. It hangs in the belfry of a curious old gothic tower, whose archway spans one of the chief streets of Rouen, and on the side of which is placed the city clock, resembling the face of a gigantic watch. This afternoon we purpose visiting the botanical garden, and after that taking a farewell drive in the neighborhood of the town; there are many beautiful prospects to be seen from the surrounding hills.

Yesterday Edgar and myself walked to the terrace of St. Paul, a plain and antique little church, built it is said on the ruins of a temple of Adonis. From the terrace you enjoy a fine view; and near it is a mineral spring, the second in Rouen. Here we met with a number of ladies and gentlemen, and were much diverted at the tricks of a fellow who mimicked the peculiarities of different nations; and when about to show off the _English_, cried out, "Maintenant pour 'Got dam;'" he made the most ridiculous faces you can imagine, and excited great mirth. It was surprising what power of muscle and expression he possessed; one moment his nose appeared turned up, his eyes squinting, and his mouth too small to admit a _plum_; the next, you'd think he could take in a _melon_--and his physiognomy would so completely change, that you could scarcely believe it was the same person before you. Sometimes to increase the effect, he put on a huge pair of spectacles and sung a droll song, a companion playing merrily on the violin all the while, and suiting the melody to the performance. After this came a band of tumblers, and three children tawdrily dressed--exhibited sundry feats on the back of a chair, and on the head and shoulders of a man. It was painful to behold the little creatures {305} in such jeopardy; and having contributed our sous for their benefit, we quitted the scene. Adieu.

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER FIFTH.

Paris--Modes of Living--Rue de la Paix--Place Vendome--Rue Castiglione--Garden of the Tuileries--Louvre--Italian Boulevard--Dress of the Ladies--Soirées--Admiralty--Mademoiselle Mars.

PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane:_--

Not a question, I pray you! about the journey from Rouen hither. I can only tell you that we chose the lower route; that the prospects were lovely, and the diligence rolled rapidly along the banks of the Seine; that we stopped only to swallow our meals as quickly as possible, and had not time to examine any thing. We entered Paris by the Porte de Neuilly and Champs Elysées, at dusk, and witnessed the beautiful sight the latter presents, when illuminated by its numerous lamps, which instead of being fixed on posts, were suspended high above our heads from ropes swung across the road. The resemblance of these lamps when lighted, to a range of brilliant stars, occasions the gate by which we entered to be called the "barriére de l'étoile." We found rooms ready for us, papa having written to request Mr. Dorval to engage a suite in the pleasantest quarter of the city.

Here there are four modes of living customary among visiters. First, boarding in a hotel by the day, week, or month: second, boarding at a lodging house by the week, month or year: third, hiring furnished apartments and eating at a restaurateur's, or being supplied thence: fourth, furnishing rooms yourself, and having your own cook. The first of these plans, being the least troublesome, we have preferred. It is, however, more expensive than either of the others. Our hotel is delightfully situated, and commands a view of the Italian Boulevard and of the Rue de la Paix, at the corner of which it stands; the latter, one of the widest and handsomest streets in the metropolis. From our windows we can also see the "Place Vendome," with its superb and stately bronze column, erected by Napoleon, in imitation of that of Trajan at Rome. It is made of the cannons taken by him at the battle of Austerlitz; the principal events of that campaign are represented in a _bas-relief_, which is carried spirally around the whole shaft, the figure of the Emperor being prominent in each compartment. His statue formerly crowned the summit of the column; but since his downfall it has been removed, and the vacancy is now supplied by a simple banner.[1]

[Footnote 1: The statue of Napoleon has been replaced since the last revolution; the dress is the great coat and three cornered cocked hat in which he is so frequently represented, and he holds in his hand a short telescope, or rather opera glass.]

Beyond the Place Vendome is the Rue Castiglione, with its fine shops and arcades; and at the end of this street is the garden of the Tuileries, where we repair before breakfast every morning, to enjoy its shades, and contemplate its statues, flowers and fountains. In flowers it always abounds, for they are planted in pots concealed in the ground, and as soon as one set goes out of season, it is replaced by another in bloom.

From eleven until four o'clock we study the pictures in the magnificent gallery of the Louvre, whose halls are open for the benefit of strangers and students on every day of the week, except _Monday_. On Sunday they are open to _every body_, and consequently on Monday require the operations of the broom and brush. The halls appropriated to sculpture are on the ground floor, and the ceilings of several are superbly painted. It was from the window of one of these apartments that Charles the Ninth fired upon his persecuted subjects during the massacre of St. Bartholomews. (August 24, 1572)

Our usual evening resort is the Boulevard, where we listen to music, and observe the motley crowds around us; and when tired, refresh ourselves with ices or lemonade in a café.

Dear me! how tastefully the French ladies dress! What beautiful robes, and hats, and gloves, and shoes and boots they wear! and how well each article corresponds with another. If they have on different colors, they take care that they shall contrast agreeably, and not be an uncouth mixture, displeasing to the eye. In the morning their toilette is remarkably neat and appropriate. You'll probably find them when you call, in a simple gingham dress, with pelerine to suit, and a black silk apron; their hair arranged in puffs, and quite unadorned. Now is this not more rational than to be furbelowed, and curled, and richly clad, as if they were expecting company, instead of being usefully employed? At entertainments and in the public promenades, they display their fine clothes. We have already received and returned the visits of several of the French families to whom we brought letters; but much to our regret, the venerable Count Ségur is out of town, and Baron Hottinguer, his lady and son, are at their country seat. The Minister of the Marine (Mr. Hyde de Neuville) and Madame his spouse, are extremely pleasing and amiable. They still have their regular soirées, notwithstanding the advanced season, and we intend to avail ourselves of their polite invitation to attend them. By the by, I should tell you (what M. Dorval told _me_,) that in Paris many persons have an appointed evening for receiving their acquaintances, once a week, fortnight, or month, (as suits their convenience,) and on this evening they illuminate their rooms for the reception of their guests. The greater number of these remain only a half hour, and then repair to the opera, or to some other _soirée_, as such an assembly is termed. It is usual to go to three or four on the same night. There is seldom any refreshment offered, and the amusements are conversation and, écarte--_sometimes_ billiards; and when the soirée is social and small, they even introduce childish plays, such as "Colin, Maillard," "Le Mouchoir," "Tierce," &c. in which elderly people frequently join with all the vivacity of youth.

Monsieur and Madame de Neuville reside in a superb mansion, that was formerly the "Garde meuble," or royal wardrobe. It is now called the "Admiralty," and appropriated to the use of the Minister of the Marine and Colonies. On its roof is a telegraph, and its front is embellished with sculpture, and columns, which support a portico as long as the building itself.

A few nights since we were at the Theatre Francais, and saw Mademoiselle Mars perform the part of the Duchesse de Guise in "Henri Trois." To the {306} astonishment of every body she excels in this character, although it is a difficult one to play, and her first attempt at tragedy. Her talents hitherto, you know, have been devoted to comedy. She is the most lovely and youthful looking woman of her age I ever beheld. What do you think of her being passed fifty, and yet not appearing as old as twenty-five? She is so graceful too! and then her voice is melody itself! But I must cease my encomiums, or I shall not have space to assure you that I am your affectionate sister,

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER SIXTH.

Palais Royal--King's Library--Hotel de Ville--Mint--Palace of Justice--Holy Chapel--Flower Market.

PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane:_--

What a variety of places we have visited since I despatched to you my last letter! _Par exemple_, the Palais Royal, with its agreeable garden and jets d'eau, surrounded by arcades, under which are splendid shops and cafés, that are dazzling when illuminated at night; the Royal Library, with its vast collection of manuscripts and engravings, and its cabinets of antiquities and medals--the latter considered to be the most complete in the world; the Hotel de Ville, on the Place de Grève, where the guillotine sometimes plies its dreadful work; the Exchange, with its sixty-four corinthian columns, fine hall, and superb imitations of bas-reliefs, so admirably executed, that you can scarcely be convinced they are the effect of the _brush_ instead of the _chisel_. Add to these several churches and fountains, the Mint, where we witnessed the curious process of coining, and the "Palais de Justice." In this vast structure of antiquity, the judicial courts of Paris hold their sittings. It was founded in the ninth century, and is termed a palace, because it was once the abode of the French monarchs. I remember having read in some history of the magnificent entertainments they gave here, in a grand hall containing statues of their race and a marble table of uncommon size, at which none but princes of the blood were allowed to feast. In 1618 nearly the whole edifice was burnt, and the wonderful table and statues destroyed; it was rebuilt by Desbrosses, the architect of the Luxembourg. Besides the court rooms and many others above them, filled with the judiciary archives of the kingdom, there are long galleries which have on each side rows of petty shops and stalls. Beneath these galleries are the gloomy prisons of the conciergerie, wherein such atrocities were committed during the revolution. Here we saw the dungeons in which Marie Antoinette and the Princess Elizabeth were immured; the cell in which Robespiérre was confined; and that of Louvel, who assassinated the Duke de Berri. We were shown the prison room of the gallant Ney. The cells that inclosed the unfortunate queen and her sister-in-law, are now converted into a small chapel, which communicates by means of an arch, with another of larger dimensions. In the latter, the captives of the conciergerie are permitted to attend mass on the Sabbath. The arch is decorated with medallions of Louis the Sixteenth and the Princess Elizabeth, and a few lines extracted from his will are inscribed on an altar in the smaller chapel. On the wall of this hang three pictures in oil colors; the first represents Marie Antoinette taking leave of her family just before she was brought to the prison; in the second, you behold her standing wrapt in meditation by her miserable cot-bed, after the door is barred upon her; in the third, you see her at confession, preparatory to ascending the scaffold. Melancholy themes, and well suited to the gloom of the place! You approach the Palace of Justice through an enormous iron gate remarkable for its workmanship and guilding. On the left of it stands an ancient building, called the "Holy Chapel," from its having been erected by Saint Louis for the reception of the sacred relics he brought with him from Palestine, whither he went on a crusade, in fulfilment of a vow he had made during a dangerous illness. His oratory is still shewn, and once served as a refuge from popular fury to the present King Charles the Tenth, in the time of the revolution. The painted windows of the chapel are beautiful,--the colors so bright and various. Around the interior, instead of altars and _confessionals_, are a range of cases, containing archives and records. By the by, among those we saw in the upper galleries of the Palace of Justice, (which communicates with the "Sainte Chapelle,") were the condemnation of Joan of Arc, and that of Jean Châtel, who attempted to stab Henry the Fourth, but failed, and having been seized was put to a dreadful death, according to the mandate which we read. He was stretched on the rack, then drawn on a sledge to the Place de Grève, his flesh torn with hot pincers, and his right hand cut off; finally, his limbs were tied to four wild horses, and thus rent asunder. When dead, his body was burnt, and his ashes scattered to the winds! The dress he wore when he attacked the King, and a rope ladder he used in endeavoring to escape while confined, are carefully preserved in a box, with a scull that was found in the possession of a famous robber, and is said to have served him as a cup, out of which he compelled has victims to drink wine, and then swear allegiance to him. The condemnation of Joan of Arc is replete with superstition and abuse of that poor warrior damsel; she is pronounced a sorceress, a blasphemer, a devil, &c. and numerous other opprobrious epithets are given to her besides. We were likewise shewn the hand writing of Francis the First, Louis the Eleventh, and that of several others of the French monarchs; and to speak the truth, I don't think their penmanship does them much credit.

Returning home, we stopped at the flower market, and were surprised at the beauty and cheapness of the flowers. You may buy them growing in pots, or arranged as boquets. The market is held on the Quay Dessaix, under two rows of trees, in the midst of which a plentiful fountain refreshes the air, and affords water for the plants. Adieu. Ever yours,

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER SEVENTH.

Church of St. Roch--Pére la Chaise.

PARIS, ----.

_Dear Sister:_--

Your letter (received within a few hours) gave us all great pleasure, and we are rejoiced to learn that _folks_ and _things_ are going on so well at the Lodge. What a fine time you and Albert have for _sentimentalizing_! Make the best of it; for you know October is only a {307} few months off, and when it comes you'll perhaps find me at your elbow oftener than you anticipate. I shall have so much to talk about; for believe me, altho' my communications are so long and frequent, a great deal will remain to be told when we reach "sweet home."

Now, let me inform you of the strange sight we have just been witnessing in the Church of St. Roch; a funeral and two weddings solemnizing in the same place and at the same moment! To us it was shocking, and _certes_ if _I_ had been one of the votaries of hymen on the occasion, I should have experienced sad forebodings of evil in the connubial state. Really, it was sometimes difficult to hear the priests who were performing the marriage rites, their voices being drowned in the loud requiem chanted over the dead. The coffin was strewed with white flowers, emblematical of the youth and maidenhood of the deceased.

We have visited Pére la Chaise, and spent nearly a whole day in reading the inscriptions on its numerous and varied monuments,--many of them so magnificent! many so neat and simple! The inscriptions are generally beautiful and touching--they speak to the hearts of all; and the lovely and odoriferous flowers that decorate the tombs, seem to rob the grave of its sadness, and shed their balmy influence o'er the mind of the beholder. Several tombs are also adorned with miniatures inserted in the stone, and portraying the once animated countenances of those who rest beneath them. This romantic burying ground spreads itself over the side of a hill, and from the upper part you have a noble prospect of the city and its environs. In the fourteenth century it was the site of a splendid mansion, built by a wealthy grocer, whose name was Regnaud. Its magnificence being incompatible with his rank, it was soon entitled "Regnaud's Folly." The Jesuits afterwards obtained possession of it, and gave it the name of "Mont Louis," because Louis the Fourteenth when a boy, witnessed from its summit the battle in the Faubourg St. Antoine, between the Frondeurs,[2] commanded by the Prince of Condé, and the Court Party, under Marshal Turenne. I recollect reading in Voltaire's history of that monarch's reign, that during this bloody skirmish, Mademoiselle d'Orleans (Louis's cousin) sided with the Prince of Condé, and had the cannons of the Bastile pointed against the royal troops. This ruined her forever in the opinion of the king; and Cardinal Mazarin remarked, knowing her desire to marry a crowned head, "_ce canon la, vient de tuer son mari_"--"that cannon has killed her husband." But I've digressed from my original theme, and hasten to resume it. Pére la Chaise, one of the Jesuits, became confessor to Louis, and had entire control of ecclesiastical affairs. The king was very fond of him, and as a mark of his esteem, presented him with the estate of "Mont Louis," having considerably enlarged and embellished it for his use. On the death of the holy father, it reverted to his brethren, and was called after him. These wily priests projected there the Revocation of the edict of Nantes, and issued thence many a lettre de cachet, decreeing imprisonment to their enemies. They retained possession of the place until the abolishment of their order in 1763, when it was sold for the benefit of their creditors, and had divers owners, until purchased by the Prefect of the Seine, and appropriated to its present purpose in 1804. There are three kinds of graves: first, those termed _public_, in which the poor are gratuitously buried; but each body can remain only five years, the time supposed to be sufficient for its decomposition. These graves resemble immense ditches, and the coffins are deposited one upon another, and side by side, as close as they can lay. They are wretchedly made, and soon drop to pieces; and therefore it is not uncommon, in burying a corpse, to see the exposed head and limbs of another! Is'nt this horrible? Second, _temporary_ graves, wherein the dead remain undisturbed during ten years, for the sum of fifty francs. At the close of that period, unless the grave be rendered of the third kind, _perpetual_, by the payment of a larger portion of money, its ghastly tenant is removed. The oldest and most interesting sepulchre is that of Abelard and Héloise; it is formed of the ruins of the paraclete, and covered with antique sculpture and ornaments. It represents a gothic chapel, in the centre of which the bodies of the lovers are represented extended on a bier; the whole is of gray stone. The monument of the Countess Demidoff, a Russian lady, we considered the richest and handsomest in the collection. It is composed of pure white marble highly polished. A part of the cemetery is appropriated to the use of strangers, and a considerable space allowed to the Jews. The gate is always thronged with carriages that have brought either visiters or mourners. On each side of the entrance are stalls, where wreaths and bunches of flowers may be purchased. I must now conclude, and am sure you will dream of church yards and hobgoblins, after reading this letter, from your attached

LEONTINE.

[Footnote 2: This party were termed _frondeurs_ or slingers by their opponents, in allusion to the boys who were then in the habit of throwing stones with slings In the street, and who ran away when any one appeared. The _Soubriquet_, as has frequently happened, was adopted by them as their distinctive appellation.]

ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.

_For the Southern Literary Messenger_.

AN ORATION on the Life and Character of Gilbert Motier de Lafayette, delivered at the request of both Houses of the Congress of the United States, before them, in the House of Representatives at Washington, on the 31st of December, 1834, by John Quincy Adams, a Member of the House. Washington: Gales and Seaton. 1835. pp. 94.

EULOGY on La Fayette, delivered in Fanueil Hall, at the request of the Young Men of Boston, September 6, 1834; by Edward Everett. Boston: Nathan Hall & Allen & Tichnor. 1834. pp. 96.

* * * * *

"An Oration in praise of Hercules!!! And who ever thought of blaming Hercules!"

The limits of the old world bounded the labors of Hercules. There nature had planted imperishable landmarks; and on these the gratitude of nations had inscribed, in imperishable characters, the name of their benefactor. What could the breath of man add to his glory?

But the pillars of Hercules have been passed. Beyond this _ne plus ultra_ of the ancient world, the genius of Columbus opened a way to new regions, and extended the sway of his imperial master around the circuit of the earth. A new hero was wanting, whose labors, commensurate with this enlarged theatre, might compass the globe, and convey to the new world the {308} benefits which his illustrious prototype had conferred on the old. Such a hero the bounty of Providence vouchsafed to man. But the spirit has returned to him who gave it; and it is in praise of his memory, that two distinguished orators have been required to task their acknowledged powers.

But "who ever thought of blaming La Fayette?" Who feels it necessary to utter his praise, even in this simple question? Who feels it necessary to answer it? Is not such silence the most expressive praise; the silence imposed by a common sentiment, which all are conscious is felt by all?

What can be expected from eulogy in such a case? What is there in the breath of praise; what is there in the pomp and circumstance of funeral pageantry, but a solemn mockery of the feelings that "bleed deep in the silent breast?" We find a natural though sad pleasure in telling the world of the unobtrusive merit of some good man, who in voluntary privacy had passed and closed a virtuous and useful life. We may have a purpose in erecting monuments to the _common great_, which, perishable as they are, may somewhat prolong the memory of those to whom they are dedicated. The undying strains of bards may rescue from oblivion names which might have perished. There were heroes before Agamemnon; but they had no Homer to record their deeds, and died without their fame. But what need had Hercules of Homer? What need has La Fayette that one should tell his fellow of him? Why proclaim to the world what all the world already knows? Why tell posterity what posterity can never forget, until man has lost the records of the history of man?

We talk of monuments to Washington. Why is none erected? Is it for want of reverence for his memory? For want of love? For want of gratitude? These questions are reproachfully asked, from time to time, by novices in politics, who, in striving to signalize their patriotism, their enthusiasm, or their _eloquence_, do but signalize their ignorance of the human heart. Such appeals are always answered by silence. It is the answer dictated by the unsophisticated feelings of our countrymen. Where would you place the monument? _In_ the capitol? Is not the _capitol itself_ too small? But the capitol may be considered symbolically as imbodying the free institutions of the country which he made free. What then? Is not the _thing itself_ worthier than the symbol? Is any monument to Washington so appropriate as that reared by his genius, his toils and his virtues,--HIS COUNTRY? And what matters it under what part of that vast tablet, every where emblazoned with his glory, his bones repose? The silence of the people is the appropriate, the only _natural_ expression of those sentiments which all can feel, though all know not how to speak them. The unsuccessful orator who, having uttered his premeditated declamation, goes his way, reproaching their apathy, does but expose himself to scorn, as one who would substitute _lip service_ for the homage of the heart. But even that scorn, (such is the influence of the all-pervading reverence for the mighty dead,) even that is repressed, and finds no voice.

These remarks are made because they illustrate the difficulty of the task imposed on Messrs. Adams and Everett. It is a difficulty which grows out of the nature of the subject. We are not sure that any man, endued with all those qualities which enter into the composition of the perfect orator, would not instinctively shrink from such a task. Mr. Webster declined it; and it does not appear that it was sought by Mr. Clay, Mr. Leigh, or Mr. Preston.

Of one thing we are sure. Whoever attempted it must have failed. All such attempts must end in failure. The eulogies on Washington were all failures. Those on Adams and Jefferson were failures too, but from a different cause. When, on the 4th of July, 1826, the Declaration of Independence was celebrated in jubilee over the continent; while the political partizans of both those illustrious men, whose rivalship had so long divided the people, were hyming their praises, it pleased him whose instruments they had been, to touch them with his finger, and to show that they were dust. Never was any people so suddenly and so awfully reminded that it is _God alone_ who doeth his will on earth and in the armies of heaven; and never did any people use so strenuous an effort to shake off a salutary impression. They refused to lay to heart the admonition of Providence. "The Lord of Hosts had called to weeping, and to mourning, and to baldness, and to girding with sackcloth; and behold joy and gladness; slaying oxen, and killing sheep; eating flesh, and drinking wine." The worship of the living was closed by the _apotheosis_ of the dead: the best talents in the land were engaged in the solemn mockery: and the very ministers of the living God were seen officiating in the profane ceremonial. What could come of all this; what did come of it, but failure? We have no fear of offending any one of the distinguished men who tasked his powers for that occasion, by saying that his effort was a failure. Each one must have felt that it was so; and each one will readily accept the excuse furnished by the unfitness of the ceremony to the occasion. How many of those who witnessed it, went home with hearts oppressed by a consciousness of something wrong? And as the evils of man-worship have advanced, (_as they are now advancing_,) to their fatal consummation, how many, recalling the circumstances of that ceremonial, have heard a voice as that of Jehovah, whispering, "Surely this iniquity shall not be purged from you, until you die?"

We trust that the temper of these remarks will not be misapprehended. They cannot be made in the spirit of party, for the subjects of them were the very antipodes of conflicting parties. Whatever feelings such thoughts awaken in our minds, the thoughts themselves are suggested by considerations purely critical. We have but attempted to imbody and apply two maxims that every master of the art of eloquence will own as true. First; that, _in cases calling for the highest reach of that art_, every attempt that _falls short_ of it is _felt_ to be a failure. Second; that under circumstances that _offend the better feelings of the heart_, the _highest reach of eloquence_ is unattainable by human powers.

It may be readily believed that we have felt reluctant to sit in judgment on the works of men so renowned as Messrs. Adams and Everett. A decided condemnation would seem to many the height of presumption. Even to ourselves it has so much of this appearance, that we are desirous to have it in our power to charge the main defects of their performances rather on the occasion than on themselves.

{309} Mr. Everett has certainly made the most of it. His delineation of the character of La Fayette is highly graphic; the incidents of his life are judiciously and tastefully selected, and told with spirit, simplicity and distinctness; and the comparative summary of his claims to the grateful admiration of the world, commands the acquiescence of the reader. The whole is interspersed with just thoughts and natural sentiments, which do honor to the head and heart of the speaker.

But a higher praise is due to Mr. Everett. The history of La Fayette is the history of man, in the most portentous and eventful era of his existence. Of the events of that era Mr. Everett so speaks as to show that he has understood and rightly applied the lesson which they teach to the world. _He_ does not profess to see any thing "cheering and refreshing" in the progress or the results of the French revolution. How should he? How should a man of "untaught feelings, with a heart of flesh and blood beating in his bosom," find any thing cheering in theoretical good, purchased at such an expense of actual crime and suffering? How should a friend of liberty look, but with despondency, on the result of a series of horrors unutterable and inconceivable, only serving to confirm the sad truth "that men of intemperate minds cannot be free?" Those who could "hope against hope," shut their eyes as long as possible, and tried to forget that _rational liberty_ is but another name for _self-government_. But they have been forced to see that some appropriate training is necessary to qualify man for freedom. In what that training is to consist, it is not easy to say. Its application depends on him who rules the world. When he shall please so to order events as to qualify men by the discipline of life, for _self-government_, they will then be capable of freedom, and not till then. A corollary from this important truth comes nearer home to ourselves. _When men, thus qualified for freedom and thus made free, become wiser than their teachers, and impatient to unlearn the lessons taught in this school of discipline, there is danger that they may imperceptibly lose those personal qualities on which their fitness for the function of self-government depends._ The personal qualities of a limited monarch, who is but the minister of the actual sovereignty, may be of small consequence; but on the personal qualities of a free people, the efficient sovereign, _de facto_ as well as _de jure_, every thing depends. If these be lost in experiments on the _theory_ of government, all is lost.

We should extend our remarks too far, if we indulged in all the reflections on this subject suggested by these two orations. By that of Mr. Adams they are provoked by repeated allusions to it, which give to his performance something of the character of a dissertation (not very philosophical) on the philosophy of government. He doubtless felt the difficulties of his situation, not the less sensibly, because he had obviously sought it. The whole proceeding seems to have been planned by himself, but he was probably not aware how hard a task he had undertaken, until he set about its performance. He seems throughout to have been at cross-purposes with himself; never decided whether to play the statesman, the philosopher, or the orator; and not always certain which of his two sets of political opinions had the ascendant for the day. His digression at page four, in which he wanders away into a statement of the titles of Louis XV and George II, is certainly one of the strangest aberrations from the subject that we have ever seen. It is hard to imagine his motive for it, unless he was seeking an opportunity to record his testimony against _hereditary monarchy_. Why he should have felt this necessary, he best knows. But his observations on this point, after all, are superficial to very childishness; and we can hardly help questioning his sincerity when we see him affecting to be wholly unconscious of the true grounds on which the statesmen of the old world place their preference of the _hereditary_ to the _elective_ principle. Yet of these Mr. Adams could not have been ignorant, and had no right to suppose his hearers ignorant. What right had he then, to speak over their heads, to the uninitiated multitude, who have not yet learned that, in the judgment of the enlightened friends of liberty, it is not desirable that the throne should be filled by a man of high personal endowments? Such are the men to whom dangerous powers are conceded. Such are the men who seize prerogatives never claimed before, and transmit them to their successors. Even if the statesmen of England had been silent on the subject, could we have supposed them so unobservant of the history of their own country, as not to have remarked that _all concessions in favor of liberty_ of which their annals bear record, have been obtained from _weak princes_, from those who held by _doubtful titles_, or from _minors_? Do they not know that the odious tyranny, the folly, the weakness, and the cowardice of John gave birth to _magna charta_? Had not this been extorted from him, could it have been wrung from the stern grasp of the first or third Edward? During the reign of this last, where slumbered that fierce spirit which broke out on the accession of the minor Richard II, and slunk away rebuked, the moment he showed that, though a boy in years, he was a man in spirit? Can we identify the abject slaves who crouched to the will of the bold and resolute Elizabeth, with the contumacious subjects of her silly and imbecile Scotch successor? Could the spirit which tumbled his son from the throne, have prepared itself for explosion during her vigilant and energetic reign? If little was gained at the restoration, it was because little was asked. The people had lost a sense of the value of liberty, from experience of the abuses perpetrated in her name. They only asked to be freed from a sour and gloomy tyranny which invaded the privacy, and marred the comforts of the domestic circle. They ask for nothing but leave to enjoy life. Charles opposed irreligion to fanaticism, and they wished no more.

The revolution found them in a different mood. Appetite was gorged, mirth had become stale, animal passion had spent its force, and men found themselves once more requiring something to engage the nobler faculties of the heart and mind.

Do we ask why, in this temper, they gained so little from William? Look at the character of the man, and you have your answer. Able, energetic, sagacious, firm and cold, he had power, even in the act of mounting the throne, to arrest the progress of reform in mid career.

The weak princes of the house of Brunswick enjoyed an advantage of a different sort, which supplied the place of talent to them. By contrast with the odious pretender of the house of Stuart they were popular; {310} and this counter-prop upheld the power of the crown until that race became virtually extinct. So sensible of this was the purest, the ablest, and the most resolved of the friends of liberty in the reign of George II, (we speak of Mr. Shippen)--so sensible was he of the advantage which freedom has in contending with a weak prince, and an unpopular name, that he had serious thoughts of bringing in the pretender with that view.

But the house of Stuart passed off the stage; the bugbear of a popish succession was removed; the cant of the "great and glorious revolution" went out of fashion; and people instead of looking back to that, took leave to look forward to something better. Our own revolution was the first fruit of this change in public sentiment. That which was preparing in England was arrested by the horrors of the premature explosion in France. But that interruption of its progress was but temporary, and it is now finding its consummation under the reign of one who, having passed from first to second childhood, without ever being a man, seems fitted by Providence for the place to which the order of succession called, and in which the order of events required him.

Have these things been lost on Mr. Adams himself? And has not his _own_ experience taught him the advantage which a questionable title, or the folly of a ruler may give his subjects? Has he yet to learn that vanity and obvious weakness may provoke a clamor for reforms, which the man of spirit and address, who is brought in to effectuate them, may laugh at? Does he believe that the revolution so "cheering and refreshing" to his spirit, would have taken place, had Henri IV occupied the throne of Louis XVI? Does he think the reform now going on in England would have commenced under Elizabeth or her grandfather Henry VII? Does he believe that the people of the United States would, at this moment, address themselves to the reform of their representation, however unequal, however corrupt, if its corruption only produced subserviency to the will of Andrew Jackson? In short is he to learn, at this time of day, that the power which the exigencies of public affairs require to be lodged in the hands of the Executive of a _great and ambitious_ nation, implies a _faculty of usurpation_? That such power, passing from generation to generation successively, into the hands of men of mature age, of bold spirits and commanding minds, will increase and multiply itself without end, is certain. That such power will be deemed necessary, so long as men give themselves up to dreams of glory and the lust of conquest, is equally sure.

Why did our fathers hope that the experiment of free government might succeed with us, though it had failed every where else? Was it not because our local situation removed us far from war, and the entanglements of foreign politics? Let any infatuation tempt us to throw away this advantage, and seek the evil that seeks not us, and it is not difficult to foresee the consequence. We shall soon find ourselves, like the friends of freedom in England, reduced to inquire, "what hope remains to us, but to regulate the succession on a principle which may afford the people a chance of wresting from a weak prince, the advantages gained by the ability and address of his predecessors?" The solution of this problem was found in the device of "blending together the principle of hereditary succession with that of reformed protestant christianity," at which Mr. Adams sneers so bitterly. Its inventors were the truest friends to freedom in the world. They were our masters in the science of government. Relieved from the necessity which drove them to this device, _we_ imbodied in our institutions the lessons we had learned from them. Should our folly throw away our peculiar advantages, and our vices render some contrivance of the sort necessary to us as to them, may we be equally fortunate in applying the maxims learned from them! If monarchy become necessary, (and they who most feel the necessity often most deeply lament it,) may we hit on some contrivance as well adapted to give the people the comfortable sense of security, while the ruler is made to feel that he holds his power only by their will. That in every stage of our political existence we may choose wisely, let us shut our ears to those who would disguise their well known predilections for strong government, by _ad captandum_ sneers at any of its _particular modes_. What end can such sneers answer at this moment, but to confirm our people in the fatal error of supposing liberty secure because the _forms_ of the constitution are preserved? because our monarch is elective, not hereditary; a man and not a child?

Of a piece with this is the declaration (at page forty-three) that, in the contemplation of the great results of the French revolution, Mr. Adams finds something "cheering and refreshing." It is well known that while the friends of freedom were animated with a hope, that the dark hour of its commencement was but the forerunner of a day of light and liberty and happiness, Mr. Adams belonged to a school which taught that this bright hope was but illusory; that all the horrors of the _reign of terror_ were gratuitous; and that the French people would, in the end, return as near as might be, to the condition from which they were struggling to escape. These bodings have been fulfilled. The younger branch of the house of Capet has taken the place of the elder. The unteachable folly of those who could neither learn nor forget, has been superseded by the address, the subtlety, the energy and spirit of Louis Philippe. By these qualities, and by what is _instar omnium_, his private wealth, he has been able to stay the tempest of revolution in its wildest rage, and to establish himself firmly on the throne. The condemnation pronounced by Mr. Adams's school of politics, in the earlier stages of the revolution, has been justified by the event, and _he_ finds something "_quite refreshing_" in the result!

We have perhaps extended these observations too far, and left ourselves but little room to remark on the style of these compositions. There is certainly much to praise in Mr. Everett's, and we would gladly adorn our pages with copious extracts from it; but it is in every body's hands, and will be read by thousands whom our humble pages will never reach.

It has been well said "that truth is sometimes more incredible than fiction." The history of La Fayette is a chapter in the romance of real life, more strange and interesting than any tale that imagination has ever suggested. The succinct sketch of that history, which forms the body of Mr. Everett's eulogy, must be read with great interest even by those already familiar with the facts. It is quite felicitously hit off.

We have already intimated the opinion, that the {311} nature of the occasion fixed the doom of failure on the attempts of both gentlemen, however executed. We wish we could say that no part of the fault attached to the execution itself. The circumstances justified the expectation that each oration should be perfect in its kind. Men selected from among millions for the occasion, and having months for preparation, were bound to furnish specimens of composition without blemish. We are sorry to point out faults which would merit censure in works of less pretension. In Mr. Everett's eulogy we mark a few.

Does he mean, at page six, to intimate that the "boldness of truth" was ONLY "_not_ WHOLLY _uncongenial_" to the character of La Fayette? We take this as a specimen of the faults into which men blunder, who adopt a sort of diluted style, in which affirmative propositions are stated by _disaffirming the negation of the affirmative_. This may be very polite and genteel. It betokens an amiable aversion to say any thing offensive; an eagerness to qualify and explain; and sometimes even a readiness to take back any thing that may displease. It may be called the _apologetic_ or _bowing_ style; for whenever we meet with it, we presently have before us the image of the speaker, ruffled, powdered and perfumed, and accompanying every sentence with the appropriate gesture of a deferential bow. This is Mr. Everett's besetting fault. But for this he might have been an orator.

At pages twelve and thirteen, we were inextricably puzzled (to say nothing of the ungraceful introduction of the _egomet ipse_,) by the following sentence.

"Yes, fellow-citizens, that I may repeat an exclamation, uttered ten years ago by him who has now the honor to address you, in the presence of an immense multitude, who welcomed 'the nation's guest' to the academic shades of Harvard, and by them received with acclamations of approval and tears of gratitude; when he was told by our commissioners, 'that they did not possess the means or the credit of procuring [credit of procuring!] a single vessel in all the ports of France, then, exclaimed the gallant and generous youth, 'I will provide my own.'"

The reader may unriddle this. We cannot. If the thing were possible, the most plausible guess would be, that the words "I will provide my own," were the words of Mr. Everett. It is the only exclamation we hear of.

We have not often had the pleasure of hearing Mr. Everett speak, and cannot pronounce whether he possesses that magic power of voice, and countenance, and attitude and gesture, which _should_ have been displayed in the utterance of his closing paragraph. Without these, it is a school-boy declamation. We rather fear that Mr. Everett is not so endowed. Such was our impression on hearing him, and this is confirmed by the fact, that his power over the house of which he has long been a member, is no way commensurate to his acknowledged talents. We subjoin the paragraph, adding this advice--"that no man attempt to utter such a passage who is not very sure of his own powers." He who can do it as it should be done, may rival Cooke in Richard, or Cooper in the ghost-scene in Hamlet. This is the paragraph.

"You have now assembled within these _renowned_ walls, to perform the last duties of respect and love, on the birth-day of your benefactor, beneath that roof which has resounded of old with the master voices of American _renown_. The spirit of the departed is in _high communion_ [does this mean _high mass_?] with the spirit of the place;--the temple worthy of the new name, which we now behold inscribed on its walls. Listen, Americans, to the lesson, which seems borne to us on the very air we breathe, while we perform these dutiful rites. Ye winds, that wafted the pilgrims to the land of promise, fan in their children's hearts, the love of freedom;--blood which our fathers shed, cry from the ground; _echoing_ arches of this _renowned_ hall, _whisper_ back the voices of other days;--glorious Washington, break the long silence of that votive canvass;--speak, speak, marble lips, teach us THE LOVE OF LIBERTY PROTECTED BY LAW."[1]

[Footnote 1: Subjoined to Mr. Everett's speech is an account of the circumstances of the ceremonial, much in detail. From this it appears that _by his side_, on the platform where he stood, was placed a bust of La Fayette, on a pedestal _just high enough_ to bring the _face on a level with the speaker's_. The taste of this we de not propose to discuss with the committee of arrangement. It seems to have imposed on Mr. Everett a sort of necessity to have a word to say to the figure, and we do not know that he could have done it better than he has done. We incline to suspect that he would gladly have escaped from that part of his task. We are glad he got through it so well. We are glad too we were not there. The thought of Punch and the Devil knocking their noses together, might have made us laugh most unreasonably. Now that the thing is over, we venture to intreat that no man of genius and taste may be placed in a situation so perilous and so painful.]

At pages six and seven, we have a passage, which besides savoring of transcendentalism, smacks of the school of Garrison and Tappan. We pass it by, because it is not with a mere occasional volunteer like Mr. Everett that we would discuss the subject there hinted at. Indeed we would touch him with a lenient hand, for his eulogy has great merit, and has deepened the kindly impression which his amiable character and classic talent had already made on us. The blemishes we have noted are but

"Stains upon a vestal's robe, The worse for what the soil."

We recommend it to the perusal of all (if any there be) who have not read it.

We had noted for animadversion some of the most faulty passages of Mr. Adams's oration, but do not find them so much at variance with the general character of the work as to merit particular censure. When Secretary of State to a President, who, while minister to England, informed his government, in an official despatch, that he "had _enjoyed_ very bad health," he acquired by contrast the reputation of a fine writer. He was the _cheval de battaille_ of the administration. Afterwards, when the head of a dominant party, it pleased him to lay claim to the first place among the writers of the day, and his followers of course accorded it to him. A fatal claim, most fatally acknowledged! Had he known no more of writing than his successor, he might have been President now. As it was, he perilled the enjoyment of power, for the sake of vaunting it, in well turned sentences about "light-houses in the skies." His vanity tore away the veil under which federalism had lain securely hid for years. Had he, like his successor, unmasked a battery in doing so, he might have {312} done it safely. This may explain some of our former remarks, when classing him among those whose weakness afforded the people an opportunity (fatally abused) of retrieving their rights.

Mr. Adams's style is any thing but felicitous. He has not the art of gliding gracefully on from topic to topic. His digressions are abrupt, untimely and rectangular; his allusions are generally of the ebony and topaz school; his blows are never inflicted with that dexterous sleight which engages our admiration too much to permit sympathy with the sufferer. They never take effect but when the victim is bound hand and foot, or on some imbecile wretch, like Jonathan Russel, who can neither parry nor elude them. His oratory reminds us of the _fa sol la_ of a country singing school, differing as much from the easy flow of spontaneous eloquence, as the mellifluous stream of real music from that harsh jangling in which each note claims its separate syllable.

To those who may be startled at this account of Mr. Adams's style, we recommend the perusal of his oration as an exercise. We venture to predict that by the time the sixty thousand copies ordered by Congress have found as many readers, our judgment will be confirmed by at least fifty-nine thousand of them. But that will never be.

To Mr. Everett's address are appended a requiem and a hymn, of which we will say, but more emphatically, what we said of the orations. They should have great excellence and no fault. Each should be a gem of the first water, and without flaw. The first consists of six stanzas, of which two or three are very fine. But what shall we say to this:

"One pulse is echoing there."

An echoing pulse!

"One pulse is echoing there! The far voiced clarion and the trump are still, And man's crushed spirit to the changeless will Bows in _rebuke_ and prayer!"

Whom or what does man rebuke? If the writer meant "_under_ rebuke," he should have said so. Again--

"Gather about his pall, And let the sacred memory of years That he made glorious, call back your tears, _Or_ LIGHT _them as they fall!_"

If the writer had an idea connected with the last line it is incomprehensible to us.

The hymn of four short stanzas being destitute of any original thought, has not merit enough to be chargeable with any particular fault. There _may be_ something new, though common-place, in the last stanza. Astronomers tell us that Venus and Mercury are morning and evening star by turns. Our poet, if we can understand his orrery, has a mind to make the name of La Fayette both morning and evening star at once.

_For the Southern Literary Messenger_.

THE BEAUTIES of the Court of Charles the Second; a series of Memoirs, Biographical and Critical, illustrating the Diaries of Pepys, Evelyn, Clarendon, and other contemporary writers. By Mrs. Jameson, authoress of "The Loves of the Poets," "Lives of Female Sovereigns," "Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad," &c. &c. Philadelphia: E. L. Cary & A. Hart. pp. 304. 8vo.

Few portions of history are more replete with characters illustrating the good and evil of human nature, in both extremes, than that of the reign and court of Charles II. The stern dominion of a sour and superstitious bigotry had just passed away; the disgusting hypocrisy which had disguised all vice under the mask of religion and virtue had been exposed; and the disclosure had awakened a doubt, even in the minds of the wise and good, whether unbounded license was not more tolerable than the enormities practised in those hiding-places of crime, into which the severe discipline of the Protectorate had driven it. The public eye might impose some restraint; but when the indulgence of harmless mirth and the enjoyment of innocent amusement were unsafe, except in private, who could tell what unseen abominations might be perpetrated in recesses which the world was not permitted to look into.

Nothing is more true, than that the appetite for pleasure grows by indulgence, and that, pushed to the verge of what is lawful, it is too apt to pass into criminal excess. But _innocent_ pleasures men _will_ have. What security that they will be content with these? None but the influence of public sentiment, constraining them to respect the almost viewless boundary that divides the extreme of lawful indulgence from the beginnings of licentiousness. The exercise of this influence is a duty society owes to itself; but to exert it, we must bear to look upon the scenes where its authority should be felt. If we fastidiously turn away, and refuse to the young, the gay, the sanguine and the thoughtless, the benefit of that aggregate judgment concerning right and wrong, which we distinguish by the name of "public sentiment," we incur more risk of becoming "partakers of the sins of others," than we should by looking on with that complacent smile of benevolent sympathy, which its objects would not willingly exchange for the frown of merited disapprobation. In this smile and this frown are the sanctions for that "regulated indulgence" which a wise and good man has pronounced to be "the best security against excess."

When Charles on his accession avowed a disposition to claim for himself, and to allow to others the unbounded license which his foreign habits had rendered necessary to him, it was of course, that multitudes should eagerly avail themselves of the privilege. It was not wonderful that even the virtuous should acquiesce in this new scheme of things, instead of endeavoring to apply correctives which they had just seen so much abused.

The consequence was, that during that most flagitious reign, the mind was left to put forth all its wild unpruned luxuriance. Human nature displayed itself in all the forms of all of its varieties, each in the most extreme dimensions. Vice walked abroad in naked deformity; and orgies, such as the sun had never before been permitted to look on, were perpetrated in the face of day.

But if the "poor virtues of the age lacked countenance," how conspicuous was that virtue, which still resolutely resisted all the allurements with which fashion invests pleasure, and in the midst of a corrupt generation, preserved its purity inviolate. God has never left himself without a witness. There were, even in that day, men devoted to all their duties to him, to their fellows, and to themselves, and their light did but shine the brighter for the darkness that surrounded it. The pacific policy of a monarch, who is now known to have been the pensioner of the natural enemy of his {313} country, afforded few opportunities to acquire fame in the service of the crown. It was chiefly in private life that virtue had to seek that honorable distinction which it naturally covets. That distinction the character of the age rendered more conspicuous and honorable, and it was therefore the more eagerly sought.

We are not particularly anxious about this theory, but it helps us to understand, not only how it was that the pure and muddy waters mingled without blending, but how it happened that the _unexampled_ excellence of in Ormond and an Ossory were found side by side with the unheard of depravity of a Buckingham and a Rochester.

Of the private as well as public history of the courtiers of Charles II, we have the most authentic records, and they are full of amusement and instruction. It has been lamented that they have been, for the most part, transmitted to us through channels which must soil the reader's mind, and endanger an injury more than commensurate to the value of the information. We have reason to rejoice therefore, that we are at length permitted to receive them through the refining filter of a female mind, from which they are transmitted pure and "bright as diamond spark."

What lover ever read the history of Grammont without lamenting that it was impossible to impart any portion of his delight to his mistress. The difficulty is now removed; and Mrs. Jameson deserves the thanks of her sex, for having rendered accessible to them, not only a theme of most amusing gossip, but one of the most instructive and edifying chapters in the history of man. We especially recommend this work to their perusal. The witty Hamilton and the gay Grammont will still perhaps be most read by the men, but even they will derive advantage from looking, through the chaste eyes of a virtuous female, on the same scenes and the same characters exhibited by this profligate pair.

Of the manner in which this work is executed, nothing need be said to those familiar with the writings of Mrs. Jameson. It is every way worthy of her well merited reputation. We extract a few passages, which may serve as examples of the work. But they are not selected for any particular merit, but merely to illustrate the foregoing remarks. They are most attractive pictures of virtues, the exact opposite of the vices which characterized the age; and we are not sure that they do not as widely differ from the average standard of the human character.

What can be more captivating than this account of _La belle Hamilton_.

"She was then just arrived at that age when the budding girl expands into the woman: her figure was tall, rather full, but elegantly formed; and, to borrow Lord Herbert's beautiful expression, 'varied itself into every grace that can belong either to rest or motion.' She had the finest neck and the loveliest hand and arm in the world: her forehead was fair and open; her hair dark and luxuriant, always arranged with the most exquisite taste, but with an air of natural and picturesque simplicity, which meaner beauties in vain essayed to copy; her complexion, at a time when the use of paint was universal, owed nothing to art; her eyes were not large, but sparkling and full of expression; her mouth, though not a little haughtiness is implied in the curve of the under lip, was charming, and the contour of her face perfect.

"The soul which heaven had lodged in this fair person was worthy of its shrine. In those days, the very golden age of folly and affectation, the beauties, by prescriptive right, might be divided into two factions, whom I shall call the _languishers_ and the _sparklers_; the languishers were those who, being dull by nature, or at least not bright, affected an extreme softness--lounged and lolled--simpered and sighed--lisped or drawled out their words--half shut their eyes--and moved as if 'they were not born to carry their own weight.' The sparklers were those who, upon the strength of bright eyes and some natural vivacity and impertinence, set up for female wits: in conversation they attempted to dazzle by such sallies as would now be scarcely tolerated from the most abandoned of their sex; they were gay, airy, fluttering, fantastical, and talkative--they dealt in bon mots and repartees--they threw their glances right and left, _a tort et a travers_--and piqued themselves upon taking hearts by a _coup-de-main_. Miss Hamilton belonged to neither of these classes: though lively by nature, she had felt perhaps the necessity of maintaining a reserve of manner which should keep presumptuous fops at a distance. She wore her feminine dignity as an advanced guard--her wit as a body of reserve. She did not speak much, but what she said was to the purpose, just what the occasion demanded and no more. _Fiere a toute outrance_, whenever she was called upon to stand on the defensive, she was less possessed with the idea of her own merit than might have been supposed; and, far from thinking her consequence increased by the number of her lovers, she was singularly fastidious with regard to the qualifications of those whom she admitted upon the list of aspirants."

In the family of Ormond we have a galaxy of excellence. The following extracts make us balance the truth of history and our experience of real life. Whom do we know like old Ormond and his wife? Whom like his noble son and his charming countess?

Take the character of the Duchess from the lips of an enemy.

"When the Duke of Ormond withdrew to France, in 1655, he found himself obliged to leave his wife and family behind: and soon afterwards Cromwell caused the Earl of Ossory to be arrested upon no specific charge and committed to the Tower. His mother waited upon the protector to remonstrate, and to solicit his enlargement, pleading the quiet and inoffensive life which she led with her children in London. Cromwell told her plainly, that he had more reason to fear her than any body else. She replied with dignity and spirit, and in the presence of a numerous drawing-room, that 'she desired no favor at his hands, but merely justice to her innocent son;'--and that 'she thought it strange that she, who had never been concerned in a plot in her life, nor opened her mouth against his person and government, should be represented as so terrible a person.' 'No, madam!' replied Cromwell, 'that is not the case; but your worth has gained you so great an influence over all the commanders of our party, and we know so well your power over your own party, that it is in your ladyship's breast to act what you please.'"

The following descriptions of the Earl and Countess of Ossory are delightful.

"At this time, the Earl of Ossory was about four and twenty; he was tall, well made, and handsome; with an open expressive countenance, and fine teeth and hair; he rode, fenced, and danced remarkably well; played on the lute and the guitar; spoke French eloquently, and Italian fluently; was a good historian; and seems to have had a taste for light and elegant literature, for Sir Robert Southwell represents him as so well read in poetry and romance, that 'in a gallery full of pictures and hangings, he could tell the stories of all that were there described.' These however were the {314} mere superficial graces which enabled him to please in the drawing-room, and to these he added all the rare and noble qualities which can distinguish a man in the cabinet and in the field. He was wise in council, quick and decided in action, as brave in battle as an Amadis of Gaul--gallant 'beyond the fiction of romance'--humane, courteous, affable, temperate, generous to profusion, and open almost to a fault. 'In a word,' says the historian, 'his virtue was unspotted in the centre of a luxurious court; his integrity unblemished amid all the vices of the times; his honor untainted through the course of his whole life;' and it is most worthy of remark, that in those days, when the spirits of men were heated with party rage; when profligate pens were wielded by profligate and obscure individuals, and satire 'unbated and envenomed,' was levelled at whatever was noble, or beautiful, or good in the land; not a single expression can any where be traced to contradict or invalidate this universal testimony. 'No writer,' (I quote again from history,) 'ever appeared then or since, so regardless of truth and of his own character, as to venture one stroke of censure on that of the Earl of Ossory.'"

"'She was, indeed,' adds the grave historian of the family, 'an admirable economist; always cheerful, and never known to be out of humor, so that they lived together in the most perfect harmony imaginable. Lord Ossory never found any place or company more agreeable than he found at home; and when he return thither from court, they constantly met with open arms, with kind embraces, and the most moving expressions of mutual tenderness.'

"But this picture, bright and beautiful as it is, had its shades. In this world of ours, 'where but to think, is to be full of sorrow,' Lady Ossory was so far most happy, that though she suffered _through_ those she loved, (as all must do who embark their happiness in their affections,) she never suffered by them: but she lost several of her numerous family at an early age; and the frequent absence of Lord Ossory, whilst engaged in the highest civil and military employments, must have doomed her to many widowed hours. The reckless valor too, with which he exposed his life, and which was such as even to call down a rebuke from his brave father, must have filled the gentle bosom of his wife with a thousand fond anxieties: yet might not those partings and meetings, those alternations of hope and fear, those trembling terrors for his safety, those rapturous tears which greeted his return, have assisted to keep freshly alive, through a long series of years, all the romance of early passion? And was not this much? Did Lady Ossory buy too dearly the proud happiness of belonging to that man, upon whom the eyes of all Europe were fixed to gaze and to admire; who from every new triumph brought her home a faith and love unchanged--deposing his honors at her feet, and his cares in her gentle arms? Let the woman who reads this question, answer it to her own heart."

The following anecdote, with the appended note, illustrates a point of character on which we always dwell with delight, though it is not often found associated with prudence and wisdom.

"In 1671 occurred that extraordinary attempt on the life of the Duke of Ormond by the ruffian Blood, of notorious memory; it is supposed at the instigation of Buckingham. There was, in fact, something so audacious and so theatrical in the idea of hanging the duke upon the gallows at Tyburn, that it could only have originated with that 'Fanfaron de crimes.' Such, at least, was the general opinion at the time. A few days after this event, Lord Ossory meeting the Duke of Buckingham in the king's chamber, the color flushed to his temples with passion, and his eyes sparkled with such ire, that the duke took refuge behind the king's chair. 'My lord,' said Ossory, stepping up to him, 'I know well that you are at the bottom of this late attempt of Blood's upon my father, and therefore I give you fair warning, if my father comes to a violent end by sword or pistol,--if he dies by the hand of a ruffian, or the more secret way of poison, I shall not be at a loss to know the first author of it; I shall consider _you_ as the assassin; I shall treat you as such, and I shall pistol you, though you stood beside the king's chair; and I tell it you in his majesty's presence, that you may be sure I shall keep my word.' So saying, he turned upon his heel, leaving the duke so completely overawed, that he had not even spirit to utter a denial."[1]

[Footnote 1: I believe no writer has remarked the singular coincidence between the characters and fortunes of the Duke of Ormond, and his ancestor, the Earl of Ormond, of Elizabeth's time. Both were brave, popular, enthusiastically loyal, and inflexibly honest; both were accomplished courtiers, and lived to experience the ingratitude and injustice of the princes they had served; both experienced many changes of fortune, and lived to an extreme old age, so as to behold their heirs in the third generation. Both were opposed to the reigning favorites, for the enmity of the Duke of Ormond and Buckingham was at least equal to that of the Earl of Ormond and Lord Leicester. As Buckingham was believed to have instigated Blood in his attempt on the Duke of Ormond, so Leicester was known to have attempted the assassination of Ormond, by means of a hired cut-throat, who was afterwards, like Blood, forgiven and rewarded. The following anecdote is very characteristic:--The Earl of Ormond coming one day to court, met Lord Leicester in the antechamber: after the usual salutations, "My lord," said Leicester, insolently, "I dreamed of you last night!" "Indeed!" replied Ormond, "what could your lordship dream of me?" "I dreamed that I gave you a box on the ear." "Dreams are interpreted by contraries," replied the high spirited Irishman, and instantly lent him a cuff on the ear, which made the favorite stagger; for this he was committed to the tower by Elizabeth.]

We will conclude by adding the character of a lady (the wife of Hyde Earl of Rochester,) of whom it is praise enough to say, that she was beautiful, rich, noble and powerful, and chose to love her husband, nurse her children, and live in obscurity.

"It is perhaps the highest eulogium that could be pronounced on the character and conduct of his fair, gentle-looking, and really amiable wife, that while her husband was treading the steep and tortuous paths of court diplomacy, rising to rank and honors, and filling the highest offices in the state, we do not even hear of her, except in her domestic relations. In the recent publication of the Clarendon papers, Lady Rochester is seldom mentioned; but from the manner in which she is alluded to, we may infer, without danger of being mistaken, that she was the excellent and submissive wife of an impatient and despotic husband; that she lived in the utmost harmony with her children and her relatives; that she frequented the court but little.

"It should seem that her days flowed along in one even course of unpretending duties and blameless pleasures: duties such as her sex and station prescribe, pleasures such as her rank and fortune permitted,--interrupted and clouded by such cares and infirmities as are the common lot of mortality. This description of Lady Rochester may appear a little insipid after the piquante adventures of a Cleveland and a Chesterfield, and others of her more brilliant and interesting contemporaries; yet there is in its repose and innocence something that not only refreshes, but sweetens the imagination: as in a garden where peonies, and pinks, and carnations, and tall lilies,

'And canker blooms, with full as deep a die, As the perfumed tincture of the roses,'

flaunt to the eye and allure the sense, should we suddenly find a jasmine, trailing its light tendrils and luxuriant foliage round a lordly elm, with what delight should we appropriate its starry, unsullied blossoms, and place them in our bosom!"

{315}

CALAVAR; or The Knight of the Conquest: a Romance of Mexico. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1834.

Who reads an American book? was tauntingly asked some years since, by the Edinburg or Quarterly Review,--we do not recollect which,--nor is it important to know. For the present we will answer the question somewhat in the Hibernian or Yankee style, by a remark which is not exactly responsive; and that is, that if Sir Walter Scott himself were living, he would have the candor and honor to acknowledge that "Calavar" was vastly superior to some five or six of the last litter of his own great genius, and not very far behind the very best of those renowned performances which have thrown a classic glory over the bleak hills and barren moors of Scotland. But whether that would have been the award of Sir Walter or not, impartial critics on both sides of the Atlantic, and coming generations, if "Calavar" should escape the vortex of oblivion,--will undoubtedly render a judgment somewhat similar. It is certainly the very best American novel, excepting perhaps one or two of Mr. Cooper's, which we have ever read; that is, if boldness of design, vigor of thought, copiousness and power of language,--thrilling incident, and graphic and magnificent description, can constitute a good novel. For the first fifty or sixty pages, it is confessedly somewhat heavy; still the reader will perceive that a master spirit is at work, to whose guidance he confidingly trusts. In a short time the whole interest of the narrative rushes upon him; he gazes in imagination upon the beautiful and Eden-like vallies of Mexico; he throbs with pain at the spectacle of slaughtered thousands of the brave aborigines, and he sympathises with the tender sorrows and heroic sufferings of the only female who figures in the story, and she too in the unwomanly garb of a page, destined to perform the somewhat curious, and certainly very unthankful office, of a _menial to her own lover_. Here we think the author has decidedly failed,--we mean in the invention and arrangement of his story. He is entirely too _unnatural_ even for romance. There is too much improbable and miraculous agency in the various life-preserving expedients, and extraordinary rescues which are constantly occurring,--and which, although taken singly, do not surpass the strange events of actual life, shock us nevertheless by their perpetual succession, and impart to a tale founded upon historical truth, an air of oriental fiction which is not agreeable. The author, who is vastly superior to Cooper in dialogue, is, we fear, equally unqualified with that writer, to depict the female character in all its exquisite traits and attractive graces--else why not give us more than a mere glimpse at the daughter of Montezuma, (the beloved of the melancholy De Morla,) whose image we behold as in a "glass darkly," and whose wretched fate we regard with the less anguish, knowing so little as we do of the fair and unfortunate victim. Even Jacinto is a mysterious and shadowy, though lovely being, with whom we have not, and cannot well have much sympathy. Some few passages indeed, illustrate the disguised princess with great force,--and throughout there is an unaccountable anxiety felt towards her; but she is not sufficiently presented in the foreground of the picture, to awaken a positive and powerful interest in her behalf. Jacinto, alias Leila, is nevertheless a most delightful vision,--seen always under very unfavorable circumstances,--but when seen, winding around the heart of the reader in spite of himself,--a beautiful, modest, heroic boy,--and yet a girl,--the discovery of whose sex, though anticipated, does not beam upon the reader until towards the latter end of the story. By the way, there is something very strange and improbable in the idea, that this same sweet creature should have waited upon her own lover in the assumed character of page or servant, _and he, the lover, not to know it_. It is altogether too marvellous, and the author of "Calavar" ought not to have drawn such a heavy draft upon the reader's credulity. As to Don Amador de Leste, he is in fact the hero of the story; instead of that demented melancholy uncle whose name gives the title to the romance, but whose agency in it is of very little importance, and whose wild and mournful aberration of mind attracts less of admiration than pity, sometimes mingled with a feeling allied to disgust. The character of Botello too, half knave and half conjurer, is, we think, somewhat of a failure; perhaps not altogether so, for he relieves the mind from the contemplation of spectacles of blood and misery,--and that of itself is a refreshment for which we ought to be thankful.

Notwithstanding these strictures, which impartial justice required, we still maintain the opinion that Calavar is the production of a man of great capacity. If he follows up this first effort by corresponding success in the region of historical romance, he will assuredly outstrip all his competitors on this side of the Atlantic. The history of the conquest of Mexico, affords an admirable field for the novelist; and in the faithful delineation of Cortez, the extraordinary spirit who directed the work of devastation and surmounted almost superhuman difficulties in his triumphant career,--we think that the author of "Calavar" has been wonderfully successful.

We forbear making quotations from the work, or entering into a more minute analysis of the story. Our chief object is to inform our readers that "Calavar" is an American production, which will not shrink from competition with the very best European works of the same character. Faults it has, and some of them obvious and censurable; but its display of intellectual power and its various beauties are so transcendant, that its blemishes are lost like specks upon the orb of day.

The description of the flight of the Spaniards over the dike of Tacuba, and of the horrors of the "Melancholy night," so called in history, is awfully sublime. In truth the whole work abounds in powerful delineation both of character and scenery, and it is with pride that we hail it as at once assuming and commanding a proud rank in the department of historical romance.

JUDGE BLACKSTONE--_A Poet_.

A correspondent in January's Messenger said, that on the death of this great lawyer, _poems_ were unexpectedly found among his papers. The following is the only one of them we have seen. Its smooth yet vigorous numbers, its simply touching strain of thought and language, the deep and just feeling it evinces, and the apt felicity of its imagery, prove the author to have possessed a genius which, had it been so inclined, might have rendered him as conspicuous in the flowery paths of elegant literature, as he actually became in the {316} sterner walks of the law. There is something strikingly magnanimous in the _self-denial_, which could make such a mind relinquish pursuits so congenial to its tastes and so meet for its abilities, for a profession the most abounding of all others in dry, ponderous, and perplexing drudgery, yet amongst the most vital to the well-being of society. What a lesson to our _dilettanti_, who, even after having adopted that profession, cannot bravely face and grapple with its difficulties, but remain entranced by the Circean draughts and Syren songs of the lightest and most frivolous of the Muses! What should be their humiliation, when they compare their own inability to renounce the novel, the newspaper, and the frothy magazine, with Blackstone's generous farewell to his so far noble muse? They may rest assured, that it is only to one capable of such a sacrifice, that Lord Coke's parting wish is not addressed in vain: "I wish unto him the gladsome light of Jurisprudence, the lovelinesse of temperance, the stabilitie of fortitude, and the soliditie of justice."

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.

BY SIR WM. BLACKSTONE.

As by some tyrant's stern command, A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemned to roam, An endless exile from his home; Pensive he treads the destined way, And dreads to go, nor dares to stay; Till on some neighb'ring mountain's brow He stops, and turns his eye below; There, melting at the well known view, Drops a last tear, and bids adieu: So I, thus doomed from thee to part, Gay queen of fancy and of art, Reluctant move with doubtful mind, Oft stop, and often look behind.

Companion of my tender age, Serenely gay, and sweetly sage! How blithesome were we wont to rove By verdant hill and shady grove, Where fervent bees with humming voice Around the honeyed oak rejoice, And aged elms, with awful bend, In long cathedral walks extend! Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods, Cheered by the warbling of the woods, How blest my days, my thoughts how free, In sweet society with thee! Then all was joyous, all was young, And years unheeded roll'd along: But now the pleasing dream is o'er,-- These scenes must charm me now no more: Lost to the field, and torn from you, Farewell!--a long, a last adieu!

The wrangling courts, and stubborn law, To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw; There selfish faction rules the day, And pride and avarice throng the way; Diseases taint the murky air, And midnight conflagrations glare; Loose revelry and riot bold In frighted streets their orgies hold; Or when in silence all is drowned, Fell murder walks her lonely round; No room for peace, no room for you,-- Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu!

Shakspeare, no more, thy sylvan son, Nor all the arts of Addison, Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, Nor Milton's mighty self must please. Instead of these a formal band In furs and coifs around me stand, With sounds uncouth, and accents dry, That grate the soul of harmony. Each pedant sage unlocks his store Of mystic, dark, discordant lore; And points with tottering hand the ways That lead me to the thorny maze.

There, in a winding, close retreat, Is justice doom'd to fix her seat; There, fenced by bulwarks of the law, She keeps the wondering world in awe; And there, from vulgar sight retired, Like eastern queens, is much admired.

Oh let me pierce the secret shade, Where dwells the venerable maid! There humbly mark with reverend awe, The guardian of Britannia's law; Unfold with joy her sacred page, (Th' united boast of many an age, Where mixed, though uniform, appears The wisdom of a thousand years.) In that pure spring the bottom view, Clear, deep, and regularly true, And other doctrines thence imbibe, Than lurk within the sordid scribe; Observe how parts with parts unite In one harmonious rule of right; See countless wheels distinctly tend, By various laws, to one great end; While mighty Alfred's piercing soul Pervades and regulates the whole.

Then welcome business, welcome strife, Welcome the cares, the thorns of life, The visage wan, the pore-blind sight, The toil by day, the lamp by night, The tedious forms, the solemn prate, The pert dispute, the dull debate, The drowsy bench, the babbling hall, For thee, fair justice, welcome all!

Thus, though my noon of life be past, Yet let my setting sun at last Find out the still, the rural cell Where sage retirement loves to dwell! There let me taste the home-felt bliss Of innocence and inward peace; Untainted by the guilty bribe, Uncursed amid the harpy tribe; No orphan's cry to wound my ear; My honor and my conscience clear; Thus may I calmly meet my end, Thus to the grave in peace descend!

There are moments of despondency, when Shakspeare thought himself no poet and Raphael no painter; when the greatest wits have doubted the excellence of their happiest efforts.

{317}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

I do not know that the author of the following lines designed or wished them to appear in print; but I am sure that the readers of the Messenger, and especially that portion who saw the parody of "Roy's Wife," in the last number, will be obliged to the publisher for their insertion. The author is one, as far as I can judge, who, like Garrick, between the muses of tragedy and comedy, has his attachments to poetry and music so nicely balanced, that neither can be said to have won his superior regard. Such a one was peculiarly qualified to pour out a tribute to the memory of the orator and poet, and at the same time to adapt his words to that truly beautiful air which was first imbodied in language by Burns, and afterwards by the lamented Davis with scarcely less success.

H. E. J.

LINES.

Written as a tribute to the memory of the Hon. Warren R. Davis; suggested by his inimitable verses to "Johnston's Wife of Louisiana."

_Air_--"Roy's Wife."

He's gone to join his sainted "Anna," He's gone to join his sainted "Anna." Extinguished is the brightest beam, That lighted up the "gay savannah." The wit--the poet--patriot--sleeps! But long his country's brilliant story, Will glitter through the tear she weeps, O'er one so blended with her glory. He's gone, &c.

The "Inca's" radiant mantle fell, Its splendor round his form revealing;-- His glowing heart proclaimed the spell, And overflowed with generous feeling. He's gone, &c.

When flushed with hope and manhood's prime, One form controlled his heart's emotion;-- Love triumphed o'er the power of time, And sanctified his last devotion. He's gone, &c.

His harp is broken--hushed the breath Which won the free and chained the wise; But "Time shall hurl a dart at Death," Before another DAVIS dies. He's gone, &c.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE EXILE.

I go from the land where my forefathers dwelt; I go from the land of my home and my birth: The dark doom of exile has rung in my ear, And I go, a lone wand'rer, abroad through the earth.

No more shall I bend o'er the grave of my sire, And dream that his spirit is hov'ring around! I never shall mingle my ashes with his-- I never shall rest in that dear hallow'd ground!

And is there a feeling more desolate still? More dreary and heart-breaking even than this? Oh, yes! there is one--'tis the thought that my cheek Has felt for the last time, a lov'd mother's kiss.

We select the following exquisite little gem from the "_New York Spirit of the Times_." The "Times," by the way, is a weekly paper devoted to the Literary, Fashionable and Sporting world, and is one of the most lively, spirited and interesting papers of the kind in the whole country. It is edited by William T. Porter.

* * * * *

The annexed little poem was written many years ago, and has travelled all over the world. It has been translated in the French, Spanish, Italian, and German languages, and several times set to music in Europe. It has been the rounds of the American press a number of times credited to the English journals. Its great popularity was the cause of its being claimed by our worthy contemporary of the Mirror, who published it originally without his signature in that superb repository of American belles-lettres. Like most of the productions of that gentleman, it contains point, piquancy, and quiet humor. We found it again the other day snugly ensconced in the poet's corner of the Evening Star,--let the Major alone for finding out a good thing, wherewith to delight his readers.

THE MINIATURE.

BY GEO. P. MORRIS.

William was holding in his hand The likeness of his wife-- Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand, With beauty, grace, and life. He almost thought it spoke: He gazed upon the treasure still, Absorbed, delighted, and amazed, To view the artist's skill.

"This picture is yourself, dear Jane, 'Tis drawn to nature true: I've kissed it o'er and o'er again, It is so much like you." "And has it kissed you back, my dear?" "Why--no--my love," said he. "Then, William, it is very clear, It is not all _like me_!"

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAM.

THE MISTAKE CORRECTED.

Anne, my foolish fancy's o'er, And I cannot love you more-- Nay, sweet girl, why knit your brow? Cannot love you more--_than now_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SPIDER.

The Spider taketh hold with her hands and is in Kings' palaces.--_Proverbs of Solomon_ 30:28.--

What dost thou there, unlucky wight, Upon that cornice fair, Midst things so beautiful and bright? Thy many eyes might sure have sight To see that it would not be right To do thy spinning there!

These things, I own are wondrous fine And beautiful and bright; And eyes, accustomed less than mine To things that so resplendent shine, No doubt to wonder would incline And gaze at such a sight; {318}

But I've been used to splendid things-- Familiar long at Courts; In all the palaces of Kings, My beauteous five-twined net-work swings,-- Of this a sacred poet sings And History reports.

The wisest of the sons of men-- (And glorious too was he) With graphic and historic pen Describes the blessed era, when Amidst his court--in glory then-- He gave a place to me.

Since then, each Queenly drawing-room Hath own'd me for a guest, And where the eternal roses bloom, In Tapestry, from the Gobelin's loom, To hang my own, I dare presume-- Finer--by all confest.

Tapestry in needle-work is seen In stately Hardwicke Hall; Done by the famous Scottish Queen When captive there,--her thoughts to wean From chequered past, or gloomier scene That might her steps enthral.

My skill with her I used to try, When she was sad and lone, And oft amused her languid eye By spinning down so merrily; And now her handiwork close by Is proudly hung my own.

Poor Coligni's untimely doom, When Medicis was Queen, Was pictured in the Gobelin's loom;-- Colors of light o'er thought of gloom, Like sun-shine on an unblest tomb-- Portray'd the historic scene.

The broach and reed I saw them ply, And work the wondrous loom; Nor broach nor loom nor silk had I, But spun my web and wove it by,-- They watch'd me with invidious eye And swept me from the room!

The wise may triumph o'er the proud: Their work of skill complete Adorn'd the palace of St. Cloud,-- And there, amidst the courtier crowd, Where weaver Gobelin never bowed, I took my honored seat.

'Twere long, my life and works to trace Through lines of Kings renown'd-- How mirrors proud my net-works grace Where daily shines a princely face And hang--most worthy of the place-- Corregio's pictures round.

None _my prerogative_ disown, Nor is it ought to me What Dynasties the nations own;-- Whether _Legitimates_ alone Or "_Citizens_" usurp the throne _To make the people free_.

ELIZA.

_Maine_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DIALOUGE,

From the Italian of Francisco da Lemene.

BY R. H. WILDE, _of Georgia_.

TIRSIS. PHILLIS.

_Phillis_. I'd love you Tirsis, but ...

_Tirsis_. Speak out!--but what?

_Phillis_. I must not tell you that--

_Tirsis_. Dearest! why not?

_Phillis_. Perhaps you'd laugh at me?

_Tirsis_. Indeed I sha'nt.

_Phillis_. You wo'nt?--I'll tell you then--O no! I ca'nt!--

_Tirsis_. Tell me at once, you plague! do'nt teaze me so!--

_Phillis_. Well then--I'd love you Tirsis--but I know ...

_Tirsis_. Know what?

_Phillis_. You're vowed to CHLORIS--a'nt it true?

_Tirsis_. And what of that? I'll vow myself to you.

_Phillis_. What! two at once! D'ye take me for a fool?

_Tirsis_. "Love those that love you"--is not that the rule?

_Both_. |Then we must love each other!--yes, we must! |Swear to love those that love you!--a'nt it just?

NEWPORT, R. I. August 29, 1834.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, _January 20, 1835_.

MR. WHITE,--I enclose you the following lines for insertion in the Messenger. They are copied from the note book of a dear departed parent, whose affectionate tenderness, and sincere and ardent piety,--are portrayed in every line, and breathe from each word, of these simple and touching verses. I am unable, at this moment, to say whether they are, or are not, original; but be this as it may, they cannot fail I think to interest your readers.

FROM THE NOTE BOOK OF MY MOTHER.

When morning, from the damps of night, Beams on the eye with rosy light, And calls thee forth with smile benign-- Then think whose heart responds to thine, And still, with sympathy divine, "Remember me." When gentle twilight, pure and calm, Comes leaning on reflection's arm, When o'er the throngs of cares and woes, Her veil of sober tints she throws And woos the spirit to repose, "Remember me." When the first star, with crescent bright, Beams lonely from the arch of night, The moon sends forth her cheering glance, Then--gazing on the blue expanse, "Remember me." When mournful sighs the hollow wind, And pensive thoughts enwrap the mind, If e'er thy heart, in sorrow's tone, Should sigh, because it feels alone,-- "Remember me." {319} When passing to thy silent bower,-- Devotion claims the sacred hour,-- When bending o'er the holy page, Whose spirit calms affliction's rage, Directs our youth and cheers our age, "Remember me." Oh! yet indulge the ardent claim, While friendship's heart the wish can frame, For, oh! but transient is my lay-- And, mingling soon with kindred clay, My silent lip no more shall say "Remember me." And when in deep oblivion's shade, My cold and mouldering form is laid, If near that bed thy steps should rove, With one short prayer, by feeling wove, One glance of faith, or tear of love, "Remember me."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THOUGHTS ON SEEING THE EVENING STAR.

Mild star of the soul! in the vesper glow Of the lingering daylight beaming-- There's a priceless balm to the bosom of woe In the light from thy coronet streaming.

From the placid arch of the evening sky, And the waveless ether sleeping-- Thy spell descends to the dewy eye, And our woes dissolve in weeping.

On the lightning wings of memory borne, We retrace the paths of our gladness,-- And the bounding bliss of our vernal morn Brings smiles to lighten our sadness.

With the airy step and the bird-like song Of our youth on the star-lit mountain, We dance to the streamlet's tuneful tongue, Or lave in the gelid fountain.

We renew the joys of the wild-rose bower Where the burning vow was plighted; And again in the calm of the genial hour We drink the warm kiss delighted.

In the smiles of a _Mother's_ love we stand, The tears of joy repressing, And we thrill at the touch of a _Father's_ hand, As we kneel to ask his blessing.

These--these are the thoughts that thy talisman ray, Calls up from the years departed; And these are the joys that in hope's decay, Yield a balm to the broken-hearted.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

JEU DE MOTS.--ON A NAME.

Says Hal, "This Miss A----'s a charming young _belle_, But has she a _beau_, my dear Will, can you tell?" "Indeed," replied Will, "it is more than I know; But an _archer_, I think, must of course have a _bow_."

A. Z.

MISS MARTINEAU.

Our city has lately been favored with a short visit from this celebrated lady, who has distinguished herself so much by her Illustrations of Political Economy, and other popular writings. She excited, of course, no small sensation in the _monde_ here, in which she appeared like a "star shot" _brightly_, (we cannot say "_madly_") "from its sphere;" and she has certainly left a very favorable impression of herself behind her. We had the pleasure ourselves to be in her company for a short time, and have set her down in our _souvenir_ as a woman of fine understanding; a ready talker; easy, affable, and unaffected in her manners; and altogether more feminine and pleasing than we had expected to find her.

We understand that Miss M. is making a sort of moral and political _reconnoissance_ of our country, for the purpose of giving the British public a more accurate account of our institutions, and the state of things amongst us, than any one has yet done. In some points, we think, she is admirably qualified for such a work; but in others, we should apprehend, she may be a little deficient. She has good sense, certainly; and, we suppose, a good disposition to do us justice; but we doubt whether she will have the best opportunities for obtaining full information upon some subjects; and, in many cases, her very sex must shut her out from the most proper sources of intelligence. Still she will, no doubt, give us something rather better than the scandal of Mrs. Trollope, or the blunders of Basil Hall. So we shall look out for her book with interest; and not the less for having seen and chatted with her for a few moments, whilst she was here.

* * * * *

Miss M. we believe, is not at all poetical; but, it seems, she has inspired a friend of ours, who is also a friend of the Muses, to write the following tribute to her merit, which, with his permission, we append.

LINES.

ON MISS MARTINEAU.

When Martineau came, I was curious to see What sort of a body the damsel might be: A writer of sensible stories, I knew, On labor and wages; but was she _a blue_? Was she grave as a judge? Did she talk like a book? (A sort of man-woman,) and how did she look? So I waited upon her, and, venturing near, I whispered some words in her ivory ear; When she broke forth at once in her voluble chat, And talked away freely of this and of that, With such feminine ease, and such masculine sense, Without any portion of pride or pretence; (_Illustrating_ all that she said with a smile, That showed she could charm if she thought it worth while;) That I dub her, you see, "an agreeable dame, And worthy of Hymen, as well as of Fame."

_Richmond, Feb. 28_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPITAPH.

ON A YOUNG LADY.

Where this bending willow weeps, All alone, Myrtilla sleeps: Softly scatter nard and myrrh, Lest ye should awaken her.

{320}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAM.

ON A WALTZING GIRL.

There's a charming young girl that I know, And I've thought that, if I were a beau, I should like to engage her in chat, To feast on her smiles, and all that, And drink her sweet words as they flowed From her musical mouth, like an ode; But there's one thing that shocks me, I own, And drives me to let her alone: She has one of the worst of all faults-- _She is fond of this new-fangled waltz_.

Q.

ANOTHER.--ON THE SAME.

She is pretty, I agree; But she waltzes, sir, you see; And I would not give a fig For a _dancing whirligig_.

Q.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

Oh! to forget her!--_Young_.

Oh! give me that oblivious draught That comes from Lethe's silent shore! And when the charming cup is quaff'd, I may forget--and love no more.

Forget? Forget? And can it be? And is there aught beneath the sun Can wean my constant heart from thee, Thou lovely and beloved one?

Ah no! Remembrance cannot choose But hold thy precious image fast; And Time, whatever else I lose, Shall spare me that--till all is past.

Long nights of sorrow may elapse When all the stars of joy are set; This heart may bend--may break perhaps-- But never, never can forget.

MONOS.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE TRUE FOUNDATION.

Quisquis volet perennem Cautus ponere sedem, &c. _Boet. Lib, II, Met. 4_.

Say, wouldst thou build a lasting seat, Secure from Fortune's rage; A quiet and a safe retreat, To rest thy weary age?

Set not thy house upon the sand, By ocean's sounding shore; Vain Pleasure's palace cannot stand When tempests rise and roar.

Nor yet upon the mountain's side Command thy tower to rise: How oft the airy hall of Pride Calls lightning from the skies!

But build upon the solid rock, In that sweet vale of green Where the Good Shepherd feeds his flock, And wait life's closing scene.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.

There's a tuneful river In Erin's Isle, Where the sunbeams quiver In silvery smile; Where the leaves that fall 'Neath the autumn sky, Grow gem-like all, And never die: And such is the stream, by truth enlightened, That leaves the breast by wisdom brightened, Where even the joys that the storms dissever, Are turned to gems that glow forever.

There's a darkling tide In the Indian clime, By whose herbless side There's a sulphury slime-- To the flower that it touches, A scorching wave,-- To the bird that approaches, A weltering grave:-- And such are the waters of bitterness rising In the desart bosom of dark disguising; And the birds of joy, and the flowers of feeling, Must perish, wherever that wave is stealing.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

TO MISS H---- M----

On her talking against slavery.

You're a foe to all slavery, Harriet, you say; Then why do you talk in so charming a way? For I too have surely a right to be free, And yet you are fastening your chains upon me!

_Richmond, February 28_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUST NOT.

BY A. L. B. M.D.

"Ay they that find Affection's perfect trust on aught of earth, Have many a dream to start from."

Trust not to aught of earthly mould; O! trust not woman's love-- The warmest heart will soon grow cold, The purest faithless prove.

Put not thy trust in glowing smiles, Or lips of rosy hue; O! fly thee far from woman's wiles, Her heart cannot be true.

O! never trust the sunny beam In maidens sparkling eye, How bright soever it may seem, It glistens but to die.

The lips that once could speak of love, Can breathe another strain; And, O! the warmest breast may prove The seat of proud disdain.

Then leave the hall of love and song, Cast off the gaudy chain, Nor worship with the craven throng, Where truth must sue in vain.

{321}

VARIETY.

The subjoined advertisement, which appeared, we believe, in the Lynchburg Virginian some time since, escaped our notice until recently. We are gratified that the opinion expressed by a correspondent of the "Messenger," in respect to the stanzas referred to, is sustained in so _substantial_ a manner. We feel authorized to say that the name of the author can be communicated by us if desired.

"The author of the piece which appeared in the Southern Literary Messenger, recently, commencing--

'I'd offer thee this heart of mine If I could love the less,' &c. &c.

will receive a Gold Medal, by writing to 'W. B. T.' Lynchburg, Virginia, and giving his name, which the writer of this notice wishes to have engraved upon it."

* * * * *

From Littel's Museum of Foreign Literature.

_Byron and Brougham_. It may not be generally known that the late Lord Chancellor Brougham is the real author of the famous article in the Edinburgh Review, on Byron's juvenile production "Hours of Idleness," for which Jeffrey was so severely taken to task in the satire "English Bards and Scottish Reviewers." We have this fact from an authority on which we can place the utmost reliance.

* * * * *

Scraps from the "Spirit of the Times."

A SIGNIFICANT QUESTION. Stuart once asked a painter, who had met with a painter's difficulties, "how he got on in the world?" "Oh," said the other, "so, so! hard work--but I shall get through." "Did you ever hear of any body that did not?" was the rejoinder.

* * * * *

CLERICAL ERROR. An ignorant priest celebrating mass, finding in the rubric, "_salta per tria_," meaning "_skip three_" (that is, three pages,) took three leaps in front of the altar, to the astonishment of the congregation.

* * * * *

LADY'S REPLY TO AN IMPERTINENT.

"Louisa, you've the brightest eyes, They look me _through_, just like a dart." "Do they, Sir Fop?" Louisa cries; "If so, I'm sure _they see no heart_."

* * * * *

A scrap from a conversation between too "literary and fashionable characters," in the immediate vicinity of Thorburn's garden.

"Hist now and I'll sing you a _solo_."

"Well, sing it _so low_, then, that nobody can hear it."

* * * * *

A wag of the first water closed an amusing and spirited article in the last Knickerbocker with the following "brace" of clever items. I have been sick of poetry since I saw the Vermont editor's quotation from Shakspeare. Speaking of the free negroes in New York, and their depredation on society, he says, that during the fervors of a summer's solstice, they come,

--------"from the sweet South, _Stealing and giving odor_."

But more especially, since a friend of mine travestied a noble line of Byron's by applying it--while riding along a road which commanded a view of Weathersfield, Connecticut--to that place of onions, tears and pretty maidens:

"Niobe of nations--there she stands!"

* * * * *

The following epigram from the North American Magazine, is a "Bonne bouche."

I'm sorry dear M----, there is a damp to your joy, Nor think my old strain of mythology stupid, When I say that your wife had a _right_ to a boy, For Venus is nothing without a young Cupid.

But since Fate the boon that you wished for refuses, By granting three girls to your happy embraces, She meant, while _you_ wandered _abroad_ with the _Muses_, Your _wife_ should be circled at _home_ by the _Graces_.

EDITORIAL REMARKS.

We have placed the whole of the letter of our correspondent in Shepherdstown, (_See Letters from Correspondents_,) before our readers, and we do it the more readily, as it contains some gentle thrusts at ourselves, which we receive in very good part.

We take leave also to offer one or two words of explanation. The writer is totally mistaken in supposing that in order to obtain admission into the columns of the "Messenger," it is necessary that its contributors should be personally known to the Publisher, or his Editorial Auxiliaries, or that the contributors themselves should be individually known to fame. The great design of the Messenger, from its commencement to the present moment, has been much misconceived, if such an inference has been deemed in the slightest degree warrantable. Its principal aim has been, to foster and encourage native genius--no matter how obscure or humble, and without inquiring whether the writer be a friend and acquaintance, or a stranger. Its columns are open to the fair claims of him who inhabits the lowly cottage, as well as of the proud tenant of a wealthier mansion. That some articles have met with a kind reception which did not deserve it, is extremely probable; and it is not less probable, that some have been excluded, or hitherto suspended, for lack of proper discrimination in our council of criticism. We will endeavor to make amends however, by sharpening our optics a little in future; and, if we cannot please all, we will strive to give offence to none. Our correspondent we think, however, is a little harsh in his criticisms. It is easy to select particular words or passages from any production, and by showing partial defects, involve the whole in ridicule or censure.

"A perfect judge will read each work of wit, With the same spirit that its author writ; Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind."

We make this quotation from Pope, for the special benefit of our Shepherdstown friend. Does he see no beauty, no merit, no poetry, in the "Song of the Seasons?" We grant there are defects, and we endeavored gently to point them out; but we still contend that the writer (we have reason to believe him a very young man,) is endowed with talents of no mean order. Who has written more quaintly and obscurely than Ben Johnson or Cowley; or to come nearer to our own time, than Wordsworth or Coleridge? And yet who will deny to either of these bards the possession of genius. The remarks of our correspondent upon "The Passage of the Beresina," are, we think, also couched in too much severity. He seems to think there can be no good poetry without exact metrical {322} arrangement and harmony; but there are numerous examples to the contrary. We do not say indeed that all his observations are unjust, but some at least strike us as hypercritical. We take pleasure in concurring with him however, in the high praise which he bestows upon the two little poems which appeared in the last number, to wit: "Beauty without Loveliness," and the lines to "Ianthe."

We hope that no one whose eye may light upon the fourth number of the _Tripoline Sketches_, will forego the pleasure of reading it. The energy and enterprise of our brave countryman, General Eaton, were worthy to be recorded by such a pen. Note: We have to call the reader's attention to a typographical transposition of _two_ words in the fourth number of the "_Sketches_." In the first column of page 261, eleven lines from bottom, instead of "_Mourad, joined the Turks, others sided with the French_," read "Mourad, joined the French, others sided with the Turks."

Impartial justice would have required the insertion of the answer to a _Note to Blackstone's Commentaries_, even if it had not been demanded by higher considerations. The author has won many a trophy on the field of logic and eloquence; and even an adversary who should contend that his weapons were pointless, would not deny that they were highly polished, and dexterously wielded.

We are mistaken if the "_Romance of Real Life_" be not highly commended.

We particularly invite the reader's attention to the fourth number of the "_Letters from New England, by a Virginian_." It is replete with interesting facts and reflections, presented in the writer's peculiarly happy and forcible style.

The "_Extracts from my Mexican Journal_," are from a gentleman every way qualified from his opportunities for accurate observation, to present vivid pictures of the city of Montezuma and its environs. We hope he will feel no reluctance to furnish us with further glances at his journal.

Mr. Garnett's _Address before the Institute of Education at Hampden Sidney College_, never before published, needs no commendation from us. His ability as a writer, and his ardent zeal in the cause of education, are well known to the public. To the graver portion of our readers, especially such as have thought deeply upon the necessity of wise and extended systems of instruction, and their intimate connexion with the preservation of sound morals and rational liberty, this paper will be particularly acceptable.

The "_Contrast_," by a lady, whose pen has heretofore charmed our readers, will be read with interest. It is a touching illustration of the consequences which await the love of pleasure and a life of imprudence, as well as of the solid benefits which attend a contrary course.

The second number of "_Hints to Students of Geology_," is a learned epitome of the various theories with which geologists have puzzled themselves and mankind. That absurd views have been entertained concerning this science, does no more detract from its importance,--than that because of the vain and visionary speculations which were once indulged respecting astronomy, the now certain truths of that sublime branch of knowledge should be discredited.

The "_Letters from a Sister_," which have reached their seventh in the present number, increase in attraction. They will amply repay the reader.

We cannot say that we coincide in every particular with the able and eloquent author of the Review of the Orations of Messrs. Adams and Everett on the death of La Fayette. Some of his criticisms are undoubtedly just, but some perhaps have more _piquancy_ than the subject deserved. We cannot concur in the sentiment that the fame of La Fayette, or even of Washington, has placed either of those great men superior to eulogy. The most sublime events and the most heroic actions have generally found some poet or historian of sufficient qualifications to record them with dignity and effect. Even the most exalted truths which have ever dawned upon mankind,--the facts and doctrines of revelation,--have lost none of their grandeur in the simple narratives of plain and unlettered men. We somewhat fear too that a few of the passages in the review may be supposed rather too _political_ for a literary journal. We hope however that in this respect our apprehensions are unfounded.

To the same vigorous pen however, we award all the praise which is due for the judicious and discriminating notice of Mrs. Jameson's Book, which appears in the present number.

We can fearlessly recommend the _poetry_ in this number,--if not faultless, as at least superior to the carpings of illiberal and puerile criticism. There are some little great men in the world, who have the vanity to conceive that their taste and judgment (if they have any) is the standard for all mankind--and if all do not exactly conform to it, they snap and bark like the curs which infest our streets, and annoy the by-ways. True criticism is the sentence of a liberal and enlightened judgment, which delights as much in approving what is worthy of praise, as in condemning what deserves censure. By such an arbiter, and by such alone, let the specimens of native genius which we now present to our readers be tried. Reluctant as we are to discriminate, we cannot forbear to express the hope that the author of "_Truth and Falsehood_," and another piece in the present number,--will, from time to time, unfold his "Port Folio" for our special use--and that he will delight others with some of those dulcet strains with which he has beguiled his own toilsome and victorious march in the severer paths of science.

The lines commencing "Oh! give me that oblivious draught," are beautiful.

EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF CORRESPONDENTS.

FROM PENNSYLVANIA.

_Philadelphia, Feb. 17, 1835_.

I enclose five dollars for my subscription to the "Southern Messenger." Allow me to take the occasion to express my particular gratification in the perusal of the "Letters from New England." Although their merit as literary compositions, as bright and graphical descriptions of the condition and manners of an interesting people, much misunderstood, is of a high order, they have, in my estimation, a still higher value. They tend to remove prejudices excited by vulgar anecdotes and the practices of vulgar men; to bring the members of the American family better acquainted with each other; to cultivate a fraternal feeling and mutual respect among them; and to show that there is no important difference {323} of character, education or habits, between gentlemen of the same grade in the South and North. Each have some local peculiarities in their modes of life, but none of them affect the substantial ingredients of their personal and national character.

If your Journal should do nothing more than promote this good feeling throughout our great Republic, it will entitle itself to the patronage and thanks of every sound American. With great respect,

JOSEPH HOPKINSON.

* * * * *

FROM WASHINGTON CITY.

I am happy to tell you, that I hear your Messenger spoken well of in many high quarters. A young lady here, who, in talent, education and taste, has not, I think, her equal among the ladies of America, yesterday told me that it contained better original poetry than any other periodical she had ever seen.

* * * * *

FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA.

I cannot let this occasion pass, without expressing my high sense of the merits of your most excellent periodical, the "Southern Literary Messenger." It is read here with universal applause. As a Virginian, I have used and shall continue to use my best efforts to promote its success here.

* * * * *

FROM GEORGIA.

Permit me to compliment you, sir, on your undertaking; and deem it no flattery when I express myself delighted with the numbers of your work which have been thus far published. The sincere good wishes of every man interested in the cause of "southern literature," are with you; and if these wishes do but dictate, as I have no doubt they will do, _sincere exertions_, success will crown your efforts, and triumph attend your periodical. Your "Messenger" shall not depend upon the "Old Dominion" alone for encouragement in its pioneering pilgrimage. From the land of the palmetto and the orange-grove, shall tributes to your budget flow. _Macte virtute_.

* * * * *

FROM ALABAMA.

I have received four numbers of the Southern Literary Messenger, and am well pleased with the work. I have no doubt but it will be more extensively circulated than any literary work in the United States. There is something in every number interesting and instructive to the youth, the middle, and the aged.

* * * * *

Your numbers of the "Literary Messenger" were received by the last evening's mail. My anticipations relative to its merit, though of the most exalted nature, were more than fully gratified. That you may be amply compensated, both in honor and lucre, for so laborious and magnanimous an undertaking, is my most ardent wish.

* * * * *

FROM OHIO.

Permit me to add here, that I am heartily glad that the _experiment_ (for such it is,) of publishing a literary paper in the south, is likely to succeed. I do hope that the southerners, and especially the _young men_, have _pride_ and _patriotism_ sufficient to sustain the Messenger, both by their funds and talent. As a native of the south I feel an interest in its permanent success.

* * * * *

FROM TENNESSEE.

I am much pleased with the Messenger, particularly the third and fourth numbers, and hope you will continue as you have begun, and not let it degenerate and become filled up with the light stuff that is generally found in the columns of the periodicals of the day.

* * * * *

FROM WESTERN VIRGINIA.

The opinion entertained of the Messenger, is, perhaps, more clearly manifested by becoming subscribers, than in any other way; you will therefore know that it is very favorably received in this section when I give you the following list of five subscribers.

TO CORRESPONDENTS, CONTRIBUTORS, &c.

We have given the communication of "_Spectator_" the disposition which he suggested, in case of its exclusion from our columns. It is due to the writer to state, that we lament with him, the innovations upon the ancient simplicity of Virginia manners, which are daily becoming more popular and fashionable. We remember well the time, when an attempt to introduce public _waltzing_ between the two sexes, would have been sternly rebuked, by those who now not only tolerate, but encourage it. We think, however, that his satire is too severe and pointed; and might, possibly, do more mischief than good. We are aware that satire is almost the only weapon by which customs violating propriety, can be driven from society,--and especially from that circle which, _par excellence_, is called the _first_; but then, to be effective, the arrow must be keen and elegant; and neither barbed nor tipped with venom. We are not sure either, that "_Spectator_" strikes at the root of the mischief. Why should he level all his wit at the poor girls, and suffer their fathers, and mothers, and brothers, who aid and abet the custom complained of, to escape censure? Young females, just entering into society, are liable to receive the strongest impressions, from those who are most likely to share their confidence. It is one of the privileges of the sex too, to be won by assiduous attentions; and, if their heads are sometimes made a little giddy by adulation, it is less imputable to them as a fault, than to those flippant flatterers who pour the "leperous distilment" into their ears,--and as often laugh at the fruits of their own folly and insincerity.

We beg leave to say to our worthy young friend, and frequent correspondent, who resides somewhere in a nearly due north line from the Metropolis, that we had pledged our pages to an answer from another quarter to the "_Note to Blackstone's Commentaries_"--before the receipt of his essay on the same subject. With respect to his _poetical effusions_, we hope he will not take the remark amiss, that, whilst we should like to gratify him, by their insertion--we fear that he has not bestowed sufficient care upon most of them--to authorise the belief, that our readers would also be gratified. We ask him candidly, to say, whether he does not think that the following stanza, in the "_Lines to Lillia_," might be considerably _improved_.

"Take the verse and oh if joy, Blooms to print one votary there Bear the strain with thee and brightly Thou shalt in its joys share."

We confess that we cannot very readily perceive its claim to the rank of poetry, nor indeed penetrate its real meaning--though it is probable, that, owing to the peculiar character of the hand writing, the language of the writer may not be truly represented.

We have a number of favors on hand which we shall attend to as speedily as possible. Among those whose exclusion from the present number we particularly regret, is the article on the _fine arts_.

We have received the poetical communications of a writer who chooses, for some reason or other, to sign himself "_Fra Diavolo_;" but too late for our present number. We shall publish them in our next, according to his wish, "as poetry" (and very fine poetry it is,) but with some small omissions which we _must_ make, not so much for the sake of our "orthodoxy," as for that of common decency, which the lines excluded would, in {324} our judgment, grossly offend. Such things indeed, may be only "dramatic," and quite in character for a "Lover Fiend;" but we do not choose, for our part, to deal with one of his cloth, in any form or shape whatever. We have, in fact, no sort of taste for German "_diablerie_," which, in our judgment, sins against good taste, as well as against good morals. In saying this, however, we must not be understood to insinuate any thing against the character of our "unknown" correspondent himself, who, for aught we know, may be the very pink of virtue and decorum. We only speak of his pieces "as poetry," and not as articles of his creed, which we should be sorry to suppose them. Indeed it is sufficiently apparent to us that, in the worst parts of his verses, he is only affecting something that is foreign to himself, but which he happens to think very fine; and we regret that he should thus fancy to imitate such vicious models as Byron, Shelly, and other gentlemen of "the Satanic school," as it has been called, who, we think, have had their day. It is a pity, in truth, that he should do so; for he has evidently a fine vein of his own, and, we are confident, would do better if he would only dare to be a little more original. Let him reform his poetry, then, (we do not say himself,) and we will give him "a fair page," at any time, for the effusions of his genius, which, we can truly assure him, we shall always be happy to receive, and to display.

We thank our correspondent D. for the Parody of the Lines on the Death of Sir John Moore, which he has so obligingly sent us; and which, we think, is worthy of all the praise he gives it--for the _poetry_. We believe, however, that we have seen it in print more than once already; and we must reserve our columns, as far as possible, for original matter. We are of opinion, moreover, (though in this we may be singular,) that it would not be exactly right, or in good taste, to _profane_, as it were, one of the very finest odes in our language, by associating it in our remembrance, with a burlesque imitation of it, which might rather injure its beauty in our minds. Indeed we hate all parodies; or, at least, all such as cast an air of ridicule over their originals; because they give us a lower and baser pleasure, for one of a higher and purer strain. So we hope our friend D. will excuse us for shutting his article out, (good as it is in its way,) and send us something better for it, from his own pen.

* * * * *

FROM SHEPHERDSTOWN, JEFFERSON COUNTY, VA.

As you do not _know_ me, I take it for granted that this communication will not be honored with a place in the "Messenger;" for I have discovered by your "editorial remarks," that the authors of almost all the pieces which adorn the columns of that work, are persons _already_ distinguished in the literary world, (as, for instance, "Death among the Trees," "the production of a distinguished female writer already known to fame,") or else they are individuals with whom you have a personal acquaintance,--as the author of "Lines on the billet of an early friend," whom you "know as a gentleman of fine taste and varied endowments," &c. &c. Now all this is very well, and no one can object to it, so long as the productions of those persons are really worthy of your notice, or of a place in the Messenger. And as the pieces which I have just quoted are very beautiful, I can make no objections to _them_. But how the authors of some of the poetical effusions which grace the columns of your fifth number, have managed to get into your good graces, is to me a mystery, unless it was through a personal acquaintance with yourself, and your reluctance to wound their feelings by refusing to publish their pieces, for I know that you have too much taste to have published them through choice. I do not pretend to say that the poetical contributions for the Messenger are, generally speaking, indifferent; on the contrary, I believe it contains more truly excellent original poetry, than any periodical I have ever seen. Even the fifth number is not entirely destitute of beauty in this line. It contains several very talented and beautiful pieces of original poetry; among which, the piece headed "Beauty without Loveliness," stands pre-eminent. I have seldom met with a more chaste and beautiful piece of composition than that. In my opinion, it is surpassed by nothing that has ever appeared in the Messenger, unless it be the piece to "Ianthe," in the fourth number, beginning--"Think of me," &c. and signed "Fergus." You have not thought either of those pieces worth noticing in your "_remarks_;" but I am confident that if you will read them again, you will agree with me in thinking that they are surpassed by nothing that the Messenger has ever contained.

But while I admire these and many other beautiful _gems_, I cannot but marvel why you should crowd your columns with such trash as most of the pieces contained in your fifth number. For example, the "Song of the Seasons," by "_Zarry Zyle_," the "youth of _unquestionable talent_, perception," &c. He certainly must be a youth of _great perception_, and judges every one by himself, or else he never would have inflicted upon the public the _study_ of his "_song_." I perfectly agree with you in thinking it advisable for him to change his _style_, and write less obscurely; for as we are not all youths of _his perception_, it is quite difficult for us

"To comprehend, the mystery of what he means."

If, instead of talking about "amethystine beams," "bugle-bees," (a new species I presume, as I never heard of them before; perhaps Zarry meant "bumble" bee,) "old summer's _conck_," robins with _golden_ breasts, (they _used_ to be _red_,) and _gauze_ wings, and "_soughing_ blasts," &c. &c. he would give us a little more _common sense_ and a little better measure in his next, we will like it better. But if Mr. Zyle's song were the only objectionable piece contained in the fifth number,--or if it were the _worst_ that it contained, we might "grin and bear it." But there are many others even more dull and common than this. I will name but one more--"The Passage of the Beresina." Now I appeal to you as a man of candor and good taste, to know if there is any thing in this effusion which should entitle it to a place in the Messenger? Has it one single attribute of true poetry? If it has I beseech you to point it out in your next number, for I confess _I_ cannot discover _one_. No, it has not even _measure_. I beg you to take the trouble to read it over again, for I am certain you never gave it a very careful perusal, or you never would have printed it; your taste is too good. Read it once more, and if you can discover any thing like _poetry_, or even like common sense in the following lines, I hope you will let us know what it is in your next:

"Thousands lie here; kindred and aliens in race, They are rigid and fix'd in _death's cold embrace_; They _clench_ and they _cling_ in the last dying grasp, And the living, the dead, reluctantly clasp: Or, fearing a friend in his last cold embrace, They spurn him beneath to his dark dreary place."

Now I say if you can discover any thing like _poetry_ in these lines, or can tell us how _thousands_ who are "rigid and fixed in _death's_ cold embrace," can "_clench_ and _cling_," or "_spurn_" a friend to his "dark dreary place," you will very much oblige more than one of your subscribers. I could make you many other quotations from the same piece, equally as obscure as the above. As--

"With unearthliest cries, grim phantasied shapes Brood o'er the senses ere the spirit escapes; On the wings of the _wind_ how swift speeds the blast, With pinions all viewless it fleets as the past;-- Oh say, does it bear the spirits that have fled, In the last bitter _strife_, ere the _dying_ be _dead_?"

I should presume not, as it would be rather a difficult matter for the spirit to _have fled before_ the "dying be dead." Now the idea of the "_blast's_ speeding on the _wings_ of the _wind_," is certainly _original_; but not satisfied with _this_, the author has also hoisted death upon the same wings. I wonder what the _wind_ did in the meantime? Took it _a-foot_, I s'pose; or perhaps it borrowed death's wings for a few moments.

The two last lines of this piece would be very pretty, if it did not unfortunately happen to be impossible for the "smile of Hope" to linger upon the "face of the dead" _before_ "the spirit be fled." Dead, fled, and dread, seem to be favorite rhymes with this author.

Your correspondent from "Eastern Virginia," has given you some excellent advice: I hope you will follow it _next time_.

You say, those who dislike the contents of the Messenger, should write better pieces themselves. I do not exactly agree with you. We pay for reading the paper, and are entitled to the _best_ pieces that _are_ written for it, and not merely those of your personal friends and acquaintances. I am one of your subscribers, and most sincere well wisher.

{325}

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.] RICHMOND, MARCH 1835. [NO. 7.

T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.

The _Publisher_ regrets that the learned and interesting discourse of Professor Tucker on the "Progress of Philosophy," delivered before the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society at its last meeting, could not appear in the present number without dividing it. It shall certainly appear in the April number _entire_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

And Present Condition of Tripoli, with some accounts of the other Barbary States.

No. V.

On the arrival of Commodore Barron in the Mediterranean, he as senior captain, superseded Preble in the command of the American forces in that sea. The determined manner in which the war had been prosecuted by the latter officer, and the many acts of gallantry which had distinguished the period of his direction, caused his withdrawal to be universally regretted; and the more so, as Barron was at that time laboring under a disease of the liver, which disqualified him for exertions, and indeed soon after obliged him to retire from active duty. Preble returned to the United States, where he was received with every mark of respect by the government and by his fellow-citizens in general; leaving under Barron's command, six frigates, four brigs, two schooners, a sloop of war and eight gunboats, which mounted in all three hundred and twenty-six guns. The season was however too far advanced to admit of farther operations against Tripoli; ships were stationed off the harbor sufficient to maintain a blockade, the others passed the winter in cruising or lying at Malta and the Sicilian ports.

It has been stated that Mr. Cathcart was appointed to succeed Eaton as Consul of the United States at Tunis, with instructions to obtain a peace with Tripoli, even on condition of paying for it, should it be otherwise impossible; but he was soon after removed, his place as Consul being supplied by George Davis. The power to negotiate was given to Tobias Lear, a gentleman who had been private secretary to President Washington, and afterwards an agent of the American Government in Saint Domingo, and who was sent in 1803 to reside at Algiers, as Consul General for the Barbary States. Mr. Lear was instructed to join Commodore Barron, in order to treat for peace with Tripoli, which it was hoped "might be effected without any price or pecuniary compensation whatever; but should adverse circumstances, of which he could best judge, and which were not foreseen, render the campaign abortive, and a pecuniary sacrifice preferable to a protraction of the war," he was authorised, _in the last instance and in that only_, "to agree to the payment of twenty thousand dollars immediately, and of an annual tribute of eight or ten thousand more, for peace." "For the ransom of the prisoners, _if ransom should be unavoidable_, he might stipulate a sum not exceeding five hundred dollars for each man, including officers," the Tripoline prisoners being however exchanged for an equal number of Americans; but "this rate of ransom was not to be yielded, without such a change in affairs, by accident to the squadron, or by other powers joining against the United States, as was very unlikely to happen;" and it was to be borne in mind, that this sum, "connected with terms otherwise favorable, was the voluntary offer of the Pasha[1] to Captain Preble in January, 1804." The Commodore was at liberty to avail himself of Hamet's co-operation, "if he should judge that it might prove useful; to engage which, as well as to render it the more effectual, he had discretionary authority to grant him pecuniary or other subsidies, not exceeding twenty thousand dollars; but the less reliance was placed upon his aid, as the force under the orders of the Commodore was deemed sufficient for any exercise of coercion, which the obstinacy of the Pasha might demand." The power to negotiate was confided to Mr. Lear in the first instance, as Commissioner of the United States for that purpose; in case of accident, it was to devolve upon the acting Commodore of the squadron.

[Footnote 1: A mistake; no such proposition was made by the Pasha; of this there are many proofs; it is sufficient however to quote Preble's own words in his despatch of September 18th, 1804, in which, speaking of the Pasha's offer of the 10th of August, to terminate the war on payment by the Americans of five hundred dollars for each prisoner, he says that "it was 350,000 dollars less than was demanded previous to the bombardment of the 3d of the same month."]

These instructions bear the stamp of that extreme cautiousness and uncertainty with regard to the employment of decisive measures, which characterized the government of the United States at that period. A force is sent, deemed adequate for any exercise of coercion which may be required, without recourse to a Pretender from whose alliance, a considerable accession of moral influence might have been fairly expected; yet in anticipation of adverse events, or of circumstances not then foreseen, a civil agent is vested with authority to purchase a humiliating peace. It is doubtless proper in all cases, to provide for possible mishaps, particularly where the scene of action is far distant; but in this instance, it is difficult to conceive that any occurrences should render necessary a total abandonment by the United States, of principles, for the support of which so large an armament had been prepared; and there were the less grounds for such anticipations, as it was believed, though erroneously, that the Pasha had already offered terms much more favorable than those to which the agent was authorised in the end to agree. It must be observed however, that these instructions were issued on the 6th of June, 1804, at which period Preble's spirited attacks had not been made, and the proceedings of the American forces in the Mediterranean had, with one or two exceptions, been remarkable only for their inefficiency or their disastrous results.

Having received these orders, Mr. Lear quitted {326} Algiers, and joined Barron off Tripoli; they both soon after retired to Malta, which they considered the most convenient place, either for carrying on negotiations with Tripoli, or for directing the operations of the ships. On the 28th of December, 1804, a letter reached them from Don G. J. de Sousa, Spanish Consul at Tripoli, in which he stated, that at a late audience the Pasha had expressed his willingness to make peace with the Americans, provided they would come forward on proper grounds, but had added, "that their proposals had hitherto been extravagant and inadmissible, not only from the trifling amount of money offered, but also from their having sought to compel their acceptance by force of arms, a method by which they would never succeed." The Consul then suggested, that Mr. Lear should himself appear before the city with a flag of truce, and treat directly with the Pasha, "whom means would be found _sub rosa_, to dispose for a peace on terms appropriate and suitable for both parties." He concluded by tendering his own good offices in the affair, requesting however, that for the present, the utmost secrecy might be observed with regard to this communication.

Notwithstanding the last injunction, many circumstances conspired to induce a belief that the letter had been written under Yusuf's directions, in order to discover the temper and disposition of the Americans. In truth, the general character of the Spanish Consul was by no means respectable; he was known to be closely connected with the Pasha, and it had even been suspected, that to his influence or agency the war with the United States was chiefly to be attributed. In addition to this, no communications had been received from Yusuf since his last proposition to Preble, after the bombardment in August; nor indeed was any thing known respecting his strength, or the effects which had been produced by the attacks made during the preceding summer. It was therefore difficult to judge what "would be appropriate and suitable for both parties;" and the Spanish Consul's _sub rosa_ means of disposing the Pasha to such terms, were very naturally mistrusted. For these reasons, and from an expectation that more direct offers would soon be made, it was determined that no answer should be given to the letter immediately.

Of Eaton, no news was received by the Commodore from the period of his departure for Egypt, until the return of the Argus from Alexandria, on the 10th of March, 1805. She brought despatches from him, containing information of the means pursued to communicate with Hamet, of their successful issue, of the Convention about to be made with the Prince, and of their projected expedition to Derne, in aid of which he intreated that supplies of money, provisions and ammunition might be sent to Bomba, and if possible, a detachment of one hundred marines. In the brig came also Mahumed Mezaluna, an old Moor, who had been Hamet's secretary, and who now appeared as his accredited agent to solicit assistance.

Barron had however, by this time become very doubtful as to the propriety of acting in concert with the exile, and he moreover feared, that he had already exceeded his own authority, in the instructions which he had given to Eaton on parting. The information conveyed by the despatches, particularly as regarded the Convention, increased his uneasiness, as he was led to apprehend that Eaton had acted even beyond the limits of those instructions, and had entered into engagements "incompatable with the ideas and intentions of their government, or with the authority vested in himself." Indeed, independently of the evident disinclination of the government to act in concert with Hamet, and the smallness of the sum allowed for the purpose, absolute engagements to place him on the throne of Tripoli, might have produced the most serious consequences to the Americans. The enterprise, in order to be effective, would have been necessarily attended with a great expenditure of funds, for which indemnification could not have been reasonably expected, in whatever way or however pointedly it may have been stipulated: by its failure the insolence of the Barbary States would have been increased, and additional encouragement have been given to the exactions of their Sovereigns; and even if completely successful, the advantages to be derived by the United States were by no means evident. The ruler of every country, however unrestrained his authority may be, must in his policy take into consideration, the habits and the prejudices of his people; few have succeeded by acting without reference to both, and fewer still have lived to witness any important change wrought in either through their own efforts. The Tripolines were bigoted Mahometans, and piracy was among them an ancient and most honorable calling; the establishment of Hamet by the aid of Christians, and his engagement to remain at peace with them, without immediate compensation or the promise of tribute, would certainly render him unpopular with his own subjects, and excite against him the enmity of the other Barbary powers. To overcome such difficulties, the Prince would have neither the courage nor the means; and it could hardly be anticipated, that when once on the throne of Tripoli he would risk its possession, by pursuing a course at variance with the wishes of his people, and the requisitions of the adjoining Sovereigns, merely from gratitude to the Americans, or from respect for engagements made to them in the days of his adversity.

The probability of obtaining beneficial results through Hamet's co-operation, or indeed from any offensive measures against Tripoli, had always been doubted by Bainbridge; and his opinion certainly merited attention, for although imprisoned, yet he had sufficient intercourse with the foreign consuls and other residents of the town, to enable him to judge of the Pasha's strength and of the dispositions of the inhabitants with regard to the two brothers. By letters received from him, about the time of the arrival of the Argus, he repeated his conviction that the establishment of the exiled Prince in Tripoli, was not possible, from the weakness of his character the contempt in which he was held by the people, his want of resources and the force which Yusuf was capable of employing against him; and that if the liberation of the American prisoners were made to depend upon that measure, it would be better to leave them to their fate, than to squander lives and treasure in so futile an attempt. He acknowledged that he had been mistaken in the ideas he had entertained of the Pasha's strength, and of the effects to be produced on the place by naval operations only; that the damage {327} occasioned by Preble's attacks, had been slight as the houses were miserably built and almost destitute of furniture; and that although the blockade had occasioned embarrassments to the mercantile class and somewhat straitened Yusuf's means, yet he would be able to hold out a long time, and be disposed to suffer any extremity rather than surrender his prisoners without ransom.

The situation in which those prisoners might be placed by Hamet's marching against Tripoli, was also to be considered. Although the utmost precaution was adopted to conceal the object of Eaton's mission to Egypt, it was soon made known to Yusuf, by an Italian who was his agent at Malta. It gave him much alarm, but with his usual energy he prepared to meet the consequences, by sending such troops as he could spare to reinforce those under the Beys of his frontier provinces. He likewise despatched an agent to Alexandria, to intreat the Viceroy not to allow his brother to quit the country; but Eaton had been already joined by the Prince, and had so completely secured the favor of the Turkish authorities, that this attempt to defeat the plan proved fruitless. Yusuf had however, a strong security for his throne, at least so far as regarded any danger from the forces of the Americans; for he held in his power three hundred and seven of their fellow-citizens, whose lives he well knew would be considered infinitely more valuable than any advantages which could be derived from his expulsion. With this view, he declared that he should consider them as hostages for the conduct of their government, and that any attempts made in favor of his brother, might prove fatal to them. Information of his intentions was conveyed to Barron in January, by a letter from Bainbridge, which he concludes by saying: "The Pasha is very attentive to your transactions with his brother at Alexandria; a force is going against Derne. Give me leave to tell you, I have found your plan with the Pasha's brother very vast, and that _you sacrifice the lives of the prisoners here in case of success_." Other notices of the same purport were received; and the determined violence of Yusuf's disposition was too well known, to leave a doubt that in the last extremity, he might be inclined thus to wreak his vengeance on the unfortunate captives. Until such extremity however, no fears were to be entertained with regard to them, as their existence was evidently most important to the Pasha.

Considerations of this nature made a deep impression upon Barron, and induced him to view the cause in which Eaton had embarked, in a most unfavorable light; honor and policy, however, forbade the immediate abandonment of Hamet. The Argus and Hornet were therefore laden with ammunition and stores for the supply of the expedition, and despatched to Bomba, where their opportune arrival and the assistance rendered by them at Derne have been already noticed. A letter was also carried by the Argus from Barron to Eaton, in which after applauding his courage and perseverance, he represents to him "that their Government in consenting to act in concert with Hamet, did not contemplate the measure as leading necessarily and absolutely to his establishment in Tripoli, but as a means which, provided there existed energy in the exiled Prince, and attachment to his person on the parts of his former subjects, might be employed to the common furtherance and advantage of his claims and the American cause; that if he possessed these qualities, and had sufficient interest with the people, he might after getting possession of Derne and Bengazi, move on with firm steps, and conduct his followers to the gates of the capital, in aid of which, operations would be prosecuted with vigor by the squadron, as soon as the season would permit." He declared, however, that "he must withhold his sanction from any convention or engagement, tending to impress upon Hamet, the idea that the Americans had bound themselves to place him on the throne," such engagements being unauthorized and inexpedient, particularly taking into view, the situation in which Bainbridge and their other captive countrymen might be placed by this co-operation: that he should not suffer any convention with the Prince, to interfere with that "perfect and uncontrolled power of choice and action, in concluding a pacification with the Pasha, which it was important under such circumstances to preserve;" and "that honorable and advantageous terms being once offered, and accepted by the representative of government appointed to treat for peace, all support to Hamet must necessarily cease." The request for a detachment of marines could not be complied with, "as the services of all would be required on board their respective ships." The confused and indeed contradictory injunctions contained in this letter, mark the utmost indecision in the mind of the writer, and were calculated only to puzzle the person to whom they were directed. He is discouraged from prosecuting the enterprise in which he had engaged, while he is at the same time assured, that the utmost assistance will be afforded to its advancement by the squadron. A few days after the sailing of the Argus and Hornet, the Nautilus was also sent to Derne, with additional supplies and some cannon, which proved serviceable in the attacks on that place.

About the same time a small vessel being sent to Tripoli by the Commodore with clothing and other necessaries for the prisoners, Mr. Lear wrote to the Spanish Consul thanking him politely for his communication and his offers, but assuring him at the same time, that as the Pasha had rejected several propositions for terminating the war, no others would be made on the part of the United States; and that the armed force, which was then considerable, would be employed with vigor against Tripoli as soon as the season would permit; in the mean while however, any proposition from the Pasha, tending to the establishment of peace on honorable terms, would receive due consideration. The vessel on its return, (April 21,) brought a second letter from the Spanish Consul conveying a direct proposition from Yusuf, to terminate the war and surrender the prisoners, on condition that the Americans should pay him two hundred thousand dollars and restore the Tripolines who had fallen into their hands, with all their property. The Consul added, that he considered this offer as only intended to form the basis of a negotiation, for which he again urged Mr. Lear to come to Tripoli, assuring him that he would be received with respect and remain in safety. This proposition was considered inadmissible; it was however important, as giving evidence of the Pasha's disposition, and the American negotiators, under the persuasion that it would soon be followed by others of a more acceptable nature, very prudently remained silent.

{328} Other letters giving assurances of the Pasha's desire to make peace, were received at the same time, from persons, whose characters and situations gave the utmost weight to their opinions. Bainbridge and his unfortunate companions had borne their fate with so much manly fortitude, as to interest in their behalf, not only several of the most respectable foreign residents in Tripoli, but also the minister of foreign affairs Mahomet D'Ghies, who has been previously mentioned, as a worthy and intelligent person. This minister being himself engaged in extensive mercantile transactions, was naturally anxious for the termination of a war by which the commerce of the place was almost destroyed; but independently of this consideration, the accounts of Bainbridge and of all who have subsequently known him, warrant the belief that he was actuated by motives of real benevolence in his endeavors to procure peace, and in the steps taken by him to mitigate the severity which his dark-souled master was disposed to exercise towards the captive Americans. He had already made several attempts to communicate with Preble, in order to induce him to treat with the Pasha, on condition of paying ransom for the prisoners; but the difficulties of transmission and the precautions which he was obliged to adopt to prevent discovery, had caused them all to fail. The state of his health had become such, as to require his absence from Tripoli during the ensuing summer, and he was most anxious that peace might be made before that time, as he was well aware of the force of the Americans, and of the advantages which Hamet would have from their assistance; he may have also entertained fears that the desperate determination of Yusuf might lead him to the accomplishment of his fatal threats against the prisoners. He therefore resolved to make another effort, and knowing the views and inclinations of the Pasha with regard to peace, he conferred with Bainbridge on the subject, as also with Mr. Nissen the Danish Consul, a man of the highest respectability who had been uniformly the friend of the Americans. In consequence of arrangements between them, Mr. Nissen wrote to the Commodore on the 18th of March, in the name of Mahomet D'Ghies; recommending him to take measures for treating with the Pasha, and proposing to that effect, that he should send some one duly authorized and instructed to Tripoli, for whose perfect inviolability during his stay the strongest guaranties would be given; he considered this plan as much more likely to lead to a speedy and satisfactory conclusion, than a negotiation carried on by correspondence, or through a Tripoline agent on board the squadron. This letter was accompanied by others from Bainbridge urging an immediate acquiescence in the plan proposed, the result of which he believed would be as favorable to the Americans, as they could expect; he had no doubt that the ransom of the prisoners might be effected for a hundred and twenty thousand dollars, and that their liberation could never be obtained without paying for it, unless large land forces were employed; concluding by an assurance, that no Tripoline would ever consider a farthing, as paid for the Pasha's friendship, after what had been already experienced from the Americans.

These communications were not received until late in April; they were then accompanied by another of more recent date from Bainbridge, enclosing a copy of one which had been sent him by Mahomet D'Ghies; in the latter, the minister states that the Pasha had just heard of his brother's being _with_ the American squadron, (a report probably occasioned by the arrival of Hamet's agent at Malta) and had in consequence manifested the strongest resentment; saying that "as long as the war was a war of interest, it might easily be brought to a conclusion by some sacrifice on one side or the other; but that it was now directed against himself and for his dethronement, and he would act in a manner, by which the feelings of the United States, should be hurt in the most tender point which he had the means of reaching." The minister concluded by intreating, that the Commodore might be made fully aware of the difficulties attending any negotiation, while he was at all in relations with Hamet. The French Consul also confirmed the account of the Pasha's irritation, and of the danger in which the captives were placed. The letters were all forwarded by Captain Rodgers, who commanded the ships blockading the harbor of Tripoli; this officer being acquainted with their contents, wrote at the same time to Mr. Lear, (April 18) strongly dissuading him from meeting the advances of the Pasha, "until he had been rendered more sensible of the force of the Americans, and of their capacity to use it," and insisting that if an attack were made within six weeks, under proper regulations, peace might be concluded on terms perfectly honorable and advantageous to the United States.

On the 11th of May, the Hornet arrived from Derne, bringing accounts from Eaton of the capture of that place, and of all the occurrences since leaving Egypt, with a reply at length to Barron's letter of March 22d. He represented that the measures had been eminently successful; Hamet was in possession of the most valuable province of Tripoli, his enemies were retreating, and the supply of some funds with a few regular troops to give effect to operations requiring energy, would enable him without doubt soon to appear at the gates of the City. He had however been much discouraged by the Commodore's declaration, that all support to the Prince must cease, if the terms which the Pasha might offer, should be accepted; he was convinced that terms would be offered as soon as Yusuf entertained serious apprehensions for his safety, but he considered it incumbent on the United States, in case they were accepted, and it should be determined to withdraw all aid from Hamet, to place him in a situation at least as good as that from which he had been drawn, and out of the reach of his vindictive brother. He expressed his opinion that Derne should not be abandoned, nor peace made precipitately, as the navy might thus be crushed and the national honor receive a heavy blow.

The result of all these communications, was a determination on the parts of the Commander of the forces, and the Consul General, to abandon the co-operation with Hamet and to enter into a negotiation with Yusuf. Barron considered the moment the most favorable for concluding peace, on advantageous terms, as the capture of Derne must doubtless have produced a powerful effect on the Pasha's mind; and although discarding the idea of yielding any point of national honor or advantage, to obtain the liberation of the prisoners, he yet contended that "the lives of so many valuable and estimable Americans should not be sacrificed to abstract points of honor." Mr. Lear in reply, conceived it his {329} duty, "to open and bring to a happy issue, a negotiation for peace consistent with the tenor of their instructions, whenever the Commander of the American naval forces in the Mediterranean should judge the occasion proper and favorable;" he would therefore at once proceed to Tripoli for the purpose; he _could not however believe that any impression favorable to the United States had been made on Yusuf, by the measures in concert with his brother, unless the bravery and perseverance of the Americans at Derne, had given him a proof of what might be done against him without extraneous aid_.

Preparations were instantly made to carry both these resolutions into effect. The Hornet was sent back to Derne with despatches notifying Eaton of the projected negotiation, directing him at the same time explicitly to inform Hamet, that all supplies of arms and money were at an end, and he must trust entirely to his own resources and exertions; that as he was now "_in possession of the most valuable province of Tripoli_," and at the post from which he was driven when he first solicited the assistance of the United States, all had been done for him which he had a right to expect; but that endeavors would be made to stipulate some conditions in his favor, provided they could be obtained "without any considerable sacrifice of national advantage." Eaton and his companions were not indeed directly ordered to retire from Hamet's service, but the expressions of the letter conveyed a hint that they were expected to do so which could not be mistaken; in addition to which, Captain Hull, who commanded the ships at Derne, was required to proceed with them immediately to Tripoli.

The necessary arrangements being also made for carrying Mr. Lear to Tripoli, he sailed in the Essex frigate for that place, off which he arrived on the 26th of May. He bore with him a letter from Barron to Rodgers, resigning to the latter the command of the American forces in the Mediterranean, a station which, as he said, "the languor of sickness, and consequent mental as well as bodily inactivity, prevented him from filling any longer, with approbation to himself, or with advantage to the service." Some remarks are here necessary.

Commodore Barron had arrived in the Mediterranean, affected with a disease which universally weakens the mental powers of those who are subject to it; in his case we have the evidence of his officers, that during the whole winter and spring, he had been "disqualified from transacting any business, his mind being so mach impaired, that he scarcely recollected what transpired from one day to another; and on applications being made to him for instructions, he would lose the recollection of what passed in the course of conversation." It was also generally believed by the officers in the Mediterranean, "that Mr. Lear had a great ascendancy over the Commodore in all his measures relative to the squadron." For merely exercising such an ascendancy, Mr. Lear cannot certainly be blamed; nor can it be imputed as a fault to Barron, that in his situation it should have existed; he had been intrusted with an important command, which he wished to retain, particularly as he was much better acquainted with the views and wishes of his government, than the officer who would succeed him in case of his resignation could possibly have been. Under these circumstances it was natural, that being himself aware of his debilitated state, he should have looked for counsel and assistance to one in whom their government had manifested such implicit confidence. Respecting the course to be pursued with Tripoli, Mr. Lear in all his despatches and recorded conversations, had advocated the propriety of strong measures, for which he considered the forces of the United States alone as perfectly adequate. To the plan of co-operation with Hamet, he had been from the first opposed, pronouncing it visionary and impracticable; he insisted that Yusuf might be compelled to accede to honorable terms without any extraneous assistance whatever, and "that more reliance might be placed on a peace with him if well beaten into it, than with his brother, if placed on the throne by the aid of the Americans." When the accounts arrived of Eaton's junction with Hamet, and their projected expedition from Egypt, he declared his conviction openly that it would prove fruitless, and "that they with their adherents, would be sacrificed before reaching Derne." For these opinions there were certainly strong grounds; but knowing as he did, that Yusuf had manifested the utmost uneasiness ever since he had been informed of his brother's intended expedition, how could Mr. Lear have supposed that no impression favorable to the United States had been made on him, by the capture of Derne and the defeat of his army? We have certainly a right here to suspect the existence of prejudice or of personal feeling, or of too great a disinclination to acknowledge the erroneousness of previous assertions. That "a deep impression had in reality been made on the Pasha by the heroic bravery of the few Americans at Derne, and by the idea that the United States had a large force and immense supplies at that place," he indeed afterwards admitted, and endeavored from thence to make an arrangement favorable to Hamet. From the terms of Rodgers's letter already quoted, it appears that he was by no means desirous to negotiate until the Pasha should have been humbled; and he declares in another letter, that he never had entertained any apprehensions for the lives of the prisoners. It is therefore possible, that had not Barron before his relinquishment, taken such decided steps with regard to the abandonment of Hamet's cause, and (at least apparently) induced Mr. Lear to enter upon the negotiation with Yusuf, those measures might have met with some opposition from Rodgers, which delicacy under the actual circumstances forbade.

The Spanish Consul boarded the Essex immediately on her arrival off Tripoli; Mr. Lear informed him that he had come at the Pasha's request to treat for peace, but that the terms which had been already proposed through him were inadmissible, and that unless they were put aside entirely, no progress could be made in the affair. The Consul returned to Tripoli, and came on board again on the 29th, bringing a commission from the Pasha to treat on the principal points of accommodation; Yusuf relinquished all demands of payment for peace, and offered to restore the prisoners for a hundred and thirty thousand dollars, the Tripolines in the hands of the Americans being given up gratis. Mr. Lear replied by other propositions, which were--that the prisoners should be restored on both sides, the Americans immediately, the Tripolines as soon as they could be brought from America and Sicily where they then were; that as the Americans exceeded the Tripolines in number by about two hundred, the {330} sum of sixty thousand dollars would be paid as ransom for the balance in favor of the Pasha; and that a treaty of peace should then be made on mutually honorable and beneficial terms. After some difficulties, Yusuf agreed to these propositions, except that he refused to give up his prisoners until the Tripolines were ready to be delivered to him in return for them.

This was probably only a pretence to gain time. Indeed, within the preceding year, the question between the United States and Tripoli had been materially changed. The Americans had appeared in such force in the Mediterranean, that they could no longer be regarded as supplicants for peace, and the great object was to obtain the liberation of their captive fellow-citizens; on the other hand, the Pasha had suffered so much from the blockade and the expenses of the war, that he was desirous to have it terminated on as good terms as he could obtain. Hamet's success at Derne had much increased his anxiety, and knowing that it was entirely due to the assistance of the Americans, he was determined not to give up the advantages he possessed by means of the prisoners, without securing in return the withdrawal of this important aid from his brother's cause; for this reason he wished to have the treaty of peace made before the execution of any other measures. As to the restoration of his own subjects who were in the hands of the Americans, he was entirely indifferent; often declaring when exchange was proposed, "that he would not give an orange apiece for them."

On the 1st of June, Bainbridge came on board, under guaranty of Mahomet D'Ghies and the Danish Consul. He assured Mr. Lear that Yusuf would not consent to surrender the prisoners, until a treaty of peace were made. As the objects of the Americans were to obtain the liberation of their countrymen and security for their commerce and navigation in future, it was not worth while to oppose this, and Bainbridge was directed to inform the Pasha, that if the terms proposed were accepted, a negotiation would be immediately entered into for a treaty, with any proper person duly authorized by him, but that no farther communication would be held with the Spanish Consul. Yusuf upon this accordingly commissioned Mr. Nissen to confer with Mr. Lear on the terms of the treaty; instructing him specially to have an article inserted, stipulating that the American forces should be withdrawn from Derne, and that efforts would be used to persuade Hamet to leave the Tripoline dominions. This stipulation was agreed to by Mr. Lear, who, however insisted that the Prince's family, who still remained in the Pasha's hands, should be restored to him. Yusuf objected and the negotiation was almost at a stand; at this crisis the Nautilus arrived from Malta, bringing notices of Eaton's farther successes at Derne, and also information of the arrival of additional forces from the United States. Rodgers here expressed his anxiety to try the effect of farther offensive operations against him; but Mr. Lear "would not suffer the business to be broken off and leave his countrymen longer in slavery," and therefore consented that _time should be allowed for the delivery of Hamet's family_. The difficulties between him and the Pasha were then removed and the preliminaries were assented to by both parties. Mr. Lear landed directly after, and on the 4th of June 1805, corresponding with the 6th of the first month of Rabbia of the year of the Hegira 1220, a _Treaty of Peace and Amity between the United States of America and the Pasha, Bey and subjects of Tripoline Barbary_, was signed at Tripoli.

By this treaty, firm and inviolable peace and sincere friendship was to exist between the two nations; the prisoners were to be returned on each side, sixty thousand dollars being paid by the Americans for the difference in number against them; the forces of the United States, in hostility against the Pasha at Derne or elsewhere in his dominions, were to be withdrawn, and no supplies to be given by the Americans during the continuance of the peace, to any of his subjects who may be in rebellion against him; the Americans were to use all means in their power to persuade Hamet to retire from the Tripoline territory, but they were to use no force or improper means to that effect, and in case he should thus retire, the Pasha was to deliver up to him his wife and children. The stipulations respecting commerce and navigation, the rights of citizens and of consuls of either party in the territories of the other, the assistance to be given to stranded vessels, the protection to be afforded to vessels pursued by an enemy, &c. were placed on the most equal footing; and it was moreover declared, that in case a war should hereafter break out between the two parties, the prisoners taken on either side should not be made slaves, but should be returned at a stated ransom. This provision was at least harmless, and it held out inducements to humane conduct.

The American prisoners were sent on board the squadron, immediately after the signing of the treaty, and the Constitution frigate was sent to Malta and Syracuse for the money to be paid as ransom and the Tripolines. The American flag was again hoisted in the town, a Consul was installed, and the inhabitants testified their pleasure on the termination of a war by which they had so severely suffered.

This pacification has proved most advantageous for the Americans; no tribute has been since paid by them to Tripoli, nor has any infraction of the treaty been made either by the government, or the subjects of that regency, without full indemnification having been promptly obtained for it. The Pasha has indeed always appeared ready to do or to submit to any thing, rather than have another war with the United States. There is however every reason to suppose that the peace might have been made on terms more honorable to the Americans; and it is difficult to conceive what proper motives could have induced their commissioner, to offer a sum of money as ransom for the prisoners, with so strong a force at his disposal, and with the finest province of the Tripoline dominions actually in the hands of his countrymen. The proposition must certainly have surprised Yusuf, who had up to that moment received from him nothing but expressions of a fixed determination to seek peace only at the cannon's mouth.

Although it was expected that the information conveyed by the Hornet would have induced Eaton and the other Americans to evacuate Derne, still it was thought proper to despatch the frigate Constellation to that place, with accounts of the peace which had been concluded; it carried also one of Yusuf's officers, who was empowered to proclaim a general amnesty, {331} and her captain was instructed to receive Hamet and his immediate followers on board, should they choose to accompany him.

The communications previously received by the Hornet had prepared Eaton for these results; and he had instantly made known to Hamet the critical state in which his affairs were placed; the poor Prince very naturally exclaimed, that "to abandon him then, was to co-operate not with him, but with his brother"--and seeing that it would be impossible for him to prosecute the war, after the withdrawal of the American forces, he prepared to leave Derne with them whenever they should go. Eaton, however, could not bear "to strike the flag of his country in presence of an enemy, who had not merited the triumph, and to see the unbounded confidence placed by the inhabitants in the American character, sink into contempt and eternal hatred;" he had, therefore, resolved not to give up the advantages already obtained at Derne, and carefully concealing his apprehensions, continued to pursue the measures best calculated to advance the success of the enterprise. In this determination he seems to have been seconded by Captain Hull, and the other officers of the ships on the station, who had been induced by the declarations of Commodore Barron and Mr. Lear, to expect that an opportunity would have been afforded them in the approaching season to chastise the insolence of the Pasha, and fully establish the reputation of the Americans in the Mediterranean.

The Constellation arrived off Derne on the 11th of June, and it being at once supposed that she brought supplies and troops in aid of Hamet, the hopes of his partizans were excited to the highest pitch, while the Tripolines were so much dismayed, that they broke up their camp in haste, and retreated to the distance of fifteen miles from the town. When Eaton had examined the despatches brought by her, he saw at once that it would be a nice and difficult task to embark the Christians with Hamet and his followers in safety, as the inhabitants would place but little confidence in the Pasha's amnesty, and might be disposed to sacrifice their lives in revenge for this apparent desertion. He therefore took measures to conceal the real state of affairs; he ordered the troops to be inspected, distributed ammunition and rations, and sent off spies as if in anticipation of an attack. At night, patroles were placed to cut off all communication between the battery near the sea, which was occupied by the Christians and the town; the Constellation's boats came to the wharf, and the Christians, to their great astonishment, were all embarked and rowed off to the frigate, except the Americans. A message was then sent to Hamet, requesting an interview; he understood what was meant and instantly came with his retinue; they entered the boats, which had by that time returned, the Americans followed, and last of all went Eaton, just in time to escape the soldiery and inhabitants, who learning what was going on, rushed in distraction to the beach. Finding themselves deserted by those who had led them to take up arms against their tyrannical master, their rage burst forth in execrations against Hamet and his infidel friends. In the morning, the Tripoline agent landed and proclaimed amnesty to those who would return to their allegiance; but the place was already nearly deserted; the Arabs had plundered it of all that could be carried away and retreated to the mountains, accompanied by many of the inhabitants; those who remained rejected the terms of pardon offered them, and prepared to defend themselves to the last from the tops of their houses. What was their fate we have been unable to learn. At noon, on the 13th of June, Eaton writes, "In a few minutes, we shall lose sight of this deserted city, which has experienced as strange a reverse in as short a time, as ever recorded in the disasters of war." The Constellation arrived in a few days at Syracuse, where the men who had served with Eaton at Derne were paid off. The whole expenses of the expedition amounted to about forty thousand dollars.

A few words will suffice to trace the subsequent history of Hamet. It has been stated that provision was made in the treaty of June 4th, for the restoration of his family; but when he demanded them, his brother refused to comply or to give him any assistance whatever. He had been aided by Eaton, and by the orders of the Commodore of the squadron, he received two hundred dollars per month for the support of himself, and fifteen or twenty dependants in Syracuse. Two thousand four hundred dollars were afterwards appropriated by Congress, for his "immediate and temporary relief." The American Consul at Tripoli was also instructed to require the delivery of his family; he did so, but in reply a paper was exhibited, which proved to be a secret article signed in due form by Mr. Lear, on the day after the conclusion of the treaty, by which it was stipulated, that Yusuf should not be required to give up his brother's wife and children, until the expiration of four years, during which, Hamet was to evince his peaceful disposition, and his determination not to disturb the tranquillity of the Tripoline dominions. Of this article, no copy, and indeed no notice whatever, had been transmitted by Mr. Lear to his Government; whether from miscarriage or from other causes is not ascertained. The Consul was however ordered to urge the delivery of the family by the Pasha, and to endeavor to obtain some arrangements for their support and that of Hamet. This was at length effected through the aid of Mahomet D'Ghies; and on the 25th of October, 1807, his wife and children arrived at Syracuse in an American sloop of war, with the exception of one of the daughters, who had married the Bey Mahomet, Yusuf's eldest son; an offer was also made by the Pasha, to settle a handsome allowance on his brother, provided he would establish his residence in Morocco. This Hamet positively refused, demanding at least the restoration of his former governments of Derne and Bengazi; after some difficulties Yusuf consented to his demand, and he went to Derne in 1809, where he passed the remainder of his life in quiet, as Bey of the two Eastern Provinces. Eaton immediately resigned his situation as navy agent, and returned to the United States, where he was universally received with interest and attention; but never recovered his equanimity; he had been as he conceived, disappointed in the opportunity of distinguishing himself, and moreover unjustly robbed of his share in the credit of reducing the Pasha to terms. His natural irritability was increased, and he was on many occasions tempted to assert his claims, in a manner which savored of boastfulness. His own peaceful {332} country offered no field for the display of his peculiar talents; he had no taste for the quiet occupations of the farm, or for the petty intrigues and wordy war of politics; he tried both and failed. He became involved in pecuniary embarrassments, his spirits deserted him, and he sought for consolation in the bowl. Those who knew him only at this period, represent him as an intemperate disagreeable vain-glorious man, and the few friends who followed him to the grave in June 1811, had reason to regret that he had not died earlier.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ANECDOTES OF PATRICK HENRY.

_From the Manuscripts of the late David Meade Randolph_.

The birth of party spirit has been variously conjectured: the result of the Richmond Convention for the adoption of the Federal Constitution, was one of its imputed parents. In the evening of the day of the final vote, General Meade and Mr. Cabell assembled the _discontents_ in the old Senate Chamber; and after a partial organization of the party, a deputation was sent to Patrick Henry inviting him to take the chair. The venerated patriot accepted. Understanding that it was their purpose to concert a plan of resistance to the operations of the Federal Government, he addressed the meeting with his accustomed animation upon important occasions; observing, "he had done his duty strenuously, in opposing the Constitution, in the _proper place_,--and with all the powers he possessed. The question had been fully discussed and settled, and, that as true and faithful republicans, they had all better go home! They should cherish it, and give it fair play--support it too, in order that the federal administration might be left to the untrammelled and free exercise of its functions:" reproving, moreover, the half suppressed factious spirit which he perceived had well nigh broken out. The impressive arguments of Mr. Henry produced the gratifying effect he had hoped for.

* * * * *

The purity of Henry's republicanism was such, as when dining with his brother Col. John Syme, at the Rocky Mills, during a May session of the Circuit Court held by Judge Iredell in Richmond, the company, composed of very respectable characters of both parties--'THE PEOPLE' as the first toast, upon removing the cloth, was pronounced very audibly by the host. Mr. Henry pushing his old black wig aside, as was his custom when much excited;--and, with _elbows akimbo!_ exclaimed, "What--brother, not drink GENERAL WASHINGTON? as we used to do!--for shame brother, for shame;"--and filled up his glass with a bumper of Thomson's Madeira, announcing the name of WASHINGTON.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

YOUNG ROSALIE LEE.

I love to forget Ambition And Hope, in the mingled thought Of valley and wood and meadow, Where whilome my spirit caught Affection's holiest breathings; Where, under the skies, with me Young Rosalie roved--aye drinking From Joy's bright Castaly.

I think of the valley and river, The old wood bright with blossoms; Of the pure and chastened gladness Upspringing in our bosoms; I think of the lonely turtle So tongued with melancholy; And the hue of the drooping moonlight, And the starlight pure and holy!

Of the beat of a heart most tender; The sigh of a shell-tinct lip, As soft as the land tones, wandering Far leagues, over ocean deep; Of a step, as light in its falling, On the breast of the beaded lea, As the fall of the fairy moonlight, On the leaf of yon tulip tree.

I think of these and the murmur Of bird and katadyd, Whose home is the grave yard cypress, Whose goblet the honey-reed; And then I weep! for Rosalie Has gone to her early rest; And the green-lipped reed and the daisy, Suck sweets from her maiden breast.

L. L.

_Winchester, Va._

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STRAY LEAVES.

See'st thou yon withered tree, Which stretches towards the sea, Its long and ghastly arms-- Does it not say to thee, How speedily shall flee, Thy now so envied charms.

That forehead high In the dust shall lie, And that soft dark eye Shall be shrivelled and dry; And those pearly teeth, Shall be trodden beneath, The foot of the idle passer-by.

* * * * *

Change the subject, change the measure, Sing not of death--let life and pleasure Be the theme of Poet's lay; Our earth contains full many a treasure-- Let us seek them while we may.

Fill the glass with yellow juice, Of Rhine's old banks, the rich produce; Or let the ruby claret flow, Or Portugal's dark streams unloose-- They all bring joy and banish woe.

Let not woman enter here, Woman brings but pain and care, Woman smiles but to deceive, In woman's tears let none believe.

Love is folly--fill the glass, In mirth and glee, the hours we'll pass. The smiling vine alone is true, The grape's pure tears none ever rue.

{333}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BERENICE--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching the wide horizon like the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of that arch, as distinct too, yet as intimately blended. Overreaching the wide horizon like the rainbow! How is it that from Beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness?--from the covenant of Peace a simile of sorrow? But thus is it. And as, in ethics, Evil is a consequence of Good, so, in fact, out of Joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which _are_, have their origin in the ecstasies which _might have been_. I have a tale to tell in its own essence rife with horror--I would suppress it were it not a record more of feelings than of facts.

My baptismal name is Egæus--that of my family I will not mention. Yet there are no towers in the land more time-honored than my gloomy, grey, hereditary halls. Our line has been called a race of visionaries: and in many striking particulars--in the character of the family mansion--in the frescos of the chief saloon--in the tapestries of the dormitories--in the chiseling of some buttresses in the armory--but more especially in the gallery of antique paintings--in the fashion of the library chamber--and, lastly, in the very peculiar nature of the library's contents, there is more than sufficient evidence to warrant the belief.

The recollections of my earliest years are connected with that chamber, and with its volumes--of which latter I will say no more. Here died my mother. Herein was I born. But it is mere idleness to say that I had not lived before--that the soul has no previous existence. You deny it. Let us not argue the matter. Convinced myself I seek not to convince. There is, however, a remembrance of ærial forms--of spiritual and meaning eyes--of sounds musical yet sad--a remembrance which will not be excluded: a memory like a shadow, vague, variable, indefinite, unsteady--and like a shadow too, in the impossibility of my getting rid of it, while the sunlight of my reason shall exist.

In that chamber was I born. Thus awaking, as it were, from the long night of what seemed, but was not, nonentity at once into the very regions of fairy land--into a palace of imagination--into the wild dominions of monastic thought and erudition--it is not singular that I gazed around me with a startled and ardent eye--that I loitered away my boyhood in books, and dissipated my youth in reverie--but it _is_ singular that as years rolled away, and the noon of manhood found me still in the mansion of my fathers--it is wonderful what stagnation there fell upon the springs of my life--wonderful how total an inversion took place in the character of my common thoughts. The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn,--not the material of my every-day existence--but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in itself.

* * * * *

Berenice and I were cousins, and we grew up together in my paternal halls--Yet differently we grew. I ill of health and buried in gloom--she agile, graceful, and overflowing with energy. Hers the ramble on the hill side--mine the studies of the cloister. I living within my own heart, and addicted body and soul to the most intense and painful meditation--she roaming carelessly through life with no thought of the shadows in her path, or the silent flight of the raven-winged hours. Berenice!--I call upon her name--Berenice!--and from the grey ruins of memory a thousand tumultuous recollections are startled at the sound! Ah! vividly is her image before me now, as in the early days of her light-heartedness and joy! Oh! gorgeous yet fantastic beauty! Oh! Sylph amid the shrubberies of Arnheim!--Oh! Naiad among her fountains!--and then--then all is mystery and terror, and a tale which should not be told. Disease--a fatal disease--fell like the Simoom upon her frame, and, even while I gazed upon her, the spirit of change swept over her, pervading her mind, her habits, and her character, and, in a manner the most subtle and terrible, disturbing even the very identity of her person! Alas! the destroyer came and went, and the victim--where was she? I knew her not--or knew her no longer as Berenice.

Among the numerous train of maladies, superinduced by that fatal and primary one which effected a revolution of so horrible a kind in the moral and physical being of my cousin, may be mentioned as the most distressing and obstinate in its nature, a species of epilepsy not unfrequently terminating in _trance_ itself--trance very nearly resembling positive dissolution, and from which her manner of recovery was, in most instances, startingly abrupt. In the meantime my own disease--for I have been told that I should call it by no other appellation--my own disease, then, grew rapidly upon me, and, aggravated in its symptoms by the immoderate use of opium, assumed finally a monomaniac character of a novel and extraordinary form--hourly and momentarily gaining vigor--and at length obtaining over me the most singular and incomprehensible ascendancy. This monomania--if I must so term it--consisted in a morbid irritability of the nerves immediately affecting those properties of the mind, in metaphysical science termed the _attentive_. It is more than probable that I am not understood--but I fear that it is indeed in no manner possible to convey to the mind of the merely general reader, an adequate idea of that nervous _intensity of interest_ with which, in my case, the powers of meditation (not to speak technically) busied, and, as it were, buried themselves in the contemplation of even the most common objects of the universe.

To muse for long unwearied hours with my attention rivetted to some frivolous device upon the margin, or in the typography of a book--to become absorbed for the better part of a summer's day in a quaint shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry, or upon the floor--to lose myself for an entire night in watching the steady flame of a lamp, or the embers of a fire--to dream away whole days over the perfume of a flower--to repeat monotonously some common word, until the sound, by dint of frequent repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the mind--to lose all sense of motion or physical existence in a state of absolute bodily quiescence long and obstinately persevered in--Such were a few of the most common and least pernicious vagaries induced by a condition of the mental faculties, not, indeed, altogether unparalleled, but certainly bidding defiance to any thing like analysis or explanation.

{334} Yet let me not be misapprehended. The undue, intense, and morbid attention thus excited by objects in their own nature frivolous, must not be confounded in character with that ruminating propensity common to all mankind, and more especially indulged in by persons of ardent imagination. By no means. It was not even, as might be at first supposed, an extreme condition, or exaggeration of such propensity, but primarily and essentially distinct and different. In the one instance the dreamer, or enthusiast, being interested by an object usually _not_ frivolous, imperceptibly loses sight of this object in a wilderness of deductions and suggestions issuing therefrom, until, at the conclusion of a day-dream _often replete with luxury_, he finds the _incitamentum_ or first cause of his musings utterly vanished and forgotten. In my case the primary object was _invariably frivolous_, although assuming, through the medium of my distempered vision, a refracted and unreal importance. Few deductions--if any--were made; and those few pertinaciously returning in, so to speak, upon the original object as a centre. The meditations were _never_ pleasurable; and, at the termination of the reverie, the first cause, so far from being out of sight, had attained that supernaturally exaggerated interest which was the prevailing feature of the disease. In a word, the powers of mind more particularly exercised were, with me, as I have said before, the _attentive_, and are, with the day-dreamer, the _speculative_.

My books, at this epoch, if they did not actually serve to irritate the disorder, partook, it will be perceived, largely, in their imaginative, and inconsequential nature, of the characteristic qualities of the disorder itself. I well remember, among others, the treatise of the noble Italian Coelius Secundus Curio "_de amplitudine beati regni Dei_"--St. Austin's great work the "City of God"--and Tertullian "_de Carne Christi_," in which the unintelligible sentence "_Mortuus est Dei filius; credibile est quia ineptum est: et sepultus resurrexit; certum est quia impossibile est_" occupied my undivided time, for many weeks of laborious and fruitless investigation.

Thus it will appear that, shaken from its balance only by trivial things, my reason bore resemblance to that ocean-crag spoken of by Ptolemy Hephestion, which steadily resisting the attacks of human violence, and the fiercer fury of the waters and the winds, trembled only to the touch of the flower called Asphodel. And although, to a careless thinker, it might appear a matter beyond doubt, that the fearful alteration produced by her unhappy malady, in the _moral_ condition of Berenice, would afford me many objects for the exercise of that intense and morbid meditation whose nature I have been at some trouble in explaining, yet such was not by any means the case. In the lucid intervals of my infirmity, her calamity indeed gave me pain, and, taking deeply to heart that total wreck of her fair and gentle life, I did not fail to ponder frequently and bitterly upon the wonder-working means by which so strange a revolution had been so suddenly brought to pass. But these reflections partook not of the idiosyncrasy of my disease, and were such as would have occurred, under similar circumstances, to the ordinary mass of mankind. True to its own character, my disorder revelled in the less important but more startling changes wrought in the _physical_ frame of Berenice, and in the singular and most appalling distortion of her personal identity.

During the brightest days of her unparalleled beauty, most surely I had never loved her. In the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings, with me, _had never been_ of the heart, and my passions _always were_ of the mind. Through the grey of the early morning--among the trellissed shadows of the forest at noon-day--and in the silence of my library at night, she had flitted by my eyes, and I had seen her--not as the living and breathing Berenice, but as the Berenice of a dream--not as a being of the earth--earthly--but as the abstraction of such a being--not as a thing to admire, but to analyze--not as an object of love, but as the theme of the most abstruse although desultory speculation. And _now_--now I shuddered in her presence, and grew pale at her approach; yet, bitterly lamenting her fallen and desolate condition, I knew that she had loved me long, and, in an evil moment, I spoke to her of marriage.

And at length the period of our nuptials was approaching, when, upon an afternoon in the winter of the year, one of those unseasonably warm, calm, and misty days which are the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon,[1] I sat, and sat, as I thought alone, in the inner apartment of the library. But uplifting my eyes Berenice stood before me.

[Footnote 1: For as Jove, during the winter season, gives twice seven days of warmth, men have called this clement and temperate time the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon.--_Simonides_.]

Was it my own excited imagination--or the misty influence of the atmosphere--or the uncertain twilight of the chamber--or the grey draperies which fell around her figure--that caused it to loom up in so unnatural a degree? I could not tell. Perhaps she had grown taller since her malady. She spoke, however, no word, and I--not for worlds could I have uttered a syllable. An icy chill ran through my frame; a sense of insufferable anxiety oppressed me; a consuming curiosity pervaded my soul; and, sinking back upon the chair, I remained for some time breathless, and motionless, and with my eyes rivetted upon her person. Alas! its emaciation was excessive, and not one vestige of the former being lurked in any single line of the contour. My burning glances at length fell upon her face.

The forehead was high, and very pale, and singularly placid; and the once golden hair fell partially over it, and overshadowed the hollow temples with ringlets now black as the raven's ring, and jarring discordantly, in their fantastic character, with the reigning melancholy of the countenance. The eyes were lifeless, and lustreless, and I shrunk involuntarily from their glassy stare to the contemplation of the thin and shrunken lips. They parted: and, in a smile of peculiar meaning, the teeth of the changed Berenice disclosed themselves slowly to my view. Would to God that I had never beheld them, or that, having done so, I had died!

* * * * *

The shutting of a door disturbed me, and, looking up, I found my cousin had departed from the chamber. But from the disordered chamber of my brain, had not, alas! departed, and would not be driven away, the white and ghastly _spectrum_ of the teeth. Not a speck upon their surface--not a shade on their enamel--not a line in their configuration--not an indenture in their {335} edges--but what that brief period of her smile had sufficed to brand in upon my memory. I saw them _now_ even more unequivocally than I beheld them _then_. The teeth!--the teeth!--they were here, and there, and every where, and visibly, and palpably before me, long, narrow, and excessively white, with the pale lips writhing about them, as in the very moment of their first terrible development. Then came the full fury of my _monomania_, and I struggled in vain against its strange and irresistible influence. In the multiplied objects of the external world I had no thoughts but for the teeth. All other matters and all different interests became absorbed in their single contemplation. They--they alone were present to the mental eye, and they, in their sole individuality, became the essence of my mental life. I held them in every light--I turned them in every attitude. I surveyed their characteristics--I dwelt upon their peculiarities--I pondered upon their conformation--I mused upon the alteration in their nature--and shuddered as I assigned to them in imagination a sensitive and sentient power, and even when unassisted by the lips, a capability of moral expression. Of Mad'selle Sallé it has been said, "_que tous ses pas etaient des sentiments_," and of Berenice I more seriously believed _que tous ses dents etaient des idées_.

And the evening closed in upon me thus--and then the darkness came, and tarried, and went--and the day again dawned--and the mists of a second night were now gathering around--and still I sat motionless in that solitary room, and still I sat buried in meditation, and still the _phantasma_ of the teeth maintained its terrible ascendancy as, with the most vivid and hideous distinctness, it floated about amid the changing lights and shadows of the chamber. At length there broke forcibly in upon my dreams a wild cry as of horror and dismay; and thereunto, after a pause, succeeded the sound of troubled voices intermingled with many low moanings of sorrow, or of pain. I arose hurriedly from my seat, and, throwing open one of the doors of the library, there stood out in the antechamber a servant maiden, all in tears, and she told me that Berenice was--no more. Seized with an epileptic fit she had fallen dead in the early morning, and now, at the closing in of the night, the grave was ready for its tenant, and all the preparations for the burial were completed.

With a heart full of grief, yet reluctantly, and oppressed with awe, I made my way to the bed-chamber of the departed. The room was large, and very dark, and at every step within its gloomy precincts I encountered the paraphernalia of the grave. The coffin, so a menial told me, lay surrounded by the curtains of yonder bed, and in that coffin, he whisperingly assured me, was all that remained of Berenice. Who was it asked me would I not look upon the corpse? I had seen the lips of no one move, yet the question had been demanded, and the echo of the syllables still lingered in the room. It was impossible to refuse; and with a sense of suffocation I dragged myself to the side of the bed. Gently I uplifted the sable draperies of the curtains.

As I let them fall they descended upon my shoulders, and shutting me thus out from the living, enclosed me in the strictest communion with the deceased.

The very atmosphere was redolent of death. The peculiar smell of the coffin sickened me; and I fancied a deleterious odor was already exhaling from the body. I would have given worlds to escape--to fly from the pernicious influence of mortality--to breathe once again the pure air of the eternal heavens. But I had no longer the power to move--my knees tottered beneath me--and I remained rooted to the spot, and gazing upon the frightful length of the rigid body as it lay outstretched in the dark coffin without a lid.

God of heaven!--is it possible? Is it my brain that reels--or was it indeed the finger of the enshrouded dead that stirred in the white cerement that bound it? Frozen with unutterable awe I slowly raised my eyes to the countenance of the corpse. There had been a band around the jaws, but, I know not how, it was broken asunder. The livid lips were wreathed into a species of smile, and, through the enveloping gloom, once again there glared upon me in too palpable reality, the white and glistening, and ghastly teeth of Berenice. I sprang convulsively from the bed, and, uttering no word, rushed forth a maniac from that apartment of triple horror, and mystery, and death.

* * * * *

I found myself again sitting in the library, and again sitting there alone. It seemed that I had newly awakened from a confused and exciting dream. I knew that it was now midnight, and I was well aware that since the setting of the sun Berenice had been interred. But of that dreary period which had intervened I had no positive, at least no definite comprehension. Yet its memory was rife with horror--horror more horrible from being vague, and terror more terrible from ambiguity. It was a fearful page in the record of my existence, written all over with dim, and hideous, and unintelligible recollections. I strived to decypher them, but in vain--while ever and anon, like the spirit of a departed sound, the shrill and piercing shriek of a female voice seemed to be ringing in my ears. I had done a deed--what was it? And the echoes of the chamber answered me "what was it?"

On the table beside me burned a lamp, and near it lay a little box of ebony. It was a box of no remarkable character, and I had seen it frequently before, it being the property of the family physician; but how came it _there_ upon my table, and why did I shudder in regarding it? These were things in no manner to be accounted for, and my eyes at length dropped to the open pages of a book, and to a sentence underscored therein. The words were the singular, but simple words of the poet Ebn Zaiat. "_Dicebant mihi sodales si sepulchrum amicæ visitarem curas meas aliquantulum fore levatas._"[2] Why then, as I perused them, did the hairs of my head erect themselves on end, and the blood of my body congeal within my veins?

[Footnote 2: My companions told me I might find some little alleviation of my misery, in visiting the grave of my beloved.]

There came a light tap at the library door, and, pale as the tenant of a tomb, a menial entered upon tiptoe. His looks were wild with terror, and he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, husky, and very low. What said he?--some broken sentences I heard. He told of a wild cry heard in the silence of the night--of the gathering together of the household--of a search in the direction of the sound--and then his tones grew thrillingly distinct as he whispered me of a violated {336} grave--of a disfigured body discovered upon its margin--a body enshrouded, yet still breathing, still palpitating, still alive!

He pointed to my garments--they were muddy and clotted with gore. I spoke not, and he took me gently by the hand--but it was indented with the impress of human nails. He directed my attention to some object against the wall--I looked at it for some minutes--it was a spade. With a shriek I bounded to the table, and grasped the ebony box that lay upon it. But I could not force it open, and in my tremor it slipped from out my hands, and fell heavily, and burst into pieces, and from it, with a rattling sound, there rolled out some instruments of dental surgery, intermingled with many white and glistening substances that were scattered to and fro about the floor.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACT

From the Reminiscences of a Western Traveller.

"I presume," said I, "that having so long resided in Kentucky, you must have had some acquaintance with Indian warfare."

"I had no occasion," he replied, "to come to Kentucky to learn that. I may say, that I have had something to do with it all my life, and it had to do with me before I was born."

The speaker was a tall, handsome man, uncommonly stout, with an appearance of great strength, perfect health, and a quiet good humor, which disposed him to be communicative, merely by way of obliging. Though by no means garrulous, I had discovered that he was ready to tell whatever another might be desirous of hearing. He spoke with that strong accent, and deliberate tone, which characterize the Scotch Irish race, and which always, to my ear, conveys a promise that what is said will be said distinctly and clearly.

Here then was the very man I wanted. I had left the peaceful scenes of the Atlantic coast, expecting, not indeed to "roam through anters vast and deserts wild," in my western tour, (for my maps and gazetteer had taught me better,) but to find some traces of the scenes, which but a few years before, had made it dangerous for a white man to set his foot where we now rode along securely. My eye had eagerly scanned every object which afforded promise of food to my young and eager imagination; but as yet I had found none. The soft beauty and exuberant fertility of the country, need only the touch of civilization to take from it every appearance of wildness, and I could hardly bring myself to believe that it had been so lately the haunt of the prowling savage. My enthusiasm was consequently much damped; but it was not extinguished, and these last words of my companion blew it into a flame. A well directed question soon drew him out.

"I was born," said he, "among the mountains of Virginia. I never saw my father. He was killed at the battle of Point Pleasant, just before I came into the world. That is the reason why I said that Indian fighting had to do with me before I was born. But that was not all; many years before that, the Indians made a break on our settlement, and carried off my oldest brother, and kept him."

"Did you never see him again?"

"I suppose I have, but I did not know it at the time." As he said this, a gloom came over his countenance, which checked my inquisitiveness, and he rode on, perhaps a mile, in moody silence. At length his brow cleared, and he again spoke, but in a somewhat saddened tone.

"It is something strange; I am not superstitious, and yet it seems to me, as if at times, when people are in great distress of mind, they are apt to say things that turn out almost like a prophecy. It was a great grief to my mother, the loss of her child, and the longer she lived the more she mourned after him. He was quite small when they took him; and they carried him away over the lakes, so far, that they never heard where he was, until he was almost grown up, a perfect wild man. My mother was a religious woman; and the thought of his being brought up among savages, where the word of God could never reach him, went to her heart. She said, it was always borne upon her mind that he was not dead, and that he would grow up among those vile wretches, to be the death of his own father, and perhaps to die at last by the hand of one of his own brothers. When they raised a party to follow the Indians, she _would_ go with them, and all the way, she said, she looked and looked, in hopes to see where they had dashed out her poor child's brains against a tree. It was the only comfort she hoped for, and that was denied her.

"As I told you, they never heard of him till he was near or quite a man; and that was just before Dunmore's war. There was no chance to do any thing towards getting him home at that time, for it was dangerous to go near the Ohio. Indeed, all they knew was, that there was a white man of about his age among the Indians, who answered to his name. It was not until after the peace that we knew certainly all about him.

"Well! he was at the battle of the Point, fighting among the Shawanees; and there my father was killed. When my mother heard that he had been there, you may be sure her own words came back to her. No body knew who killed my father. But why not he as well as another? Flesh and blood could not have made her believe that it was not he.

"Just after that I was born, and then again my mother took it into her head that I had come into the world to revenge my father's death. There was no great comfort in that thought, you may be sure; so as soon as the war was over, they tried all they could to get my brother back. He was {337} told that my father was dead, and had left a good estate; and that he was the heir at law; (for you know that my father died under the old law,) but it all would not do. He was a complete Indian, and had an Indian wife and children that he would not leave. But he had kind feelings for us all, and sent us word to take the estate; for he wanted nothing but his rifle.

"Well! my mother died; and I and a brother a little older than me, sold out and went to Kentucky. Where we settled was a dangerous frontier near the Ohio, and the Indians once or twice every year, would come over and strike at us. Then we would raise a party, and follow them away almost to the lakes; and after we got strong enough, we commonly kept a smart company ranging about on that side of the river. Sometimes we volunteered; sometimes we were drafted; sometimes one went; sometimes another. One year my brother went, and had a fight with the Indians. Afterwards we heard that our wild brother was in that fight, and was badly wounded. The next year I went out, and we had a fight, and my poor brother was there again, and _he was killed_."

He ceased speaking, and again sunk into a gloomy silence, which none of us were disposed to interrupt. At length he said, in a softened voice, "Thank God! I was spared one thing. I never think of it, that it does not make the cold chills run over me. It was the night before the battle. We had been following hard upon the trail all day, and just before night we came up with them. But we did not let them see us, and lay back till they had camped for the night. We knew we could find them in the dark by their fires. Sure enough we soon saw the light, and crawled towards it. The word was to attack at day light. In the meantime every man was to keep his eye skinned, and his gun in his hand, and not to fire on any account till the word was given. But in this sort of business every man fights, more or less, on his own hook; and if a fellow only kills an Indian, they never blame him. There they were, all dead asleep, around their fire; and we standing looking at them, almost near enough to hear them snore. You may be sure we did not breathe loud. Well! while I was standing off on one flank, watching them with all my eyes, up gets one, and stands right between me and the light. Up came my rifle to my face. It was against orders, but I never had shot at an Indian, and how could I stand it? My hand was on the trigger, when the figure turned, and I saw the breasts of a woman. You may be sure I did not shoot. It was my brother's daughter, as I afterwards learned."

This story required no comment. It admitted of none. The ideas it suggested was such as reason could neither condemn nor justify. We could only muse on it in silence. At length, the other stranger, who, like myself, had listened attentively, said, "I too was once within an ace of shooting a woman."

I started at this, and turned to reconsider the speaker. I had already scrutinized him pretty closely, and had formed a judgment concerning him, which these words quite unsettled. The idea that he had been familiar with scenes, where every man must make his hand guard his head, had never entered my mind. He was indeed formidably armed, carrying a brace of pistols in his belt, and another in his holsters. The handle of a dirk peeped through the ruffle of his shirt, and a rifle on his shoulder completed his armament. I had been of course struck with an equipment so warlike, but attributed it to excess of caution. The mildness and elegance of his manners had fixed him in my mind, as one bred up in the scenes of peaceful and polished life, where, in youth, he had heard so much of the perils of the country he was now traversing, as to suppose it unsafe to visit it without this load of weapons. I certainly had never seen a man of more courteous and gentlemanlike demeanor; and though his countenance gave no token of one "acquainted with cold fear," I had nevertheless, emphatically marked him as a man of peace. He was the oldest man in company, but deferential to all, accommodating, obliging, and, on all occasions, modestly postponing himself, even to such a boy as I was. He seemed now to have spoken from a wish to divert the painful thoughts of our companion, and, in answer to an inquiring look from me, went on with his story.

"It was nearly thirty years ago," said he, "I was travelling from Virginia through the wilderness of Kentucky, then much infested by Indians. I had one companion, an active, spirited young man, and we were both well mounted and well armed. Vigilance alone was necessary to our safety, and as we had both served a regular apprenticeship to Indian warfare, we were not deficient in that. We soon overtook a company of moving families, who had united for safety. The convenience of the axes of the men, in making fires, and of the women in cooking, determined us to join them. We camped together every night; and as we derived great advantage from the association, we tried to requite it by our activity and diligence as scouts and flankers. We commonly rode some distance ahead, so as to give them time to prepare in case of attack; depending on our own diligence and skill to guard against surprise.

"Riding thus one day, a mile or two in advance, we were suddenly startled by an outcry from behind, which was not to be mistaken. We immediately drew up, and presently saw our party hurrying towards us, in great confusion and alarm, whipping up their teams, and only stopping long enough to say that they were pursued. The rear was therefore now our post, and, waiting till they {338} had all passed, we dismounted,--hid our horses, took trees, and awaited the enemy. I did not wait long, until I saw the head and shoulders of a figure above the undergrowth, rushing at full speed towards me. My rifle was at my cheek, and a steady aim at the advancing figure made me sure of my mark, when an opening in the brushwood showed me the dress of a female. She was the wife of one of the wretches who had just passed us, completely spent and sinking with fatigue. Had there been Indians she must have perished. As it was, her appearance showed the alarm to be false; so I took her up behind me, and we went quietly on, in pursuit of her dastard husband, to whose _protection_ I restored her."

In speaking these last words, the face of the speaker underwent, for a moment, a change, which told more than his story. The tone of scornful irony too, which accompanied the word _protection_, gave a new face to his character. As I marked the slight flush of his pale and somewhat withered cheek, the flash of his light blue eye, the curl of his lip, and a peculiar clashing of his eye-teeth as he spoke; I thought I had rarely seen a man, with whom it might not be as safe to trifle.

The day was now far spent; and as the sun descended, we had the satisfaction to observe that he sank behind a grove, that marked the course of a small branch of the Wabash, on the bank of which stood the house where we expected to find food and rest.

None but a western traveller can understand the entire satisfaction with which the daintiest child of luxury learns to look forward to the rude bed and homely fare, which await him, at the end of a hard day's ride, in the infant settlements. There is commonly a cabin of rough unhewn logs, containing one large room, where all the culinary operations of the family are performed, at the huge chimney around which the guests are ranged. The fastidious, who never wait to be hungry, may turn up their noses at the thought of being, for an hour before hand, regaled with the steam of their future meal. But to the weary and sharp set, there is something highly refreshing to the spirits and stimulating to the appetite. The dutch oven, well filled with biscuit, is no sooner discharged of them, than their place is occupied by sundry slices of bacon, which are immediately followed by eggs, broken into the hissing lard. In the mean time, a pot of strong coffee is boiling on a corner of the hearth; the table is covered with a coarse clean cloth; the butter and cream and honey are on it; and supper is ready.

"Then horn for horn they stretch and strive."

It makes me hungry now to think of it; and I am tempted to take back my word and eat something, having just told my wife I wanted no supper. But it will not do. I have not rode fifty miles to-day, and my table is so trim and my room so snug that I have no appetite.

But it is only in the first stage of a settlement, that these things are found. By and by, mine host, having opened a larger farm, builds him a house, of frame-work or brick, the masonry and carpentry of which show the rude handy-work of himself and his sons. He now employs several hands, and the leavings of their dinner will do for the supper of any chance travellers in the evening. A round deep earthen dish, in which a bit of fat pork or lean salt beef, crowns a small mound of cold greens or turnips, with loaf bread baked a month ago, and a tin can of skimmed milk now form the travellers supper. It is vain to expostulate. Our host has no fear of competition. He has now located the whole point of wood land crossed by the road, and no one can come nearer to him, on either hand, than ten miles. Besides, he is now the "squire" of the neighborhood, with "eyes severe," and "fair round belly with _fat bacon_ lined;" and why should not the daily food of a man of his consequence be good enough for a hungry traveller?

It was to a house of this latter description that we now came. No one came out to receive us. Why should they? We took off our own baggage, and found our way into the house as we might.

On entering, I was struck with the appearance of the party, as their figures glimmered through the mingled lights of a dull window and a dim fire. Each individual, though seated, (and no man moved or bad us welcome) wore his hat, of shadowy dimensions; a sort of family resemblance, both in cut and color, ran through the dresses of all; and a like resemblance in complexion and cast of countenance marked all but one. This one, as we afterwards found, was the master of the mansion, a man of massive frame, and fat withal, but whose full cheeks, instead of the ruddy glow of health, were overcast with an ashy, dusky, money-loving hue. In the appearance of all the rest there was something ascetic and mortified. But landlord and guest wore all one common expression of ostentatious humility and ill-disguised self-complacency, which so often characterizes those new sects, that think they have just made some important discoveries in religion. Mine host was, as it proved, the Gaius of such a church, and his guests were preachers of the same denomination. I have forgotten the name; but they were not Quakers. I have been since reminded of them, on reading the description of the company Julian Peveril found at Bridgnorth's.

When we entered, our landlord was talking in a dull, plodding strain, and in a sort of solemn protecting tone, to his respectfully attentive guests. Our appearance made no interruption in his discourse; and he went on, addressing himself mainly to a raw looking youth, whose wrists and {339} ankles seemed to have grown out of his sleeves and pantaloons since they were made. Where the light, which this young man was now thought worthy to diffuse, had broken in upon his own mind, I did not learn, but I presently discovered that he came from "a little east of sunrise," and had a curiosity as lively as my own, concerning the legends of the country.

"I guess brother P----," said he, "you have been so long in these parts, that it must have been right scary times when you first came here."

"Well! I cannot say," replied the other, "that there has been much danger in this country, since I came here. But if there was, it was nothing new to me. I was used to all that in Old Kentuck, thirty years ago."

"I should like," said the youth, "to hear something of your early adventures. I marvel that we should find any satisfaction in turning from the contemplation of God's peace, to listen to tales of blood and slaughter. But so it is. The old Adam will have a hankering after the things of this world."

"Well!" replied our host, "I have nothing very particular to tell. The scalping of three Indians, is all I have to brag of. And as to danger; except having the bark knocked off of my tree into my eyes, by a bullet, I do not know that I was ever in any mighty danger, but once."

"And when was that?"

"Well! It was when we were moving out along the wilderness road. You see it was mighty ticklish times; so a dozen families of us started together, and we had regular guards, and scouts, and flankers, just like an army. The second day after we left Cumberland river, a couple of young fellows joined us, one by the name of Jones, and I do not remember the other's name. I suppose they had been living somewhere in Old Virginia, where they had plenty of slaves to wait on them; and it went hard with them to make their own fires, and cook their own victuals; so they were glad enough to fall in with us, and have us and our women to work and cook for them. But a man was a cash article there; and they both had fine horses and good guns; and, to hear them talk, (especially that fellow Jones,) you would have thought, two or three Indians before breakfast, would not have been a mouthful to them. We did not think much of them, but we told them, if they would take their turn in scouting and guarding, they were welcome to join us."

At this moment, our landlady, who was busy in a sort of shed, which adjoined the room we sat in, and served as a kitchen, entered, and stopping for a moment, heard what was passing. She was a good-looking woman, of about forty-five, with a meek subdued and broken hearted cast of countenance. I saw her look at her husband, and as she listened, her face assumed an expression of timid expostulation, mixed with that sort of wonderment, with which we regard a thing utterly unaccountable, but which use has rendered familiar.

Her lord and master caught the look, and bending his shaggy brow, said, "I guess the men will want their supper, by the time they get it."

She understood the hint, and stole away rebuked; uttering unconsciously, in a loud sigh, the long hoarded breath which she had held all the time she listened. Her manner was not intended to attract notice; but there was something in it, which disposed me to receive her husband's tale with some grains of allowance. He went on thus:

"The day we expected to get to the crab-orchard, it was their turn to bring up the rear. By good rights, they ought to have been a quarter of a mile or so behind us; and I suppose they were; when, all of a sudden, we heard the crack of a rifle, and here they come, right through us, and away they went. I looked round for my woman and I could not see her. The poor creature was a little behind, and thought there was no danger, because we all depended on them two fire eaters in the rear, to take care of stragglers. But when they ran off, you see, there was nobody between her and the Indians; and the first thing I saw, was her, running for dear life, and they after her. I set my triggers, and fixed myself to stop one of them; and just then, her foot caught in a grape vine, and down she came. I let drive at the foremost, and dropped him; but the other one ran right on. My gun was empty; and I had no chance but to put in, and try the butt of it. But I was not quite fast enough. He was upon her, and had his hand in her hair; and it was a mercy of God, he did not tomahawk her at once. He had plenty of time for that;--but he was too keen after the scalp; and, just as he was getting hold of his knife, I fetched him a clip that settled him. Just then, I heard a crack or two, and a ball whistled mighty near me; but, by this time, some of our party had rallied, and took trees; and that brought the Indians to a stand. So I put my wife behind a tree, and got one more crack at them; and then they broke and run. That was the only time I ever thought myself in any _real_ danger, and that was all along of that Jones and the other fellow. But they made tracks for the settlement."

"Have you never seen Jones since?" said the mild voice of the courteous gentleman I have mentioned.

"No; I never have; and it's well for him; though, bless the Lord! I hope I could find in my heart _now_ to forgive him. But if I had ever come across him, before I met with you, brother B----;" (addressing a grave senior of the party who received the compliment with impenetrable gravity;) "I guess it would not have been so well for him."

"Do you think you would know him again, if you were to see him?" said my companion.

{340} "It's a long time ago," said he, "but I think I should. He was a mighty fierce little fellow, and had a monstrous blustering way of talking."

"Was he any thing like me?" said the stranger, in a low but hissing tone.

The man started, and so did we all, and gazed on the querist. In my life, I never saw such a change in any human face. The pale cheek was flushed, the calm eye glowed with intolerable fierceness, and every feature worked with loathing. But he commanded his voice, though the curl of his lip disclosed the full length of one eye tooth, and he again said, "look at me. Am not I the man?"

"I do not know that you are," replied the other doggedly, and trying in vain to lift his eye to that which glared upon him. "I do not know that you are?" muttered he.

"Where is he? where is he," screamed a female voice; "let _me_ see him. _I'll_ know him, bless his heart! _I'll_ know him any where in the world."

Saying this, our landlady rushed into the circle, and stood among us, while we all rose to our feet. She looked eagerly around. Her eye rested a moment on the stranger's face; and in the next instant her arms were about his neck, and her head on his bosom, where she shed a torrent of tears.

I need not add, that the subject of the Landlord's tale, was the very incident which my companion had related on the road. He soon made his escape, cowed and chop-fallen; and the poor woman bustled about, to give us the best the house afforded, occasionally wiping her eyes, or stopping for a moment to gaze mutely and sadly on the generous stranger, who had protected her when deserted by him who lay in her bosom.

The grave brethren looked, as became them, quite scandalized, at this strange scene. It was therefore promptly explained to them; but the explanation dissipated nothing of the gloom of their countenances. Their manner to the poor woman was still cold and displeased, and they seemed to forget her husband's fault, in their horror at having seen her throw herself into the arms of a stranger. For my part, I thought the case of the good Samaritan in point, and could not help believing, that he who had decided that, would pronounce that her grateful affection had been bestowed where it was due.

We are permitted by RICHARD RANDOLPH, ESQ. to publish the following extract, from a Journal kept by his father, the late _David Meade Randolph_, when a Student at _William & Mary College_ in 1779 under the patronage of PROFESSOR ANDREWS. It is a curious anecdote and will be read with interest.

WASHINGTON'S BIRTH NIGHT.

On the 22d February, 1779, the students of William & Mary College, and most of the respectable inhabitants of Williamsburg, prepared a subscription paper for celebrating Washington's birth night; and the pleasure of presenting it, was confided to _certain students_ immediately under the patronage of Professor Andrews.

Governor Henry was first waited on, and offered the paper: he refused his signature! "_He_ could not think of any kind of rejoicing at a time when our country was engaged in war, with such gloomy prospects." Dudley Digges, and Bolling Starke, members of the Council, were both waited on by the same persons, and received less courteous denials, and similar excuses.

The ball, nevertheless, was given at the Raleigh. Colonel Innis, more prominent than any other member of the association, directed its proceedings. It was thought proper to enliven the occasion by discharges of cannon. There were two pieces at the shop of Mr. Moody that had lately been mounted. There was a Captain commanding a company of soldiers, under the orders of Governor Henry; but the cannon were under no other care or authority at the time, than that of Mr. Moody the mechanic. Colonel Innis, with a party seconded by Colonel Finnie, brought the two pieces before the door of the Raleigh. On the way from the shop to the Raleigh, not two hundred yards, Colonel Innis saw Captain Digges passing up the street. Whilst the party concerned were collecting powder, and preparing for firing. Lieutenant Vaughan appeared before the Raleigh with a platoon, demanding possession of the cannon. He was carried in; took some punch; and said that he was ordered by Captain Digges to take away the pieces, by force, if they were not surrendered peaceably. This was refused. Vaughan repeated his orders: He was prevailed upon to return to his quarters, and report to Capt. Digges. Captain Digges waited on the Governor, and reported the state of things; and soliciting instructions how to proceed. The Governor referred Captain Digges to his own judgment. Captain Digges went immediately to the _Arena_, where, in the pride of his power, with sixty men, he drew up in form; and demanded the cannon at the point of his bayonets! Innis stept up to Captain Digges, and shaking his cane at him, swore that he would _cane him_, if he did not depart instantly with his men! This enraging Digges,--he said that if the pieces were not surrendered, he _would fire upon the party_. Innis _repeating_ his _threat_,--ordered Finnie to charge the cannon with _brick bats_: the mob in the street, and the gentlemen of the ball, re-echoing the order. The pieces were soon charged with brick bats: Innis all the while firmly standing by the Captain at the head of his men, _daring him to fire!_ After some delay, the Captain retreated with his men; and the evening closed with great joy.

Next day, Innis was arraigned before the Hustings Court, for Riot! confronted by the valiant Captain Digges. During the proceedings, when Innis replied to the charge, Digges in the body of the Court, and Innis in the Bar--among other particulars characteristic of the Colonel's temper and genius, he swore "it made no odds whether Captain Digges wore a red coat, or a black coat, he would _cane him!_" The case was attended with no farther particulars. Innis facing the Court, and repeating his threats; till at length he was dismissed, and triumphantly walked out of Court, attended by most of his friends, who had shared the honors of the preceding night.

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For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FROM THE DIARY OF A REVOLUTIONARY OFFICER.

MR. WHITE,--I embrace the opportunity afforded, by the transmission of my subscription for the "_Messenger_," to furnish you with a small contribution to the pages of that excellent periodical. Neither leisure nor ability, at present, allows me to present any original composition; but I feel confident that nothing I have to offer, could be more interesting and acceptable to your readers, than the following extract from the "_Manuscript Diary of a Revolutionary Officer_" which has recently been placed in my hands. It is expected that the whole will be transcribed in a _fac simile_ as to style, and so on, and presented to the Historical Society at an early period.

The writer was, I believe, a lieutenant in the Southern army. He was a native and resident of Powhatan county, Virginia, where his descendants still reside. He was a captain at the taking of Charleston, South Carolina, and composed the Diary referred to, while confined by the British as a prisoner of war. The Diary commences with a statement of the events which led to the surrender of the American army, and exhibits at length the official correspondence of General Lincoln and Sir Henry Clinton on the occasion.

We may admire the devotion and bravery of our forefathers, recount in terms of poetical exaggeration their heroic achievements, and dwell with fond recollection on their memories, but we can never form an accurate idea of their feelings, any correct conception of their sufferings, or properly estimate our debt of gratitude, until we can enter more fully into the _minutiæ_ of those events which general history relates. So long therefore, as it is praiseworthy (and long may it be so,) to set before our eyes the examples and characters of revolutionary patriots, will it be interesting to examine such records as the following.

Yours, truly.

*** ***

_Union Seminary, Pr. Ed. Va. 1835_.

SURRENDER OF CHARLESTON.

[The correspondence and articles of capitulation are omitted.]

MAY 12th, 1780. One company of British and one company of Hessian grenadiers marched in and took possession of the town work. At one o'clock our garrison were paraded, and at two were marched out with their drums beating, but we were not allowed to beat a British march.... after which two regiments of British grenadiers and light infantry marched in town. The commissary of prisoners, Major Stewart of the sixty-third regiment, came and got a list of the officers' and soldiers' names. He then asked for our second line. We told him that every soldier of our garrison fit for duty, he then saw paraded in that line. He said "that it was impossible for such a small army to defend the town and themselves, from ten thousand British troops: you certainly have more than these." Our answer was, we have not.--Thus an army of not more than _three thousand troops_, composed of regular soldiers, militia, sailors and marines, defended our post thirty-one days, closely besieged _by ten thousand_ British soldiers. The _want of provisions_ and proper rest, at last obliged us to fall into the hands of our enemies. Our soldiers were marched into the barrack's yard, where was a British guard waiting to receive them. The men were permitted to go out, as many as would ask leave. The officers had leave to go to their old quarters that evening; accordingly I went to my bomb proof, and pulled off my clothes. This was the first night for the space of fifty-five days past, I pulled off my clothes to go in bed. I went to bed, but could not rest for reflecting on my present condition of life.[1]

[Footnote 1: As we do not value our forefathers of the revolution for their literature end refinement, I transcribe the Diary as I find it, making only those corrections as to punctuation, which are necessary to perspicuity.]

13th. We removed to a house in town, and are allowed to walk the streets. We are much in want of provisions; almost in a starving condition.

15th. We are yet continued in our quarters without one morsel _of provision allowed us_ since we capitulated. This afternoon we were in some measure relieved from hunger, by means of a poor sheep a Hessian was driving by our quarters, that ran round the house and went in our cellar, and was immediately concealed by some of our waiters. The Hessian hunted some time for his poor sheep but could not find it, and we soon made some good hot soup [from the poor sheep].

16th. I was invited to breakfast with Mr. Elliot in town.

17th. [Parole to Haddrel's Point.] "I do hereby acknowledge myself to be a prisoner of war upon my parole to his Excellency Sir Henry Clinton, and that I am hereby engaged, until I shall be exchanged or otherwise released therefrom, to remain at the barracks at Haddrel's Point, or within six miles thereof, without crossing any river, creek, or arm of the sea. And that in the mean time, I shall not do, or cause any thing to be done prejudicial to the success of his Majesty's arms, or have intercourse with his enemies; and that upon a summons from His Excellency, or other person having authority, I shall surrender myself to them, at such time and place as I shall hereafter be required. Witness my hand."

18th. We have continued here four days without receiving any supply of provision, except what we caught from the water.

JUNE 22d. A flag arrived from North Carolina, for permission to send supplies to their troops in captivity, which was granted.

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CELEBRATION OF JULY 4, 1780.

[With all their discouragements, these unfortunate men were not too much depressed to celebrate this day. I do not recollect to have seen any notice of its celebration at a period earlier than this. It is interesting to see how it was regarded by those who suffered in the cause it commemorates.]

JULY 4th. This day was appointed for a general meeting of the officers at Haddrel's Point, to celebrate the Independency of the Thirteen United States of America. The following TOASTS were drank on the occasion:

1st. The Free and Sovereign Independent States of America.

2d. The Honorable the Continental Congress.

3d. His Most Christian Majesty the King of France.

4th. His Most Catholic Majesty the King of Spain.

5th. May impartial justice guide the other powers of Europe.

6th. Stability and firmness to the Alliance between France and America.

7th. Gen. Washington and the American Army.

8th. The American Navy.

9th. The American Ministry at Foreign Courts.

10th. _May the States of America be always found a sure refuge and an asylum against despotism and oppression._

11th. May the sword never be drawn but in the cause of justice.

12th. The immortal memory of those patriots and warriors who have fallen in the present war, in defence of the rights of mankind.

13th. Our brethren in captivity, suffering in the glorious cause of liberty.

From each toast there followed a discharge of _thirteen pistols_ and three cheers. That night the barracks were illuminated.

July 5th. The enemy was much exasperated from our yesterday's transactions. Capt. Roberts of the sixty-third regiment, who commanded at Fort Arbuthnot, wrote to General Patterson, who commanded in Charleston, informing him "the rebel officers on Haddrel's Point could not be satisfied with celebrating _their supposed day_ of independency by illuminating the barracks, but must fire small arms," which he thought too great "an indulgence for rebel prisoners," and that we had been guilty of a breach of our paroles.

6th. General Patterson wrote to General Moultrie and enclosed Captain Roberts' letter, ordering a return of the names of the officers who were at the head of the affair on the 4th instant. Likewise ordering every pistol in our possession to be sent to Fort Arbuthnot. [After considerable difficulty, it appears the pistols were given up, but no names accompanied them. The prisoners were threatened with close confinement for such behaviour in future. How differently are we situated!]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Copy of a Manuscript written but not published at the period of the Missouri Question, 1821_.

JONATHAN BULL AND MARY BULL.

Jonathan Bull and Mary Bull who were descendants of Old John Bull, the head of the family, had inherited contiguous estates in large tracts of land. As they grew up and became well acquainted, a partiality was mutually felt, and advances on several occasions made towards a matrimonial connection. This was particularly recommended by the advantage of putting their two estates under a common superintendance. Old Bull however as guardian of both, and having been allowed certain valuable privileges within the estates, with which he was not long content, had always found the means of breaking off the match, which he regarded as a fatal obstacle to his secret design of getting the whole property into his own hands.

At a moment favorable as he thought for the attempt, he brought suit against both, but with a view of carrying it on in a way that would make the process bear on the parties in such different modes, times and degrees, as might create a jealousy and discord between them. Jonathan and Mary had too much sagacity to be duped. They understood well Old Bull's character and situation. They knew that he was deeply versed in all the subtleties of the law, that he was of a stubborn and persevering temper, and that he had moreover a very long purse. They were sensible therefore that the more he endeavored to divide their interests, and their defence of the suit, the more they ought to make a common cause, and proceed in a concert of measures. As this could best be done by giving effect to the feelings long entertained for each other, an intermarriage was determined on and solemnized, with a deed of settlement as usual in such opulent matches, duly executed; and no event certainly of the sort was ever celebrated by a greater fervor or variety of rejoicings among the respective tenants of the parties. They had a great horror of falling into the hands of Old Bull; and regarded the marriage of their proprietors under whom they held their freeholds, as the surest mode of warding off the danger. They were not disappointed. United purses, and good advocates compelled Old Bull, after a hard struggle, to withdraw the suit, and relinquish forever, not only the new pretensions he had set up, but the old privileges he had been allowed.

The marriage of Jonathan and Mary was not a barren one. On the contrary every year or two added a new member to the family; and on such occasions the practice was to set off a portion of land sufficient for a good farm to be put under the authority of the child on its attaining the age of manhood; and these lands were settled very rapidly by tenants going as the case might be from the {343} estates, sometimes of Jonathan, sometimes of Mary, and sometimes partly from one and partly from the other.

It happened that at the expiration of the nonage of the 10th or 11th fruit of the marriage, some difficulties were started concerning the rules and conditions, of declaring the young party of age, and of giving him as a member of the family, the management of his patrimony. Jonathan became possessed with a notion that an arrangement ought to be made that would prevent the new farm from being settled and cultivated, as in all the latter instances, indiscriminately by persons removing from his and Mary's estate, and confine this privilege to those going from his own; and in the perverse humor which had seized him, he listened moreover to suggestions that Mary had some undue advantage from the selections of the head stewards which happened to have been made much oftener out of her tenants than his.

Now the prejudice suddenly taken up by Jonathan against the equal right of Mary's tenants to remove with their property to new farms, was connected with a peculiarity in Mary's person not as yet noticed. Strange as it may appear, the circumstance is not the less true, that Mary when a child, had unfortunately received from a certain African dye, a stain on her left arm which had made it perfectly black, and withal somewhat weaker than the other arm. The misfortune arose from her being prevailed on to let a ship from Africa, loaded with the article, enter a river running through her estate, and dispose of a part of the noxious cargo. The fact was well known to Jonathan at the time of their marriage; and if felt as an objection, it was in a manner reduced to nothing by the comely form and pleasing features of Mary in every other respect; by her good sense and amiable manners; and in part perhaps by the large and valuable estate she brought with her.

In the unlucky fit however which was upon him, he looked at the black arm, and forgot all the rest. To such a pitch of feeling was he wrought up, that he broke out into the grossest taunts on Mary for her misfortune; not omitting at the same time to remind her of his long forbearance, to exert his superior voice in the appointment of the head steward. He had now, he said, got his eyes fully opened, he saw every thing in a new light, and was resolved to act accordingly. As to the head steward, he would let her see that the appointment was virtually in his power; and she might take her leave of all chance of ever having another of her tenants advance to that station. And as to the black arm, she should, if the color could not be taken out, either tear off the skin from the flesh, or cut off the limb: For it was his fixed determination, that one or the other should be done, or he would sue out a divorce, and there should be an end of all connection between them and their estates. I have, he said, examined well the marriage settlement, and flaws have been pointed out to me, that never occurred before, by which I shall be able to set the whole aside. White as I am all over, I can no longer consort with one marked with such a deformity as the blot on your person.

Mary was so stunned with the language she heard that it was sometime before she could speak at all; and as the surprise abated, she was almost choked with the anger and indignation swelling in her bosom. Generous and placable as her temper was, she had a proud sensibility to what she thought an unjust and degrading treatment, which did not permit her to suppress the violence of her first emotions. Her language accordingly for a moment was such as these emotions prompted. But her good sense, and her regard for Jonathan, whose qualities as a good husband she had long experienced, soon gained an ascendancy, and changed her tone to that of sober reasoning and affectionate expostulation. Well, my dear husband, you see what a passion you had put me into. But it is over now, and I will endeavor to express my thoughts with the calmness and good feelings which become the relation of wife and husband.

As to the case of providing for our child just coming of age, I shall say but little. We both have such a tender regard for him and such a desire to see him on a level with his brethren as to the chance of making his fortune in the world, that I am sure the difficulties which have occurred will in some way or other be got over.

But I cannot pass so lightly over the reproaches you cast on the color of my left arm; and on the more frequent appointment of my tenants than of yours, to the head stewardship of our joint estates.

Now as to the first point; you seem to have forgotten, my worthy partner, that this infirmity was fully known to you before our marriage, and is proved to be so by the deed of settlement itself. At that time you made no objection whatever to our union; and indeed how could you urge such an objection, when you were conscious that you yourself was not entirely free from a like stain on your person. The fatal African dye, as you well know, had found its way into your abode as well as mine; and at the time of our marriage, had spots and specks scattered over your body as black as the skin on my arm. And although you have by certain abrasions and other applications, taken them in some measure out, there are visible remains which ought to soften at least your language when reflecting on my situation. You ought surely, when you have so slowly and imperfectly relieved yourself from the mortifying stain, although the task was comparatively so easy, to have some forbearance and sympathy with me who have a task so much more difficult {344} to perform. Instead of that you abuse me as if I had brought the misfortune on myself, and could remove it at will; or as if you had pointed out a ready way to do it, and I had slighted your advice. Yet so far is this from being the case, that you know as well as I do, that I am not to be blamed for the origin of the sad mishap; that I am as anxious as you can be to get rid of it; that you are as unable as I am to find out a safe and feasible plan for the purpose; and moreover, that I have done every thing I could in the mean time, to mitigate an evil that cannot as yet be removed. When you talk of tearing off the skin or cutting off the unfortunate limb, must I remind you of what you cannot be ignorant, that the most skilful surgeons have given their opinions that if so cruel an operation were to be tried, it could hardly fail to be followed by a mortification or a bleeding to death. Let me ask too, whether, should neither of the fatal effects ensue, you would like me better in my mangled or mutilated condition, than you do now? And when you threaten a divorce and an annulment of the marriage settlement, may I not ask whether your estate would not suffer as much as mine by dissolving the partnership between them? I am far from denying that I feel the advantage of having the pledge of your arm, your stronger arm if you please, for the protection of me and mine; and that my interests in general have been, and must continue to be the better for your aid and counsel in the management of them. But on the other hand you must be equally sensible that the aid of my purse will have its value, in case Old Bull or any other rich litigious fellow should put us to the expense of another tedious law suit. And now that we are on the subject of loss and gain, you will not be offended if I take notice of a report that you sometimes insinuate, that my estate, according to the rates of assessment, does not pay its due share into the common purse. I think, my dear Jonathan, that if you ever entertained this opinion you must have been led into it, by a very wrong view of the subject. As to the direct income from rents, there can be no deficiency on my part; the rule of apportionment being clear and founded on a calculation by numbers. And as to what is raised from the articles bought and used by my tenants, it is difficult to conceive that my tenants buy or use less than yours, considering that they carry a greater amount of crops to market, the whole of which, it is well known, they lay out in articles from the use of which the bailiff regularly collects the sum due. It would seem then that my tenants selling more, buy more; buying more, use more; and using more, pay more. Meaning, however, not to put you in the wrong, but myself in the right, I do not push the argument to that length, because I readily agree that in paying for articles bought and used, you have beyond the fruits of the soil on which I depend, ways and means which I have not. You draw chiefly the interest we jointly pay for the funds we were obliged to borrow for the fees and costs the suit Old Bull put us to. Your tenants also turn their hands so ingeniously to a variety of handicraft and other mechanical productions, that they make not a little money from that source. Besides all this, you gain much by the fish you catch and carry to market; by the use of your teams and boats in transporting and trading on the crops of my tenants; and indeed in doing that sort of business for strangers also. This is a fair statement on your side of the account, with the drawback however, that as your tenants are supplied with a greater proportion of articles, made by themselves, than is the case with mine, the use of which articles does not contribute to the common purse, they avoid in the same proportion, the payments collected from my tenants. If I were to look still further into this matter and refer you to every advantage you draw from the union of our persons and property, I might remark, that the profits you make from your teams and boats, and which enable you to pay your quota, are in great part drawn from the preference they have in conveying and disposing of the products of my soil; a business that might fall into other hands, in the event of our separation. I mention this, as I have already said, not by way of complaint, for I am well satisfied that your gain is not altogether my loss in this more than in many other instances; and that what profits you immediately may profit me also in the long run. But I will not dwell on these calculations and comparisons of interest, which you ought to weigh as well as myself, as reasons against the measure to which you threaten a resort. For when I consult my own heart, and call to mind all the endearing proofs you have given of yours being in sympathy with it, I must needs hope that there are other ties than mere interest, to prevent us from ever suffering a transient resentment on either side, with or without cause, to bring on both, all the consequences of a divorce; consequences too which would be a sad inheritance indeed for our numerous and beloved offspring.

As to the other point relative to the head stewards, I must own, my worthy husband, that I am altogether at a loss for any cause of dissatisfaction on your part or blame on mine. It is true, as you say, that they have been oftener taken from among my tenants than yours; but under other circumstances the reverse might as well have happened. If the individuals appointed, had made their way to the important trust, by corrupt or fallacious means; if they had been preferred merely because they dwelt on my estate, or had succeeded by any interposition of {345} mine contrary to your inclination; or finally, if they had administered the trust unfaithfully, sacrificing your interests to mine, or the interests of both to selfish or unworthy purposes, in either of these cases, you would have ground for your complaints. But I know Jonathan that you are too just and too candid not to admit that no such ground exists. The head stewards in question could not have been appointed without your own participation as well as mine. They were recommended to our joint choice by the reputed fairness of their characters, by their tried fidelity and competency in previous trusts, and by their exemption from all charges of impure and grasping designs; and so far were they from being partial to my interest at the expense of yours, that they were rather considered by my tenants as leaning to a management more favorable to yours than to mine. I need not say that I allude to the bounties direct and indirect to your teams and boats, to the hands employed in your fisheries, and to the looms and other machineries, which without such encouragements would not be able to meet the threatened rivalships of interfering neighbors; I say only, that these ideas were in the heads of some of my tenants. For myself I should not have mentioned them but as a defence against what I must regard as so unfounded a charge, that it ought not to be permitted to make a lasting impression.

But laying aside all these considerations, I repeat, my dear Jonathan, that the appointment of the head steward lies as much, if not more, with you than with me. Let the choice fall where it may you will find me faithfully abiding by it, whether it be thought the best possible one or not, and sincerely wishing that he may equally improve better opportunities of serving us both, than was the lot of any of those who have gone before him.

Jonathan who had a good heart, as well as a sound head and steady temper, was touched with this tender and conciliatory language of Mary; and the bickering which had sprung up ended as the quarrels of lovers _always_, and of married folks _sometimes_ do, in an increased affection and confidence between the parties.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MARRYING WELL.

PHILADELPHIA, 1835.

_My Dear Miss H----_,--

I fully agree with you in the high character you have given of the "Southern Literary Messenger,"--some numbers of which I have had the pleasure of reading, and join most heartily with you in the wish that it may meet with the success it so eminently deserves. But what shall I say in reply to your request to write something for its columns? You are aware that nothing "_mediocre_" can find its way there; and you are as well aware that I have seldom or never been charged with the sin of authorship. Your requests however are commands; and although I may fail to give to the subject I have selected, sufficient interest to induce the editors to yield it a place in their paper, yet will I indulge the hope that as it is a true story, it may prove useful to yourself, for the truths it reveals,--though lacking the ornament to make them acceptable to the general reader.

It is not necessary to give a "local habitation" to those whose brief story I am about to record. For all the purposes for which I have called them up, you may suppose them to have lived in either Albany or Richmond; for in many respects these cities are very much alike. Each is situated on a noble river, and is the capital of a state. Each has in its vicinity, hills and valleys, and landscapes of picturesque beauty and grandeur, amid whose romantic and love inspiring scenes many a sigh has been breathed and many a vow offered in vain. Notwithstanding these places thus resemble each other, I would here observe that you are not at liberty to be particular in your choice, because you may have known or heard of persons and events in either of them similar to those here described. What happens in one place may happen in another, and he who travels far and wide will find the human family every where agitated by the same feelings and the same passions, and that all the elements that enter into the history of the world, may be found in any one town or village, directing and controlling the destinies of its inhabitants.

Leaving however, to the historian and the philosopher, the task of writing the history of the world, and developing the secret springs of human action, and to sager heads to read them, than that of my fair correspondent,--I will only ask your attention to what will be more congenial to your wishes, and a more easily understood subject, a tale of "Ladye Love," in which some of my younger friends and feelings were deeply interested.

During our schoolboy days, I became acquainted with George Marley; but we will pass over his earlier years, until he had arrived at the age of twenty. As it is not my intention to enter upon a particular analysis of form and features, mind or manners, I will leave your imagination to make George whatever you please, not incompatible with a "marvellously proper" young man, tall and straight, with raven locks and eagle eye--with all those high intellectual qualities, and that deep moral rectitude, which wins admiration and commands esteem. Two years before I have here introduced him to you, George's father was considered one of the most wealthy merchants in the city, and George's education and hopes were in accordance with his high expectations. But a {346} series of disasters to which commercial property is so very liable, swept away from Mr. Marley every thing he possessed but the honorable and virtuous character of himself and his family. At the time of his father's misfortune George was taken from school, and placed in a merchant's counting house, to qualify him for the active career of life thus early forced upon him--a career in which he must depend upon his own exertions for success, and in which he must win for himself, and by himself, whatever he might obtain of fortune or of fame.

In the particular circumstances of his situation at this time, I am aware there is nothing to excite your sympathy. Many thousands of young men enter upon the active scenes of life under more disadvantages than these--without friends, without a good education, without early habits of propriety and rectitude, and yet reach to the highest eminence and renown; and why might not George Marley? The answer is simply, he _loved!_ and would not love inspire him with stronger and more powerful motives for exertion and success?

Isabella Barclay was, if ever there was, a perfectly lovely girl. She was one of those fair creatures that occasionally are seen among us, but which seem to belong to a higher order of beings than those inhabiting this lower world. It is not wonderful therefore that George Marley should love her, or that she should love him. They did love, truly--devotedly. They were too young to conceal it; there was no cause for concealment. Every body knew it; their parents knew it, and sanctioned it--and why should they not? Previously to the failure of Mr. Marley, they were equal in fortune, in education, and in all that could give promise of a certain and happy union. Although Mr. Marley had fallen from affluence to comparative poverty, yet himself and his family continued to enjoy the respect of all their acquaintance; and the particular friendship that had existed between Mr. Marley and Mr. Barclay, and their respective families, to all appearance suffered no interruption.

The misfortunes of Mr. Marley, although it had blighted the hopes of George, had no effect on Isabella but to excite her pity and strengthen her love. She was too young to calculate chances or consequences--she had not loved George for his father's wealth, but for himself; and while he remained the same, her affections were immutable. Thus reasoned this pure and amiable girl; and for the two years that elapsed from the time of the unfortunate failure of Mr. Marley, up to that at which we commenced our tale, George was happy in the expectation of ere long being enabled to raise his own fallen fortune, and happier in the tried sincerity of his Isabella's love.

I need not stop to tell you of the thousand hopes and fears, pleasures and pains, our lovers suffered or enjoyed: I suppose they were such as are common to all the votaries of the fickle God. Their attachment had commenced at school, and we have continued it until he had arrived at the age of twenty, and she seventeen, and at no time had any interruption to its progress taken place. If you have paid any attention to these love affairs, you will have observed the great difference there is between those where the attachment commences early in life, and the parties grow up together, forming and moulding their feelings, their wishes, their amusements, their tastes, their whole heart and soul, by the same model; and those "whom accident or blind chance" bring together, and from some peculiarity of form or mind, for a while deem themselves in love with each other. With the former, it is the web of their existence, which, once broken, can never be woven again; with the latter, it is "like a lady's glove," put off as easily as it is put on, and with whose last sigh passes away all its pleasures and its pains, leaving no "wreck behind." As that of George and Isabella was of the former kind, and as no objection had been made on the inequality of their fortunes, and as he was about to enter into business for himself under the fairest prospects, their marriage when they should arrive at a proper age, was looked for by themselves and all others as beyond the reach of doubt or contingency. What contingency could happen? Their known engagement, his constant attention, and her acknowledged affection for him, formed an impassable barrier to the advances that otherwise would have been made by many who admired her. Indeed, you and I would suppose that no one would attempt to mar their promised happiness, or wish to win hearts that had so long beat for each other, and each other only. Yet did the spoiler come! and where will he not come? Since he first found his way into the Garden of Eden, and blasted the happiness of our common parents, where is the paradise some spoiler has not entered? where the scene of love and harmony he has not attempted to break up and destroy?

In the particular city to which we have alluded, there lived a bachelor of upwards of double the age of George Marley, although his appearance was younger than his age would have indicated; with few personal attractions, he had but little education; and no more of common sense, or any other kind of sense, than fitted him for the accumulation of wealth. As he sustained a respectable character, was called rich, and lived in a style of comparative splendor, he was of course one of the good society of the city, and a desirable match for any daughter a mother wished to sell to the highest bidder. If Mr. Simson, for such was this gentleman's name, ever had had any feelings of the heart--if he ever was susceptible of a pure and holy love; the associations, habits, and pursuits of his whole life, had long since deadened them all, or made them subservient to his will, an {347} article of trade or commerce, of marketable value, to bestow them on the wife of his bosom, as a Pacha bestows his on the last fairest slave his wealth has purchased. But you may ask what Mr. Simson has to do with the loves of George and Isabella? Ah! my dear girl, old, ignorant and cold hearted as he may be, he is the arbiter of their fate. It is in his power to give them years of happiness, or it is in his power to blight their buds of promise, and send them prematurely to their graves! and why? because he is _rich!_ I know your young heart rejects the supposition that such a man would, or could, break their bonds of mutual love, that thus seemed to have been formed and strengthened under the auspices of heaven,--that he by any means could "pluck from the brows of their innocent love, the rose, and place a blister there." I know you anticipate that he will appropriate a part of his wealth to establish George in business, or will die and leave it all to him; that thus he will be enabled to wed his Isabella, and their lives thenceforth "go merry as a marriage bell." Alas! how little do we know of ourselves or our destiny! how unseen or mistaken may be the path that leads to high and happy places, or that which leads to misery and despair!

Nothing is more painful to my mind, than to witness a beautiful girl thrown into the alluring and deceptive scenes of life without a mother's guardianship. No other heart can sympathise with her, no other hand direct her course. She does not feel for them, and they cannot feel with her! Others may warn and advise her, but none but a mother's watchful eye can perceive, and a mother's tender care guard or direct her young affections. Isabella had a mother. But Mrs. Barclay was a woman of the world. In early life she may have loved, and that love may have been successful and happy; or she may have married for convenience, to gratify some darling passion, and never have known the deep feelings of a long cherished affection. No matter what was the history of her younger days, they had passed away, and with them all their sympathies and all their influence. She was now a woman of the world--a _fashionable lady_. She loved her daughter, and to make that daughter happy was the chief object of her care. The notions of happiness entertained by this worthy matron, was such as thousands and thousands believe, yet never find true. The show, the glare of wealth and its attendants, the unsatisfying yet exciting routine of fashionable life, were to her every thing; and that calm, pure and virtuous happiness which springs in the heart, and is cherished by its high and heavenly attributes, were to her unknown, or as nothing. With such views, it was not to be expected that she would look upon the attachment of George and Isabella in the most favorable light, or promote its continuance, when it interfered with any other more splendid prospect that might offer. Such a prospect did offer; and that being who of all others should have directed her young and unsuspecting offspring in the path of truth and rectitude; by a course of deceptions, endeavored to induce Isabella to forsake her first and only love, and unite herself to one who was incapable of loving her, and who she could never love--to Mr. Simson! George was early apprised of her purpose, and did all a true and noble mind could do, to avert the blow she was preparing for him. His fears were always lulled by the unwavering love of Isabella, and her vows of constancy. He believed her true, and she believed herself true. But the continual and insidious efforts of her mother and her fashionable friends, poisoned her mind; and, tired of their importunities, she at length yielded to their persuasions. George was too proud to let the world triumph in the prostration of his hopes; as soon therefore as he was assured of her infidelity, he set sail for South America.

Isabella's abandonment of George, and her affiance to Mr. Simson, were events soon known, and as soon attracted the attention of their acquaintance. It was perceptible to every one, that her character had passed away with him who had so long given it its tone and direction. Freed from him who had from her infancy been the source and the companion of all her pleasures, she visited every public and private amusement or assembly, and was every where remarkable for her vivid and reckless gaiety. Those who judged by appearances deemed her happy in her new situation; but those who looked beneath the surface, saw only in these wild demonstrations of joy, the vain efforts to banish from her heart "the worm that dyeth not."

Some months after the departure of George, Mr. Simson and Isabella were married. From the time the latter had broken her vows to George, all intimacy between her and myself had ceased. I was not therefore at her wedding, but it was said to be numerous and brilliant--the bride splendidly decorated, lovely, and the gayest of the gay.

For a few short years after her marriage, although I lived in a distant part of the country, I could hear of Isabella, now Mrs. Simson. For sometime she apparently luxuriated in the golden vision, for which had been sacrificed her earliest and fondest anticipations. She gave the largest parties, and the most splendid fetes, and the fashionable world pronounced her marriage _fortunate_. But soon this illusory existence vanished, and I learned, what nothing can conceal, that the decay which halteth not had settled itself upon her beautiful form. A few months and she was confined to her house, and then to her room, and then to her bed--and then came from her a brief but thrilling letter, ardently desiring me to come to her before she died. I did go; and did hear from her dying lips, {348} how a mother's mistaken love had made her faithless, and of the years of hopeless and bitter anguish that followed and dragged her down to the grave. I have stood by the dying bed of friends and relations--I have seen the last struggle of a father, of brothers and sisters, and for all of these I have had deep sorrow. But it was in the presence of that broken hearted sufferer, and from the revealings and monitions of her departing spirit, I learned that enduring lesson of life, which time nor circumstance can ever obliterate. Yes! my dear girl; it was there I received that lesson which I have so often endeavored to impress upon your mind,--to guard you against the snares that are every where spread by those who have wrecked their own happiness, to draw the young and thoughtless into the vortex of their own dazzling but heartless pleasures. Could you have been in that chamber, and have seen and known how one so lovely, and whose morning of life was so fair, had been snatched from the world of her bright dreams,--prostrating in her fall all the years of earthly bliss that might have been hers, and all the proud aspirations, the promised felicity of him, the betrothed of her heart,--you would never again breathe one sigh, or one wish,--or weaken one chord of pure affection, for all that wealth and fashion can promise or bestow.

A few days after this interview, she left this world of trouble,--and the papers of the day, announced in the usual manner,--Died, on the ---- instant, of a "pulmonary complaint," Mrs. Simson, wife of Mr. ---- Simson; and who thought otherwise? who of all that surrounded her, could deem she had a _heart_ to _break_? Thus she passed away; and the world, busied with its own little and great schemes, soon ceased to remember that she had ever lived, or loved, or died.

With Isabella ends our tale. And it is only necessary in conclusion to say, that George never knew how fully and fearfully she had atoned for her fatal error. Before I had an opportunity of communicating to him my last painful interview with her,--and her prayers for his happiness and forgiveness, he had fallen in the struggle of South America for liberty and independence. Mrs. Barclay is still alive, and so is Mr. Simson, though now some ten years older than when he led Isabella a victim to the altar. I presume he is still in the market; he is ten years older, he is ten years richer, and thus doubly desirable to those mothers who _love_ their daughters, and wish to have them _well married_.

I have endeavored to be as brief as possible, but my letter has extended itself too long, and yet I fear it is too short to make that impression I could wish. I cannot but hope, however, that Isabella's fate will awaken in your breast, as it did in mine, those reflections that will lead you justly to appreciate how false and empty are the world's opinions, when compared with the conscientious dictates of our own calm and unbiassed judgment,--and determine you to choose that life whence rises and flows the streams of all our earthly happiness. If I have failed, and that flower which now blooms so fair and fragrant by the banks of Powhatan, should be plucked by a hand insensible to its sweets, to ornament some princely hall, and wither amid all its splendor, then you may recollect the warning voice, and think of one, though humble, who would have sacrificed every other hope of happiness to cherish that flower--you may then remember----

B----.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCH OF VIRGINIA SCENERY.

The following Sketch of Virginia Scenery is sent with the hope the author will excuse the liberty taken, as it was written without the slightest idea of its being ever published, by a traveller through some of the scenes of Western Virginia:--

"It was a charming evening--the sky was almost cloudless, and the sultry air of summer seemed to be gradually giving way to the cool and refreshing breezes of autumn. Accompanied by a few companions and some persons acquainted with the surrounding country, I ascended the large and romantic rock near the village of Rockymount, known by the name of the '_Bald Knob_.' This rock is about 200 feet above the level of the water, and the ascent exceedingly steep and difficult. Its name is indeed descriptive of its general character and appearance, which are calculated to strike more by its novelty of height and rugged aspect, than its beauty of herbage or richness of attire.--We wound up among ledges of rock, and now and then found our progress retarded by the intervention of some stunted cedars and oaks, which had clung to a soil which would seem hardly able to afford any sustenance, except to the moss, long celebrated for its fondness for the flinty rock. This moss, consisting of several rich and beautiful species, has wove a seeming carpet of the most vivid green, and surpasses in softness the finest fabrics of the Turkish looms. Delighted and amused, we strolled from cliff to cliff, gazing on the works of Omnipotence, which arose around, above, beneath us, and feasting our delighted senses on the rich magnificence of the scenes presented from its summit. The lofty mountains dimly seen from afar; the 'rural cottages' in the vales below; the smoke richly curling from the unseen hamlets among the lofty trees; the startling sound of the huntsman's gun re-echoed from the rocky heights--were an assemblage of pleasures rarely enjoyed by so short an excursion. The 'Peaks of Otter,' appeared with much distinctness and beauty, while a rich and variegated cloud seemed to rest on their summit, as though it had stooped to gaze with us on their magnificent heights. A branch of the Alleghany is also visible between two lofty hills, and the blue tints that rested on its brow, contrasted with the {349} glowing greens of the adjacent forests, presented to the eye a grateful and pleasing variety of shade.--The picturesque village of Rockymount appears to much advantage from this rock, and the country around is one of much wild and romantic beauty. Long did we gaze on the works of nature's God,--displayed in majestic, rural, and beautiful scenes; and then turning from these glorious manifestations of wisdom and power, traced the names of many a youthful swain and maid, who had chiselled out their initials on the flinty rock, urged no doubt by the puerile ambition of being remembered long after they had ceased to roam among its rocky alcoves. There could the poet's soul catch sparks of inspiration from nature's open volume, and the painter's pencil vainly strive to touch with living lines his there _faithless_ canvass. 'Who can paint like nature?' would echo from each lovely object; and man, in all his pride of nature and of art, shrink from the task of copying her rich and gorgeous dyes. There would the Christian pour out his soul in adoration and praise; and, lost in contemplation of the Hand that raised the mountains and spread out the plain, stoop not to draw his sources of delight from the _poorer, yet still rich_ pleasures afforded to the carnal mind. The fanciful may, aided by this sketch, catch a glimpse of the beauties of the scenes,--but let them, like me, view them as they are, and they will own how far the reality exceeds the most vivid colorings of even a wild and enthusiastic admirer of the works of nature's God."

J. W. C.

_September, 1832_.

From the Scottish Literary Gazette.

COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE.

There lived in a country not a thousand miles from Edinburgh, a decent farmer, who, by patient industry and frugality, and without being avaricious, had made himself easy in circumstances. He enjoyed life without being profuse; for he tempered his enjoyments with moderation. At the age of sixty, he still retained the bloom of health on his cheek. He lived till that age a bachelor; but his household affairs were regulated by a young woman, whose attentive zeal for her master's interest made it easy for him to enjoy his home without a wife. She was only in the character of his humble servant, but she was virtuous and prudent. Betty allotted the tasks to the servants in the house, performed the labor within doors, during harvest, when all the others were engaged. She saw every thing kept in order, and regulated all with strict regard to economy and cleanliness. She had the singular good fortune to be at once beloved by her fellow-servants, as well as respected and trusted by her master. Her master even consulted her in matters where he knew she could give advice, and found it often his interest to do so. But her modesty was such, that she never tendered her advices gratuitously. Prudence regulated all her actions, and she kept the most respectful distance from her master. She paid all attention to his wants and wishes; nor could a wife or daughter have been more attentive. When he happened to be from home, it was her province to wait upon him when he returned, provide his refreshment, and administer to all his wants. Then she reported to him the occurrences of the day, and the work which had been done. It did not escape her master's observation, however, that, though she was anxious to relate the truth, she still strove to extenuate and hide the faults of those who had committed misdemeanors. Her whole conduct was such, that, for the period of fifteen years, the breath of slander dared not to hazard a whisper against her.

It happened, however, that a certain _maiden_ lady in the neighborhood had cast an eye upon the farmer. She was the niece of a bachelor minister, and lived at the manse in the character of housekeeper. But, with all opportunity to become a competitor with Betty, she could never gain her character. Those people who want personal attractions take strange means of paying court, and endeavoring to open the way for themselves. What they cannot effect by treaty, they endeavor to do by sapping. Scandal is their magazine, by which they attempt to clear their way from all obstructions. This maiden lady made some sinister remarks, in such a way, and in such a place, as were sure to reach the farmer's ear. The farmer was nearly as much interested for the character of his servant as he was for his own, and so soon as he discovered the authoress, made her a suitable return. But he made ample amends to Betty for the injury she had suffered, and, at the same time, rewarded her for her services, by taking her for his wife. By this event, the lady, whose intentions had been well understood, and who had thought of aggrandizing herself at the expense and ruin of poor Betty, found that she had contributed the very means to advance her to the realization of a fortune she had never hoped for. May all intermeddlers of the same cast have the same punishment: they are pests to society.

Betty's success had created some speculation in the country. Though every one agreed that Betty deserved her fortune, it was often wondered how such a modest, unassuming girl had softened the heart of the bachelor, who, it was thought, was rather flinty in regard to the fair sex. Betty had an acquaintance, who was situated in nearly the same circumstances as herself, in being at the head of a bachelor farmer's house; but it would appear that she had formed a design of conquering her master. If Betty used artifice, however, it was without design. But her neighbor could not, it would appear, believe that she had brought the matter to a bearing without some stratagem; and she wished Betty to tell her how she had gone about "courting the old man." There was, withal, so much native simplicity about Betty, and the manner of relating her own courtship and marriage is so like herself, that it would lose its _naïveté_ unless told in her own homely Scotch way. Betty, into all, had a lisp in her speech, that is, a defect in speech, by which the _s_ is always pronounced as _th_, which added a still deeper shade of simplicity to her manner; but it would be trifling to suit the orthography to that common defect. The reader can easily suppose that he hears Betty lisping, while she is relating her story to her attentive friend.

"Weel, Betty," says her acquaintance, "come, gi'e me a sketch, an' tell me a' about it; for I may ha'e a chance mysel'. We dinna ken what's afore us. We're {350} no the waur o' ha'ein' some body to tell us the road, whan we dinna ken a' the cruiks and thraws in't." "Deed," says Betty, "there was little about it ava. Our maister was awa at the fair ae day selling the lambs, and it was gey late afore he cam' hame. Our maister verra seldom steys late, for he's a douce man as can be. Weel, ye see, he was mair herty than I had seen him for a lang time; but I opine he had a gude merket for his lambs, and ther's room for excuse whan ane drives a gude bergen. Indeed, to tell even on truth, he had rather better than a wee drap in his e'e. It was my usual to sit up till he cam' hame, when he was awa. When he cam' in and gaed up stairs, he fand his sipper ready for him. 'Betty,' says he, very saft-like. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'what has been gaun on the day--a's right, I houp?' 'Ouy, sir,' says I. 'Very weel, very weel,' says he, in his ain canny way. He ga'e me a clap on the shouther, and said I was a gude lassie. When I had telt him a' that had been dune throu' the day, just as I aye did, he ga'e me another clap on the shouther, and said he was a fortunate man to ha'e sic a carefu' person about the house. I never had heard him say as muckle to my face before, tho' he aften said mair ahint my back. I really thocht he was fey. Our maister, when he had gotten his sipper finished, began to be verra joky ways, and said that I was baith a gude and bonny lassie. I kent that folks arna' themsels whan in drink, and they say rather mair than they wad do if they were sober. Sae I cam' awa' doon into the kitchen.

"Twa or three days after that, our maister cam' into the kitchen--'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'come up stairs; I want to speak t'ye,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae I went up stairs after him, thinking a' the road that he was gaun to tell me something about the feeding o' the swine, or killing the heefer, or something like that. But whan he telt me to sit doun, I saw there was something serious, for he never bad me sit doun afore but ance, and that was whan he was gaun to Glasgow fair. 'Betty,' says he, 'ye ha'e been lang a servant to me,' says he, 'and a gude and honest servant. Since ye're sae gude a servant, I aften think ye'll make a better wife. Ha'e ye ony objection to be a wife, Betty?' says he. 'I dinna ken, sir,' says I. 'A body canna just say hou they like a bargain till they see the article.' 'Weel, Betty,' says he, 'ye're very right there again. I ha'e had ye for a servant these fifteen years, and I never knew that I could find fau't wi' ye for onything. Ye're carefu', honest, an' attentif, an'--.' 'O, sir,' says I, 'ye always paid me for't, and it was only my duty,' 'Weel, weel,' says he, 'Betty, that's true; but then I mean to mak' amens t'ye for the evil speculation that Tibby Langtongue raised about you and me, and forby, the warld are taking the same liberty: sae, to stop a' their mouths, you and I sall be married.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I; for what cou'd I say?

"Our maister looks into the kitchen another day, an' says, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'I am gaun to gi'e in our names to be cried in the kirk, this and next Sabbath.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I.

"About eight days after this, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'I think,' says he, 'we will ha'e the marriage put owre neist Friday, if ye ha'e nae objection.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. 'And ye'll tak' the grey yad, and gang to the toun on Monday, an' get your bits o' wedding braws. I ha'e spoken to Mr. Cheap, the draper, and ye can tak' aff onything ye want, an' please yoursell, for I canna get awa that day.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I.

"Sae I gaed awa to the toun on Monday, an' bought some wee bits o' things; but I had plenty o' claes, and I cou'dna think o' being 'stravagant. I took them to the manty-maker, to get made, and they were sent hame on Thursday.

"On Thursday night, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'To-morrow is our wedding-day,' says he, 'an' ye maun see that a' things are prepared for the denner,' says he, 'an' see every thing dune yoursel,' says he, 'for I expect some company, an' I wad like to see every thing feat and tiddy in your ain way,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I.

"I had never ta'en a serious thought about the matter till now; and I began to consider that I must exert mysel to please my maister and the company. Sae I got every thing in readiness, and got every thing clean--I cou'dna think ought was dune right except my ain hand was in't.

"On Friday morning, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Go away and get yoursel dressed,' says he, 'for the company will soon be here, and ye maun be decent. An' ye maun stay in the room up stairs,' says he, 'till ye're sent for,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. But there was sic a great deal to do, and sae many grand dishes to prepare for the dinner to the company, that I could not get awa', and the hail folk were come afore I got mysel dressed.

"Our maister cam' doun stairs, and telt me to go up that instant and dress mysel, for the minister was just comin doun the loan. Sae I was obliged to leave every thing to the rest of the servants, an' gang up stain, an' pit on my claes.

"When I was wanted, Mr. Brown o' the Haaslybrae cam' and took me into the room among a' the gran' fouk, an' the minister. I was maist like to fent; for I never saw sae mony gran' folk together a' my born days afore, an' I didna ken whar to look. At last, our maister took me by the han', an' I was greatly relieved. The minister said a great deal to us--but I canna mind it a'--and then he said a prayer. After this, I thought I should ha'e been worried wi' folk kissing me,--mony a yin shook hands wi' me I had never seen afore, and wished me much joy.

"After the ceremony was o'er, I slipped awa' doun into the kitchen again amang the rest o' the servants to see if the dinner was a' right. But in a wee time our maister cam' into the kitchen, an' says, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'ye must consider that ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he; 'and therefore ye must come up stairs and sit amongst the rest of the company,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae what could I do, but gang up stairs to the rest of the company, an' sit doun among them? I sat there in a corner, as weel out o' sight as I could, for they were a' speaking to me or looking at me, an' I didna ken how to behave amang sic braw company, or how to answer them. I sat there till it was gey late, and our maister made me drink the company's healths, and they gaed a' away.

"When the company were a' gaen awa', I went doun {351} to the kitchen, and saw that every thing was right; and after I put a candle into my maister's bed-room, I took another, and gaed away up to my ain wee room, in the garret. Just whan I was casting aff my shune, I hears our maister first gang into his ain room, and then come straight awa' up towards mine. I think I can hear him yet, for it was siccan extraord'nar thing, and I never saw him there afore; and every stamp o' his feet gaed thunt, thunt to my very hert. He stood at the cheek o' the door, and said, very saftly, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I--'But what brought ye here, sir,' says I. 'Naething,' says he. 'Verra weel, naething be it, sir,' says I. 'But,' says he, 'remember that ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I; 'I will remember that.' 'And ye must come down stairs,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I; for what could I do? I had always obeyed my maister before, and it was nae time to disobey him now.

"Sae, Jean, that was a' that was about my courtship or marriage."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMINISCENCE:

OR, STORY OF A SHIPWRECK.

In the year 1797, I left the United States, having under my control a new clipper built schooner of about eighty tons, bound to Cape Francais, in the island of St. Domingo, with a cargo, chiefly munitions of war, for the colonial government of that island. The harbor of Cape Francais is one of the best in the world,--capacious, safe, and of easy access; the entrance under a high point of land,--on the side of which is a strong fortification called Fort Picolet, which completely commands the pass. Above the fort, on very elevated ground, was placed the observatory, in view of the town, although two or three miles distant.

England being then at war with France, and having the command of the West India seas, the direct intercourse of the island with France was rare and uncertain--European news generally reaching them by the way of the United States. My business at the Cape being nearly finished, it became necessary, for a particular mercantile speculation, that I should return to the United States by the way of St. Thomas. Three or four days before I was prepared to sail, early one forenoon, I observed all at once a singular excitement in the streets,--drums beating, alarm guns firing, &c. Upon making inquiry into the occasion, I was informed that the signals at the observatory indicated a fleet to windward standing for the port. The leading frigate was soon seen from the town, making signals to the fort, and without molestation stood directly in, and proved to be a squadron from France, under the command of Commodore Barney, with a number of prizes in company, which altogether made a very imposing appearance. The day before I had intended to leave the Cape, I was accosted in the street by a stout sailor looking man, who civilly inquired if I had not a vessel in port bound to St Thomas, and could he get a passage in her--adding, that he was an Englishman, had been captain of one of the brigs then in port, captured by Commodore Barney, on his passage out from Liverpool to Barbadoes; and as he had not been armed he was not held as a prisoner, but turned ashore pennyless, to shift for himself as he best might--that could he get to St. Thomas, he could raise funds by bills on his consignees at Barbadoes, and would pay whatever the charge might be for his passage up. I told him I believed that it was the custom for unfortunate seamen to receive assistance from their fellows, without thinking of recompense--that he was entirely welcome to a passage; and as the schooner would leave the port early the next morning, I would give him a note to the captain, and advise him to take his baggage and go immediately on board. He observed that his baggage was easily removed--that although he had considerable property on board of the brig when captured, belonging to himself, the captors had left him nothing but a sailor's bag to take care of. Next morning we left Cape Francais, with a view of beating up to St Thomas. This is a voyage of some difficulty, being a distance of some six or seven hundred miles, with the trade wind dead ahead. Navigators of those seas know that in this passage there is a dangerous reef of sunken rocks, whose sharp points rarely reach the surface, called the Silver Keys, lying about midway between the northeast part of the island of St. Domingo, and the cluster of islands, keys and shoals, east of Turk's Island; and although the passage is probably a hundred miles wide, and the reef covers but a small space, yet many a fine vessel has been wrecked thereon. Knowing perfectly well the existence and location of this dangerous reef, and making my own observations on the run of the vessel, I had calculated on the third night that we were out--that if we neither saw nor heard any thing of it by midnight, we should have passed it; I therefore kept the deck until that hour, when concluding all was safe, went below. I had got to sleep, when I was awoke by the vessel's bottom and sides rubbing violently against the rocks. I immediately got upon deck, and looking round found we were in a most perilous situation; on all sides surrounded by rocks, which were plainly known by the waves gently breaking upon them. The moon was near her full, occasionally obscured by passing clouds--the wind moderate. The schooner was instantly put about, under the expectation of finding the way out by which we entered; she had only got cleverly under way when she went bows on, upon a sunken sharp pointed rock, and remained stationary. An immediate examination was made, when it was discovered that the rock had penetrated her bottom, and the water was pouring in. Our situation was in the highest degree alarming--the schooner evidently lost, and no chance for our safety but the boat, which for a vessel of eighty tons could not be large. There was nine of us, the captain, mate, English captain, myself and five colored seamen. Fortunately the weather was mild; the vessel quietly hanging to the rock, and not filling very fast, gave us time to make our arrangements. The boat was launched, a mast and sail prepared, short stanchions nailed to her gunwale, and a strip of sail cloth attached thereto, for the purpose of raising her sides, to prevent the spray of the sea washing in. We took also on board, the ship's compass, a bag of biscuit, a keg of water, and some bottles of brandy. No baggage was permitted. My own dress was shirt, pantaloons, shoes, hat, and an old surtout coat. I had taken the precaution to secure the papers relative to the voyage, my watch, and about sixty Spanish dollars tied up in a shot bag; the bag of dollars I made fast to the {352} ringbolt in the boat's stern. We were probably a couple of hours in making those preparations. At length the schooner being nearly full of water, we settled ourselves in the boat and left her,--the captain, who steered, and myself in the stern sheets, the mate and English captain next, two of the seamen midships, with tin cans to bail the water out as it should splash in, the others forward. I had little expectation that the boat could possibly live as deeply loaded as she was, and such I believe was the opinion of all on board,--for the first two or three hours there was not a dozen words spoken. It was our object to make the island of St. Domingo, from which we were fifty or sixty miles distant, as soon as possible. To effect this all our exertions were used; but so miserably rigged as we were, and so deep withal, that we could do little more than run before the wind. Our oars were some how or other of little use. On the first day we made, that is we had a very distant view of land, on our larboard bow, which we supposed to be Point Isabella, the most northern part of the island of St. Domingo; the wind would not permit us to reach it. In the evening we had a severe squall; the wind blew, the waves increased; we lowered our sail, just sufficient to keep before the wind. Soon it commenced raining hard, the waves were stilled, we rode out the storm, and began to breathe more freely--entered into conversation, and entertained hopes of our ultimate safety, by getting to land somewhere, or being picked up; but neither land nor vessel appeared during the whole of the second day, we still running before the wind, making as much southing as the nature of our equipment would permit. On the morning of the third day we found ourselves off Monti Christi, and might probably have reached the land; but by this time we had become confident in our power to sustain ourselves, and determined to run for Cape Francais, which then lay direct to leeward, and which we reached in perfect safety about three o'clock that afternoon. Thus terminated a voyage of about two hundred and fifty miles, in about sixty hours, in the open sea, and in a small boat so deeply loaded, that her gunwale, on an even keel, could not be above four inches above the water--leaving us in a complete state of destitution; not a man but myself had saved any thing but the clothes around him.

Our return created a considerable sensation. I was quickly surrounded by my acquaintances, anxious to hear the details of our misfortune, and to offer their services in the most liberal manner. This was naturally to be expected from my countrymen. There was however one occurrence in a French gentleman, which I can never forget, and must relate; he held some subordinate office under government. I had been introduced to his family by a German who I had known in the United States. This gentleman called upon me, and taking me aside from the crowd by which I was surrounded, told me that he had just heard of my misfortune, and had come to offer me any money I might want, to be returned in my own way, and at my own convenience. Altogether his manner was so kind and friendly, that I am sorry his name has entirely escaped my memory. After very sincerely thanking him for his friendship and generosity, I told him I had sufficient funds for my immediate wants. Early next day I was called upon by two American gentlemen, the one a Mr. Dodge, who from his long residence and good character, was usually called "consul." They informed me that the Americans at the Cape, resident and transient, hearing of the misfortunes of myself and crew, had raised a subscription for our relief, and that they had called upon me to know the numbers and relative situation of those on board at the time of the disaster, to enable them to make the distribution of the money raised, in the fairest and most efficient manner. I informed these gentlemen that we were not exactly objects of charity--that my funds were sufficient for my purposes--that the captain had sold the boat which preserved us, for thirty or forty dollars--that the mate could get employment if he wished it, or could get a gratuitous passage home--that the colored seamen could ship aboard American vessels in port, who were in want of hands--but that there was one person shipwrecked with us, who was particularly unfortunate: he was, or rather had been, the captain of an English brig then in the harbor, a prize to Commodore Barney, turned ashore with nothing but his clothes, and those lost in the wreck; I was giving him a passage to St. Thomas, with a view of placing him as near as I could to the place he was bound to; he was now in an enemy's country, and entirely destitute. Mr. Dodge observed that he would not consent to give the Englishman a dollar; that the English cruisers were plundering and confiscating American property wherever they could find it, and that they had almost ruined him. I observed that I had correctly informed them of the situation of all the persons in the vessel when wrecked, and that they, as the distributors of the public contribution, would in course use their own discretion. They left me. A few hours afterwards, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Dodge returned alone. He told me that Mr. Dodge had consented to let the Englishman in for a portion of the money collected, and that he would share equally with the schooner's mate, and that if I would bring him to Mr. Dodge's counting house, his quota was ready for him. This I promised to do; and in the course of the day fell in with our companion in misfortune, told him what had been done, took him to the place designated, and introduced him to the gentlemen. They counted out, as well as I remember, about sixty hard dollars, and presented them to him. He gathered them up in a dirty handkerchief, and thanked them for their kindness and liberality--in doing which he was so much affected, that be burst into tears. We left the place together; I parted from him in the street, and have never heard of him since. In a few days I took passage on board an American schooner bound for Philadelphia, and after a short passage, was peaceably under quarantine in the river Delaware.

R.

_Alexandria, January 1835_.

SELECTIONS

From the Papers of the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society.

We have been permitted to transfer to our pages the subjoined papers in possession of the Historical Society, which will doubtless afford much gratification to our readers. The first is an extract from a manuscript which was the property of the late venerable and learned Chancellor Wythe, and seems to have been {353} copied by him, or for his use, from the "Breviate Book" of Sir John Randolph, who was attorney general of the Colony in 1734. This extract contains biographical sketches of John Holloway and William Hopkins, two prominent members of the bar at that early period. The orthography of the original has been preserved.

The second is an interesting record of the proceedings of a patriotic band in Norfolk Borough and County in the early part of the Revolutionary war, associated under the brief and imposing title of "Sons of Liberty." This document breathes a noble spirit of resistance to tyranny in our ancestors, which we may fondly hope their descendants will never cease to cherish and emulate. It was presented at the last meeting of the Society by Dr. Barraud, whose letter we also take pleasure in publishing.

The third paper, is an authentic narrative of an Indian attack upon Wheeling Fort in 1777, furnished by one of the survivors, who is now living in the county of Brooke. This document was communicated by William McCluney, Esq. of Wellsburg, and has once appeared in the "Brooke Republican." Mr. McCluney states, that Captain Samuel Mason, the commander of the fort, was afterwards the famous Mississippi robber.

* * * * *

Taken from Sir John Randolph's Breviate Book.

On the 14th of December, 1734, died suddenly of a fit, John Holloway, Esq., after having languished about ten months with a sort of epilepsie at certain times of the moon, which had much impaired his memory and understanding. He had practised in this court upwards of thirty years, with great reputation for diligence and learning; and was so much in the good opinion of the court, that I have, upon many occasions, known him prevail for his clients against reasons and arguments much stronger and better than his. His opinions were by most people looked upon as decisive, and were very frequently acquiesced in by both parties, those against whom he pronounced being discouraged from disputing against so great authority. He practised with much artifice and cunning, being thoroughly skilled in attorneyship; but when his causes came to a hearing, he reasoned little, was tedious in reading long reports of some cases, and little abridgments of others, out of which he would collect short aphorisms, and obiter sayings of judges, and rely upon them, without regarding the main point in question, and arbitrarily affirm or deny a matter of law, which had often too much weight, against the reason and difference of things. By this method, he gained many causes which always gave him great joy; but was as impatient if he lost one, as if it tended to a diminution of his credit. He was blameable for one singular practice, in drawing notes for special verdicts. He would state naked circumstances of facts only, and leave it to the court to collect the matter of fact out of them; so that, upon such verdicts, we have had many tedious debates about what the fact was: whereas, if that had been found positively as it should be, there would have been no need of a special verdict. But against this I could never prevail. His greatest excellence was his diligence and industry; but for learning I never thought he had any, nor could it be expected he should. He had served a clerkship; went a youth afterwards into the army in Ireland, in the beginning of King William's reign; after that betook himself to business, having got to be one of the attorneys of the Marshalsea court; but not being contented with his income from that, turned projector and ruined himself, which brought him first into Maryland, and afterwards hither. I remember one particular instance, which satisfied me his knowledge in the law was not very profound. An ejectment was brought, (whether I was at first concerned in it I forget,) and upon a special verdict the case was thus. A seized in fee by deed, gave the land in question to B his daughter, for life, and after her death, to her heirs forever. She sold it to the defendant, and after her death, the plaintiff, B's heir, claiming as a purchaser in remainder, brought this action to recover. When I saw this, I told the plaintiff, who was my client, I could not say one word for him, not knowing a more certain rule of law than this:--that where by will or conveyance, any estate of freehold is given to the ancestor, and by the same writing an estate is limited to his heirs, that makes a fee, [heirs] being there a word of limitation, and not of purchase. Yet the defendant, by this eminent lawyer's advice, gave up the land without argument, upon the plaintiff's allowing him to remain in possession some short time longer; when if the matter had been brought to a hearing I would not have said one word. However, his reputation was such, that he was universally courted, and most people thought themselves obliged to him, if he would engage their side upon any terms; and he really thought so himself. This gave him great opportunities of exacting excessive fees; which I have heard he always did, where the value of the thing in question would allow it: and covered great blemishes in one part of his private life, besides many imperfections of his mind, which any body might observe who knew any thing of him. He was of a haughty, insolent nature; passionate and peevish to the last degree. He had a stiffness in his carriage which was ridiculous, and often offensive; and was an utter stranger to hospitality. He was sincere in his friendship, where he professed any,--but not constant; apt to change upon small provocations, and to contract new friendship upon very slight grounds, in which he would be very warm and ready to do all good offices. One of his greatest defects was that he would always bring his opinion and friendship to agree. But what he wanted in virtue and learning to recommend him, was abundantly supplied by fortunate accidents. He was fourteen years speaker of the House of Burgesses, and eleven years public Treasurer. But in those he acted with little applause, and less abilities; though he was three times chosen, and once unanimously. His management of the treasury contributed to his ruin, and brought him to the grave with much disgrace. I was always his friend, and had a great deal of reason to believe him mine. Yet it was impossible to be blind to so many imperfections. He died, little lamented, in the sixty-ninth year of his age.

* * * * *

In a few daies afterwards, in London, died William Hopkins, Esq. who had practised in this court about eighteen years, and in that time, by hard study and observation, he made a surprising progress; became a very ingenious lawyer and a good pleader, though at his first coming he was raw and much despised. But {354} he had a carelesness in his nature, which preserved him from being discouraged, and carried him on till he came to be admired. He had a good foundation in school learning; understood Latin and French well; had a strong memory, a good judgment, a quickness that was very visible, and a handsome person;--all mighty advantages. But his manner was awkward; his temper sour, if it was to be judged by the action of his muscles; and was given, too much given, to laugh at his own discourses.

When he had brought himself into good business, he almost totally neglected it; which I believe was owing to a desire of dipping into all kinds of knowledge, wherein he had a great deal of vanity, and prevented his digesting what he had so well as he would have done otherwise. He had many good qualities in his practice; was moderate in his fees; ingenious and honest; never disputed plain points, but was a candid, fair arguer. Yet he had a failing, which brought him to a quarrel with me. It was an odd sort of pride, that would not suffer him to keep an equilibrium in his own conceits. He could not see himself admired, without thinking it an injury to him to stand upon a level with any other; and therefore, though I was always his friend, had done him many kindnesses, and he himself thought himself obliged to me, he came into so ill a temper, as not to allow me either learning or honesty; which broke our acquaintance--and after that I thought I discovered some seeds of malice in him. He died in the flower of his age, and may be justly reckoned a loss to this poor country, which is not like to abound (at present at least) in great genius's.

* * * * *

_Norfolk, January 16th, 1835_.

SIR: I herewith transmit you (with a request that if you shall deem it proper, it may be presented to the next meeting of the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society,) a copy of an ancient Record of the Actings and Doings of certain inhabitants of the Borough and County of Norfolk, associated under the name of "Sons of Liberty." This record has lain (tradition relates) in the office of the clerk of this Borough from its date; unknown to the world at large, and unnoticed even by many of the inhabitants themselves. The moment my attention was called to it, it appeared to me entitled by its antiquity and the generous spirit of patriotism and self-devotion which it so strongly breathes, to a place in the records of a society whose laudable purpose is to rescue from oblivion (into which already too many of the works of talent and deeds of patriotism of the state have fallen,) the remaining monuments of the colonial and revolutionary history of Virginia.

The letter of Richard Bland, (attached to the original, and which is obviously autographic,) seemed to me particularly interesting, and to deserve a place among the transactions of your society. That letter characterizes the resolutions as "noble," and declares that "they will remain lasting monuments of the public spirit of the Sons of Liberty, and of their love to their country." To this end I very respectfully tender them to your society, whose institution, allow me to say, I hail as the dawn of a new era in the literature and science of the commonwealth.

Be pleased to accept for your society, and yourself individually, assurances of my high respect,

OTWAY B. BARRAUD.

_To the President of the Historical and Philosophical Society of Virginia._

PROCEEDINGS

Of the Sons of Liberty at Norfolk, 1766.

Preserved as a monument of their public spirit and love to their country.

At a meeting of a considerable number of inhabitants of the town and county of Norfolk, and others, Sons of Liberty, at the court-house of said county, in the Colony of Virginia, on Monday, the 31st of March, 1766--

Having taken into consideration the evil tendency of that oppressive and unconstitutional act of Parliament, called the stamp act, and being desirous that our sentiments should be known to posterity, and recollecting that we are a part of that colony who first, in general assembly, openly expressed their detestation to the said act, (which is pregnant with ruin, and productive of the most pernicious consequences,) and unwilling to rivet the shackles of slavery and oppression on ourselves and millions yet unborn, have unanimously come to the following resolutions--

1. _Resolved_, That we acknowledge our sovereign lord King George the Third to be our rightful and lawful king; and that we will at all times, to the utmost of our power and ability, support and defend his most sacred person, crown and dignity, and shall be always ready, when constitutionally called upon, to assist his said majesty with our lives and fortunes, and to defend all his just rights and prerogatives.

2. _Resolved_, That we will, by all lawful ways and means which Divine Providence has put into our hands, defend ourselves in the full enjoyment of, and preserve inviolate to posterity, those inestimable privileges of all free-born British subjects, of being taxed only by representatives of their own choosing, and of being tryed by none but a jury of their peers: and that if we quietly submit to the execution of the said stamp act, all our claims to civil liberty will be lost, and we and our posterity become absolute slaves; for by that act, British subjects in America are deprived of the invaluable privileges aforementioned.

3. _Resolved_, That a committee be appointed, who shall, in such manner as they think most proper, go upon necessary business, and make public the above resolutions; and that they correspond, as they shall see occasion, with the associated Sons of, and Friends to Liberty, in the other British colonies in America.

James Holt; Henry Tucker; Robert Tucker; Robert Tucker, Jr.; John Hutchings; Thomas Davis; Manuel Calvert; James Parker; Lewis Hansford.

_Signed to the foregoing--_

John Hutchings, Jr.; Paul Loyall; William Roscow Curle; Anthony Lawson; Joseph Hutchings; Thomas Newton, Sr.; John Phripp, Jr.; John Ramsay; John Gilchrist; Matthew Godfrey; Matthew Phripp; Thomas Newton, Jr.; Samuel Boush; Richard Knight; James Campbell; John Lawrence; Joshua Nicholson; Nicholas Wonycott; Matthew Rothery; Jacob Elligood; Cornelius Calvert; Edward Archer; Edward Voss; Francis Peart; Samuel Calvert; James Gibson; Nicholas Winterton; Griffin Peart; John {355} Wilfery; William Skinker; Thomas Butt; William Gray; Hudson Brown; John Taylor; Alexander Moseley; John Taylor, Jr.; William Calvert; William Atchison; Edward Hach Moseley, Jr.; William Hancock; Robert Brett; Stephen Tankard; Thomas Willoughby; James Dunn; John Crammond; Alexander Kincaid; George Muter; Christopher Calvert.

On a motion made that a Moderator be chosen for the better transacting business, the Reverend Thomas Davis was recommended, and unanimously chosen.

On a motion made that a Secretary be appointed to this general meeting--

_Resolved_, That James Holt and William Roscow Curle be Secretaries.

_Resolved_, That the Committee of Correspondence do consist of the following persons, to wit:

Manuel Calvert, Esq.; Mr. Paul Loyall; Mr. James Parker; Mr. Joseph Hutchings; Doctor John Ramsay; Mr. Anthony Lawson; Mr. Samuel Boush; Mr. John Phripp, Jr.; Mr. John Gilchrist; Mr. Lewis Hansford; Mr. John Lawrence; Mr. John Hutchings, Jr.; Mr. Thomas Newton, Jr.; Mr. Matthew Phripp.

And that they or any five of them do make public the resolutions aforesaid; and take into consideration all matters necessary to be laid before this society, and make report of their proceedings to the next general meeting.

_Resolved_, That this general meeting adjourn till to-morrow nine o'clock.

* * * * *

At a meeting of the Sons of Liberty, continued and held at the court-house in the town and county of Norfolk, in the colony of Virginia, on Tuesday, April 1st, 1766--

_Resolved_, That we will, on any future occasion, sacrifice our lives and fortunes, in concurrence with the other Sons of Liberty in the neighboring provinces, to defend and preserve our invaluable blessings transmitted to us by our ancestors.

_Resolved_, That whoever is concerned, directly or indirectly, in using or causing to be used, in any way or manner whatsoever, within this colony, (unless authorised by the general assembly thereof,) that detestable paper called the stamps, shall be deemed to all intents and purposes, an enemy to his country, and treated by the Sons of Liberty accordingly.

_Resolved_, That the thanks of this society be given to Colonel Richard Bland, for the deep investigation and connective chain of reasoning set forth in his treatise, justly opposing the rights and liberties of this colony to the non-existing stamp act.

_Resolved_, That a committee be appointed to present the thanks of the Sons of Liberty to Colonel Richard Bland, for his treatise, entitled "An Enquiry into the Rights of the British Colonies;" and that Mr. Loyall, Mr. Boush, and Mr. Parker be appointed to draw an address for that purpose.

_Resolved_, That this society be adjourned till Friday, the 11th day of this instant, April.

T. D.

J. H. _Secretary_. W. R. C. _Secretary_.

* * * * *

At a Committee of Correspondence of the Sons of Liberty, held at the court-house in Norfolk, in Virginia, on Wednesday, the 2d April, 1766--

Present, Mr. Manuel Calvert; Mr. Paul Loyall; Mr. John Ramsay; Mr. John Phripp, Jr.; Mr. Lewis Hansford; Mr. John Gilchrist; Mr. John Lawrence; Mr. John Hutchings, Jr.; Mr. Thomas Newton, Jr.

A copy of the resolves of the Sons of Liberty having been fairly transcribed, the same was delivered to Mr. John Hutchings, Jr., who undertook to deliver the same to the printer of the Virginia Gazette, and request him to insert the same in his next paper, and make report to this committee.

J. H. _Secretary_. W. R. C. _Secretary_.

The copy delivered is as follows:

At a meeting of a considerable number of inhabitants of the town and county of Norfolk, and others, Sons of Liberty, at the court-house of the said county, in the colony of Virginia, on Monday, the 31st of March, 1766--

Having taken into consideration the evil tendency of that oppressive and unconstitutional act of Parliament, commonly called the stamp act; and being desirous that our sentiments should be known to posterity, and recollecting that we are a part of that colony who first in general assembly, openly expressed their detestation to the said act, (which is pregnant with ruin, and productive of the most pernicious consequences,) and unwilling to rivet the shackles of slavery and oppression on ourselves and millions yet unborn, have unanimously come to the following resolutions--

1. _Resolved_, That we acknowledge our sovereign lord and king George the Third to be our rightful and lawful king, and that we will at all times, to the utmost of our power and ability, support and defend his most sacred person, crown and dignity; and will be always ready, when constitutionally called upon, to assist his majesty with our lives and fortunes, and defend all his just rights and prerogatives.

2. _Resolved_, That we will, by all lawful ways and means which Divine Providence hath put into our hands, defend ourselves in the full enjoyment of, and preserve inviolate to posterity, those inestimable privileges of all free born British subjects, of being taxed by none but representatives of their own choosing, and of being tried only by a jury of their peers; for if we quietly submit to the execution of the said stamp act, all our claims to civil liberty will be lost, and we and our posterity become absolute slaves.

3. _Resolved_, That we will, on any future occasion, sacrifice our lives and fortunes, in concurrence with the other Sons of Liberty in the American provinces, to defend and preserve those invaluable blessings transmitted us by our ancestors.

4. _Resolved_, That whoever is concerned, directly or indirectly, in using or causing to be used, in any way or manner whatsoever, within this colony, unless authorised by the general assembly thereof, those detestable papers called stamps, shall be deemed to all intents and purposes, an enemy to his country, and by the Sons of Liberty treated accordingly.

5. _Resolved_, That a committee be appointed to present the thanks of the Sons of Liberty to Colonel Richard Bland, for his treatise, entitled "An Enquiry into the Rights of the British Colonies."

6. _Resolved_, That a committee be appointed, who shall make public the above resolutions, and {356} correspond, as they shall see occasion, with the associated Sons of, and Friends to Liberty, in the British colonies in America.

Copy--Test,

J. H. _Secretary_.

[Here ends the record of the proceedings of the Sons of Liberty.]

[The following is a copy of the original letter in the hand-writing of Richard Bland, and attached to the above record, in answer to the letter of thanks written him in obedience to one of the resolves, but which no where appears on the minutes.]

_Gentlemen!_

The approbation of my Enquiry into the rights of the British Colonies, by the Norfolk Sons of Liberty, which you have been pleased to transmit to me in the politest terms, does me a very singular and unexpected honor, and demands my most sincere acknowledgements, which I beg leave to return to them with feelings of the warmest gratitude.

The glorious cause they have united to defend, merits of every true friend of the colonies the highest sentiments of their virtue. And though we have the strongest assurance that the violent attacks made upon our rights and liberties by a late arbitrary and oppressive minister will soon be removed; yet the noble resolutions entered into by the Norfolk Sons of Liberty, against the detestable stamp act, will remain lasting monuments of their patriotic spirit and love to their country. I am, with particular regard to yourselves, and the deepest respect to all the members of your association, gentlemen, your much obliged and very

RICHARD BLAND.

_Jordan's May 8th, 1766_.

To Paul Loyall, Lewis Hansford, and Thomas Newton, Jr. Esqrs. in Norfolk.

* * * * *

_Virginia, Borough of Norfolk, to wit:_

I hereby certify that the foregoing is a true copy of an old record in the clerk's office of the Borough aforesaid, endorsed "Proceedings of the Sons of Liberty at Norfolk, 1766, preserved as a monument of their patriotic spirit and love to their country."

I further certify that the said record was found in the said office in the year 1831, when I became clerk of the Borough court, and tradition relates that it was deposited there at the date of the transactions recorded.

In testimony whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and seal, this 16th day of January, in the year 1835.

JOHN WILLIAMS, _C. C._

* * * * *

ATTACK ON WHEELING FORT IN THE YEAR 1777.

We are indebted to Mr. Abraham Rogers, a distinguished actor in the scene, and now a resident of this county, for the following particulars of the attack, by the Indians, in the year 1777, on Wheeling fort, and the successful defence of that place by twelve men.

As an interesting incident connected with the early settlement of the country, and as a tribute of respect and gratitude to the early and adventurous Pioneers of the west, for their valor, perseverance and long suffering, it is due to their memory that it should be recorded, and find a place in the history of our country.

The fort was situated on the higher bank or bluff, not far from the place, where the mansion house of the late Noah Zane, Esq., was subsequently erected. It covered between one half and three quarters of an acre of ground, and was enclosed with pickets 8 feet high. The garrison, at the time of the attack, including all who were able to bear arms, did not exceed 15 in number, and of these several were between the ages of 12 and 18. The number of women and children is not known.

The first intimation the commandant of the fort, (Col. David Shepard) had of the approach of an enemy, was received the evening before the attack, from Capt. Ogle, who with Abraham Rodgers, Joseph Biggs, Robert Lemons and two others, had just arrived from Beech bottom fort, on the Ohio, about 12 miles from Wheeling. Capt. Ogle, on his approach to Wheeling, had observed below that place, the appearance of large volumes of smoke in the atmosphere, which he rightly conjectured was caused by the burning of Grave creek fort by hostile Indians, and upon his arrival immediately communicated his suspicions to Col. Shepard, but it was too late in the evening to reconnoitre. At a very early hour the next morning, (1st day of September,) the commander of the fort sent two of his men in a canoe, down the river, to ascertain the cause of the smoke, and whether any Indians were in the neighborhood. These two men were massacred by the Indians, (on their return as it was supposed) at the mouth of Wheeling creek, a few hundred yards below the fort. In the mean time, an Irish servant and a negro man had also been sent out to reconnoitre in the immediate vicinity. The Irishman was decoyed, seized, and killed by the Indians, but the negro was permitted to escape, who, on his return, gave the first alarm of the actual approach of the Indians. Capt. Ogle, on the receipt of this intelligence, accompanied by 15 or 16 of the garrison, leaving but 12 or 13 in the fort, immediately proceeded towards the mouth of the creek, in pursuit of the savages. The Indians were lying in ambush, and permitted the captain and his devoted followers to advance almost to the creek, when a brisk and most deadly fire was opened upon them; they fought bravely--desperately; but overpowered by the number of the enemy, were, all except the captain and two others, killed and scalped.

Upon hearing the firing at the creek, Rodgers, Biggs and Lemons, left the fort to join their comrades, but the work of death was over, their comrades slaughtered, and the triumphant enemy with a horrid yell, were rapidly advancing upon the fort. The three were fired upon and compelled {357} to return. On their arrival at the gate of the fort, so near were the savages, that it was not without the most imminent danger that it was opened for their admission. A general attack was then immediately made on the fort by the whole body of the Indians, consisting of about 500 men, commanded by the infamous Simon Girty. The grand assault was from the east side, under cover of a paled garden, and a few half faced cabins within 40 or 50 yards of the fort, of which they took possession, and from whence a brisk fire was kept up until a late hour at night. During the engagement, the Indians sustained great injury from the bursting of a maple log, which they had bored like a cannon, and charged to fire upon the fort.

The little garrison of twelve sustained this protracted siege, from about 7 o'clock in the morning until 10 or 11 o'clock at night, when the savages were finally repulsed and obliged to retreat, without having killed or wounded a single individual in the fort. The loss on the part of the Indians was variously estimated from twenty to one hundred, but their dead were principally carried off or concealed, and a conjecture of the number of the killed, could only be formed from the great appearance of blood, which was observable for many days after the battle. The day was fair, and the most of the garrison were called "sharp shooters," all of whom had a great number of "fair shots:" it is therefore not improbable that some 30 or 40 of the enemy were killed, and perhaps many more; for there was a continued firing during the whole time of the engagement. Every man did his duty, and all were entitled to an equal meed of praise and thanks from the commander. But our informant particularly distinguished one person, who, he said, contributed more to the successful termination of the issue than any other. This was Mrs. Zane, wife of Ebenezer, and mother of the late Noah Zane, Esq., who rendered much actual service to the men, by running bullets, cutting patches, making cartridges, and hurrying from post to post, cheering and encouraging by her presence, exhortations and assistance, the sometimes almost exhausted efforts of the brave defenders of the fort. By her example, zeal and presence of mind, much assistance was also afforded, by a number of the other "blessed women" in the fort, (as our informant termed them.) A rapid fire was continued from the fort, from the commencement of the assault, until the Indians retired. Their rifles were used until they become too much heated to handle, when they were obliged to exchange them for muskets, which were fortunately found in the magazine. This more than Spartan band of patriots, had no time to take any sustenance from Sunday, the last day of August, until the 2d September, after the retreat of the Indians.

When it is considered that the Indians were led to the attack by the noted Simon Girty, a man who had much experience in the art of savage warfare, that he mustered more than 500 veteran warriors, and that the fort was defended by 12, and those chiefly old men and boys; the successful and glorious defence of the fort, by that little band of western pioneers; their names will richly merit a place in the page of history, with the most renowned heroes of the "olden time."

We much regret, that from a want of acquaintance with the localities of the place, as well as from other circumstances, we have been unable to do full justice to this subject; but we are not without a hope, that some more experienced pen will take a hint from these crude remarks, and redeem from oblivion this memorable event.

The Editor of the New York Evening Star is so well known and so highly estimated as a political writer, that we believe there is no party which does not feel the stronger for his friendship--or does not experience some dread from his opposition. His genius, however, does not exclusively delight in the _carte and tierce_ of political strife. He has an infinite fund of strong common sense and racy humor, and withal an uncommon power of description, which he employs with great effect in hitting off the manners of the age, and rebuking those pernicious innovations which are making such sad havoc with our antient simplicity. In the following article, he depicts with admirable force the evil consequences which, in our large cities especially, are likely to flow from an unrestrained indulgence in the follies and extravagancies of fashion.

FASHIONABLE PARTIES AND LATE HOURS.

BY M. M. NOAH.

We are killing ourselves in this country by inches, and that for a tall man or an amazonian woman, is a dreadful reflection. In sooth, our late hours break in terribly on real comfort, sound health, and that refreshing sleep which "seals up the eyelids" in calm and soft repose, and ministers to our real enjoyments. We marvel why _fashion_, instead of being represented in bewitching and attractive colors, is not drawn with a Medusa's head, fiery eyes and snaky crest--or, under the silken cowl and wreaths of roses, a skeleton head peeping out as a warning--a caution in time--a _memento mori_. In this country we eat and dance ourselves to death with much more rapidity than they do at the Sandwich Islands.

I met a friend on the _pave_ last week, who said, "Will you come to our party to-morrow night?" "A party? How? Comfortable dish of tea, game of whist, glass of whiskey-punch, and a sandwich, eh." "Oh, no--a real tearer--a regular turnout--been preparing a fortnight. I must give a couple every year for the sake of the world you know." "The world, ha! Well, I'll come, and if I don't, you won't miss me in the squeeze. Tell {358} me, for old acquaintance sake, how much will the party cost?" "Why, about fifteen hundred dollars." "Fifteen hundred dollars! Prodigious! How many charming _tertulias_ in Spain, _converzaziones_ in Italy, and _soirees_ in France, would fifteen hundred dollars procure?--and all this sum swallowed up in one dancing frolic!"

I determined to go, and a friend promised to call for me in his carriage. I was ready at seven, and sat quietly until nine--half past nine--ten; when, just as I was ringing for my slippers, and preparing, as Monsieur Morbleu says, for my night-caps, _rat-tat-tat_ goes the coachman, and in walked my friend--pumps and tight pants on--white gloves and perfumed handkerchief. "So, sir, a pretty time you have called for me; why I have been ready since seven o'clock." "Seven o'clock! why bless you, the company only begin to assemble at ten; and even now we are rather early." "Early, do you call it? Go out to spend the evening at half past ten o'clock! Well, well, I suppose we must not be out of the fashion--so come along."

Our carriage rattled up one of the principal streets, and a glare of light was showered in all directions from the house. We fell in behind a range of coaches, and had to wait until our turn, and found, on alighting, a retinue of yellow servants to usher us in the mansion; to take our coats, hats, and canes, and prepare us in form for the _entree_. Every thing was elegant--gayety, fashion, and pleasure reigned triumphant; beauty, in resplendent beams, shed its halo over the scene; plenty, from its golden horn, was poured forth in all directions; music, and the giddy dance, were kept up with unabated vigor, until the russet morn had nearly flickered the east. I got home; tossed and tumbled for two or three hours in bed, and then rose for the duties of the day.

Having occasion to call on an old gentleman about twelve o'clock, I found him in his parlor, with the breakfast table before him. "What, not breakfasted yet?" "O yes, long ago--this is for my daughters, who came from the party about three o'clock, and are not yet up." In a few minutes the young ladies entered; but oh, how altered!--where were the bounding step and elastic gait--the brilliant eye, the jocund smile--the silken attire--the well-dressed hair, and jewelled form of last night's entertainment? They were pallid and exhausted--their eye, their hair, their dress, all _en dishabille_--both with a hectic cough--both looking as wo-begone and spiritless as if they had just escaped from the siege of Troy.--"Have you slept well, girls?" said the anxious parent. "Not a wink, father--we tossed and tumbled and worried for several hours, but not a wink of sleep--oh, my head, my head--and oh, my bones, my bones." "Probably your restlessness arose from eating too heartily at supper."--"No such thing, father--why, I only ate a little chicken salad, a wing of turkey, some jelly, a few macaronies and mottoes, a dozen pickled oysters, and drank a few glasses of champaign, that's all--excepting a sponge cake or two, and a glass of lemonade, during dancing, and a little ginger sweetmeats. There's Lizzy ate twice as much as I did." "No I didn't, but I was more select, father; a few slices of cold tongue--a piece of a-la-mode beef--three pickles--a few olives, some _blanc mange_--two plates of ice-cream--a little floating island--some truffles and bons bons--and oranges, plum-cake, and custard during the evening. I'm sure I don't care much for solids." "And did you dance after supper?" "To be sure we did; one cotillion, one contra dance, the mazourka and a gallopade." The murder's out! no wonder at head-aches, and bone-aches, and heart-aches, and sleepless hours, after so much eating; and then dancing on so much eating--churning these singular masses of food and contradictory condiments in a delicate female stomach, with scarcely sufficient gastric juice to digest the wing of a pheasant.--That's the way our girls kill themselves prematurely; that's the cause of our heavy weekly lists of interments; of the many cases of consumption, uncharitably carried to the credit of our climate. Alas! how many charming women are hurried to the grave by carelessness; by the bewitching attractions of fashion; by keeping late hours; by thin clothing, and by eating too much! The observation made by strangers is, "how pale and thin your ladies are!" Why will they not have resolution enough to discard these seducing and destructive allurements; why not enjoy life soberly, discreetly, prudently?

What can be more agonizing to true affection than to see the girl nourished with tenderness in infancy; amiable, intelligent, and accomplished, gradually sinking into the grave ere she reaches the age of womanhood? The pride and delight of fond parents and numerous friends, the rose which early bloomed, daily fading in the brilliancy of its colors, and drooping like the lily of the vale? To see the eye, once so brilliant, sunken, heavy, and dull; and the lips, once so ruby, now thin and pallid? To witness the being so beloved, so cherished, the victim of slow, but unerring disease, not constitutional, but brought on by neglect, by fashion? To see the vision recede from the sight, step by step, until evening frowns upon its setting glory, and the tomb closes upon it forever!

PRIDE, ENVY, AND HATE.

If you want enemies, excel others; if you want friends, let others excel you. There is a diabolical trio, existing in the _natural_ man, implacable, inextinguishable, co-operative, and consentaneous, Pride, Envy, and Hate. Pride, that makes us fancy we deserve all the goods that others possess; Envy, that some should be admired, while we are overlooked; and Hate, because all that is bestowed on others, diminishes the sum that we think due to ourselves.--[_Lacon_.

{359}

We extract the following eloquent and pathetic narrative from the pages of the "Western Monthly Magazine," published at Cincinnati, Ohio; and we invite our readers, especially those of the "softer sex," to give it a perusal.

THE VILLAGE PASTOR'S WIFE.

What impels me to take up my pen, compose myself to the act of writing, and begin the record of feelings and events which will inevitably throw a shadow over the character which too partial and misjudging affection once beheld shining with reflected lustre? I know not--but it seems to me, as if a divine voice whispered from the boughs that wave by my window, occasionally intercepting the sun's rays that now fall obliquely on my paper, saying, that if I live for memory, I must not live in vain--and that, perchance, when I, too, lie beneath the willow that hangs over _his_ grave, unconscious of its melancholy waving, a deep moral may be found in these pages, short and simple as they may be. Then be it so. It is humiliating to dwell on past errors--but I should rather welcome the humiliation, if it can be any expiation for my blindness, my folly--no! such expressions are too weak--I should say, my madness, my sin, my hard-hearted guilt.

It is unnecessary to dwell on my juvenile years. Though dependent on the bounty of an uncle, who had a large family of his own to support, every wish which vanity could suggest, was indulged as soon as expressed. I never knew a kinder, more hospitable, uncalculating being, than my uncle. If his unsparing generosity had not experienced a counteracting influence in the vigilant economy of my aunt, he would long since have been a bankrupt. She was never unkind to me; for I believe she was conscientious, and she had loved my mother tenderly. I was the orphan legacy of that mother, and consequently a sacred trust. I was fed and clothed like my wealthier cousins; educated at the same schools; ushered into the same fashionable society; where I learned that awkwardness was considered the only unpardonable offence, and that almost any thing might be said and done, provided it was said and done gracefully. From the time of our first introduction into what is called the world, I gradually lost ground in the affections of my aunt, for I unfortunately eclipsed my elder cousins in those outer gifts of nature and those acquired graces of manner, which, however valueless, when unaccompanied by inward worth, have always exercised a prevailing, an irresistible influence in society. I never exactly knew why, but I was the favorite of my uncle, who seemed to love me better than even his own daughters, and he rejoiced at the admiration I excited, though often purchased at their expense. Perhaps the secret was this. They were of a cold temperament; mine was ardent, and whatever I loved, I loved without reserve, and expressed my affection with characteristic warmth and enthusiasm. I loved my indulgent uncle with all the fervor of which such a nature, made vain and selfish by education, is capable. Often, after returning from an evening party, my heart throbbing high with the delight of gratified vanity, when he would draw me towards him and tell me--with most injudicious fondness, it is true--that I was a thousand times prettier than the flowers I wore, more sparkling than the jewels, and that I ought to marry a prince or a nabob, I exulted more in his praise, than in the flatteries that were still tingling in my ears. Even my aunt's coolness was a grateful tribute to my self-love--for was it not occasioned by my transcendency over her less gifted daughters?

But why do I linger on the threshold of events, which, simple in themselves, stamped my destiny--for time, yea, and for eternity.

It was during a homeward journey, with my uncle, I first met him, who afterwards became my husband. My whole head becomes sick and my whole heart faint, as I think what I might have been, and what I am. But I must forbear. If I am compelled at times to lay aside my pen, overcome with agony and remorse, let me pause till I can go on, with a steady hand, and a calmer brain.

Our carriage broke down--it was a common accident--a young gentleman on horseback, who seemed like ourselves a traveller, came up to our assistance. He dismounted, proffered every assistance in his power, and accompanied us to the inn, which fortunately was not far distant, for my uncle was severely injured, and walked with difficulty, though supported by the stranger's arm and my own. I cannot define the feeling, but from the moment I beheld him, my spirit was troubled within me. I saw, at once, that he was of a different order of beings from those I had been accustomed to associate with; and there was something in the heavenly composure of his countenance and gentle dignity of manner, that rebuked my restless desire for admiration and love of display. I never heard any earthly sound so sweet as his voice. Invisible communion with angels could alone give such tones to the human voice. At first, I felt a strange awe in his presence, and forgot those artificial graces, for which I had been too much admired. Without meaning to play the part of a hypocrite, my real disposition was completely concealed. During the three days we were detained, he remained with us; and aloof from all temptation to folly, the best traits of my character were called into exercise. On the morning of our departure, as my uncle was expressing his gratitude for his kindness, and his hope of meeting him in town, he answered--and it was not without emotion--'I fear our paths diverge too much, to allow that hope. Mine is a lowly one, but I trust I shall find it blest.' I {360} then, for the first time learned that he was a minister--the humble pastor of a country village. My heart died within me. That this graceful and uncommonly interesting young man should be nothing more than an obscure village preacher--it was too mortifying. All my bright visions of conquest faded away. 'We can never be any thing to each other,' thought I. Yet as I again turned towards him, and saw his usually calm eye fixed on me with an expression of deep anxiety, I felt a conviction that I might be all the world to him. He was watching the effect of his communication, and the glow of excited vanity that suffused my cheek was supposed to have its origin from a purer source. I was determined to enjoy the full glory of my conquest. When my uncle warmly urged him to accompany us home, and sojourn with us a few days, I backed the invitation with all the eloquence my countenance was capable of expressing. Vain and selfish being that I was--I might have known that we differed from each other as much as the rays of the morning star from the artificial glare of the skyrocket. _He_ drew his light from the fountain of living glory, _I_ from the decaying fires of earth.

The invitation was accepted--and before that short visit was concluded, so great was the influence he acquired over me, while _I_ was only seeking to gain the ascendancy over _his_ affections, that I felt willing to give up the luxury and fashion that surrounded me, for the sweet and quiet hermitage he described, provided the sacrifice were required. I never once thought of the duties that would devolve upon me, the solemn responsibilities of my new situation. It is one of the mysteries of Providence, how such a being as myself could ever have won a heart like his. He saw the sunbeam playing on the surface, and thought that all was fair beneath. I did love him; but my love was a passion, not a principle. I was captivated by the heavenly graces of his manner, but was incapable of comprehending the source whence those graces were derived.

My uncle would gladly have seen me established in a style more congenial to my prevailing taste, but gave his consent, as he said, on the score of his surpassing merit. My aunt was evidently more than willing to have me married, while my cousins rallied me, for falling in love with a country parson.

We were married. I accompanied him to the beautiful village of ----. I became mistress of the parsonage. Never shall I forget the moment when I first entered this avenue, shaded by majestic elms; beheld these low, white walls, festooned with redolent vines; and heard the voice, which was then the music of my life, welcome me here, as Heaven's best and loveliest gift. How happy--how blest I might have been! and I _was_ happy for awhile. His benign glance and approving smile were, for a short time, an equivalent for the gaze of admiration and strains of flattery to which I had been accustomed. I even tried, in some measure, to conform to his habits and tastes, and to cultivate the good will of the plebians and rustics who constituted a great portion of his parish. But the mind, unsupported by principle, is incapable of any steady exertion. Mine gradually wearied of the effort of assuming virtues, to which it had no legitimate claim. The fervor of feeling which had given a bluer tint to the sky and a fairer hue to the flower, insensibly faded. I began to perceive defects in every object, and to wonder at the blindness which formerly overlooked them. I still loved my husband; but the longer I lived with him, the more his character soared above the reach of mine. I could not comprehend, how one could be endowed with such brilliant talents and winning graces, and not wish for the admiration of the world. I was vexed with him for his meekness and humility, and would gladly have mingled, if I could, the base alloy of earthly ambition with his holy aspirations after heaven. I was even jealous--I almost tremble while I write it--of the God he worshipped. I could not bear the thought, that I held a second place in his affections--though second only to the great and glorious Creator. Continually called from my side to the chamber of the sick, the couch of the dying, the dwelling of the poor and ignorant, I in vain sought to fill up the widening vacuum left, by becoming interested in the duties of my station. I could not do it. They became every day more irksome to me. The discontent I was cherishing, became more and more visible, till the mild and anxious eye of my husband vainly looked for the joyous smile that used to welcome his return.

It is true, there were many things I was obliged to tolerate, which must inevitably be distasteful to one, educated with such false refinement as I have been. But I never reflected they must be as opposed to my husband's tastes as my own, and that christian principle alone led him to the endurance of them. Instead of appreciating his angelic patience and forbearance, I blamed him for not lavishing more sympathy on me for trials which, though sometimes ludicrous in themselves, are painful from the strength of association.

The former minister of the village left a maiden sister as a kind of legacy to his congregation. My husband had been a protegee and pupil of the good man, who, on his death-bed, bequeathed his people to the charge of this son of his adoption, and _him_, with equal tenderness and solemnity, to the care of his venerable sister. She became a fixture in the parsonage, and to me a perpetual and increasing torment. The first month of our marriage, she was absent, visiting some of her seventh cousins in a neighboring town. I do not wish to {361} exculpate myself from blame; but, if ever there was a thorn in human flesh, I believe I had found it in this inquisitive, gratuitously advising woman. I, who had always lived among roses, without thinking of briars, was doomed to feel this thorn, daily, hourly, goading me; and was constrained to conceal as much as possible the irritation she caused, because my husband treated her with as much respect as if she were an empress. I thought Mr. L---- was wrong in this. Owing to the deep placidity of his own disposition, he could not realize what a trial such a companion was to a mercurial, indulged, self-willed being as myself. Nature has gifted me with an exquisite ear for music, and a discord always 'wakes the nerve where agony is born.' Poor aunt Debby had a perfect mania for singing, and she would sit and sing for hours together, old fashioned ballads and hymns of surprising length--scarcely pausing to take breath. I have heard aged people sing the songs of Zion, when there was most touching melody in their tones; and some of the warmest feelings of devotion I ever experienced, were awakened by these solemn, trembling notes. But aunt Debby's voice was full of indescribable ramifications, each a separate discord--a sharp sour voice, indicative of the natural temper of the owner. One Sunday morning, after she had been screeching one of Dr. Watts' hymns, of about a hundred verses, she left me to prepare for church. When we met, after finishing our separate toilettes, she began her animadversions on my dress, as being too gay for a minister's wife. I denied the charge; for though made in the redundance of fashion, it was of unadorned white. 'But what,' said she, disfiguring the muslin folds with her awkward fingers, 'what is the use of all these fandangles of lace? They are nothing but Satan's devices to lead astray silly women, whose minds are running after finery.' All this I might have borne with silent contempt, for it came from aunt Debby; but when she brought the authority of a Mrs. Deacon and a Mrs. Doelan of the parish to prove that she was not the only one who found fault with the fashion of my attire, the indignant spirit broke its bounds; deference for age was forgotten in the excitement of the moment, and the concentrated irritation of weeks burst forth. I called her an impertinent, morose old maid, and declared that one or the other of us should leave the parsonage. In the midst of the paroxysm, my husband entered--the calm of heaven on his brow. He had just left his closet, where he had been to seek the divine manna for the pilgrims it was his task to guide through the wilderness of life. He looked from one to the other, in grief and amazement. Aunt Debby had seated herself on his entrance, and began to rock herself backward and forward, and to sigh and groan--saying it was a hard thing to be called such hard names at her time of life, &c. I stood, my cheeks glowing with anger, and my heart violently palpitating with the sudden effort at self-control. He approached me, took my hand, and said, 'My dear Mary!' There was affection in his tone, but there was upbraiding, also; and drawing away my hand, I wept in bitterness of spirit. As soon as I could summon sufficient steadiness of voice, I told him the cause of my resentment, and declared, that I would never again enter a place, where I was exposed to ridicule and censure, and from those, too, so immeasurably my inferiors in birth and education. 'Dearest Mary!' exclaimed he, turning pale from agitation, 'you cannot mean what you say. Let not such trifles as these, mar the peace of this holy day. I grieve that your feelings should have been wounded; but what matters it what the world says of our outward apparel, if our souls are clothed with those robes of holiness, which make us lovely in our Maker's eyes? Let us go together to the temple of Him, whose last legacy to man was _peace_.' Though the bell was ringing its last notes, and though I saw him so painfully disturbed, I still resisted the appeal, and repeated my rash asseveration. The bell had pealed its latest summons, and was no longer heard. 'Mary, must I go alone?' His hand was on the latch--there was a burning flush on his cheek, such as I had never seen before. My pride would have yielded--my conscience convicted me of wrong--I would have acknowledged my rashness, had not aunt Debby, whom I thought born to be my evil spirit, risen with a long-drawn sigh, and taken his arm, preparatory to accompany him. 'No,' said I, 'you will not be alone. You need not wait for me. In aunt Debby's company, you cannot regret mine.'

Surely my heart must have been steeled, like Pharaoh's, for some divine purpose, or I never could have resisted the mute anguish of his glance, as he closed the door on this cold and unmerited taunt. What hours of wretchedness I passed in the solitude of my chamber. I magnified my sufferings into those of martyrdom, and accused Mr. L---- of not preparing me for the trials of my new situation. Yet, even while I reproached him in my heart, I was conscious of my injustice, and felt that I did not suffer alone. It was the first time any other than words of love and kindness had passed between us, and it seemed to me, that a barrier was beginning to rise, that would separate us forever. When we again met, I tried to retain the same cold manner and averted countenance, but he came unaccompanied by my tormenter, and looked so dejected and pale, my petulance and pride yielded to the reign of better feelings. I had even the grace to make concessions, which were received with such gratitude and feeling, I was melted into goodness, transient, but sincere. Had aunt Debby remained from us, all {362} might yet have been well; but after having visited awhile among the parish, she returned; and her presence choked the blossoms of my good resolutions. I thought she never forgave the offending epithet I had given her in the moment of passion. It is far from my intention, in delineating peculiarities like hers, to throw any opprobrium on that class of females, who from their isolated and often unprotected situation, are peculiarly susceptible to the shafts of unkindness or ridicule. I have known those, whose influence seemed as diffusive as the sunshine and gentle as the dew; at whose approach the ringlets of childhood would be tossed gaily back, and the wan cheek of the aged lighted up with joy; who had devoted the glow of their youth, and the strength of their prime, to acts of filial piety and love, watching the waning fires of life, as the vestal virgins the flame of the altar. Round such beings as these, the beatitudes cluster; and yet the ban of unfeeling levity is passed upon the maiden sisterhood. But I wander from my path. It is not _her_ history I am writing, so much as my own; which, however deficient in incident, is not without its moral power.

I experienced one source of mortification, which I have not yet mentioned; it may even seem too insignificant to be noticed, and yet it was terribly grating to my aristocratic feelings. Some of our good parishioners were in the habit of lavishing attentions, so repugnant to me, that I did not hesitate to refuse them; which I afterwards learned, gave great mortification and displeasure. I would willingly accept a basket of fragrant strawberries, or any of the elegant bounties of nature; but, when they offered such plebeian gifts as a shoulder of pork or mutton, a sack of grain or potatoes, _I_ invariably returned my cold thanks and declined the honor. Is it strange, that I should become to them an object of aversion, and that they should draw comparisons, humbling to me, between their idolized minister and his haughty bride?

My uncle and cousins made me a visit, not long after my rupture with aunt Debby, which only served to render me more unhappy. My uncle complained so much of my altered appearance, my faded bloom and languid spirits, I saw that it gave exquisite pain to Mr. L----, while my cousins, now in their day of power, amused themselves continually with the old fashioned walls of the house, the obsolete style of the furniture, and my humdrum mode of existence. Had I possessed one spark of heavenly fire, I should have resented all this as an insult to him whom I had solemnly vowed to love and honor. These old fashioned walls should have been sacred in my eyes. They were twice hallowed--hallowed by the recollections of departed excellence and the presence of living holiness. Every leaf of the magnificent elms that overshadowed them, should have been held sacred, for the breath of morning and evening prayer had been daily wafted over them, up to the mercy-seat of heaven.

I returned with my uncle to the metropolis. It is true, he protested that he would not, could not leave me behind--and that change of scene was absolutely necessary to the restoration of my bloom, and Mr. L---- gave his assent with apparent cheerfulness and composure. But I knew--I felt that his heart bled at my willingness, my wish to be absent from him, so soon after our marriage. He told me to consult my own happiness, in the length of my visit, and that he would endeavor to find a joy in solitude, in thinking of mine. 'Oh!' said one of my cousins, with a loud laugh, 'you can never feel solitary, when aunt Debby is'--

Behold me once more 'mid the scenes congenial to my soul--a gay flower, sporting over the waves of fashion, thoughtless of the caverns of death beneath. Again the voice of flattery fell meltingly on my ear; and while listening to the siren, I forgot those mild, admonishing accents, which were always breathing of heaven--or if I remembered them at all, they came to my memory like the grave rebuke of Milton's cherub--severe in their beauty. Yes, I did remember them when I was alone; and there are hours when the gayest will feel desolately alone. I thought of him in his neglected home; him, from whom I was gradually alienating myself for his very perfections, and accusing conscience avenged his rights. Oh! how miserable, how poor we are, when unsupported by our own esteem! when we fear to commune with our own hearts, and doubly tremble to bear them to the all-seeing eye of our Maker! My husband often wrote me most affectionately. He did not urge my return, but said, whenever I felt willing to exchange the pleasures of the metropolis for the seclusion of the hermitage, his arms and his heart were open to receive me. At length I received a letter, which touched those chords, that yet vibrated to the tones of nature and feeling. He seldom spoke of himself--but in this, he mentioned having been very ill, though then convalescent. 'Your presence, my Mary,' said he, 'would bring healing on its wings. I fear, greatly fear, I have doomed you to unhappiness, by rashly yielding to the influence of your beauty and winning manners, taking advantage of your simplicity and inexperience, without reflecting how unfitted you were, from natural disposition and early habits, to be a fellow-laborer in so humble a portion of our Master's vineyard. Think not, my beloved wife, I say this in reproach. No! 'tis in sorrow, in repentance, in humiliation of spirit. I have been too selfish. I have not shown sufficient sympathy for the trials and vexations to which, for me, you have been exposed. I have asked to receive too much. I have given back too little. Return then, my Mary; you were created for nobler purposes than the beings who surround you. Let us begin {363} life anew. Let us take each other by the hand as companions for time--but pilgrims for eternity. Be it mine to guard, guide, and sustain--yours, to console, to gild and comfort.' In a postscript, he added:

'I am better now--a journey will restore me. I will soon be with you, when I trust we will not again be parted.'

My heart was not of rock. It was moved--melted. I should have been less than human, to have been untouched by a letter like this. All my romantic love, but so recently chilled, returned; and I thought of his image as that of an angel's. Ever impulsive, ever actuated by the passion of the moment, I made the most fervent resolutions of amendment, and panted for the hour when we should start for, together, this immortal goal! Alas! how wavering were my purposes--how ineffective my holy resolutions.

* * * * *

There was a numerous congregation gathered on the Sabbath morn, not in the simple village church, but the vaulted walls of a city dome. A stranger ascended the pulpit. Every eye was turned on him and none wandered. He was pallid, as from recent indisposition; but there was a flitting glow on his cheek, the herald of coming inspiration. There was a divine simplicity, a sublime fervor, an abandonment of self, a lifting up of the soul to heaven, an indescribable and spiritual charm, pervading his manner, that was acknowledged by the breathless attention of a crowded audience, composed of the wealth and fashion of the metropolis. And I was there, the proudest, the happiest of the throng. That gifted being was my husband. I was indemnified for all past mortifications, and looked forward to bright years of felicity, not in the narrow path we had heretofore travelled, but a wider, more brilliant sphere. My imagination placed him at the head of that admiring congregation; and I saw the lowly flock he had been lately feeding, weeping, unpitied, between the porch and the altar.

Before we bade farewell to my uncle, I had abundant reason to believe my vision would soon be realized. The church was then without a pastor. No candidate had as yet appeared in whom their opinions or affections were united. They were enthusiastic in their admiration of Mr. L----, and protested against the obscurity of his location. With such hopes gilding the future, I left the metropolis with a cheerfulness and elasticity of spirits, which my husband hailed as a surety for long years of domestic felicity. I would gladly linger here awhile. I fear to go on. You have followed me so far with a kind of complaisant interest, as a poor, vain, weak young creature, whose native defects have been enhanced by education, and who has unfortunately been placed in a sphere she is incapable of adorning. The atmosphere is too pure, too rarified. Removed at once from the valley of sin to the mount of holiness, I breathe with difficulty the celestial air, and pant for more congenial regions. Must I proceed? Your compassion will turn to detestation: yet I cannot withdraw from the task I have imposed on myself. It is an expiatory one; and oh, may it be received as such!

It was scarcely more than a week after our return. All had been peace and sunshine: so resolved was I to be all that was lovely and amiable, I even listened with apparent patience to aunt Debby's interminable hymns, and heard some of her long stories, the seventy-seventh time, without any manifest symptom of vexation. It was about sunset. We sat together in the study, my husband and myself, watching the clouds as they softly rolled towards the sinking sun, to dip their edges in his golden beams. The boughs of the elms waved across the window, giving us glimpses of the beautiful vale beyond, bounded by the blue outline of the distant hills. Whether it was the warm light reflected on his face, or the glow of the heart suffusing it, I know not, but I never saw his usually pale features more radiantly lighted up than at that moment. A letter was brought to him. I leaned over his shoulder while he opened it. From the first line I understood its import: it was the realization of my hopes. The offer was there made--more splendid, more liberal than I had dared to anticipate. I did not speak: but with cheeks burning and hands trembling with eagerness and joy, I waited till he had perused it. He still continued silent. Almost indignant at his calmness, I ejaculated his name in an impatient tone; when he raised his eyes from the paper and fixed them on me. I read there the death-blow of my hopes. They emitted no glance of triumph: there was sorrow, regret, humility, and love--but I looked in vain for more. 'I am sorry for this,' said he, 'for your sake, my dear Mary. It may excite wishes, which can never be realized. No! let us be happy in the lowlier sphere, in which an All-wise Being has marked my course. I cannot deviate from it.' 'Cannot!' repeated I: 'say, rather, you will not.' I could not articulate more. The possibility of a refusal on his part had never occurred to me. I was thunderstruck. He saw my emotion--and, losing all his composure, rose and crushed the letter in his hand. 'I could not, if I would, accept this,' he cried; 'and, were my own wishes to be alone consulted, I would not, were I free to act. But it is not so. I am bound to this place, by a solemn promise, which cannot be broken. Here, in this very house it was made, by the dying bed of the righteous, who bequeathed the people he loved to _my_ charge--_me_, the orphan he had protected and reared. "Never leave them, my son," said the expiring saint--"never leave the lambs of my flock to be scattered on the mountains." {364} I pledged my word, surrounded by the solemnities of death: yea, even while his soul was taking its upward flight. It is recorded, and cannot be recalled.'

Did I feel the sacredness of the obligation he revealed? Did I venerate the sanctity of his motives, and admit their authority? No! Totally unprepared for such a bitter disappointment, when I seemed touching the summit of all my wishes, I was maddened--reckless. I upbraided him for having more regard to a dead guardian, who could no longer be affected by his decision, than for a living wife. I threatened to leave him to the obscurity in which he was born, and return to the friends who loved me so much better than himself. Seeing him turn deadly pale at this, and suddenly put his hand on his heart, I thought I had discovered the spring to move his resolution, and determined that I would not let it go. I moved towards the door, thinking it best to leave him a short time to his own reflections, assured that love must be victorious over conscience. He made a motion as if to detain me, as I passed--then again pressed his hand on his heart. That silent motion--never, never, can I forget it! 'Are you resolved on this?' asked he, in a low, very hoarse tone of voice. 'Yes, if you persist in your refusal. I leave you to decide.' I went into the next room. I heard him walk a few moments, as if agitated and irresolute--then suddenly stop. I then heard a low, suppressed cough, but to this he was always subject, when excited, and it caused no emotion. Yet, after remaining alone for some time, I began to be alarmed at the perfect stillness. A strange feeling of horror came over me. I remembered the deadly paleness of his countenance, and the cold dew gathered fast and thick on my brow. I recollected, too, that he had told me of once having bled at the lungs, and of being admonished to shun every predisposing cause to such a malady. Strange, that after such an entire oblivion of every thing but self, these reflections should have pressed upon me, with such power, at that moment. I seemed suddenly gifted with second sight, and feared to move, lest I should see the vision of my conscience embodied. At length, aunt Debby opened the door, and for the first time, rejoicing in her sight, _I_ entreated her to go into the library, with an earnestness that appalled her. She did go--and her first sharp scream drew me to her side. There, reclined upon the sofa, motionless, lifeless--his face, white as a snow-drift, lay my husband; his neck-cloth and vest, saturated with the blood that still flowed from his lips. Yes, he lay there--lifeless, dead, dead! The wild shriek of agony and remorse pierced not his unconscious ear. He was dead, and _I_ was his murderer. The physician who was summoned, pronounced my doom. From violent agitation of mind, a blood vessel had been broken, and instant death had ensued. Weeks of frenzy, months of despair, succeeded--of black despair. Nothing but an almighty arm thrown around my naked soul, held me back from the brink of suicide. Could I have believed in annihilation--and I wrestled with the powers of reason to convince myself that in the grave, at least, I should find rest. I prayed but for rest--I prayed for oblivion. Night and day the image of that bleeding corse was before me. Night and day a voice was ringing in my ears, '_Thou hast murdered him!_' My sufferings were so fearful to witness, the at first compassionate neighbors deserted my pillow, justifying themselves by the conviction that I merited all that I endured.

My uncle and aunt came when they first heard the awful tidings, but unable to support my raving distress, left me--after providing every thing for my comfort--with the injunction that as soon as I should be able to be removed, to be carried to their household. And whose kind, unwearied hand smoothed my lonely pillow, and held my aching brow? Who, when wounded reason resumed her empire, applied the balm of Gilead and the oil of tenderness; led me to the feet of the divine Physician, prayed with me and for me, wept with me and over me, nor rested till she saw me clinging to the cross, in lowliness of spirit, with the seal of the children of God in my forehead, and the joy of salvation in my soul? It was aunt Debby. The harsh condemner of the fashions of this world, the stern reprover of vanity and pride, the uncompromising defender of godliness and truth; she who in my day of prosperity was the cloud, in the night of sorrow was my light and consolation. The rough bark was penetrated and the finer wood beneath gave forth its fragrance. Oh! how often, as I have heard her, seated by my bedside, explaining in a voice softened by kindness, the mysteries of holiness, and repeating the promises of mercy, have I wondered, that I, who had turned a deaf ear to the same truths, when urged upon me with all an angel's eloquence, should listen with reverence to accents from which I had heretofore turned in disgust. Yet, at times, there seemed a dignity in her tones; her harsh features would light up with an expression of devout ecstacy, and I marvelled at the transforming power of christianity. Well may I marvel! I would not now, for the diadem of the east, exchange this sequestered hermitage for the halls of fashion--these hallowed shades for the canopies of wealth--or the society of the once despised and hated aunt Debby, for the companionship of flatterers. I see nothing but thorns where once roses blushed. The voice of the charmer has lost its power, though 'it charm never so wisely.' My heart lies buried in the tomb on which the sunlight now solemnly glimmers--my hopes are fixed on those regions from whence those rays depart. {365} Had he only lived to forgive me--to know my penitence and agony--but the last words that ever fell on his ear from my lips, were those of passion and rebellion--the last glance I ever cast on him, was proud and upbraiding.

The sketch is finished--memory overpowers me.

C. L. H.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THOUGHTS ON AFFECTATION.

_For the benefit of all whom they may concern_.

Affectation, as defined by Johnson, is "an artificial show, an elaborate appearance, a false pretence,"--"affected, studied with overmuch care, or with hypocritical appearance." The terms of this definition are so revolting, that the justice of its ascription to any individual, however felt, can scarcely be expected to be acknowledged by such, because it too deeply wounds self-love, its natural parent. Studiously disguised from ourselves, it is vainly believed to be so from others. Let us compare the utmost advantages to be derived from its adoption, with its peril and its loss. Do we really hope to improve by it, those qualities, moral, intellectual or physical, with which the bounty of nature has distinctively gifted us? Or do we hope by "an artificial show, an elaborate appearance, a false pretence," to obtain credit with others for attributes which do not belong to us? and with the deceitful appearance of which, (_provided_ it deceive,) we shall be basely content; thus falsely laboring for the attainment of a vain shadow, when the same labor honestly bestowed, would give us the real substance of all we ought to desire, viz: that solid improvement of the heart and mind, around which ever play, as their natural consequences, the most captivating of all graces--_simplicity and truth_. Viewed simply as matter of taste, can any thing short of its vilest corruption, its lowest degradation, induce a preference for a clumsy counterfeit, a hand-maiden, who impudently usurping the place of her mistress, presumes to play high life below stairs, over her noble mistress, arrayed in her simple majesty? What monstrous perversion can prompt us to turn the latter out of doors, and hug to our bosoms so vile an intruder? With what bribes does she corrupt the loyalty of her fair advocates? With what store of "quips and quirks, and wreathed smiles?" with what rich caskets of bright gems, counterfeit or stolen; with what rare graces, unmatched by those even of her injured and abused mistress, which she boldly pronounces _fade and obsolete_? Alas! how often do such meretricious lures prove resistless to the infatuated fair one! Behold her arrayed in all the paraphernalia of the despicable traitress,--henceforth sole promptress of the drama in which she proposes to act a conspicuous part, and which she vainly flatters herself to act with that last degree of art which conceals it. Not reflecting that the whole history of dramatic art affords few such adepts, she aspires at her very first debut, to surpass even a Siddons. Discarding nature, and not sufficiently wedded to art,--what becomes of her witchery? Her smiles are grimaces--her laughter discord--her movements ridiculous antics. Her tones speak to any thing but the heart;--all is foreign to nature,--whose modesty she outrages and oversteps. She is mocked and hissed by all the world with whom she would cordially unite, were the actress other than her own _dear_ self, whom alone self-love has blinded to herself. Hers is the delusion of the silly ostrich, which in the concealment of his head, thinks to elude pursuit. But granting her the utmost success of long and carefully practised art--and that her airs and graces, her soft _languishments_, killing glances, heavenly smiles, and soul thrilling laughter, have all the witchery that such art can give, and have called forth the applause of the crowd of vulgar admirers,--will it compensate for the obvious disgust of those who have learned to detect and to despise their empty and heartless display? Will it compensate for the lowering of that proud self-esteem, which is the bright reward of truth, and the best security of virtue? Would she flourish in the empire of the heart, that bright dominion of her sex? Would she, by her look, manner and words, inspire respect, confidence and love? And shall each betray that they have been practised but to deceive? Shall she hope to speak to the heart in tones which come not from the heart? Shall she hope to engage interest for the subject of her conversation, when full not of it but of herself? For what is it that she would challenge the affections? For a being pure, single hearted, and identical,--or for one whose very identity is almost lost amidst the perpetually varying aspects and phases, under which, in her inflated vanity, she pleases to exhibit herself. How shall our love continue to pursue, and cling to that, of whose very form and essence we have no abiding assurance? In the disruption of feeling produced by such changes, we cannot but feel that we have almost lost the beloved object, and exclaim in bitterness,--alas! she is no longer what I have loved.

"Why _affectation_,--why this mock grimace? Go silly thing, and hide that simp'ring face; Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait-- All thy false mimic fooleries I hate: For thou art Folly's counterfeit--and she, Altho' right foolish, hath the better plea;-- Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee.

"Why that soft languish,--why that drawling tone? Art sick? art sleepy? Get thee hence; begone-- I laugh at all thy pretty baby tears, Those flutterings, faintings, and unreal fears.

"Can they deceive us? Can such mum'ries move? Touch us with pity, or inspire with love? No! affectation--vain is all thy art; Those eyes may wander over every part, They'll never find their passage to the heart."

Of all the diseases of the mind or the heart, affectation is the fittest subject of ridicule,--since we are ridiculous not for what we are, but for what we pretend to be. One of the arguments of the apologists for this mean and pitiful vice is,--that the ordinary conventional forms of politeness necessarily involve its commission, and that all the tutored and refined graces of polished life, are but its varying forms. Of the former, benevolence should be, if it be not always, the genuine and captivating source; and if we have it not, the assumption of a virtue which inculcates a sacrifice to the feelings of others of our own, may find a sufficient apology, perhaps, for a semblance to which society has learned to affix its value. With regard to the latter, _la belle nature_ is loveliest when embellished, not prostituted, by art, in its most vulgar form, viz: _affectation_. {366} Neither wealth nor fashion can divest it of its character of vulgarity. One should, indeed, be too proud to be _vain_, when vanity leads to affectation,--which in its milder form, is the meanness of asking credit for what we do not possess--and in its deeper die, impels us to obtain it by dissimulation, hypocrisy and fraud. In its approaches, few vices are more insidious. Having its germ in the indiscriminate love of imitation natural to youth, vanity prompts an eager exchange of our native attributes, for what we deem attractive in others--and artifice is speedily resorted to, to give the acquisition the semblance of an original possession. One cherished appropriation is added to another, until the product becomes a complete bundle of fancied charms and perfections, entailing, however, all that anxiety of concealment, whose only tendency is to betray the theft. If the original effects of affectation have been correctly assigned, the mode and importance of prevention will sufficiently suggest themselves. Let parents beware how they suffer their children to be exposed to the contagion of this vile leprosy. Let them carefully remove from them, as from a pestilence, those infected subjects, whose resemblance they would shudder to see them. The garment of affectation once put on, like that of the fated Nessus, grows to the wearer. Should her complacency ever be so far alarmed as to make her attempt to doff it, may vainly fancy she has succeeded, by simply pulling it around, and exhibiting it under a different aspect. Should she be so fortunate as to have the most invaluable, because the rarest of friends,--one who will neither flatter, nor shrink from the task of the faithful anatomy of her heart, and the development of the fatal poison which lurks at its core, and be brought sincerely to desire its removal,--let her, while she earnestly applies to it her own rigid examinations, fervently invoke the aid of a mightier physician, who cleansing her heart, will restore her to a place a little less than the angels, of whom I am an

ADORER.

Our readers are apprised that the poet Willis has for some time past, been employed in making the grand tour of Europe--a kind of literary reconnoissance, not only for his own benefit and gratification, but also for the purpose, we suppose, of enriching the columns of the New York Mirror (of which periodical he is one of the Editors,) with the various results of his observation. With many of his letters, or "first impressions" as they are called, we acknowledge ourselves to have been much delighted. His sketches of character and scenery are generally very impressive, and whilst on the one hand he avoids the too common fault of American writers,--a wearisome profusion of words--he does not, on the other, disdain the graces of ornament, or the beauties of amplification. It appears that he is at last peeping into the concerns of our venerable ancestor, John Bull. We hope that he will give a fair and candid account of the old gentleman's virtues, as well as his faults and peculiarities, "nothing extenuating, nor setting down aught in malice."--The following letter is very interesting.

WILLIS'S IMPRESSIONS OF LONDON.

From the top of Shooter's Hill we got our first view of London--an indistinct, architectural mass, extending all round to the horizon, and half enveloped in a dim and lurid smoke. "That is St. Paul's!--there is Westminster Abbey!--there is the Tower of London!" What directions were these to follow for the first time with the eye!

From Blackheath, (seven or eight miles from the centre of London,) the beautiful hedges disappeared, and it was one continued mass of buildings. The houses were amazingly small, a kind of thing that would do for an object in an imitation perspective park, but the soul of neatness pervaded them. Trellises were nailed between the little windows, roses quite overshadowed the low doors, a painted fence enclosed the hand's breadth of grass-plot, and very, oh, _very_ sweet faces bent over lapfuls of work beneath the snowy and looped-up curtains. It was all home-like and amiable. There was an _affectionateness_ in the mere outside of every one of them.

After crossing Waterloo bridge, it was busy work for the eyes. The brilliant shops, the dense crowds of people, the absorbed air of every passenger, the lovely women, the cries, the flying vehicles of every description, passing with the most dangerous speed--accustomed as I am to large cities, it quite made me giddy. We got into a "jarvey" at the coach-office, and in half an hour I was in comfortable quarters, with windows looking down St. James'-street, and the most interesting leaf of my life to turn over. "Great emotions interfere little with the mechanical operations of life," however, and I dressed and dined, though it was my first hour in London.

I was sitting in the little parlor alone, over a fried sole and a mutton cutlet, when the waiter came in, and pleading the crowded state of the hotel, asked my permission to spread the other side of the table for a clergyman. I have a kindly preference for the cloth, and made not the slightest objection. Enter a fat man, with top-boots and a hunting whip, rosy as Bacchus, and excessively out of breath with mounting one flight of stairs. Beefsteak and potatoes, a pot of porter and a bottle of sherry followed close on his heels. With a single apology for the intrusion, the reverend gentleman fell to, and we ate and drank for a while in true English silence.

"From Oxford, sir, I presume," he said at last, pushing back his plate, with an air of satisfaction.

"No, I had never the pleasure of seeing Oxford."

"R-e-ally! may I take a glass of wine with you, sir?"

We got on swimmingly. He would not believe I had never been in England till the day before, but his cordiality was no colder for that. We exchanged port and sherry, and a most amicable understanding found its way down with the wine. Our table was near the window, and a great crowd began to collect at the corner of St. James'-street. It was the king's birth-day, and the people were thronging to see the nobility come in state from the royal _levee_. The show was less splendid than the same thing in Rome or Vienna, but it excited far more of my admiration. Gaudiness and tinsel were exchanged for plain richness and perfect fitness in the carriages and harness, while the horses were incomparably finer. My friend pointed out to me the different liveries as they turned the corner into Piccadilly, the duke of Wellington's among others. I looked hard to see his grace; but the two pale and beautiful faces on the {367} back seat, carried nothing like the military nose on the handles of the umbrellas.

The annual procession of mail coaches followed, and it was hardly less brilliant. The drivers and guard in their bright red and gold uniforms, the admirable horses driven so beautifully, the neat harness, the exactness with which the room of each horse was calculated, and the small space in which he worked, and the compactness and contrivance of the coaches, formed altogether one of the most interesting spectacles I have ever seen. My friend, the clergyman, with whom I had walked out to see them pass, criticised the different teams _con amore_, but in language which I did not always understand. I asked him once for an explanation; but he looked rather grave, and said something about "gammon," evidently quite sure that my ignorance of London was a mere quiz.

We walked down Piccadilly, and turned into, beyond all comparison, the most handsome street I ever saw. The Toledo of Naples, the Corso of Rome, the Kohlmarket of Vienna, the Rue de la Paix and Boulevards of Paris, have each impressed me strongly with their magnificence, but they are really nothing to Regent-street. I had merely time to get a glance at it before dark; but for breadth and convenience, for the elegance and variety of the buildings, though all of the same scale and material, and for the brilliancy and expensiveness of the shops, it seemed to me quite absurd to compare it with any thing between New York and Constantinople--Broadway and the Hippodrome included.

It is the custom for the king's tradesmen to illuminate their shops on his majesty's birth-night, and the principal streets on our return were in a blaze of light. The crowd was immense. None but the lower order seemed abroad, and I cannot describe to you the effect on my feelings on hearing my own language spoken by every man, woman and child about me. It seemed a completely foreign country in every other respect, different from what I had imagined, different from my own and all that I had seen, and coming to it last, it seemed to me the farthest off and strangest country of all--and yet the little sweep, who went laughing through the crowd, spoke a language that I had heard attempted in vain by thousands of educated people, and that I had grown to consider next to unattainable by others, and almost useless to myself. Still, it did not make me feel at home. Every thing else about me was too new. It was like some mysterious change in my own ears--a sudden power of comprehension, such as a man might feel who was cured suddenly of deafness. You can scarcely enter into my feelings till you have had the changes of French, Italian, German, Greek, Turkish, Illyrian, and the mixtures and dialects of each, rung upon your hearing almost exclusively, as I have for years. I wandered about as if I were exercising some supernatural faculty in a dream.

A friend in Italy had kindly given me a letter to lady Blessington, and with a strong curiosity to see this celebrated lady, I called on her the second day after my arrival in London. It was "deep i' the afternoon," but I had not yet learned the full meaning of "town hours."--"Her ladyship had not come down to breakfast." I gave the letter and my address to the powdered footman, and had scarce reached home when a note arrived inviting me to call the same evening at ten.

In a long library lined alternately with splendidly-bound books and mirrors, and with a deep window of the breadth of the room, opening upon Hyde Park, I found lady Blessington alone. The picture to my eye, as the door opened, was a very lovely one. A woman of remarkable beauty half buried in a fauteuil of yellow satin, reading by a magnificent lamp, suspended from the centre of the arched ceiling; sofas, couches, ottomans and busts arranged in rather a crowded sumptuousness through the room; enamel tables, covered with expensive and elegant trifles in every corner, and a delicate white hand relieved on the back of a book, to which the eye was attracted by the blaze of its diamond rings. As the servant mentioned my name, she rose and gave me her hand very cordially, and a gentleman entering immediately after, she presented me to her son-in-law, Count D'Orsay, the well-known Pelham of London, and certainly the most splendid specimen of a man and a well-dressed one that I had ever seen. Tea was brought in immediately, and conversation went swimmingly on.

Her ladyship's inquiries were principally about America, of which, from long absence, I knew very little.--She was extremely curious to know the degrees of reputation the present popular authors of England enjoy among us, particularly Bulwer, Galt, and D'Israeli, (the author of Vivian Grey.) "If you will come to-morrow night," she said, "you will see Bulwer. I am delighted that he is popular in America. He is envied and abused by all the literary men of London, for nothing, I believe, except that he gets five hundred pounds for his books and they fifty, and knowing this, he chooses to assume a pride, (some people call it puppyism,) which is only the armor of a sensitive mind, afraid of a wound. He is to his friends the most frank and gay creature in the world, and open to boyishness with those who he thinks understand and value him. He has a brother, Henry, who is as clever as himself in a different vein, and is just now publishing a book on the present state of France. Bulwer's wife, you know, is one of the most beautiful women in London, and his house is the resort of both fashion and talent. He is just now hard at work on a new book, the subject of which is the last days of Pompeii. The hero is a Roman dandy, who wastes himself in luxury, till this great catastrophe rouses him and developes a character of the noblest capabilities.--Is Galt much liked?"

I answered to the best of my knowledge that he was not. His life of Byron was a stab at the dead body of the noble poet, which, for one, I never could forgive, and his books were clever, but vulgar. He was evidently not a gentleman in his mind. This was the opinion I had formed in America, and I had never heard another.

"I am sorry for it," said Lady B., "for he is the dearest and best old man in the world. I know him well.--He is just on the verge of the grave, but comes to see me now and then, and if you had known how shockingly Byron treated him, you would only wonder at his sparing his memory so much."

"_Nil mortuis nisi bonum_," I thought, would have been a better course. If he had reason to dislike him, he had better not have written since he was dead.

"Perhaps--perhaps. But Galt has been all his life miserably poor, and lived by his books. That must be his apology. Do you know the D'Israeli in America?"

I assured her ladyship that the "Curiosities of {368} Literature," by the father, and "Vivian Grey and Contarini Fleming," by the son, were universally known.

"I am pleased at that, too, for I like them both. D'Israeli the elder came here with his son the other night.--It would have delighted you to see the old man's pride in him. He is very fond of him, and as he was going away, he patted him on the head, and said to me 'take care of him, lady Blessington, for my sake. He is a clever lad, but he wants ballast. I am glad he has the honor to know you, for you will check him sometimes when I am away!' D'Israeli, the elder, lives in the country about twenty miles from town, and seldom comes up to London. He is a very plain old man in his manners, as plain as his son is the reverse. D'Israeli, the younger, is quite his own character of Vivian Grey, crowded with talent, but very _soigne_ of his curls, and a bit of a coxcomb. There is no reserve about him, however, and he is the only _joyous_ dandy I ever saw."

I asked if the account I had seen in some American paper of a literary celebration at Canandaigua, and the engraving of her ladyship's name with some others upon a rock, was not a quiz.

"Oh, by no means. I was equally flattered and amused by the whole affair. I have a great idea of taking a trip to America to see it. Then the letter, commencing 'Most charming countess--for charming you must be since you have written the conversations of Lord Byron'--oh, it was quite delightful. I have shown it to every body. By the way, I receive a great many letters from America, from people I never heard of, written in the most extraordinary style of compliment, apparently in perfectly good faith. I hardly know what to make of them."

I accounted for it by the perfect seclusion in which great numbers of cultivated people live in our country, who, having neither intrigue, nor fashion, nor twenty other things to occupy their minds as in England, depend entirely upon books, and consider an author who has given them pleasure as a friend. America, I said, has probably more literary enthusiasts than any country in the world; and there are thousands of romantic minds in the interior of New England, who know perfectly every writer this side the water, and hold them all in affectionate veneration, scarcely conceivable by a sophisticated European. If it were not for such readers, literature would be the most thankless of vocations. I, for one, would never write another line.

"And do you think these are the people who write to me? If I could think so, I should be exceedingly happy. People in England are refined down to such heartlessness--criticism, private and public, is so interested and so cold, that it is really delightful to know there is a more generous tribunal. Indeed I think all our authors now are beginning to write for America. We think already a great deal of your praise or censure."

I asked if her ladyship had known many Americans.

"Not in London, but a great many abroad. I was with Lord Blessington in his yacht at Naples, when the American fleet was lying there, eight or ten years ago, and we were constantly on board your ships. I knew Commodore Creighton and Captain Deacon extremely well, and liked them particularly. They were with us, either on board the yacht or the frigate every evening, and I remember very well the bands playing always 'God save the King,' as we went up the side. Count D'Orsay here, who spoke very little English at that time, had a great passion for Yankee Doodle, and it was always played at his request."

The count, who still speaks the language with a very slight accent, but with a choice of words that shows him to be a man of uncommon tact and elegance of mind, inquired after several of the officers, whom I have not the pleasure of knowing. He seemed to remember his visits to the frigate with great pleasure. The conversation, after running upon a variety of topics, which I could not with propriety put into a letter for the public eye, turned very naturally upon Byron. I had frequently seen the Countess Guiccioli on the continent, and I asked lady Blessington if she knew her.

"No. We were at Pisa when they were living together, but though Lord Blessington had the greatest curiosity to see her, Byron would never permit it. 'She has a red head of her own,' said he, 'and don't like to show it.' Byron treated the poor creature dreadfully ill. She feared more than she loved him."

She had told me the same thing herself in Italy.

It would be impossible, of course, to make a full and fair record of a conversation of some hours. I have only noted one or two topics which I thought most likely to interest an American reader. During all this long visit, however, my eyes were very busy in finishing for memory a portrait of the celebrated and beautiful woman before me.

The portrait of lady Blessington in the Book of Beauties is not unlike her, but it is still an unfavorable likeness. A picture by Sir Thomas Lawrence hung opposite me, taken, perhaps, at the age of eighteen, which is more like her, and as captivating a representation of a just matured woman, full of loveliness and love, the kind of creature with whose divine sweetness the gazer's heart aches, as ever was drawn in the painter's most inspired hour. The original is now (she confessed it very frankly) forty. She looks something on the sunny side of thirty. Her person is full, but preserves all the fineness of an admirable shape; her foot is not crowded in a satin slipper, for which a Cinderella might long be looked for in vain, and her complexion, (an unusually fair skin, with very dark hair and eyebrows,) is of even a girlish delicacy and freshness. Her dress of blue satin, (if I am describing her like a milliner, it is because I have here and there a reader of the mirror in my eye who will be amused by it,) was cut low and folded across her bosom, in a way to show to advantage the round and sculpture-like curve and whiteness of a pair of exquisite shoulders, while her hair dressed close to her head, and parted simply on her forehead with a rich _ferronier_ of turquoise, enveloped in clear outline a head with which it would be difficult to find a fault.--Her features are regular, and her mouth, the most expressive of them, has a ripe fulness and freedom of play, peculiar to the Irish physiognomy, and expressive of the most unsuspicious good humour. Add to all this a voice merry and sad by turns, but always musical, and manners of the most unpretending elegance, yet even more remarkable for their winning kindness, and you have the prominent traits of one of the most lovely and fascinating women I have ever seen. Remembering her talents and her rank, and the unenvying admiration she receives from the world of fashion and genius, it {369} would be difficult to reconcile her lot to the "doctrine of compensation."

There is one remark I may as well make here, with regard to the personal descriptions and anecdotes with which my letters from England will of course be filled. It is quite a different thing from publishing such letters in London. America is much farther off from England than England from America. You in New York read the periodicals of this country, and know every thing that is done or written here, as if you lived within the sound of Bow-bell. The English, however, just know of our existence, and if they get a general idea twice a year of our progress in politics, they are comparatively well informed. Our periodical literature is never even heard of. Of course, there can be no offence to the individuals themselves in any thing which a visiter could write, calculated to convey an idea of the person or manners of distinguished people to the American public. I mention it lest, at first thought, I might seem to have abused the hospitality or frankness of those on whom letters of introduction have given me claims for civility.

N. P. W.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MISS C----, ON HER COQUETRY.

"Go to," and quit thy idle ways Thou winning little creature; A mind of nobler import plays, Around thy every feature.

Why waste those powers, by heav'n design'd To win true hearts and wear them? To wreck the peace of half mankind, Who let thy arts ensnare them?

In thy pursuit 'tis all the same, The simple, wise, or learned, Alike are fuel for thy flame-- Are on thy altar burned.

Nay, say not "no!"--within that hall, Hallowed by deeds of ages, I've seen thy _look_ around thee call Virginia's proudest sages.

I've seen thee, 'midst the festive scene, With fools and fops in waiting, Essay to conquer things too mean, For pity, love, or hating.

Go, quit it all--'tis weak--'tis vain-- 'Tis wicked--nay, 'tis _cruel_; Thy native truth alone can gain For thee, the brightest jewel.

B.

_Richmond, Feb. 1835_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WRITTEN FOR MISS M---- T----'S ALBUM.

Mary, thou wert a lovely child! A sweeter cherub never smiled! Tho' since we have not often met, Those days I well remember yet; When, in thy sportiveness and glee, Thou wert a favorite with me; And told me, in thy frolic mood, The story of Red-riding-hood-- In words I ne'er could understand-- They seemed sweet sounds from fairy land.

Time's changes numberless had passed O'er thee when I beheld thee last, Yet still I thought that I could trace The same expression in thy face; Only that then it was refined By the bright impress of the mind-- For years had failed to steal away The artlessness of childhood's day. In nature's richest tints arrayed, Thy cheek the bloom of health displayed; And in its varying flush, I read All that thy lips had left unsaid.

Mary, I thought thee lovely then-- Oh! may'st thou long thy charms retain, And ne'er thine eyes their witness bear To any but compassion's tear! May life's fast flowing stream, for thee Roll smoothly bright, and buoyantly-- Bearing thee calmly on thy way, To realms of ever-shining day; To regions of eternal peace, Where joys live on and sorrows cease.

E. A. S.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written on the Pillar erecting by Mrs. Barlow, to the memory of her husband, Minister of the United States at Paris.

Where o'er the Polish desarts trackless way, Relentless Winter rules with savage sway, Where the shrill polar storms, as wild they blow, Seem to repeat some plaint of mortal woe; Far o'er the cheerless space, the traveller's eye Shall this recording pillar long descry, And give the sod a tear where Barlow lies, He who was simply great and nobly wise; Here led by Patriot zeal, he met his doom, And found amid the frozen wastes a tomb-- Far from his native soil the Poet fell, Far from that Western World he sung so well. Nor she, so long beloved, nor she was nigh, To catch the dying look--the parting sigh! She, who, the hopeless anguish to beguile, In fond memorial rears the funeral pile; Whose widowed bosom, on Columbia's shore, Shall mourn the moments that return no more-- While bending o'er the broad Atlantic wave, Sad fancy hovers on the distant grave.

H. M. WILLIAMS.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND ME.

Memory! within thy deepest cell A recollection glows; A burning thought--whose magic spell Can charm away my woes: It gushes o'er my troubled soul In lava streams of joy, Its talismanic power can roll The darkness from my sky; {370} It thrills my heart with ecstacy, That ever present thought! And, oh! it were too sweet to die With mind so richly fraught: And who is she for whom my heart, My feelings, harmonize? And who is she that has the art To chain my sympathies?

Thine is the brightness of the eye, Which tide nor time can dim; Thy voice is softer than the sigh Of love, or angel's hymn; The rose is thine--but not the hue That fadeth with the morn-- _Thy_ color's deeper when the dew Away from flower is gone-- When all beside is bleak and drear Thy genial blushes rise, Like flow'rets of the northern year, That bloom amid the ice; But more than all, thy beauty brings In her imperial train; And more than all, thy magic flings To dim the dizzened brain. Yes! more than these--than rosy cheek-- Is thy pure lofty mind; Thy nature calm, and soft and meek, With warmth of heart conjoined. These are the charms that deck _thee_ most, With radiance deep and pure,-- These are the flow'rs that thou may'st boast, When beauty's hour is o'er: Thy world may fade--its glory past,-- But in the sky afar, Thy mind will shine undimmed at last, A high and holy star! Go to the East--it is thy home-- In nature like to thee; And while o'er beds of flowers you roam, No breeze, no bird so free-- And while you breathe the Attar-Gul Of fragrant memory, Your heart with thrilling joy so full, It throbs like summer sea; Oh! then should thought of times gone by, With dew-drop dim thine ee, May, mid the breeze that dances nigh, A sigh be heard for me.

----.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM.

There is a form before me now, A spirit with a peerless brow, And locks of gold that lightly lie, Like clouds on the air of a sunset sky, And a glittering eye, whose beauty blends With more than mortal tenderness, As bright a ray as Heaven sends To light those orbs, where the pure and blest Are taking their eternal rest. Sweet Spirit! thou hast stolen afar From thy home in yonder crystal Star, That I might look on thee, and bless Thy kindness and thy loveliness.

How oft against these prison bars I have leaned my head, and gazed for hours Upon the wonder-telling stars; Thinking, if in their sinless bowers The memory of this planet dim E'er mingles with thy blissful dream. And when low winds were stealing by, I have sometimes closed my weary eye; And fancied the sigh that was silently stealing Through my damp hair, was thine own breathing: Then would I lay me down upon This carpetless cold flinty stone, And pray--how long! how fervently! To look on thee once more and die.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MOONLIGHT.

The half-orbed Moon hangs out her silvery lamp, A liquid lustre pouring o'er the scene; While silk-winged zephyrs bathed in dewy damp Scarce move the pensile leaves, or break the calm serene.

Radiant she rests upon the brow of night, The lucid diadem that crowns the sky; So softly beautiful, so mildly bright, She sways the ravished heart, and feeds the insatiate eye.

In jocund _boyhood_ erst her magic face Impressed no feeling but a gentle joy; For moonlit memory knew not then to trace The saddened scenes of youth that later hopes alloy.

When dawning _manhood_, fired by fancy's ray, Enrobed all nature in her rainbow hues, Then fond affection loved at eve to stray And, gazing on the Moon, with thrilling heart to muse.

But when _advancing years_ have broke the ties Formed at the altar of the Moonlit Heaven, The thoughts of buried joys in sadness rise, And tear-drops glisten in the silent light of even.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO HOPE.

O! ever skilled to wear the form we love! To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart, Come gentle Hope! with one soft smile remove The wasting sadness of an aching heart.

Thy voice benign, enchantress let me hear; Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom; That Fancy's radiance. Friendship's precious tear Shall brighten or shall soothe misfortune's gloom.

But come not glowing with the dazzling ray, Which once, with dear illusions charmed my eye! O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way, The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die. Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, That asks not Happiness, but longs for rest.

{371}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO THE BIBLE.

Go, Holy Book! Tell those whom many woes assail On thee to look; They'll find how weak it is to wail Though every earthly comfort fail.

The Orphan's tear Go wipe away, and bid his heart To be of cheer; Heal thou his bosom's sorest smart, And gild with Hope misfortune's dart.

Say thou to those, Shut out from every good on earth, Lost to repose, Baptized in sorrow at their birth, That worldly joy's of little worth.

The poor soul tell, The poor, lone, wretched, friendless man, Though his heart swell, The ways of God, he must not scan-- But trust the Universal plan.

Tell poor disease, Bravely to bear the piercing pain; Eternal ease, Waits those who do not poorly plain, And worldly loss is heavenly gain.

Tell those who sigh Over some friend's untimely doom, That all must die; He whom they saw laid in the tomb, In God's own paradise may bloom.

Go, say to those Doom'd still to groan and till the soil, That soon repose Shall wipe away their drops of toil, And stay for aye their weary moil.

Tell those who pine In the damp dungeon's dreary gloom, There yet will shine Through their poor melancholy dome, A light to guide their footsteps home.

Tell the Pilgrim, When storms are blackening round his head, 'Tis good for him; What though his thorn torn feet have bled, The heart's blood of his God was shed.

The Mariner, Who bides the tempest's fiercest blaze, Bid not to fear; Though thunders hurtle in the air, The Launcher of the thunder's there.

Tell those who fear Their sins can never be forgiven, To be of cheer-- If they have call'd on God and striven, There's mercy for them still in Heaven.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ON SEEING THE JUNCTION OF THE SUSQUEHANNA AND LACKAWANNA RIVERS.

Rush on, broad stream, in thy power and pride, To claim the hand of thy promis'd bride,-- She doth haste from the realm of the darken'd mine, To mingle her murmur'd vows with thine; Ye have met, ye have met,--and the shores prolong The liquid tone of your nuptial song.

Methinks ye wed as the white man's son And the child of the Indian king have done; I saw thy bride as she strove in vain To cleanse her brow from the carbon stain,-- But the dowry she brings, is so rich and true, That thy love must not shrink from the tawny hue.

Her birth was rude in the mountain cell, And her infant freaks there are none to tell; The path of her beauty was wild and free, And in dell and forest she hid from thee,-- But the time of her fond caprice is o'er, And she seeks to part from thy breast no more.

Pass on, in the joy of your blended tide, Thro' the land where the blessed Miquon[1] died; No red man's blood with its guilty stain, Hath cried unto God, from that green domain; With the seeds of peace they have seen the soil Bring a harvest of wealth for their hour of toil.

On,--on,--thro' the vale where the brave ones sleep, Where the waving foliage is rich and deep; I have look'd from the mountain and roam'd thro' the glen, To the beautiful homes of the western men, Yet naught in that realm of enchantment could see, So fair as the Vale of Wyoming to me.

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Conn._

[Footnote 1: The Indian name for William Penn.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HOPES AND SORROWS.

The fitful beam Of the rippled fountain, The purple gleam Of the eve-lit mountain, The vanishing glance Of the meteors motion, The lights that dance On the darkened ocean, Are the faithful types of the _hopes_ that won us, While the dew of our youth still sparkled upon us.

The arid sands Of the sun-dried river, The rock that stands Where lightnings quiver, The pitiless rush Of the earthquake's ruin, The startling hush Of the sea-storm brewing, Are as truly types of the _sorrows_ that found us, When the hopes that we nursed had all fled from around us.

{372}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE WANDERER.

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD, M.D.

Along the devious paths of life, A wild and wayward wand'rer, I, Have steered my bark mid passion's strife, And where destruction's pitfalls lie.

When on a dark and rock-bound shore, My bark was wildly tempest tost, And o'er the breakers' sullen roar, Arose the fearful cry--_all's lost!_

I shrunk not from the raging blast, But with a bold and reckless hand I steered her on, till she had past The stormy sea and rocky strand.

A fierce enthusiast, I have dared To risk my all, upon one cast,-- Have seen the danger,--nor have feared, What others looked upon aghast.

Disease has laid her iron hand, With no weak grasp, my frame upon, But all her power could not withstand The spirit which has borne me on.

A demon some have called me--yet, Admit that with my spirit blends, A feeling strangely to forget All thought of self, in aid of friends.

A madman some have deemed me--and, In sooth, dark shadows often run Across my mind, as o'er the land, When darkest clouds obscure the sun.

I often wish to die--and flee Far, far away from earth, that I May search the dim unknown, and see What wonders in its bosom lie.

'Tis not because life has no charm,-- I love the gay and laughing stream; I love the glowing sunshine warm; I love Old Luna's silvery beam.

I love to gaze on maiden's eye, Though it has often been my bane; I love on courser swift to fly, Like arrow o'er the flowery plain.

Yet still, my wayward soul will oft, Cherish the wish to pass that bound, Which spans this life, and seek aloft For bliss which here is never found.

But now my lyre begins to fail I'll cease my lone and wand'ring song. Fearful lest with my idle wail, I linger o'er the chords too long.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUE RICHES AND GLORY.

For fortune's prize let others pant, And count the "yellow slave," No joys can gathered jewels grant, No sickening sorrows save-- But bustling and jostling To swell the treasured heap, It cloys us, annoys us, And leaves the _heart_ to weep.

Let others climb the dizzy height Where glory shines afar, Alas! renown is but the light That decks the falling star. Still driving and striving To reach the radiant prize, We grasp it and clasp it, And in our touch it dies.

But, oh! let mine the treasure be That social joys impart, And mine the glory, sympathy Beams on the feeling heart-- Still soothing and smoothing The grief of friends distrest, And lending and spending, That others may be blest.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DEATH OF THE MOTHERLESS.

"As the little one turned for the last time, his tenderly beaming eyes on all around, they seemed to say 'Father!--she calls,--I go,--farewell,--farewell.'"

"Who calleth thee, my darling boy? What voice is in thine ear?" He answer'd not, but murmur'd on In words that none might hear; And still prolong'd the whispering tone, As if in fond reply To some dear object of delight That fix'd his dying eye.

And then, with that confiding smile First by his Mother taught, When freely on her breast he laid His troubled infant thought, And meekly as a placid flower O'er which the dew-drops weep, He bow'd him on his painful bed, And slept the unbroken sleep.

But if in yon immortal clime Where flows no parting tear, That root of earthly love may grow Which struck so deeply here, With what a tide of boundless bliss, A thrill of rapture wild, An angel mother in the skies, Must greet her cherub child.

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Conn._

{373}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER EIGHTH.

Hotel des Invalides--Chamber of Deputies--Pont Louis 16th--Bridges of Paris--The Pont Neuf.

PARIS, ----.

_My dear Jane:_

"Let them gild the dome of the Hotel des Invalides," said Napoleon to an officer, who informed him that unless the war in Italy was discontinued, there would certainly be a revolution in Paris. The mandate was issued, the dome covered with the shining leaf, and the minds of the people immediately turned from the operations of war, to those of the artisans employed on the cupola of the military asylum. Napoleon foresaw this, for well he knew the character of his subjects. A mere trifle, having _novelty_ to recommend it, attracts their notice, engages their attention, and forms the theme of their conversation for a long while--at least, until another new bubble arises. This we must own is a happy disposition, and better calculated to render a nation contented and joyous, than the sober, phlegmatic temperament of our Islanders.

Thus, my dear Jane, have I managed to describe to you in a very few words--the dome of the Invalids and the character of the Parisians. Knowing you hate prolixity, I rejoice at my success, and for the same reason, proceed without delay, to give you an account of the Hospital in question. It is a stately edifice, and was erected by Louis 14th, for the reception of brave and disabled old soldiers. In approaching it, you traverse a vast esplanade embellished with a fountain and bordered by a grove of lofty trees, with seats beneath them, to tempt the lounger and rest the weary; some of them were occupied by veterans whom I readily imagined to be telling "how fields were won." We spent three hours in their noble asylum, examining its spacious halls and dormitories, its cleanly and well arranged kitchen, its library and magnificent church, and its cabinet of architecture, which consists of two large rooms, containing models of all the fortified towns in the kingdom. These are most ingeniously and beautifully executed, and give you a perfect idea of the places they represent. The council chamber adjoins the library, and this and two other apartments are decorated with the portraits of the deceased marshals of France; while the originals are living, their likenesses are deposited in the "Salle des Marécheaux," at the Palace of the Tuilleries. In the church we saw the mausoleum of Turenne and that of the famous engineer Vauban.[1] The interior of the dome and the ceilings of six chapels surrounding it are richly painted, and the tesselated pavement, interspersed with fleurs de lis and other symbols, is exceedingly beautiful. Three hundred flags, the spoils of different nations, were once suspended from the dome; but when the allies entered Paris the _invalid_ warriors tore them down to prevent their being retaken.

[Footnote 1: He was deformed, and being once asked by the king what his enemies thought of his back,--"Sire, (he replied) they have never seen it."]

From the Hotel des Invalides we rode to the Chamber of Deputies, adjoining the palace of Bourbon, and situated on the southern bank of the Seine, which separates it from the "Place Louis Quinze." It is a handsome building, adorned with statues and corinthian columns, and has a pleasant garden attached to it; the deputies hold their assemblies in a semicircular hall, lighted from the top and appropriately arranged. Monsieur de N---- was so kind and polite as to send us tickets, and we have been twice to hear the debates; they were very animated, though whenever a member wished to speak, he was obliged to curb the _spirit that moved him_, until he could cross the floor and mount a rostrum, which delay I should think is most unfavorable to extemporary eloquence. Returning, we passed over the Pont Louis Seize, and examined the twelve colossal figures of white marble, that have recently been placed on it; they are masterly pieces of sculpture, but too gigantic for the size of the bridge and their approximation to you. There are no less than seventeen bridges athwart the Seine, but not one of them can be compared to those of Waterloo, Blackfriar's, or Westminster at London, as regards strength or magnitude. The Pont Neuf is the largest; it is more than sixty feet wide, and lined on each side with stalls of every description; the passengers are continually beset by the importunities of the shoe-black, the dog-shaver, the ballad singer, the bird seller, the fruiterer, the pedler, the vender of second-hand books, and various other petty dealers. Good night, dear sister. My paper and candle warn me to conclude, which I fear you will not regret.

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER NINTH.

Arrival of friends--Voyage from London to Calais--Route from Calais to Paris--Levee at the Minister's of the Marine--Expiatory Chapel.

PARIS, ----.

_My dear Jane:_

We were agreeably surprised the day before yesterday, while at dinner, by the arrival of the Danvilles, the American family with whom we were so charmed at Bath last summer. Leonora is as likely as ever, and delighted at the idea of spending the fall and winter here; she expects too, to be joined by her cousin Marcello, of whom we have heard her speak with such affection and admiration. She has been so good as to let me read her journal, and I have obtained her permission to transcribe a part of it for your perusal. It concerns the journey from Calais to Paris, and as I have given you a sketch of that from Havre here, this will enable you to compare the two routes. I dare say you will like, also, to read her observations about the Thames and our steam boats. She writes thus:

"Soon after leaving London, the Thames quite astonished me. I had no idea it was so considerable a river. For many miles it is broad and winding, and each shore presents fine scenery. We had a good view of several noted towns, and remarked the superb hospital at Greenwich and the royal dock yard at Woolwich, where ships of war are made. At Gravesend we passed two vessels transporting convicts to Botany Bay, and I regretted to observe that the women were more numerous than the men.

"The motion of the English steam boats is still more disagreeable than that of ours, but their machinery is less noisy. Coal being used for fuel instead of wood, the passengers soon look dingy in face and dress: therefore {374} one should not travel in them handsomely clad, as clothes are quickly ruined by the smoke and dust. There is no particular hour for breakfast; each person calls for it when it suits his pleasure, and has a table to himself. Dinner is served at five o'clock.

"We reached Calais about eight P.M. At the custom house the officers were not strict in their examination of our baggage; this surprised us, for we had understood that they were always very rigid in performing this troublesome duty. Perhaps our being Americans was the cause of their moderation in disturbing our trunks and boxes,--for the French like _us_ almost as much as they detest the _English_. On landing, we were highly diverted at the scene on the Quay. The instant we left the boat we were beset with men and boys on every side, recommending different hotels,--and frequently cards of address were absolutely forced into our hands. When one overheard another advising any of us to go to a particular house, he would cry out, 'never do you mind that fellow, ma'am, (or sir) he tells a lie; he always tells lies!' Or, 'no such thing, sir; that house is full, sir; you can't get in, and he _knows_ it!' Or, 'that hotel is not a good one, sir,--indeed it is not; try mine, sir; mine's a palace to it!' and fifty other such droll speeches, at which (tormented as we were) we could not help laughing. Sometimes they would even seize us by the arm and entreat us to accompany them to their hotel, if only to see how comfortable it was. These _besiegers_ (we have since been told) receive a trifle from every innkeeper to whom they carry a guest, and it is their anxiety to obtain this fee, that renders them so annoying to travellers.

"Ere leaving Calais we had sufficient leisure to walk about the town and visit the church, the town hall on the 'place d'armes,' and the column on the pier commemorating the landing of Louis 18th, on the 24th of April, 1814. It is a plain stone pillar, surmounted by a ball and a fleur de lis. In front of it is a representation in bronze of the print of the king's foot (or rather his shoe) upon the spot he first stepped on from the vessel. We found the country between Calais and Paris uninteresting, and generally barren. Once or twice we had a fine view of the sea. The French villages appeared horribly dirty after the exquisite neatness of those in England. The highways presented a bustling and entertaining scene; for men and women, boys and girls, gaily dressed, continually passed us, carrying baskets of fruit, riding on donkeys, or driving along pigs, sheep, cows, or geese. The venders of fruit would frequently jump up behind our carriage, and thrust in at the window, peaches, pears and grapes, beseeching us to buy them, and assuring us we had never tasted better in all our lives. Whenever we stopped at an inn, or ascended a hill, we were surrounded by dozens of paupers, begging for a sous. Sometimes they looked so miserable, it was impossible to refuse; at others, we were fain to bestow it in order to get rid of them. Little urchins would also solicit a penny, and scamper after us a considerable distance, often springing up behind and sticking their heads into the coach. Upon the whole I am contented with our journey hither, for if it was not picturesque it was highly amusing.

"The principal towns we have passed through, are Boulogne, Abbeville, and Beauvais. The first is said to have been founded by Julius Caesar; and Le Sage, the author of Gil Blas, died there in 1747; the house in which he expired, is yet shewn as a curiosity. Within a mile of Boulogne is a corinthian column, which Bonaparte began to erect as a memento of his victories over the English; he left it unfinished, and Louis 18th had it completed for his own honor and glory."

Thus far, dear sister, I have copied from Leonora's diary; now for something of my own. Last night we were at Mr. de Neuville's grand levee; he has one every week, and being exceedingly popular, his rooms are generally crowded. We saw there, many distinguished characters; among them, Monsieur de Chateaubriand, whose travels have afforded us so much entertainment and instruction, and General Saldanha, the brave Portuguese. He has a commanding figure and face, and wears a pair of tremendous mustachios, which are so frightful and so fashionable! To-day we devoted a portion of our time to the Expiatory Chapel, a beautiful building, constructed in honor of Louis 16th and Marie Antoinette; it covers the spot where their remains were first interred; for since the restoration of the Bourbons, these have been conveyed to the royal vault at St. Denis. The entrance and interior of the chapel are very handsome; the light is admitted from the cupola, beneath which are fifteen niches, destined to hold statues of the chief victims of the revolution. There is a neat altar, and the will of Louis and that of his sister, (the Princess Elizabeth) are engraved in golden letters, on two white marble tablets. A subterranean apartment contains another altar, and in front of this a black marble slab bearing an inscription, still designates the original grave of the royal and unfortunate pair. In the court of the chapel many of their faithful Swiss guards are interred. The testament of Louis, wherein he expresses good will towards his enemies and forgiveness of his unloyal and cruel subjects, is very touching. A peasant girl was reading it when we entered, and her cheeks were bedewed with tears.

I regret to inform you that Mamma has had a return of her consumptive cough, and is compelled to drink asses' milk. She is plentifully supplied with it every morning, by an old man who drives a flock of female asses about the streets, and milks them before the door of each customer. The tingling of a little bell, which he carries, gives notice of his arrival whenever be stops. Farewell: kind greetings to those around you,--and above all, to yourself. From

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER TENTH.

The Luxembourg--The Observatory--Notre Dame--The Pantheon--Madame Malibran--M'lle Sontag.

PARIS, ----.

_Dearest Jane:_

On inquiring the day of the month, I am quite surprised to find that my pen has been idle nearly a week. I will now try to make up for lost time, by describing to you some of the places we have visited in the interim, and the Luxembourg being first on the list, will commence with that. It is one of the most magnificent palaces in Paris. The exterior is highly embellished; and to use the words of an English tourist, "the architecture throughout is distinguished by its bold and masculine character, and by the regularity and beauty of its proportions." This palace was built by order of {375} Mary de Medici, the widow of Henry 4th; it afterwards became the property of some of the French nobility, but was finally restored to the crown. During the revolution, it was used as a prison; the senate afterwards occupied it; at present it contains the Chamber of Peers,--and its galleries are filled with the chêf d'oeuvres of modern artists, whose productions are not admitted into the Louvre until their death. Of course the collection of paintings here is much smaller than at the Louvre, but the pictures are all on the most interesting subjects and are seen to greater advantage, the light being let in from above instead of from the sides of the rooms, as is the case at the Louvre. There are some choice pieces of sculpture; one of them (by Charles Dupaty) represents the Nymph Biblis, changing to a fountain. It is both a singular and ingenious production. The Chamber of Peers, like that of the Deputies, is semicircular in shape; it is hung with blue velvet; and the marble effigies of several orators, legislators and warriors of old, grace its walls. From the ceiling, which is painted, hangs a splendid chandelier. I will only mention one or two more of the apartments--the Salle du Trone,[2] as being particularly rich, and the billiard room, which is tapestried with white velvet, with various views of Rome beautifully delineated on it in water colors. On the ground floor is the chapel--this is very plain; near it is the gorgeous chamber of Marie de Medicis,--the ceiling, walls, and shutters of which are covered with gilding and arabesque paintings. The principal staircase of the palace is remarkably grand and magnificent; there are forty-eight steps, each twenty feet in length, and formed of a single stone; on the right and left of it, are statues and trophies. The garden of the Luxembourg is shady and pleasant, and has the usual embellishments of gods and goddesses amid fountains and flowers; as you are fond of the marvellous, I will tell you a tradition I have just read respecting it.

[Footnote 2: Hall of the Throne.]

There once stood a castle on the site of this garden, which remaining a long while uninhabited, was said to be haunted by frightful demons and apparitions; the whole neighborhood was nightly disturbed by them; no person would venture out after sunset, and finally the inhabitants were compelled, for the sake of rest, to seek other dwellings. In this state of things, the monks of a Carthusian monastery at Gentilly, (who were doubtless at the bottom of the mystery) promised to drive away the malicious spirits by exorcism, if St. Louis would grant them the castle and its appurtenances. Their request was complied with, and they so faithfully performed their part that peace was soon restored and the chateau converted into a convent, which existed about six hundred years.

From the Luxembourg we proceeded through a long sunny avenue, to the observatory. On the left of the road, Arnaud our valet de place, pointed out the spot upon which Marshal Ney was shot. "Regardez, Mesdames! ce fut la (pointing with his finger) l'endroit ou le brave Maréchal Ney fut massacré--Jétais présent et il me semble que je le vois tout sanglant dans le moment," said he, shuddering. We paused to look at the once bloody spot, now verdant with grass and so sadly interesting. The observatory may be considered a wonderful building, for neither iron nor wood have been used in its construction; it is entirely of stone, each piece being ingeniously fitted to another. Four astronomers pursue their avocations here, and have the advantage of a good library and apparatus; there are, likewise, an anemometer for indicating the course of the wind, and a pluviometer for measuring the quantity of rain that falls at Paris. A geometrical staircase leads to the entrance of some spacious caverns where experiments in congelation are made, and these caverns communicate with subterranean galleries that were originally quarries, and extend a considerable distance under the city, containing beautiful stalactites, formed by water oozing through the rocks. We did not see them, for they cannot be entered without a special guide, and a written permission from certain persons appointed by government to superintend and inspect them. But my stars! I have exhausted nearly all my paper, and have yet a dozen places to describe! Well, well, you must be contented with an account of two of the most important; and by the time I have finished with them, I shall have to _squeeze_ in my name, no doubt. And now let me decide which of the various objects we have examined, I ought to regard as chief. Why, the mother church of France "Notre Dame," and the Pantheon, to be sure! The first is the most ancient religious structure in the city, and is pronounced to be one of the handsomest in the kingdom. Being built in the Gothic ages, its architecture is according to the fashion of those times, very singular and bold.--The interior of the building corresponds with the outside in curious carving and designs; the choir and the stalls surrounding it are covered with grotesque sculpture. There are no less than thirty chapels, and all of them contain pictures, but they are generally very indifferent. There are several fine ones around the choir--among them the "Visitation," by Jean Jouvenet; this painting was executed entirely with his left hand, after he lost the use of his right by a paralytic stroke. Behind the altar, is a good piece of sculpture by Coustou; the subject is the "descent from the cross." In the vestry room, we were shewn some extraordinary relics,--such as part of the crown of thorns that was worn by our Saviour, and a bit of his cross!! We also saw the regalia of Charlemagne, and the splendid robes given to the priests of this cathedral by Buonaparte at the period of his coronation, upon which occasion they were used; they are embroidered in the richest manner with gold and silver, and amazingly heavy. Numerous sacred festivals are celebrated at Notre Dame in the course of the year; and in August there is to be a procession in fulfilment of a vow made by Louis XIII. This is done on the 15th of that month annually, and the royal family always join in it. We shall go to see it of course; and how I wish you, aunt Margaret and Albert were to be of our party!

The Pantheon, or Church of Saint Geneviève, is a magnificent structure, and its dome is the most striking object that presents itself as you approach Paris. The interior of it is beautifully painted, the artist having chosen for his subject the apotheosis of Louis XVI and his family. When the work was finished, the king went to see it, and after looking at it attentively for a quarter of an hour, he turned to the painter Gros who {376} was anxiously awaiting his opinion, and said to him, "Eh bien Monsieur le _Baron_ votre ouvrage est trés bien fait!" thus recompensing his talents, by bestowing on him a title of nobility. Saint Geneviève, the patron Saint of Paris, is buried in the Pantheon, and her tomb is always surrounded by lighted tapers, the votive offerings of those who come to demand her intercession for pardon or blessing. In the vaults beneath the church, many distinguished men are interred. Indeed, it was to receive the ashes of such that the Pantheon was designed; and Louis XV, who was the liberal encourager of science and art, was the founder of it.

Contrary to my expectations, I find I've yet space enough to inform you that we have been twice to the Italian Opera, to hear Madame Malibran and Mademoiselle Sontag. The former seems really adored here. At her benefit, many gentlemen voluntarily paid one hundred francs for a ticket, instead of twenty, the actual price. She sings enchantingly and acts with great spirit; so does her rival Mademoiselle Sontag. In fact, I know not to which of these nightingales I prefer listening. Adieu.

LEONTINE.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

"My life's employment and my leisure's charm, My soul's first choice, my fancy's early flame; My chance of fortune and my hopes of fame."

_Shee_.

There is no subject on which mankind more unhesitatingly decide, than upon the productions of the pencil, and none perhaps upon which the people of our own country especially, are so little qualified to form a correct judgment. Few works of any excellence ever reach us, and these are for the most part confined to the large cities, where those who visit them are more attracted by the _subject_ than the _execution_ of the painting. A striking illustration of this, may be found in the crowds which rushed a short time since, to see the immodest and demoralizing exhibition of our _first parents in a state of nudity_--an offence for which Ham was accursed to be a servant of servants to his brethren; and yet our modest maidens, attended by their equally modest beaux, hastened in company to view this production of Parisian profligacy. At the same time, the splendid painting of "Christ rejected" by the eminent West, scarcely attracted notice; and the beautiful "Star of Bethlehem" by Cole, twinkled in an empty hall. Still no one doubts his own intuitive knowledge of the arts!--He does not, indeed, profess to understand the _modus operandi_, by which they are perfected,--but yet he knows exactly what _delights_ him, and with equally becoming modesty, knows how to _censure_ what he does not like,--although to the real _connoisseur_, the work condemned may perchance be one of superlative beauty and value. There are some who fall into raptures at Cimmerian darkness and obscurity in a picture; they have heard that the works of the old masters are very dark,--_ergo_, all black pictures must be very good. Some have heard that Reubens and Rembrandt, painted with a bold free pencil,--and every daub is therefore free and bold; and there are others the very antipodes of these, who would have the canvass ivory smooth, and always test the excellence of a picture with their finger's ends. Such are the arbiters of taste, to whom the artist must look for patronage and favor; to whose critical acumen he must sacrifice the highest professional attainments, and all the poetry of imagery, for the prosing portraiture of vulgar nature as the uninstructed eye perceives it. Against such critics, Sir Joshua Reynolds warned his young academecians. "Study not," said he, "to please the many, but the few of cultivated taste." Alas! how few in any age, have given that attention to the subject which is essential to the formation of a correct judgment. They say,--do we not see and understand what nature is, and can we not tell when the artist has truly represented her?--We answer no. The eye unaccustomed to _contemplate_ nature, cannot perceive the ever changing beauty of her scenery,--her lights and shades more various than the Dolphins hues; nor can it discern that play of the thoughts and passions in the "human face divine," which eludes common observation, and is beheld only by him who has studied profoundly, that wonderful title page to the volume of mind. Nature, it is true, like a lovely and virtuous maiden, is seen and admired by all; but the blush which reveals her sweetest charm, is only perceived and felt by the devoted lover. That Lover is the artist. To him the revolving year, brings but a change of _beauty_. It is the element in which he breathes,--the aliment on which he lives; his eye detects each flitting shadow--and the whole world of real or imaginary things, is to his mind full of moving pictures, which he can, in a moment, transfix and perpetuate on his canvass. On him the graces attend, and wreathe the flowers of every season into garlands of beauty; the jocund spring strews buds and blossoms in his way, which he transplants to other climes, to live in unfading bloom, and flourish on the same wall with the fruits of summer, or mingle with the sober and varied hues of autumn. Even winter, with frosty locks and snowy visage, is compelled to linger in social companionship with the burning heats of tropical regions. Old Time, in his onward march, strews cities and temples in the path of the artist, but his pencil like the wand of the enchanter, bids their sculptured fragments remain forever, and they obey him. When Aurora comes forth in the chariot of day, and Cynthia lights her pale lamp at Diana's altar,--he snatches promethean fire from heaven, and like Joshua, commands the unwearied sun to stand still, and the glowing canvass receives it. He not only transfers

"Italian skies to English walls,"

but by the magic of his pencil, the very faces and persons of the fair and the brave of ages gone by, come down to our day in the bloom of youth, and with the daring eye, as they lived and moved when Shakspeare wrote, or lovely Juliet died.

Where do not the trophies of this incomparable art arrest our attention?--from the ruins of Pompeii to imperial Rome, or from the Vatican, where Raphael's immortal pencil traced the transfiguration, to Hampton Court, the gallery of the cartoons, and of that fair but frail society, of which England's voluptuous monarch was the sun and centre.[1] But these are neither black, nor daubed, nor smooth!--and yet they are excellent in art, and have been so esteemed for three hundred years. {377} To these the painter may appeal as imbodying all that is noble in his profession, or like Sir Joshua, who felt and understood, what others only imagined, he may patiently submit to the ignorance of vanity--and the vanity of ignorance.

When they talk of their Raphael, Corregio and Stuff, He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.

G. C.

[Footnote 1: The cartoons of Raphael and the court of Charles II by Sir Peter Lely, form a part of the collection at Hampton court.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE FROM FLORIAN.

The following tale was translated from the French of M. Florian, by the present hand, about 7 or 8 years ago, for a Richmond newspaper. That translation its author has not seen since 1827; and lately meeting with the original again, it seemed new enough, as well as sufficiently pretty and interesting, to be worth presenting afresh to the public through the Southern Literary Messenger. It is seldom that so much varied incident has been compressed into so short a compass: yet the rapidity of the narrative has not hindered the writer from indulging a humor both playful and caustic, upon the foibles which he banters, and the vices and crimes which he holds up to detestation. And the moral, disclosed in unravelling the mystery of the allegorical personage from whom the story takes its name, is full at once of beauty and truth.

M.

* * * * *

BATHMENDI.

A PERSIAN STORY.

The THOUSAND-AND-ONE NIGHTS have always appeared to me charming tales; but I should like them better, if they had oftener a moral scope. Scheherezade, I am aware, is too handsome to be at the trouble of being rational: I know, that with so pretty a face, she has no need of common sense; and that the sultan would have been less enamored, if she had been less silly. These great truths I devoutly believe: and I merely repeat, that for my own part, I would rather read stories which _make me reflect_, while they amuse me. Extravagance is a fine thing, no doubt; but a picture must have shade: and I would fain have reason appear now and then, to make folly go off the better. So an uncle of mine once thought. He had often sailed in the Levant; and had amused himself while there, by composing PERSIAN TALES. They are far below the _Thousand-and-one Nights_ in imagination, but exceed them infinitely in number; for my uncle in his life-time made four thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight--all of which are now lost except the following one, preserved by me.

* * * * *

Under the reign of a Persian king, whose name my uncle does not tell, a merchant of Balsora was ruined by commercial disasters; and, collecting the shattered remains of his fortune, retired to the province of Kusistan. He there bought a dwelling, and a farm which he cultivated badly, because he was perpetually regretting his days of opulence and ease. Chagrin shortened his life; he perceived his end to be near; and, calling his four sons around him, he said--"My children, I have nothing to bequeath you but this house, and a secret which I was bound to conceal till now. In the time of my wealth, I had for my friend the genius Alzim; who promised to befriend you when I should be no more, and to divide a treasure amongst you. He dwells some miles hence, in the great forest of Kom. Go--find him: claim the treasure: but take heed not to believe." ... Death here suppressed the merchant's voice.

His four sons, after interring and mourning him, repaired to the forest of Kom. They inquired for the mansion of the genius Alzim: it was readily shewn them. He was known to the whole country: he received kindly all who visited him; he heard their complaints, consoled them, and lent them money if they needed it. But these benefits were upon the sole condition of _implicitly obeying his directions_. This was his whim. No one could enter his palace without an oath to comply with this condition.

The oath did not deter the merchant's three eldest sons: the fourth, whose name was Tai, thought it a very ridiculous ceremony. Yet, being obliged to enter in order to receive the treasure, he swore, like his brothers: but reflecting on the dangerous consequences of so rash a vow, and remembering that his father, who frequently came to this palace, had passed his life in follies, he resolved, without committing perjury, to place himself out of danger; and, whilst they were leading him to the genius, stopped his ears with perfumed wax. Thus fortified, he prostrated himself before Alzim's throne. The genius made the sons of his ancient friend arise; embraced them, shed tears to his memory, and had a large chest brought, full of dariques. "Here," said he, "is the treasure I design for you. I am going to divide it among you; and I will then tell each the way he must take to be perfectly happy."

Tai heard not what the genius said; but watching him attentively, he saw in his eyes and visage traits of cunning and malignity which gave him much food for thought. Still, he received his portion of the treasure gratefully. Alzim, having thus enriched them, assumed an affectionate tone, and said; "My dear children, your good or bad fortune depends upon your meeting sooner or later a certain being named BATHMENDI, of whom all the world speaks, but whom few, very few, know. Wretched mortals grope after him in vain: But I, for the love I bear you, will whisper to each of you where he may be found." At these words, Alzim takes Bekir, the eldest brother, aside, and says--"My son, you were born with courage, and great military talents. The king of Persia has just sent an army against the Turks. Join that army: in the Persian camp you will find Bathmendi." Bekir thanks the genius, and already burns to march.

Alzim beckoned Mesrou, the second son, to approach. "You," said he, "have shrewdness, address, and a great propensity to falsehood. Take the road to Ispahan; 'tis at court that you must seek Bathmendi."

To the third brother, whose name was Sadder, he said, "You are gifted with a lively and fruitful imagination: You see objects not as they are, but as you would have them be; you often possess genius, and not always common sense: be a poet. Take the route to Agra: among the wits and fair ladies of that city, you may find Bathmendi."

Tai, in his turn, advanced; and, thanks to the pallets of wax, heard not one word that Alzim said. It has since been ascertained, that he counselled Tai to become a Dervise.

{378} After thanking the beneficent genius, the four brothers returned home. The three eldest dreamed of nothing but Bathmendi. Tai unstopped his ears, and heard them arrange their departure, and determine to sell their little dwelling to the first bidder, in order to divide the price. Tai offered to become the purchaser: he caused the house and farm to be valued, paid his brothers their respective portions, and embracing them tenderly, with a thousand good wishes, remained alone in the paternal mansion.

He then employed himself in executing a scheme, which he had long meditated. He was enamored of young Amine, the daughter of a neighboring farmer. She was handsome and discreet: she managed her father's household, comforted his declining years, and prayed Heaven for two things--that her father might long live, and that she might be the wife of Tai. Her prayers were heard. Tai asked, and obtained her. Her father went to live with his son-in-law, and taught him the art of enriching the ground, so as to be enriched by it in return. Tai had some gold still remaining of Alzim's gift: he employed it in extending his farm, and in buying a flock. The farm doubled its value; the fleeces of the sheep were sold; plenty reigned in Tai's house; and, as he was industrious and his wife frugal, each year augmented their income. Children, that ruin wealthy idlers, in the cities, enrich laborers. At the end of seven years, Tai, the father of six lovely children, the husband of a sweet and virtuous wife, son-in-law to an aged, yet a hale and amiable man, master of several slaves, and of two flocks,--was the happiest and the most independent farmer of Kusistan.

Meantime his three brothers were in chase of Bathmendi. Bekir arrived at the Persian camp; presented himself to the grand vizier, and begged to be employed in the most hazardous services. His mien, and his gallant bearing, pleased the vizier, who admitted him into a squadron of cavalry. In a few days, a bloody battle took place. Bekir achieved prodigies; saved his general's life, and captured the general of the enemy. The camp rung with the praises of Bekir: all the soldiers called him the champion of Persia; and the grateful vizier promoted his deliverer to the rank of general. "Alzim was right," said Bekir to himself; "'tis here that fortune awaits me; I am evidently about to find Bathmendi."

Bekir's glory, and especially his promotion, aroused the envy and the murmurs of all the satraps. Some of them came to ask him about his father; complaining that they had suffered by his bankruptcy: others pretended to have held _madam his mother_ as a slave: all refused to serve under him, because they were his seniors in office. Bekir, made miserable by his very successes, lived alone, ever on the watch, ever in danger of some outrage, which he might amply revenge but could not prevent. He regretted the time when he was a mere private soldier, and awaited impatiently the close of the war; when the Turks, reinforced by fresh troops, and led by a new general, made an attack upon his division. It was the juncture, for which the satraps of the army had long wished. They exerted a hundred times more ability in procuring the defeat of their leader, than they had ever shewn to avoid defeat themselves. Bekir defended himself like a lion: but he was neither obeyed nor seconded. In vain did the Persian soldiers wish to fight: their officers restrained them, and led them only to flight. The valiant Bekir, abandoned, covered with wounds, and overwhelmed by numbers, was taken by the Janissaries. The Turkish commander unworthily loaded him with irons, and sent him to Constantinople, where he was thrown into a frightful dungeon. "Alas!" cried Bekir, "I begin to think that Alzim has deceived me: for I cannot hope to meet Bathmendi here."

The war lasted fifteen years, and the satraps always obstructed the exchange of Bekir. His dungeon was not opened until peace came: he hurried to Ispahan, to seek his patron the vizier, whose life he had saved. It was three weeks before he could obtain an audience. Fifteen years, in prison, make some change in the appearance of a handsome young man. Bekir was not easily to be recognized: and the vizier did not know him again. However, on calling to mind the various events of his own illustrious life, he did remember that Bekir had done him some trifling service. "Aye--yes, friend," said he; "I will requite you. A brave man--but the empire is deeply in debt: a long war, and grand feastings have exhausted our finances. However--come and see me again--I will try--I will see"--"Alas, my lord!" said Bekir, "I have not a morsel of bread; and in the fifteen days that I have been waiting for a moment's interview with your highness, I should have died of hunger, but for a soldier of the guard, my old comrade, who shared his pay with me." "That was very good of the soldier," said the vizier; "really, it is quite touching. I will report it to the king. Come and see me again; you know I love you." And with these words, he turned his back upon him. Bekir returned the next day, and found the gate closed. In despair, he left the palace and the city, resolving never to enter them again.

Throwing himself at the foot of a tree, on the bank of the river Zenderou, he reflected upon the ingratitude of viziers, his own past misfortunes, and those which menaced him; and, unable to endure thoughts so dismal, he arose, to plunge into the stream--when he felt himself clasped by a beggar, who bathed his face with tears, and sobbed out, "it is my brother; it is my dear Bekir!" Looking up, Bekir recognised Mesrou. No one can find a long-lost brother without pleasure; but an unfortunate, needy, friendless, and hopeless, who is about to end his life in despair, thinks, that in a brother whom he loves, he sees an angel from Heaven. Mesrou and Bekir at once felt this sentiment: they press each other to their bosoms--they mingle their tears--and, after the first moments of tenderness, they gaze at each other with affliction and surprise. "You too, then, are unhappy!" cried Bekir. "This is the first moment of happiness," said Mesrou, "that I have enjoyed since our separation." At these words, embracing again, they leaned upon each other; and Mesrou, seated beside Bekir, began his narrative as follows:

"You remember the fatal day, when we went to Alzim's abode. That perfidious genius told me, that I should find Bathmendi, the object of our desires, at court. I followed his advice, and soon arrived at Ispahan. There I became acquainted with a young female slave to the mistress of the grand vizier's first secretary. This slave took a liking for me, and made me known to her mistress; who finding me younger and handsomer {379} than her lover, lodged me in her own house, as her half-brother. The half-brother was soon presented to the vizier: and some days afterwards, obtained an office in the palace. I had only to let my fortune lead me on, and to remember the path which had brought me thus far. I never quitted that path: and, the sultana mother being old, ugly, and all-powerful, I failed not to pay my court assiduously to her. She distinguished me, by a friendship as intimate as that of the slave and her mistress had been. Thenceforward, honors and riches began to rain upon me. The sultana caused me to be presented with all the money in the treasury, and all the dignities of the state. The monarch himself testified affection for me: he loved to converse with me, because I flattered him adroitly, and always advised him to what I knew he wished to do. This was the way to induce him to do what I wished; and it soon succeeded. At the end of three years, I was at once prime minister, favorite of the king, lover of his mother, with power to appoint and displace viziers; deciding every thing by my influence, and giving audience every morning to the grandees of the empire, who came to wait for my awaking to obtain a smile of protection. Amidst all my wealth and glory, I was surprised at not finding Bathmendi. 'I want for nothing,' said I; 'why does not Bathmendi present himself?' This thought, and the frightful solicitude of my life, poisoned all my pleasures. As the sultana grew older, she became more difficult to please, and my gratitude grew more irksome. Her tenderness for me was a torment. On the other hand, my station procured me a thousand tiresome flatterers, and a hundred thousand powerful enemies. For every favor I conferred, hardly a single mouth thanked, and a thousand reviled me. The generals whom I appointed were defeated, and all was attributed to me. Whatever good the king did, belonged only to himself; all the evil was laid at my door. The people detested me--the whole court hated, a hundred libels excoriated me: my master often frowned, the sultana-mother sickened me by her fondness; and Bathmendi seemed more distant than ever.

"At length, the king's passion for a young Mingrelian gave the finishing stroke to my fortunes. The whole court united with her, in hopes that the mistress would expel the minister. I parried the blow, by joining the Mingrelian, and flattering the king's passion. But his love became so violent, that, being resolved to espouse her, he demanded my advice. I evaded an answer for some days. The sultana mother, who was afraid of losing her power by her son's marriage, declared to me, that unless I broke off the match, she would have me assassinated on the very day of its consummation. An hour afterwards, the fair Mingrelian vowed, that _unless I procured her marriage with the king the next day_, I should be strangled on the day following. My position was embarrassing. I must choose the dagger, the bowstring, or flight. I chose the last. Disguised as you see, I escaped from the palace with some diamonds, which will sustain us in some nook of Hindostan, far from courts, Mingrelians, and sultana mothers."

Bekir then recited his adventures to Mesrou. They agreed, that it would have been as well for them not to run over the world; and that their wisest course was, to return to Kusistan, to the neighborhood of their brother Tai, where Mesrou's diamonds would procure them a peaceful and easy life. Thus resolved, they took the road, and travelled for some days without an adventure. As they passed through the province of Farsistan, they arrived one evening at a village, where they proposed to spend the night. It was a holiday. Upon entering the village, they saw many children of the peasants' returning from a procession, led by a sort of master, ill clad, marching with downcast look and pensive air. The two brothers approach, and observe him attentively. What was their surprise! It was Sadder--their brother Sadder, whom they embraced!

"Ah!" said Bekir, "is genius thus rewarded?"--"You perceive," answered Sadder, "that genius is treated much like valor. But philosophy finds in misfortune an ample subject for meditation; and that is somewhat consoling." He then sent his pupils to their home, conducted Bekir and Mesrou to his little cabin, served them up a little rice for supper, and, after having heard their histories, told his own:

"Alzim, who, I strongly suspect, delights in the woes of mankind, counselled me to seek this undiscoverable Bathmendi in the great city of Agra, among men of genius and fair ladies. I arrived in Agra; and determined, before I appeared in public, to herald myself by some brilliant production. At the end of a month, my work appeared: it was a complete course of all human sciences, in a small octodecimo volume of sixty pages, divided into chapters. Each chapter comprised a tale; and each tale taught a science perfectly. My book had prodigious success. Some reviews cavilled at it, as too prolix: but all people of fashion bought it; and I was consoled for the criticisms. My book and I became all the rage. I was sought for--invited into every circle that had any pretension to wit or genius: all that I did was charming: I was the theme of every tongue, and every wish; and the favorite sultana with her own hand wrote me a badly spelled note, praying me to visit the court. 'Bravo!' thought I; 'Alzim has not deceived me. My glory is at its height: I shall sustain myself by surer means than intrigue: I shall please--I shall captivate--I shall find Bathmendi!' I was favorably received at the great Mogul's palace. The sultana loudly proclaimed herself my patroness; called upon me for verses; gave me pensions; admitted me to her select suppers; and, a hundred times a day, swore to me an unalterable friendship. For my part, I gave myself up to the liveliest gratitude. I promised to devote my days to singing the renown of my benefactress; and made a poem, in which the sun was but a mock-diamond beside her eyes, and ivory, coral, and the pearls of the Persian gulf, were dim and homely compared with her face, neck, and teeth. These refined and delicate compliments completed my assurance of her perpetual favor.

"I thought myself on the point of meeting Bathmendi, when my protectress quarrelled with the grand vizier, about the government of a province, which he refused to the son of her confectioner. The sultana, exasperated at such audacity, demanded of the sultan the banishment of the insolent minister; but the sultan loved the vizier, and refused the favorite. The next thing was to organize an intrigue, to destroy the cherished vizier. Being in the plot, I received orders to compose a bloody satire against the minister, and circulate it. The satire was soon made--that is not difficult: it was even {380} good--which is still easy: it was read with avidity--and that is sure to tell. The vizier soon learned that I was the author. Going to the favorite, he carries her the commission which he had before denied, and a draft upon the royal treasury for one hundred darics; only asking in return, permission to put me to death in a dungeon. 'He is a vile wretch,' answered the favorite; 'and I am happy in having the power to do what may please you. I will instantly have the insolent sought for, who has dared insult you against my positive orders; and he shall be put into your hands.' Happily, a slave who was present, ran to tell me of this conversation; and I had barely time to escape. Ever since, I have been traversing Hindostan, gaining a meager subsistence by writing tales, making verses, and toiling for booksellers who cheated me, and who, less indulgent to my talents than to their own consciences, continually asserted that my _style was not pure enough_. Whilst I was wealthy, my works had been master-pieces: now that I was poor and friendless, my effusions were trash. Tired at length of enlightening the universe, I preferred teaching the peasants to read: and I am now schoolmaster in this village, where I eat black bread, and have no hope of seeing Bathmendi."

"You must go hence," said Mesrou, "and return with us to Kusistan, where some diamonds of mine will ensure us an easy and quiet life." It was not difficult to persuade Sadder; and the three brothers, setting out early next morning, took the way to Kusistan. They were on the last day of their journey; and not far from Tai's dwelling. This thought consoled them: but their hope was mingled with fear. "Shall we find our brother? We left him poor--he cannot have found Bathmendi, since he has been unable to go in quest of him." "My dear friends," said Sadder, "I have reflected much on this Bathmendi, that Alzim told us of; and really, I believe he deluded us. Bathmendi does not, and never did exist: for, since Bekir did not meet him when he commanded half the Persian army--since Mesrou did not hear of him when he was the favorite of the great king--and I could not even divine who or what he was, whilst the favors of glory and fortune were heaped upon me--it is evident, Bathmendi is a creature of fancy; a chimera; an illusion, which men chase merely from the love of chasing illusions." Sadder was proceeding to prove that Bathmendi dwelt no where on earth, when a band of robbers issued from some rocks on the road-side, and ordered the brothers to strip. Bekir offered resistance; but he was disarmed; and four of these gentry, holding a dagger at his breast, unrigged him, while their comrades did the like to Mesrou and Sadder. After this ceremony, which was the work of a moment, the captain of the robbers wished them a pleasant journey, and left them half naked in the highway.

"This confirms my position:" said Sadder, looking at his brothers. "Ah, the cowards!" cried Bekir; "they took away my sword!" "Oh, my poor diamonds!" said Mesrou, sorrowfully.

It was now night: the three unfortunates hastened on towards the mansion of their brother: and on arriving there, the sight of it made their tears flow fast. They stopped at the door, but durst not knock. All their fears, all their doubts, returned. While they hesitated, Bekir rolled up a large stone below the window, and mounting upon it, looked in. He saw, in a neat and simply furnished apartment, his brother Tai at table, amid ten children, who were eating, laughing, and prattling all together. On his right was Amine, mincing some meat for her youngest son; and on his left was a little old man of a mild and lively countenance, who was filling Tai's cup. At this spectacle, Bekir threw himself into the arms of his brothers, and knocked at the door with all his might. A servant opened it, but uttered cries of alarm on seeing three half-naked men. Tai runs out: they fall upon his neck, call him "brother!" and bathe him in tears. Though confounded at first, he soon recognises them, and locks them in his arms. The children run to the spectacle; and so does Amine, but retires with her daughters, on seeing the three strange men. The old man alone did not leave the table.

Tai clothed his brothers; presented them to his wife, and made them kiss his children. "Alas!" said Bekir, much affected, "your happy lot consoles us for all that we have suffered. Since the moment of our separation, our lives have been but a series of calamities; and we have not so much as had a glimpse of that Bathmendi, after whom we have been running." "I believe you"--said the little old man who continued still at the table; "I have never stirred from this place." "What!" exclaimed Mesrou, "are you ..." "I am BATHMENDI," said the old man. "It is quite natural that you should not know me, since you never saw me before: but ask Tai--ask Amine--and all these children, every one of whom knows my name. I have lived with them fifteen years; and am perfectly at home here. I have been away but for one day; it was when Amine's father died: but I returned, and now hope never to go hence a single step. It rests only with yourselves, gentlemen adventurers, to become acquainted with me. If it so please you, I am willing: if not, why I shall be content. I trouble no one: I stay in my corner, never dispute, and detest noise." The three brothers, whose eyes had been eagerly fixed upon the little old man, wished to embrace him. "O, softly!" said he: "I do not like all these violent emotions: I am rather delicate; and too close an embrace stifles me. Besides--we must become friends before we caress. If you wish us to become friends, do not busy yourselves too much about me. I value freedom more than politeness; and have an antipathy to all excess." At these words he arose, kissed the foreheads of all the children, slightly saluted the three brothers, smiled upon Amine and Tai; and went to await them in their chamber.

Tai sat down again with his brothers, and had beds prepared for them. The next morning, he shewed them his fields, his flocks, his working beasts; and unfolded to them all the pleasures he enjoyed. Bekir wished to begin work that very day; and he was the first to become the friend of Bathmendi. Mesrou, who had been prime minister, was the chief shepherd; and the poet assumed the task of selling the corn, wool, and milk, which were sent to market in the city. His eloquence attracted customers; and he was as useful as the others. At the end of six months, Bathmendi became attached to them; and their days, many and tranquil, flowed softly on to the bosom of felicity.

[It is needless to say, that _Bathmendi_, in the Persian tongue, signifies _Happiness_.]

{381}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SCENE IN PARIS--1827.

BY A VIRGINIAN.

In the month of May 1827 I was in Paris. The discontent of the people with the government had recently been augmented by a proposition to restrain the liberty of the press, which the king had laid before the legislative chambers; and which, having passed the deputies, was under consideration before the peers.

This discontent with a government, which was in point of fact a very good one, had existed since the restoration of the Bourbons, and had its origin in the degradation to which the French people conceived themselves to have been subjected, in receiving a monarch at the hands of hostile strangers.

This monarch too was the brother of that imbecile, though amiable king, whose passiveness had brought him to the scaffold like a lamb to the slaughter; and he was placed in powerful contrast with him whose grand ambition aspired to make France his court, and the eastern continent (perhaps the world,) his empire. Louis le gros was to occupy the throne of Napoleon the magnificent.

The national pride common to all nations, and the national vanity peculiar to the French, were thus so severely shocked and wounded, that the people could not regard with their characteristic loyalty, or even with toleration, the family whose ascendancy had been established by other hands than those of Frenchmen. Louis the 18th too, had violently aggravated this hostility by the unfortunate declaration that "under God, it was to the Prince Regent of England that he owed his crown." It was not then to be wondered at that the public mind was in a state to be easily exacerbated by any cause, and not to be conciliated by any course however moderate, short of absolute concession to the popular will. Accordingly the measures of Louis the 18th, who was a wise monarch, and really desired the welfare of his people, met with jealous opposition, or at best, with unwilling acquiescence.

The administration of Décazes, which was conducted upon wise and sound principles, was finally clamored down; and the court, finding the people incapable of appreciating the mild and liberal measures of the government, infused more strength into their system.

Charles the 10th, inferior to his brother in mental endowments, and who brought to the throne stricter notions of legitimacy, and less disposition to conciliate his subjects, rather tightened than relaxed the reins of government, and thus increased the disaffection of the people. Add to this the real or fancied attachment of the king to the Jesuits, against whose order ancient odium had been recently revived, and the feelings may easily be conceived which were excited by the menaced blow at the freedom of the press, which was pending at the time of which I write.

These feelings were put forth through the usual vents. The public journals made the most of their liberty while it remained to them, and kept up an incessant fire of various grades; from the grave remonstrances of the "Constitutionnel," to the piquant badinage of the "Drapeau Blanc." The Salons, the Cafés, the Boulevards, the Tuileries, the Champs Elysées and the Pont Neuf exhibited the politicians of their respective meridians, from the "riche banquier" to "Monsieur le tondeur de chiens." The print shops displayed caricatures of the Jesuits. Beranger "showed up" the royal family in his songs. Mars played "Tartuffe" at the Francais, and the "parterre" rapturously applauded her and snapped their fingers at the police.

Early in the month, the annual review by the king, of the regular troops stationed in Paris, was to take place.

By one of those tacit combinations which sometimes unaccountably occur, it was resolved that this review should serve as an occasion for affording an evidence of the sentiments of the people, which though negative in mode, should be sufficiently positive in character. It was determined to withhold from the king those testimonials of attachment and loyalty with which most of the people of Europe are wont to greet their sovereigns when they appear in public. Accordingly when on the expected morning, the king with his brilliant suite issued from the court of the palace, not one of the spectators uttered a sound of welcome. The place of the review was a mile and a half distant, and the route was through populous streets; yet from all the crowd which gradually swelled as the train advanced, not one voice was heard to utter "vive le roi!" No man cried "God save him." A uniform silence pervaded the scene, thus giving it the air of a funeral pageant, rather than of a splendid military display; while at every turn which the royal company made in their progress, this portentous legend inscribed on the walls, met their eyes--

"La silence du peuple est la lecon du Roi."

Proceeding more rapidly and by a nearer route, I reached the Champ de Mars, the scene of the review, in time to witness the king's arrival. The Champ de Mars is a beautiful plain, artificially levelled; a quarter of a mile in breadth, and extending from the Seine to the école militaire, rather more than half a mile in length--bounded on each side by embankments, appearing to the eye like ramparts, which are covered with turf and set with trees.[1]

[Footnote 1: The Champ de Mars was the scene of the famous "fête de la fédération," which took place in 1790, on the 14th of July, the anniversary of the taking of the Bastile; when the king, the representatives of the people, and the other public functionaries, the commandant of the National Guard, and delegates sent from each of the eighty-three departments of the kingdom, took an oath to preserve the new constitution. A splendid altar, called "l'autel de la patrie," was erected in the middle of the field, around which was an amphitheatre which held four hundred thousand spectators; in the centre of this was the throne of the king. All the people of Paris assisted in making these preparations, that they might be completed by the appointed time. The Bishop of Autun (Talleyrand) was the ministering flamen of the solemnities. At the celebration an incident occurred, illustrating the far seeing sagacity of this man, who thus early discerned the frail and transient nature of that constitution, which its founders had decreed should be "une, indivisible, et impérissable." Lafayette, as commandant of the National Guard, was the first to take the oath; and as he approached the altar for that purpose, Talleyrand in an under tone exhorted him to keep his countenance and not to laugh! thus indicating that he considered the whole scene a solemn farce. I had this anecdote from an American lady to whom Lafayette told it.]

I found as I had expected, these embankments covered throughout their whole extent with an innumerable crowd, eager at once to behold the spectacle and to convince the king that Frenchmen could be silent when there was an occasion for it, however unnatural the restraint.

{382} I found also the troops to be reviewed, twenty-five thousand in number, drawn up in beautiful array, and arranged on the plain between the embankments, in separate divisions, according to their various designations; the whole forming two lines looking to the centre of the field, and of course facing each other.

Here were the famed Cuirassiers, arrayed in triple steel--each one looking the impersonation of war--men and horses forming a dense, motionless, terrific mass.

There, were the "Chevaux-légers," less imposing in appearance, but dazzling the eye by the brilliancy of their dress and the rapidity of their evolutions.

On one side frowned the "Sappeurs Pompiers," with their ample caps of black fur, their white leather aprons, their glittering axes, their grim moustaches, and beards like Egyptian sheiks. On the other were displayed the regular infantry, with their brilliant pieces and bristling bayonets, at whose points they had so often compelled victory.

The elder superior officers were conversing in groups--while the younger paid court to the ladies; whose nodding plumes and wreathed smiles were displayed in covered stages erected temporarily for the purpose, and arranged at the inner foot of the embankment on either side of the field.

In a short time a flourish of trumpets at the école militaire, announced the arrival of the King. The officers flew to their posts. Every tongue was hushed, and every eye directed to that extremity of the field at which the king now appeared, mounted on a white Arabian, which he managed as one familiar to the seat. He was attended on either side by the royal dukes Angoulême and Orléans, (the present king) and followed by a splendid cortège of field marshals and general officers in gorgeous uniforms, and their horses highly caparisoned.

The king too, and the royal dukes, wore military uniforms, over which hung the "cordon bleu." After the king and his suite, came an open barouche, in which appeared the royal ladies d'Angoulême, de Berri and d'Orléans.

The magnificent cavalcade moved slowly on between the different bodies of troops, going down on one side of the field and returning on the other, passing close in front of each line. Their approach was acknowledged with the promptitude of military discipline, by the waving of swords, the presentation of pieces, and the lowering of standards. But this formal military salute was the only greeting. A silence reigned throughout the immense mass of beholders, as profound as that which habitual discipline preserved among the troops.

After the review was thus completed, a few evolutions were performed by the troops in presence of the royal spectators, who then left the field and returned to the Tuileries.

In a very few days after, it was announced that the king, with a moderation and wisdom which were not expected, had yielded to the unequivocal exhibition of public opinion which had been made, and had withdrawn the offensive law from the consideration of the chambers. The demonstrations of public joy were then as numerous and violent as had been before, the expressions of dissatisfaction. For several days it seemed as if the whole population of Paris had relinquished every employment, to devote themselves to the most tumultuous display by every means in their power, of their satisfaction at the victory which they supposed they had obtained over the court. The public rejoicing was concluded by a general and splendid illumination of the city.

About ten days after this time, followed the annual review of the National Guard of Paris.

In the excited state of the people, it was not to be expected that so remarkable an occasion as this, would be permitted to pass over, without being marked by some decisive evidence of public sentiment. It was therefore soon generally understood that the king would, on this occasion, be received with every outward demonstration of popular favor and affection; in order that by the contrast with his former reception, he might be convinced beyond the possibility of doubting, that in both instances a strong expression of public opinion was intended.

Of course it was not imagined that all this was not as well known to the king and his ministers, as to the authors and contrivers. Villèle, the prime minister, was too sagacious and wary to leave unemployed any means of obtaining information concerning every subject which agitated the public mind--information indeed which was of the highest importance to an administration steering full against the current of popular opposition. It was therefore feared that the court, usually desirous of avoiding and preventing all occasions for popular ferment, would disappoint the public expectation by dispensing with the review. Innumerable conjectures and rumors floated about like vapors in the atmosphere, many of which no doubt had their origin in the cabinet, who probably sent them forth as feelers of the public pulse. All these at length centred in the general belief that the court would compromise the matter with the people, by permitting the review to take place indeed, but by assigning as its locale, the Place du Carrousel, (adjacent to the Tuileries,) where too little space could be allowed for spectators, to afford a theatre for the grand exhibition of public sentiment which had been arranged for the occasion.

Thus matters stood on the morning of the expected day, which opened in all the calm glories of May, on the magnificent city and her million of inhabitants; all ranks of whom, from the courtier to the beggar, were for once at least occupied by the same theme and excited by the same agency.

The Moniteur, the government print, was eagerly torn open by thousands of hands, and thousands of eyes glanced upon the unexpected announcement that the review of the National Guard would take place (as usual) at the Champ de Mars!

The people were somewhat taken aback by this unlooked for boldness on the part of the ministry, but their excitement was not lessened by it. On the contrary it increased until the great city resembled the swarming of a mighty hive.

At length the hour appointed for the review arrived, and at that hour the king, followed by the same brilliant train which had on a former occasion attended him, once more issued from the palace gates. But not now as before, was his progress in silence. Every step of his advance was marked by the most tumultuous {383} and joyous acclamations, which grew louder as the throng increased, until he reached the Champ de Mars. The deafening shout of welcome which greeted him from the hundreds of thousands of spectators there assembled, would have impressed one, ignorant of the immediate cause, with the belief that Charles the 10th rivalled in popularity his illustrious ancestor Henry the 4th; or the still more illustrious usurper of the Bourbon throne, whose star had just set in St. Helena.

The appearance now exhibited by the Champ de Mars differed but little from that already described, save that the eye of a critical observer would have discerned a marked difference between the unmilitary bearing of the "Milice Bourgeoise," and the exact discipline and compact and symmetrical array of the regular troops. The martial dress and perfect armament of the National Guard however, together with their number, which perhaps exceeded that of the troops at the first review, gave them a sufficiently imposing appearance.

The Royal personages and their splendid escort advanced towards the assembled legions, amid cries from every side, of "vive le roi!" "vive la famille royale!" "vivent les Bourbons!" marking the different feelings of those who uttered them. The "vive le roi" was on this occasion merely a "mot de coedille circonstance," a conventional mode of acknowledging with respect the presence of the monarch. But the heart had some little agency in prompting "vive la famille royale!" and "vivent les Bourbons!" These denoted a lurking loyalty, and were uttered, as I observed, almost exclusively by the females. And this serves to illustrate the remarkable fact that while the minds of a large majority of French-men still retained the inclination given to them by the Republic or the Empire, almost every French-woman was a decided royalist. The fair sex are usually for the powers that be.

A little incident which occurred on this occasion may be mentioned as indicative of the sprightliness of the French character. A vagabond urchin (the like of whom would in our country have been staring in puzzled wonderment at the scene before him) seeming to enter fully into the humor of his elders, just as the carriage passed him in which rode the royal dames, tossed up his ragged cap and exclaimed "vive la duchesse de Berri toute seule!"

The moment the king reached the first company of the Guards, all its members, as they gave the military salute, shouted "vive le roi!" which passed as a watchword from company to company as in turn he approached them, until at length the entire National Guard were swelling the chorus of gratulation and welcome.

The harmony was perfect, and the public satisfaction was at its height, when suddenly a change came over the scene, as rapid and violent as a storm in tropical climates which in an instant blots the face of the sunniest day with blackness and wrath.

The review was nearly finished, when a voice was heard from the company which the king was at the moment passing, mingling with the cries of "vive le roi," the exclamations "à bas les ministres!" "à bas les Jésuites!"[2]

[Footnote 2: Down with the ministers, &c.]

A momentary silence following this bold expression, the king instantly stopped and with becoming spirit said, that he was there to review the National Guard and not to receive dictation. At the same moment he ordered the Duc de Reggio, the commandant of the National Guard, (who was one of his suite) to cause the individual to be arrested who had uttered the offensive words. The duke promptly passed the order to the captain of the company; but its execution was at once resisted by the whole company, who closed around their comrade and energetically declared that he should not be arrested; and that they all thought as he did. It was evident that an attempt to enforce the order for arrest would produce a display of the most alarming violence; it was therefore wisely abandoned, and the king abruptly left the field.

Immediately a scene of the wildest confusion ensued. The demon of discord usurped the empire of the spirit of harmony, and in the twinkling of an eye converted the genial current of good feeling into the bitter waters of strife.

The troops were instantly dismissed by their officers, and they mingling with the immense crowd of spectators, the whole mass returned with tumultuous haste to the city, uttering cries of passion, of discontent or of derision. "À bas les ministres! à bas les Jésuites! à bas les Bourbons! vive la charte! au diable Villéle!" &c. &c., issued from lips which but a few minutes before sent forth expressions of attachment and loyalty.

The residences of Villéle and Peyronnet, the two ministers against whom popular indignation was chiefly directed, lay immediately in the route of the returning crowd. A large number, including many of the National Guard, stopped before the houses, which were separated only by a street, and seemed by their furious gestures and menacing cries, to meditate an attack. The ministers were not at home; for the king on the instant of his rapid return, had called his cabinet together. Their families were of course in a state of the most dreadful alarm; but so soon as the crowd ascertained the absence of the ministers, and that only unprotected females were within, with the characteristic gallantry of French-men, (who were not yet wrought to revolutionary phrenzy) they quitted their position and swept on to communicate their excitement to those of their fellow citizens who had not witnessed the events. The effect of their coming, upon the population of Paris, was that of a whirlwind upon the ocean. It excited them to a state of fearful commotion, and in less than an hour, the din which arose from every part of this vast city was as the mighty roar of many waters.

Evening was now approaching; but with it came no diminution of the wrath of the Parisians. Throughout the night the agitation continued, and at intervals its sound came through the gloom to startle from sleep the few who sought repose.

During all this time the king and his cabinet, unterrified by the denunciations which resounded in their ears, were planning in secret council at the Tuileries, a "coup d'état" which was to astonish France.

The next morning the Moniteur appeared as usual, and the very first line of the first column, which was always appropriated to annunciations made by authority of the government, consisted of the following momentous words--

{384} "La Garde Nationale est licenciée"--(the National Guard is disbanded.)

Had a volcano burst forth in the "place Vendome," the people of Paris could not have been more astounded. The step was indeed of a boldness bordering on temerity; for the National Guard was the last remnant of the revolution--the only connecting link between the present time and the days of the republic; and its association with revolutionary remembrances rendered it sacred in the estimation of all those who professed to entertain the principles of the revolution. And those were at this time more than three-fourths of the population.

Surprise for a time so completely mastered every other emotion, that the people were comparatively calm--but this calm was only the precursor of a fiercer excitement. For several days the commotion presented the aspect of a menaced revolt. It was by many likened to the commencing scenes of the revolution; and it filled with anxiety and dread, all moderate persons who recollected that period of horror. The entire population of Paris (at least the middle and lower orders) deserted their homes and thronged the streets and public squares; and in all parts of the city the tumult of the populace was like the heaving of a troubled sea.[3]

[Footnote 3: An officer of cavalry with whom I was acquainted, told me that the agitation far exceeded that which was caused in Paris by the news of Napoleon's flight from Elba and debarkation in France.]

On one of the nights when the agitation was greatest, I went to the Rue St. Honoré, one of the great thoroughfares of the city, to witness the movements of the crowd. When I arrived I found it so thronged as to render it hazardous if not impossible to enter it. As far as by the aid of the lights, the eye could reach in either direction, the entire space of the street presented a dense array of human beings, from which issued sounds of every variety, constituting altogether the most deafening clang which ever assailed my ears.

Through the centre of this living mass moved a large body of gendarmes in single file, reining in their horses to so slow a pace that their motion through the crowd was barely perceptible. So closely were they wedged in on every side indeed, that it was impossible to do more than just to move.

A fitter agent and emblem of an absolute, or, at least, an energetic government, does not exist, than a gendarme. Stern, silent, imperturbable, patient--armed at all points, and the moment there is need for action, implacable, rapid and sure in execution. On this occasion these men moved through the crowd as though they saw and heard them not. On every side they were assailed with jeers, with execrations, and even occasionally with missiles. But these disturbed not their unconquerable equanimity. They passed on apparently, unheeding all; but with their swords drawn, ready at a moment's warning to strike, should the conjuncture arrive to render it necessary.

They were acting of course under the influence of orders, clear and strict, and carrying with them the severest penalties for violation. These orders were, no doubt, to refrain from violence until the occurrence of some overt act on the part of the people, indicative of a revolutionary spirit; and to do nothing which might by possibility lead to such an occurrence.[4]

[Footnote 4: As I had, before going to France, conceived an erroneous idea of the gendarmes, it may not be useless to explain, that although as their designation implies, they constitute an armed force, they have no connection whatever with the army. They are nothing more or less than the executive police of the kingdom, and are under the command of the prefect of each department. They are mounted and completely equipped with sword, pistols, carbine and bayonet; and when it is recollected that _to resist a gendarme, is to resist the law_, it will be readily conceived that they are a formidable body. As their power is great, so also is their responsibility; and they encounter death as the penalty for any deviation from the strict letter of their orders. They are perfect machines and the most efficient police in the world.]

The people had evidently no matured design. They were unprepared for the energetic measures of the ministry, so that although they more than once in different parts of the city, gave occasion to the gendarmes to charge upon them, and several deaths were the result; it soon became apparent that the excitement was subsiding. After the expiration of the third day, the city began to wear a calmer aspect. The affair merely furnished a theme for animated discussions in the cafés and for eloquent denunciations in the liberal prints. The surest evidence, however, that all danger of a serious issue was for the present at an end, was the fact that the little scandalous journals which exist in every large city, began to serve up the subject in humorous scraps; for it has been truly remarked, that if the Parisians, can but be induced to jest about a matter, it is impossible afterwards to render it serious.

The unexpected boldness of this decisive display of state policy thus rendered it entirely successful. The king and his ministers were determined to regain the ground which they had lost in yielding the law concerning the press.

Fully informed as to the state of the public mind, and ascertaining that the people had not reached the crisis of revolution, they resolved to strike a blow which could not be successfully resisted but by revolution. A more favorable opportunity could not have occurred than the one which I have attempted to describe; and it was seized with a promptness and employed with a skill which have never been excelled. On the very night of the day on which the pretext was given, the decision was made. At the dawn of day this decision was communicated to the commanders of all the divisions of the disbanded body; and with the first rays of the sun the startling annunciation met the eyes of the astounded Parisians--"_La Garde Nationale est licenciée!_"

The very style of the decree is worthy of remark, as being in strict keeping with the rest. There is no labored preamble--no heavy article covering six columns of the Moniteur, setting forth the reasons for the act--no endeavor to render the potion palatable to the people by conciliatory and cajoling declarations--no attempt to lead off the public mind by sophistry and a maze of argument--none of this. But the simple, naked, peremptory mandate of authority not expecting to be questioned--The stern, terse, despotic "_sic vole_" of absolute rule--"_La Garde Nationale est licenciée!_"

The shaft being shot, the cabinet remained perfectly quiet until the effervescence and confusion created by the discharge, had subsided; and then resumed the ordinary routine of their administration, having derived from the review of the National Guard and its results, {385} a decided accession of power; and for a time at least, impeded the progress of liberal principles in France. And although the influence of these principles must, of course, finally have prevailed, there is little doubt that the time for their ascendancy would have been longer deferred, had the successor of Villéle possessed his sagacity, his boldness, his energy, and his knowledge of the existing state of things.

Had this been the case, Charles the 10th would perhaps not now be giving profitless lessons in Royalty to his grandson at Prague, nor Peyronnet and Chantelauze be playing chess at Ham.

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE CAVALIERS OF VIRGINIA, or the Recluse of Jamestown. An Historical Romance of the Old Dominion. By the author of a Kentuckian in New York. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1834.

This work is by a Virginian,--and with that sort of partiality which inclines us to espouse the literary claims of our native state, (too long and too unjustly neglected,) we were predisposed to receive it with favor. Some of the northern periodicals moreover had lauded its merits, and we own that we felt some pride in the reflection that one of the most interesting periods in our early colonial history, had attracted a native adventurer in the field of historical romance. We regret to say that we are much disappointed in the manner in which the task has been executed. Our feelings and partialities, which were all on the author's side,--we are compelled to surrender to the stern demands of literary justice. The "Cavaliers," in our humble opinion, is unworthy of the subject it was intended to illustrate,--and although not entirely destitute of merit,--its faults are so numerous and censurable, they greatly preponderate in the estimate we have formed of the work. In the first place, the author has evidently failed to make himself acquainted with the history of the age and the character of the incidents which he has chosen as the groundwork of his story. The portrait of Bacon, is but a poor and feeble likeness of the original,--and that of Sir William Berkeley, is the merest caricature of that brave, accomplished, but despotic vicegerent of royal power. Bacon is represented as a kind of half frantic, inconsiderate stripling--something of a dandy--but more of a wild and reckless lover, whose thoughts were principally occupied by his "ladye love;"--and but slightly, if at all, by the wrongs of his suffering country. Far different indeed, was the noble and lofty heroism of the real Bacon--a character which shines in the foreground of our ancient history,--with a lustre, that despite of the efforts made to diminish it, will vie with the Wallaces and Tells of other ages and countries. Sir William Berkeley, though certainly a tyrant, was not the vulgar insensate wretch which our author has made him. His ambition was made of "sterner stuff," than to be employed upon petty schemes of matrimonial alliance,--and the Knight, "in a blue velvet doublet and pink satin breeches," is but an _outre_ representation of the ancient and renowned Cavalier,--who had battled with the red man in his savage lair,--and had exchanged the luxuries of English society, for the perils and hardships of a wilderness.

There is another capital defect in our author, which if he ever hopes for success, must be first overcome. He leaves his pictures, both of character and incident, altogether unfinished,--and darts with a meteor-like swiftness from subject to subject,--reminding the reader of a show-box,--in which the eye scarcely lights upon one spectacle, before it vanishes,--and is substituted by another and a different one. This perpetual flash and glare, without even the merit of distinctness, is far more painful than agreeable;--and the author would do well, if he bestowed more pains in separating the several parts of his story,--and a little more skill in the arrangement and harmony of his coloring. In truth, if he intends to repeat his efforts; and is really a _bona fide_ candidate for fame, we would advise him to put more oil into his lamp, and expend some additional labor in fitting his offspring for public exhibition. He does not employ sufficient _thought_ in the composition of his narrative,--but suffers his imagination (rich and vivid enough,) to run riot without restraint or limit. The conduct of Bacon, after the interruption of the marriage ceremony, as described in the first chapter of the second volume--is the conduct of a bedlamite, rather than of a rational being; and the whole scene of his mounting his fiery courser,--plunging into the river and swimming to the opposite shore,--his head bared to the "pitiless storm"--"the monsters of the deep his playmates, and the ill-omened birds of night his fellows;" is such a tissue of exaggeration and sublime fustian,--that what was evidently intended for great effect, is in reality extremely ludicrous. The hero indeed, acts so little like a man of sense, in this nocturnal aquatic excursion, that the reader feels much more sympathy for "the white silk breeches and graceful blue cloak," (which were likely to be spoiled by the half saline element,) than for the poor unfortunate wight of a bridegroom himself.

The author has moreover been guilty of a very strange mistake in his geography. He makes his hero swim, "Leander-like," over the majestic James,--which according to our reckoning, and agreeably to the map of the country--would have landed him on the _south side_, in the very respectable county of _Surry_;--but, to our utter amazement, the next glimpse we have of him, he is rushing on his fleet courser into the wilderness on the margin of the Chickahomony,--which our best informed geographers have placed on the _north_ side of the ancient _Powhatan_,--now called _James river_. Such mistakes are altogether inexcusable,--and the more so as the author is a native of the "Old Dominion," and ought to have been more circumspect in his topography. Equally unfortunate is his arrangement of historical events,--for if he had looked a little into our early writers, he would have found that Bacon was never carried prisoner to the Eastern Shore; and that the treachery of Larimore, did not betray the insurgent squadron into the power of Berkeley, until _after_ the destruction of Jamestown. These errors in chronology however, might have been forgiven, if the author had otherwise redeemed himself from equally formidable objections. The whole story of the Recluse,--and the miraculous preservation of Bacon when an infant, as related by the old nurse,--strike us as evincing poverty of invention, and as altogether too absurd for an ordinary writer at least to use as materials for romance. Scott, perhaps, might have turned them to some advantage;--at all events, the matchless vigor and beauty of his style, would have thrown a veil over {386} other imperfections. The author might have made something of Wyanokee, but unfortunately failed to do it,--and we cannot say that we even felt interested in the sorrows of Virginia Fairfax. The girl is well enough--very pretty--amiable--and all that, but she wants force and individuality of character. The whole scene in which the dying Mrs. Fairfax is exhibited in the bloody conflict with the Indians in the neighborhood of Richmond, is particularly horrible, and in wretchedly bad taste.

In taking our leave of the author, we would also advise him, when he writes another romance, to "sink the shop,"--or rather the _profession_; and not to describe the wounds and bruises of his _dramatis personæ_ with that technical precision which only surgeons and anatomists can fully comprehend. We would also recommend to him, as a medical man, that when any unlucky hero of his is hereafter tied to an Indian stake, by all means to have him rescued before the pine splinters have actually pierced the flesh,--especially when that hero is made so soon thereafter to perform a series of active exploits requiring sound bodily health and great muscular exertion.

We have taken no pleasure in this free commentary upon the work before us, and have only been induced to make it by a sense of duty. Its author is evidently afflicted with a kind of rabid propensity to write works of fiction; and, if he is resolved to gratify it, we do most earnestly entreat him for his own sake and for the sake of his native state, to invoke hereafter a little more reflection, a purer taste, and a more enlightened judgment in aid of his labors.

* * * * *

VATHEK.

The publisher having sent a copy of the above work to a correspondent in whose literary attainments, taste and discrimination we place great confidence, received the following criticism from his pen:

I thank you for Vathek, which I have read _purely_ because you sent it to me; otherwise it would have remained unread by me forever. I see nothing "_sublime_" in the work; on the contrary, I was disgusted at its impurity. A more revolting _jumble of nonsense_, _ridiculous conceptions_, _debasing exhibitions_, and _corrupt imaginings_, I never met with in my life. This may perhaps be somewhat redeemed by the oriental descriptions, which were pronounced by Lord Byron, I think, to be excellent. Or this I cannot judge; but if the book were intended, as it seems to be, to inculcate the lesson of the impiety of looking into matters which are too high for us, the moral loses all its force, from the very great corruption of the characters of Vathek and Carathis, who certainly were most justly lodged in Hell, as the fittest place for such useless and abominable wretches. We feel no sympathy for them, when we find them with their hearts on fire; and as for the contrast of the happiness of Gulchenrouz, we care as little about him, for his happiness was certainly undeserved by any thing he had done, so far as we are made acquainted with him. There is such a singular mixture of comic and serious, that one is at a loss to know what the author would be at. What think you, for instance, of the game at football? of Aboulfakir the camel, having a taste for solitude and snorting at the sight of a dwelling, and Cafour's predilection for pestilence? &c. &c. I am quoting now from memory, and have not the patience to look at the book to see if I am right.

A learned English reviewer is not less severe upon this lauded production of juvenile years. After quoting Lord Byron's eulogy upon the work, he says--

Vathek is, indeed, without reference to the time of life when the author penned it, a very remarkable performance; but, like most of the works of the great poet who has thus eloquently praised it, it is stained with some poison-spots--its inspiration is too often such as might have been inhaled in the "Hall of Eblis." We do not allude so much to its audacious licentiousness, as to the diabolical levity of its contempt for mankind. The boy-author appears already to have rubbed all the bloom off his heart; and, in the midst of his dazzling genius, one trembles to think that a strippling of years so tender, should have attained the cool cynicism of a _Candide_. How different is the effect of that Eastern tale of our own days, which Lord Byron ought not to have forgotten when he was criticising his favorite romance. How perfectly does _Thalaba_ realize the idea demanded in the Welsh Triad of "fulness of erudition, simplicity of language, and purity of manners." But the critic was repelled by the purity of that delicious creation, more than attracted by the erudition which he must have respected, and the diction which he could not but admire:--

"The low sweet voice so musical, That with such deep and undefined delight Fills the surrender'd soul."

It would argue a great decline in the moral feeling of our country, and a most adulterated literary taste, if such works as "Vathek" could be generally admired.

* * * * *

SCRAPS, by John Collins McCabe. Richmond: J. C. Walker. 1835.

This little volume from the Richmond press, consists of various poems and half a dozen tales and legends in prose. The pieces, though of unequal merit, are upon the whole decidedly creditable to the author; who is not only a young man, but as we are informed, has been denied the advantages of a liberal education. His productions are vastly superior to those of many a college dunce, upon whose vacant cranium the heritage of wealth has been expended; and their author holds a much higher grade in the scale of intellect than many of that snarling tribe, who can discern neither talent nor genius, unless allied with some ideal advantage or accidental distinction. We nevertheless hope that Mr. McCabe will continue to look ahead, and contemplate the highest standards of excellence in composition. The most acute observation of men and things, or the most delicate perception of poetical imagery, will avail but little without profound mental labor, and the assiduous cultivation of taste. We select the following as a favorable specimen of his poetry.

LINES

On hearing the song "Sweet Home," and reflections during the same.

O breathe again, that touching strain Which comes like winds o'er waters stealing; Its fall, its swell, like vesper bell, Its full rich notes in rapture pealing, Bids the lone heart, rejoice again In music's all subduing strain.

O Music! rapture's in thy chords! Now gushing soft like moon-beams streaming On quiet spot, on rural grot, On mossy couch, on infant dreaming,-- Or rising into raptures wild, It fills with wonder nature's child.

The Exile lone, no land to own, Lists to thy soft and touching numbers, And _dreams_ he sees the cot, the trees, The scenes of youth, (how sweet his slumbers!) Nor dreams when thy bright spell is o'er His happy "Home" he'll see no more.

The sailor boy, bereft of joy, Looks on the stars above him glowing; The big tear steals, his bosom feels As troubled as the waters flowing, And while the billows round him foam, He faintly murmurs, "Home! sweet Home!" {387}

The warrior stern, whose feelings burn To meet the foe, his rights defending, When war is o'er, sweet home once more Its rainbow colors round him blending, Invites him from the bloody plain Back to its quiet hearth again.

The christian warm, round whom the storm Of opposition wildly rages, Beholds the prize beyond the skies, Reflected on the glowing pages Of God's own book, and with a tear Of joy, he "reads his title clear."

O! onward press, life's wilderness Will soon be past; where spirits linger Round flowing streams in rapt'rous dreams And golden lyres, softly finger, We all shall meet, no more to roam, And dwell in an eternal home.

EDITORIAL REMARKS.

We continue the interesting "_Sketches of Tripoli and the Barbary States_." We believe that when completed, they will constitute the most authentic record extant, of the military and diplomatic transactions of the period referred to. Besides the author's access to correct sources of information, he has the taste and talent to impart peculiar grace and interest to his narrative.

"_Berenice_," a tale, by Mr. Edgar A. Poe, will be read with interest, especially by the patrons of the Messenger in this city, of which Mr. P. is a native, and where he resided until he reached manhood. Whilst we confess that we think there is too much German horror in his subject, there can be but one opinion as to the force and elegance of his style. He discovers a superior capacity and a highly cultivated taste in composition.

The "_Extract from the Reminiscences of a Western Traveller_," proceeding as it does from the pen of a practised and polished writer, has the additional advantage, as we are assured, of being founded in strict truth.

We are sorry that we are not permitted to announce the source from which we derive the original story or apologue of "_Jonathan Bull and Mary Bull_." Its own merit however, and its obvious application to events of the time at which it was written, will attract a due share of attention.

We especially recommend to our female readers, particularly the young and lovely who are just entering into the flowery but deceitful paths of worldly pleasure, to read the original narrative which is headed "_Marrying Well_."

The "_Letters from a Sister_" will amply repay the reader; so also will the article on the "_Fine Arts_"--and the "_Persian Story_," translated from the French of Florian.

The "_Scene in Paris, by a Virginian_," we have no hesitation in particularly recommending. It is an admirable and graphic description of what the writer saw with his own eyes,--and the excellent delineation of the French character, comprising its extremes of energy and weakness, will forcibly strike the reader. With us the whole narrative possesses powerful interest.

It is but sheer justice to insert the letter from "_Larry Lyle_," (printed by mistake in our last "_Zarry Zyle_,") in answer to the criticisms of our Shepherdstown correspondent. Mr. Lyle defends his muse with spirit and ability.

We also insert from a sense of duty, a letter from the author of a "_Note to Blackstone's Commentaries_," accompanied by the expression of our regret that he should have considered himself somewhat unkindly treated by the gentleman who furnished a reply to that article. We think we can vouch for it that the gentleman referred to, _fully intended_ to restrict himself within the bounds of fair and honorable discussion, and if we had thought differently, his article would have been excluded.

We must be excused for saying a word or two in respect to the _poetical_ department. Unless the reader is very fastidious, he must, we think, be pleased. We read "_Young Rosalie Lee_" more than once, before we could fully perceive the exquisite beauty and delicacy of the mind which produced it,--and we venture the prediction, that unless the author is divorced from the society of the sacred _nine_ by paramount duties, he is destined to no ordinary celebrity. We dare say that for the expression of this opinion, we ourselves shall not be spared, for we confess there is a quaintness in the style which will be repulsive to most readers.

In the "_Stray Leaves_," there is something which reminds us of Waller's beautiful lines beginning, "Go lovely rose," &c. and we almost regretted that the author should have so suddenly glided into the genuine Anacreontic.

Our readers will agree with us that the remaining pieces, particularly the "_Extract from an Unfinished Poem_"--the lines "_To Hope_"--"_To the Bible_"--"_Moonlight_"--and "_Hopes and Sorrows_," have each more than ordinary claims to admiration.

The "_Lines on Barlow's Monument_," by the celebrated Helen Maria Williams, and now published for the first time, need no praise from our pen; neither do the two original productions of Mrs. Sigourney, which we take great pleasure in inserting.

It would be doing us much injustice to suppose that the pieces which we do not particularly notice, are for that reason lightly esteemed. Whilst there are, it is true, degrees in the pleasure with which we regard the favors of contributors, their insertion ought to forbid the idea that any are unwelcome.

TO CONTRIBUTORS, CORRESPONDENTS, &C.

We thank our correspondent C. W. L. for pointing out the resemblance between the little epigram entitled "_The Mistake Corrected_," in our last, and the "_Surprise_," in Little's poems, which he quotes. The resemblance is certainly strong, and it is quite probable that the former if not borrowed was at least suggested by the latter. We cannot agree however, that it is a "plagiarism," in the proper sense of that term; for we know too well the personal and literary character of the gentleman who presented us with the trifle referred to, to suspect him for a moment of so paltry a proceeding. We rather conclude therefore, that its resemblance to Moore's bagatelle, is either the result of casual coincidence,--or more probably, perhaps, of an accidental mistake of the product of memory for that of fancy; a kind of mistake which those who have read much are very liable to make.

We assure our correspondent B. R. B. that we have carefully compared the lines published in our last with his manuscript, and find them to correspond _verbatim_. He wrongs us much if he thinks we would do him wilful injustice; and if one word has been substituted for another in the lines referred to, so as to change their sense, he must ascribe it to himself. We hope with this explanation he will excuse us from inserting his letter at full length.

There is a great deal of feeling in many of the communications sent to the publisher by T. H. C., M.D.; but to our poor taste, there is not much _poetry_. We question whether the Doctor will not find the lancet and pill box of more profit in that warm region to which he has emigrated, than the offerings of his prolific muse. The poetical manufacture depends more upon the _quality_ than the _quantity_ of its fabrics, for success.

We have received the following communication since the publication of our last number, from "_Fra Diavolo_," (_Horresco referens!_) which, as it is brief, we spread before our readers. His sneers at our "literary morality" and "critical acumen," we receive with great composure. Perhaps indeed, our vanity might be wounded if we had a tithe only of what seems to belong to the writer himself; but as our pretensions are very humble, we care not a farthing whether they are disputed or not. His request not to publish his poetry, (except on his own terms) shall be complied with; and should we consign his impure effusions to the flames, as he also desires, the world will have little or no cause to regret it. So long as we can secure the rich contributions received from other quarters, we shall console ourselves with the loss of "_Fra's_" favors, and even endeavor to survive his unprovoked resentment. To "give the devil {388} his due," however, we shall continue to lament the downward flight of our correspondent's muse; and uninitiated as we profess to be in the sublime mysteries of the school to which he belongs, we shall even be so perverse as to prefer the "modest mien and plain attire" of mediocrity, to the more flashy but less useful adornments of brilliant but misguided genius. One word in justification of ourselves. We did not admit the "_Doom_" into our columns without reluctance; a reluctance which nothing would have overcome but the conviction that a useful moral might be deduced from the fate of the "_Lover Fiend_," who figures as the hero of the story. As to the "_Passage of the Beresina_," whether it be "balderdash" or not, is matter of taste and opinion. One thing is certain; it is from the pen of a highly accomplished scholar.

Mr. White,--_I have just seen your sixth number of the Southern Literary Messenger, and shall decline having my contribution published on condition of any improvement of the poetry by your most chaste and wise editor. The admission of such balderdash as the "Doom" and "The Passage of the Beresina," is quite enough evidence of his literary morality and good taste. I require no further token of it; least of all in my own case, where I am to be martyred at the shrine of such critical acumen--God save the mark! Put the manuscript into the fire, and oblige yours,_

FRA DIAVOLO.

_March 25, 1835_.

* * * * *

_From the author of the "Note to Blackstone's Commentaries."_

You judge rightly that I have no call to answer my censor. I have no pride of authorship in the affair. I wished to awaken the public mind, and he has aided me, for which he has my thanks. I have no controversy with him. He argues against opinions I have not advanced, and, in his last paragraph, comes in aid of that I had endeavored to maintain. By his own showing a _quasi_ war exists _among ourselves_, under circumstances which render any nearer approach to peace impossible. We have the alternative of "a war-like peace, or a peace-like war," and he wisely prefers the former. He predicates this decision on the only principle for which I contended, viz: the effect of a continuing necessity. I only suggested the _possibility_ of such a case. _He_ finds it existing _in fact_. It doubtless _might_ exist in various ways. _Destruction_ is the precise object of _savage_ warfare. With us, it is the _means_ to an end. With savages, it is the _end_ itself. Had he seen, as I have, a few individuals of once powerful tribes, escaped from massacre, and saved from utter extinction only by finding shelter among the whites, he would not have to learn that _bellum ad internecionem_ is not unknown among savages.

The style and matter of his essay both show an education which should have taught him that a supercilious tone should find no place in a controversy between an anonymous and an avowed author. _He_ wears defensive armor. _I_ am naked. Is it chivalrous; is it manly; is it fair, in a contest which should be conducted "as if a brother should a brother dare to gentle exercise and proof of arms," to thrust with "unbated point?" His point indeed is not envenomed, nor does he stab malignantly, but he should have touched my scutcheon with the reverse of his lance. To strike with the point, however gently, is a challenge to combat of _outrance_. I decline it.

* * * * *

_Extract of a Letter from the Reviewer of Messrs. Adams' and Everett's Orations_.

You say, "The most sublime events and the most heroic actions have generally found some poet or historian of sufficient qualifications to record them with dignity and effect." Granted, but what is _dignity_? Does it consist in that sort of declamation which is meant to "split the ears of the groundlings?" What is _effect_? Is it _stage effect_? Is it made up of "gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss and thunder," and images placed by the speaker's side to be apostrophized? The example that you give illustrates the maxim that "the language of eulogy is misapplied to transcendant greatness. It weakens and dictates the truth of history."

You say "even the most exalted truths which have ever dawned upon mankind,--the facts and doctrines of revelation,--have lost none of their grandeur in the simple narratives of plain and unlettered men." Most true. The _simplicity_ of the narrative is its excellence. But what should we say to a Gospel after the manner of Mr. Adams, or even of Mr. Everett?

* * * * *

_Mr. White_:--The legitimate aim of criticism is, as you yourself have more than once remarked, to point out the proper path towards excellence. A true critic effects this by gently and courteously exposing error, and lauding beauties where beauties are to be found. So far as I can judge, neither gentleness nor courtesy can be said to characterize the critique of your "Shepherdstown friend." The want of these qualities would certainly have induced me to pass over the letter in question, had it not received honorable notice from yourself. In the pamphlet war between Matthew Carey and the redoubtable Cobbett, the first apologizes for his own rudeness, by quoting the old proverb, "fight the devil with fire," or something to that amount. But this is bad philosophy; and in my brief answer, I will endeavor as much as possible to observe that courtesy which your correspondent has forgotten.

In the "Song of the Seasons" quaintness was aimed at, and aimed at only because I thought the subject called for it. One part of my object was to depict the minute relations existing between the human heart and earth itself. Minuteness was necessary, and to be minute without quaintness, would render any piece dull and pointless analysis. With regard to obscurity, and the use of terms, I would ask your critic, if when he had "_studied the song_," obscurity did not disappear, and if the terms are not in keeping with the quaintness aimed at. Indeed, I would ask him, if the terms used are not just such as should have been used in any case. Beams _are_ "amethystine." We will find an admirable application of the word in Keates' "Eve of St. Agnes;" and Mrs. Hemans sings very prettily of the drowsy "Bugle-Bee." By the way, let me in this last phrase, adopt the change recommended. The stanzas quoted is the second of the "_Song_."

"A white roe wandered where sweet herbs and tender grass were peeping; His snowy head was poised in pride, his chainless heart was leaping: The '_bumble-bee_' had called the herd from icy solitude,-- And he had come at '_bumble_' call--fleet centaur of the wood!"

A vast improvement i' faith. The term "_gauze wing_," is as common as the rhymes _love_ and _dove_. "_Soughing blasts_" are frequent in _Wyatt_, and more frequent in _Shakspeare_. An amethystine beam thrown on a red body produces a glittering gold, and thus the red breast of "poor robin" was metamorphosed into one of gold. So much for the criticism. As for the critic, he has most unequivocally proved himself, by these syllable censures, to be one of the _anceps syllabarum_ tribe. As such I wonder that you, who have so often expressed your contempt for the whole race, should have opened your columns to his communication. Is not his letter a specimen of "the carpings of illiberal and puerile criticism?" Is not the writer one of the "little great men in the world, who have the vanity to conceive that their taste and judgment, (if they have any) is the standard for all mankind, and who snap and bark like the curs which infest our streets and annoy the by-ways?" I have used your own words, and ask if they are not applicable.

The Song of the Seasons (though never so little deserving,) has received praise from a higher quarter than Shepherdstown. My home is not very far from that village--near enough to know the character of its people; and in truth, gentlemen of talent and distinction are there with whom I have ever held it an honor to be acquainted. But it is plain that the critique could not have been written by any one of them. If I had no other reason for thinking so, I would say, "because it is not in keeping with the good sense, accurate taste, and elevated candor which I know these to possess." As for their townsmen, I have never heard of any Longinus among them, whose praise would not be disgrace. If your "friend" thinks an answer to this necessary, let me hope that his name will accompany the communication; or if he is unwilling to annoy, with private concerns, the public "upon whom Larry Lyle has [already] inflicted the _study_ of his song," his communication may be directed, not to yourself, but to his very humble servant,

LARRY LYLE.

_Winchester, Va._

{389}

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.] RICHMOND, APRIL 1835. [NO. 8.

T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.

We regret that from the late period at which the sixth number of "Sketches of the History of Tripoli" was received, it has been impossible to present it to our readers this month. It will appear in our next.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

INFLUENCE OF FREE GOVERNMENT ON THE MIND.

Human society, from the nature of its formation, is governed in all its multifarious movements, however majestic or delicate, by mind. There are no changes, nor revolutions in society, that do not acknowledge its influence. It is the all-pervading, all-exciting cause of human action. Its power on the social system is similar to that of gravitation in regulating the magnificent and rolling orbs of space; the great centre of attraction, holding together and preserving in harmonious order the thousand relations of life. Physical force, which to the superficial eye appears to have swayed the destinies of mankind in all ages of the world, will be found on examination to be only a mean, enabling it to wield with greater skill and force the sceptre of its power. The conquering legions of Cæsar or Bonaparte would have been a useless pageant, deprived of this active, governing principle. This exciting principle of society reaches its maturity and power by gradual developement. In the first stages of civilization its strength is that of an infant, afterwards that of a giant; and the spheres of its action are as various as its powers. We behold it soaring on the shining wings of imagination to the fields of fiction; calm, comprehensive, searching in philosophy and science; animated and exalted on the noble theatre of eloquence; pure and humble in the holy aspirations of religion. Such being the nature of mind, we are led to the irresistible inference, that the state of communities or nations will be low or elevated in proportion to its neglect or cultivation. The conceptions of mind form the mirror of national character. If there be a want of mental cultivation, as a consequent, the numerous attractions which hold in harmony and union the relations of society will be destroyed; and general darkness and misery prevail. On the contrary, if there be an expansion of mind, these ties so necessary, so sacred, will receive new strength; and a universal joy, and beauty, and brightness, pervade the whole social compact.

Many and various causes tend to the development of mind. It varies in every nation and under every form of government. We read of the majestic melancholy, the lofty passion, the stern intellect of the _North_; of the mental effeminacy, of the exuberant fancy, beneath the sunny skies and amid the olive groves of the _South_. We read of the effects, natural advantages and impediments; how inaccessible barriers may raise their Alpine heads, and prevent the light of one nation from beaming on another; thus destroying the interchange of kindred thoughts and obstructing the growth of mind; how nature's works, her forests, rivers, lakes, groves, and water-falls in their original grandeur and sublimity; how art's works, shining in their new splendor, or fallen from their primitive state, cities and towers lying in the crumbling embrace of time, stir up the sympathies, enliven the emotions, and arouse the imagination to high exertion; how the resources of the earth, her rich mines, her quarries of marble, stimulate the spirit of improvement in the arts and sciences. We read too, how the mind wastes away under the influence of despotic institutions, and how ignorance reigns shining in purple and gold; lastly, how the mind attains its full developement, and is ever active in its native strength, and power, and greatness, under the pacific and stirring effect of free principles. Each of these causes which may advance or retard the growth of mind, afford themes worthy of investigation. That of the influence of free institutions, having a bearing on the destinies of American mind, we have selected as the subject of this essay.

A ceaseless activity is the original characteristic of all material creation. All matter, whether on the surface, or in the centre of the earth, is imperceptibly undergoing a continuous change. To-day, we gaze with delighted eye on the loveliness and grandeur of nature, lit up by the smile of heaven; to-morrow, they have passed away. We only look upon a clear blue sky, to behold it the next moment hung with dark and angry clouds. The sun and the moon ever pursue their same eternal tireless course. Nature has likewise created an undying active spirit in the mental world. Activity is the earliest intellectual developement. The many imperious duties, connected with the stupendous relations which the individual members of society sustain to each other, prove that the mind was destined for action. The different natures, and the beautiful adaptations of the intellectual powers, prove it. Their native elasticity, their quick excitability, prove it. Curiosity, that key which unlocks the sanctuaries of knowledge, is seen from the days of childhood to silvery age. A desire of society, a commune and interchange of thought and feeling, has ever been a distinguishing characteristic of mankind in all ages and in all parts of the world. The sublime summits which the mind has reached, and the perennial glories which have crowned its efforts, are evidence unanswerable of the vastness of its power. But there cannot be full powerful mental action without mental freedom. Freedom is incident to action mental or physical. Observe the king of birds as he spreads his majestic wings on high; mark his swift flight, his strength and vigor; then behold him shut up within a cage, how weak, how lifeless, how nerveless! The same is true of mind; unrestrained, its powers transcend all limits, but fettered, they dwindle away--are powerless. The mind then is both naturally free and active. Such being the case, free institutions are founded in nature; and, therefore, their influence on the mind arises from a natural and mutual relation: this relation cannot be otherwise than efficacious in its tendencies on the mind.

What is the nature of free institutions? Founded in {390} man's free active nature, their tendency is to develope his powers and dignity. Their permanency, depending on the mental part of man, their chief aim and policy are his moral and intellectual elevation. Universal mental cultivation is the enduring basis and majestic pillar of their structure. As the effulgent life-giving orb of day brings forth the hidden beauties and treasures of nature, they draw out to the light the powers and faculties of every member of society. They bring mind in competition with mind; thus striking out the "celestial spark," they recognise no mental indolence; they afford means suited to the growth of all kinds of mind; they hold out the same common inducements to all; they reward with immortality noble intellectual action. Their true prominent feature is the collision of minds.

Let us examine their influences. All legislation, all governmental measures and operations, originate in the chosen intellect of the people, assembled in free deliberation. No single will creates a law. Many cultivated thinking minds coming together in close discussion, strike out the great principles of political science. And the minds thus exercised are not confined in their illuminating influence to the legislative hall, but go abroad, brilliant and powerful, awakening to thought, and enlightening millions of minds. Whatever the legislators conceive and create, affords a theme on which a thousand other eloquent minds among the people concentrate their talents, and shine forth in bright display. Thus we perceive that the splendid and dazzling theatre of eloquence is opened, inviting the exertions of bold, persuasive, original intellect. Eloquence is one of the characteristics of free governments. It requires free action. Its nature is to thrill the feelings, to awaken the fancy, to exalt the thoughts of a nation. It is the mind speaking forth its native inspiriting thoughts. It is the rapid flow of deep excited feeling. It is the natural influence which one mind exerts over another. It is the unbridled intellect, clothed in shining and magic forms. Can it exist under a despotism? The bird that dips its wings in the heavens does not require more freedom. It is opposed to tyranny of any kind. What is the history of eloquence? We behold it in unrivalled brilliancy and power in the Republican of mighty Rome. Rome's eaglet of conquest canopied the world under his expanded wings; but the genius of her eloquence, peaceful, but powerful, moulded and swayed the mind of her people and raised her to matchless grandeur.

In free governments, new occasions are continually arising for intellectual action. It is the inevitable result of that freedom they give to the mind. The free mind is ever active and progressive, ever soaring to lofty heights. The free mind disdains to follow the beaten track, and marks out an original, a more elevated path. The free mind experiences the full efficacy of all the stimulating feelings of our nature. Can such a cast of mind do otherwise than open new fields for high action? or produce other than wonderful and glorious results? Animated by an unconquerable love of action, all obstacles and difficulties vanish before it. It overthrows old systems, and erects new ones more dazzling in splendor. It revolutionizes all unsound associations, political, social, religious and literary. It fully developes and explains the existing relations of life, and unfolds hitherto unfelt ones. It thinks and feels more exaltedly, more deeply, more strongly. Lethargy never steals upon such a mind. Now a mind thus exercised, thus unlimited in its action, must shine forth in its original beauty and might, must attain all that is noble or sublime in intellectual achievement. This mind does not exist under despotic institutions. It could not. The restrained mind is ever retrograding. The restrained mind, aimless and unambitious, pursues the old path and never thinks of seeking a new one. The restrained mind never feels the irrepressible delight of a superior thought, never the exhilarating influence of deep and lofty meditation. Is it wonderful that despotic governments never attain a high degree of intellectual eminence? Or is it wonderful that free governments should know no barriers too great, no limits too extensive, no summits too elevated; should send forth a living increasing light of mental glory over the world?

In free governments "capacity and opportunity are twin sisters." Development of mind being their chief aim, they afford every proper means to this end. The genius of learning is brought down from her high abodes, and caused to walk radiant with beauty, through every grade of society. Education, the soul's strength, is disseminated with a liberal hand to every portion of the community. Intellectual illumination is made universal, as extensive as the circling canopy of the firmament. The inferior and superior mind drink at the same fountain--aspire to the same immortal renown. For while they thus develope the mind, they open to all the bright halls of eminence, offer to all _fame's_ brilliant diadem. Glorious is the effect! The principles of science are seen shining in increased brightness in the work-shop; eloquence, deep and overwhelming, full of heavenly fire and pathos, arises from the shades of obscurity; the lyre of poetry touched by the spirit of song, sends forth its melodious and inspiring strains from the deep valley and the mountain top; in truth, the great mass of society is moved and agitated by an active untiring spirit, even as the waters of Bethesda were wont to be moved when visited by the angel of the skies. Do we behold such an aspect under despotic institutions? Do they encourage the universal growth of mind? Do they hold out a common inducement to eloquent and lofty effort? or insure to superior genius an enduring fame? Impossible! when all intellectual influence is confined to the palace. Impossible! when learning in its effect on society is no more than the light of the moon, shining by the side of the noonday sun.

But free circulation of thought and feeling composes the chief influence of free institutions on the mind. The beauty, union, and elevation of society depend upon the action and re-action of mind. Indeed, this reciprocal influence of mind is the final cause in the formation of society. Where it is unfelt all relations, political and social, are frail and disregarded. If we look through society we shall find that all national mental greatness and power, originates in the influence which a few mighty minds exert in setting the great mass of mind to thinking and feeling. How great have been the effects of the minds of the Newtons, Bacons, Ciceros and Luthers on the world! How many millions of minds have they not excited to strong and elevated {391} action! Now, free governments, from their very nature, encourage this interchange, this mutual action of mind on mind. And mark the results. The original brightness of one mind throws new light on the path of another. A superior thought, like the blast of the Highland warrior's trump bounding from crag to crag, and causing, quick as sound, a hundred minds to beat for action, spreads with electric rapidity through every nerve of the social frame. Thoughts once clouded in darkness assume a blinding brightness. Thoughts once confused and incomprehensible are mastered and imbodied in enchanting forms. Patient and ambitious investigation, surmounting every obstacle, and penetrating to the lowest depths of knowledge, brings forth its rich treasures; truths, brilliant and irresistible. Free discussion is awakened, eliciting talent, intellectual energies and glories. Nor is this all. In philosophy, a few mighty minds arise and unfold new principles in human nature; and, immediately, a spirit of revolution, rapid but glorious, rages through society, destroying false and unnatural relations, and strengthening those that are genuine by holier and imperishable ties. In literature, a few mighty minds arise, profound in thought, imperial in fancy and conception, which like so many meridian suns, casting their beams upon the mental world, draw forth the native graces, and beauties, and grandeur of mind, and disseminate through every department of letters an influence enlivening and beautifying: an influence, which arouses the slumbering spirit of poetry, and throws an immortal radiance over the Elysian realms of fiction. In science, a few mighty minds arise, expose old fallacies, explore the rich mines of the earth, develope the mysterious principles of matter, explain the nature of their application, and suddenly an unusual mental splendor encircles the temple of learning. Art wields her sceptre with greater skill and precision, improving and adorning every branch of mechanism, that administers to the uses and comforts of society. And this influence of these few mighty minds on the general mind of society reacts in resilient bounds, again acts, and again rebounds, continually increasing in vigor and majesty. Thus the powers, passions and emotions of the mind, are developed to their full stature. Thus, that mind gains its natural ascendancy, crowns itself with unfading laurels, erects its throne, all magnificent, far above human thrones, and wields an overpowering influence over the destinies of mankind. Thus, all nations either in the ancient or modern world, where mind has shone in its brightest forms, have gained their immortality. From a want of this mutual influence of superior and inferior minds, despotic nations have ever remained in superstition and ignorance. For the sake of mind, who will not hail with delight the day when the genius of liberty shall canopy the world with her guardian wings!

But the friends of monarchical governments tell us that Republics do not encourage high intellectual developement, because they do not stimulate the mind to exertion by liberal rewards. In a triumphant air, they point us to the munificent era of Augustus, when genius bloomed amid kingly splendor, to the profuse liberality of _Eastern_ kings; to the generous age of Leo X, when Italia's mind shone in rivalry with her own bright and lovely skies. We grant that the mind in free governments is deprived of this influence. Does it thereby sustain any loss? Let us examine this point. Will the mind whose only stimulant are the smiles and pecuniary emoluments of kings, exhibit its native strength and grandeur? or will the Muse that sings to please the whims and caprices of a court, soar on eagle wings and to mountain heights? He who depends on another for support, must necessarily so shape his actions as to gain the good will of his patron. It is familiar to every one, that they who live in the sunshine of a palace, and from whom the mind in monarchies receives its patronage, are no more nor less in their characters than a composition of vanity and pride; of vanity and pride demanding deification. The mind then that acts under courtly favor must bow in lowly adoration and flattery. The scholar mourns over this defect in the writings of Horace: he wrote to please the wily and arrogant Augustus. If we turn over the productions of modern ages, when monarchy has reigned, we shall find the same grovelling slave-like spirit. Can such an influence develope the real beauty and sublimity of mind? No! For the mind that would attain a full growth, a growth noble and dignified--must mark out a course of its own, must move forward with a fearless, unbending step.

But because the mind in free governments does not enjoy the influence of princely favor, (which in our humble opinion is rather an injury than a benefit,) it is not therefore deprived of every other stimulant. In a Republic, mental influence is not confined to any one particular sphere, but illumines by the same beneficent rays the summits and the depths of society. It is sound reason, that the motives to intellectual action will bear a character corresponding to the influence of that action. If its influence be noble and extensive the stimulus of mind will be strong and awakening. How great then the motives to mental effort in free governments! There the mind acts not to please a crown, not to scatter flowers for courtiers to walk over, but conscious of the weight of its responsibility, and the boundless extent of its power, thinks and feels, that its thoughts and feelings may mould and sway countless other minds. There is an indescribable glory in such a stimulus. It not only purifies and elevates the mind which it arouses, but prospers and ennobles the condition of mankind. Still further--The mind whose theatre of action is thus extensive, and that looks up to no living being for aid, will in most instances, be excited to action by the idea of a virtuous immortality. And say, friend of monarchical munificence, is not the mind that conceives this idea in its pure genuineness, actuated by a stimulus more powerful than all the smiles of all the kings, than all the gold of all the Perus in the world could create? Analyze this idea. It combines benevolence and sublimity of feeling. It raises the mind above earthly scenes to the contemplation of the ineffable brightness and goodness of the Creator. Its great end is the promotion of the happiness of coming ages. Who will compare the action of the mind thus stimulated with that of the mind, whose only stimulus is present selfish enjoyment? As well may we compare the anthill to the "cloud-crowned Andes."

What says biography of those superior minds that have shone as lights to the world. Did they grow to their full power and greatness under the influence of {392} monarchical institutions? Did they arouse the mind of Homer, the immortal bard of antiquity? Or the eloquence and moral sublimity of Cicero? Or the unrivalled philosophy of Socrates? Who has not lamented over the severe fate of modern genius? Danté, Petrarch and Ariosto, minds resplendent in imagery and conception, wrote their best works when friendless exiles on a foreign shore. Cervantes wrote his Don Quixotte of undying fame, in a dungeon. Shakspeare, rightly styled the great magician of human nature, was often obliged to act parts in his own plays. Milton, who in thought and conception dwelt in the home of angels, sold his Paradise Lost for five pounds; lived the disgrace and glory of his age. These minds were the subjects of monarchies. Others might be mentioned. Surely then this patronage of kingly governments is but an empty name. It will not stimulate the noble mind, for such a mind creates its own stimulus. Let no one say then that the mind cannot ascend to lofty heights without its aid. But rather let us exclaim with the poet,

"'Tis immortality should fire the mind."

In looking over the pages of history, no fact strikes us more perceptibly than that all greatness of mind has ever been proportionate to its enjoyment of civil liberty. In vain do we look for universal education, either in ancient or modern times, among the numerous kingdoms of the East; in vain for a philosopher, poet or historian. The story of Grecian mind in its full maturity and superiority is known to every scholar. He there beholds mind in its real glory and power, shining under diversified forms; in imaginative brilliancy; in philosophic research; in the highest spheres of literature and science. But her freedom departed. The voice of eloquence was no longer heard in her forums, or in her beautiful fanes and groves; her Muses were cold to the embraces of her poets; in short, her intellectual greatness was gone. Behold her now! How striking the contrast of her former and present condition! And how appropriate the line of Byron--

"'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more."

The history of Roman mind does not differ from that of Grecian mind. Who would ask for stronger illustrations of the argument in favor of free principles on the mind.

But the influence of free institutions on the mind is not confined purely to the intellectual, but extends to the moral nature of man. They blend strength and splendor of intellect with the soft and beamy radiance of moral feeling. This is a natural consequence. For as a general rule, where there is an expansion of intellect, there will be a similar growth in morals. As intellect expands, as its perceptions become keener and surer, the relations and duties of life are perceived in a stronger and clearer light. Deprived of intellect, morals and principles lose their efficacy. We speak now of unperverted intellect; not of that kind of intellect which blasted the hopes of revolutionary France; not of that kind of intellect which characterized a Mirabeau or a Voltaire, but of such as free institutions in their purity would create--an intellect pure and exalted. Such an intellect cannot fail to strengthen our obligations as public and private men.

Indeed, one of the fundamental principles of free governments is founded in man's moral nature, the equality of mankind. For from this principle flows a spirit of peace, of love and kindness. Cherish the idea that men are by nature possessed of equal rights, and you destroy that coldness and selfishness which corrupt and debase the moral affections. Cherish it, and benevolence reigns queen over the heart, dispensing far and wide her refreshing benefits. Cherish it, and every member of society feels himself drawn towards his fellow by heavenly attractions. Cherish it, and the springs of sympathetic feeling rise to overflowing. In fine, cherish it, and the virtues of the heart increase in beauty and holiness, and run out in gladdening streams. Destroy it, and general morality is gone forever.

Thus we perceive that free governments tend both to growth of morals and intellect; that the developement of the one is not attended to and the other neglected, but that they unfold, bloom and mature in union. Thus too, we perceive that free governments do not unfold half of man's powers or strength, but that under their influence the whole mind expands, full, bright and lovely, as the "bloom of blowing Eden fair."

We have now finished an imperfect view of the influence of free principles on the mind. Beautiful is their application in our own country. Here they exist in their pure original character. Here, their influence is beyond calculation--over an extensive territory, abounding in every variety of interest and advantage. Here the press is free, and the thoughts and feelings of one section of the land may enlighten another section; this section may throw new light and splendor into another, this into another and another: thus creating a chain of mental influence, which will extend from one extremity of the country to the other. Here there is every civil advantage; numerous theatres for the display of eloquent mind. Here there is every natural advantage; numerous theatres for the display of literary and scientific mind. Let the discerning traveller perform the tour of our land, and there is no beauty of nature, no charm of landscape, no majesty of forest, no grandeur or sublimity of mountain or water scenery, that will not meet his delighted vision. Every state possesses materials sufficient to create a literature of its own. The Baronial castles and lofty hills of Scotland, together with their incidents, penciled by the graphic hand of Walter Scott, gained him a deathless name. Every state, and we assert it without fear of contradiction, has more of the interesting, the romantic and picturesque in incident and scenery than Scotland. It is our own fault then if our literature is not immortalized by more than one Scott. Add to these the great variety of mind which characterizes our land. Let the traveller go through the south, and he will behold mind glowing, impetuous and brilliant; let him go through the north, and he will behold mind, more systematized, profound in reason, silent, deep in feeling; let him go through the west, and he will behold a comminglement of every variety of mind. Besides, there are peculiar thoughts and feelings which belong to each state. Now consider all these advantages joined together, mingled as the colors in the rainbow, by one grand powerful feeling, which characterizes the whole, a feeling of union, a common American feeling: and let our free institutions act upon them in their full vigor and power, and we will {393} have a mind presenting every variety of interest, beauty, strength and brightness--all eloquent, all sublime--a sun illumining the world.

H. J. G.

_Cincinnati, Ohio, April 1835_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A few weeks since D. D. Mitchell, Esq., a resident for many years past, near the falls of Missouri, in the vicinity of the Rocky Mountains, was in this city, on a visit to his native State, and it was my good fortune to become personally acquainted with him. He has been an enterprising and successful adventurer in the American fur trade, and is now in command of a fort and trading establishment in the neighborhood of the _Black-feet_, a nation of Indians with whom the whites have had but little intercourse, and whose peculiar character and manners we have had few opportunities of knowing. Besides being a bold and active participator in many of the bloody conflicts of various tribes, Mr. Mitchell has been a keen observer of Indian customs, traits, and superstitions; and so great a favorite was he among the powerful tribe of the Black-feet, that they created him a chief, with the title of the _Spotted Elk_. Mr. Mitchell did me the favor whilst here, to submit some of his manuscripts to my inspection. They contain sketches of the Indian character, and of the country, on the head waters of Missouri, hitherto almost unexplored by the white man, and also various interesting anecdotes and observations, highly creditable to the intelligence, discernment and enterprise of the writer. I cannot withhold from the patrons of the Literary Messenger, some share of the pleasure I have myself experienced, in reading these valuable papers, and, for the present, I send to the publisher, a remarkable Indian love tale, which Mr. Mitchell, besides his written testimony, privately assured me was _founded on fact_.--Washington Irving, in his recent "Tour on the Prairies," makes the following remark: "As far as I can judge, the Indian of poetical fiction, is like the shepherd of pastoral romance, a mere personification of imaginary attributes." It may be so, and perhaps most heroes and heroines of novels and romances, are principally creations of fancy; but if the author of the Sketch Book, meant to assert, that the children of the forest were altogether unsusceptible of some of the noble and tender emotions of our nature--he stands opposed by undoubted evidence to the contrary. Who does not believe, for example, what our own history has taught, of the matchless purity and guileless simplicity of Pocahontas--the lofty spirit of Totopotomoi, and the rare magnanimity of Logan? The passion of love indeed, as modified and refined in civilized life, has not often been found in the breast of the Indian warrior, but even to this general truth, there have been numerous exceptions, and among them, I have never met with one so marked and striking, as that which is recorded in the following story.

H.

THE WHITE ANTELOPE;

OR, INDIAN LOVER.

From the Manuscripts of D. D. Mitchell, Esq.

Some time during the autumn of 1832, a young blood Indian (of the race of the Black-feet,) arrived at the fort all alone. He had no furs, or other articles of traffic with him, and was not equipped in the usual style for war. His pale haggard appearance, and deep settled melancholy, attracted the observation of all who saw him; but as a residence of several years among the Indians, had taught us something of their rules of politeness, I forbore to question him as to the cause of his grief, more especially as he did not seem to be in a very communicative mood. I ordered him something to eat, but he pushed the proffered repast aside, and refused to partake. Our interpreter then handed him a pipe, which he received in a cold mechanical manner, appearing scarcely conscious of what he did; and instead of sending up dense columns of smoke in rapid succession, as is usually the case, he sat with the pipe extended across his knees, absorbed in a deep reverie, and now and then heaving profound sighs, which appeared to arise from the inmost recesses of his soul. The pipe having gone out, the interpreter relighted it, and again placed it in the young Indian's hand. He started up, and after a few hasty whiffs, seized his bow and arrows, and walked hastily out of the fort. Our curiosity having been excited by his mysterious conduct, several of us followed in order to watch his motions. He went to the river bank, and having thrown off his robe, which he fastened to the back of his head, in order to keep it dry, he deliberately plunged into the river and swam for the opposite shore. I called to him through the interpreter, promising if he would return, to send him over in my skiff, reminding him at the same time that the current was wide, and the water extremely cold--but he only turned his head around, and with a bitter smile, exclaimed, "the fire which is burning in my heart, will keep me warm!" He spoke no other word, but dashing through the waves, which a keen October wind had lashed into motion, we saw him presently ascend the rocky cliffs of the other side, and striking into the path which led to the mountains, he disappeared, with the speed and agility of an antelope. Several conjectures were made among us, respecting the singular conduct of this seemingly unhappy youth; but as none could furnish an explanation entirely satisfactory, the affair in a few days, ceased to be the subject of inquiry or conversation.

On a cold stormy evening, about the middle of the following February, I was standing on the bank of the river, giving some directions to the men engaged in constructing a kind of harbor or basin, to secure our boats, on the opening of spring, from the drifting ice, when I was startled by the quick report of a gun, and a loud shout of triumph, which proceeded from the opposite shore, and were echoed in long reverberations from the rocky cliffs of the Missouri. Broad flakes of snow were falling around me, and whirling in every direction, so that I was prevented from perceiving objects on the opposite side; but I supposed that some war party was probably returning from a victorious campaign. When about to return to the fort, I discovered two Indians, a young man and woman, crossing the river on the ice; they both approached the spot where I stood; the youth holding his hand towards me, in a manner which denoted confidence and friendship. Though actually shivering with cold, his countenance seemed to beam with joy and animation, and pointing my attention to the comely girl, at his side, he exclaimed, whilst his dark eyes sparkled with triumph, "Now she is mine, for I have fairly won her in battle!" and at the same moment {394} he cast a glance at two bloody scalps, which hung suspended from his ram-rod. I now recognised the mysterious young man, who had visited the fort in October; but his manner and appearance were altogether changed. His step was now buoyant and elastic, and in place of the gloomy silence and mental agony which marked his previous deportment, he was now gay and talkative, indulging in the light laugh and ready jest. Being anxious to know something of his story, I invited the lover and his young Indian maiden into the fort, an invitation which they readily accepted. After a hearty meal, and a few whiffs of the pipe, the warrior swain, drawing his Indian beauty closer to his side, and assuming as much gravity of feature, as his thrilling sensations of happiness would allow, related in a very circumstantial manner, the following story:--

"I have loved this girl," said he, "as far back as I can remember;" and at the same moment, as he laid his hand on her shining dark hair, the black eyed damsel of the Prairies rewarded her lover's confession with a smile of approbation. "I loved her," he continued, "long before I knew the meaning of love; for when a small boy, I once shot my arrow at her mother for striking the daughter. I afterwards wondered at myself for doing so, especially as my father talked to me _angry_, and said that the girl was no relation of mine. I remember too, when we played at ball on the ice, if we happened to be opposed in the game, I would not win from her, though every thing I had was staked. Those were happy days. In the winter, we made snares for rabbits and foxes, or climbed to the top of some high hill, and amused ourselves by rolling the snow down its sides, which, as it rolled, grew bigger and bigger, until it reached the bottom, where it lay till the warm sun in the spring melted it away to fog, and raised it again to the clouds. Even so has it happened to us. We continued to roll down the stream of life, increasing in size and in love, until now we have reached years of maturity; and we will continue to love each other, until time wastes us away like the snow ball, and the Great Spirit takes us up into his own land.

"Last summer we were encamped by the side of the chief mountain, and I saw Sinepaw (the name of the Indian girl,) almost every day. Often have I wandered from the camp, and hiding myself behind some tree, have watched the whole day in the hope of seeing her pass that way. If I could but get a glance at her, I was satisfied, and returned quietly to the lodge; but if it chanced that she did not make her appearance, I then sat me down and wept; but during my sleep I was always happy, for in my dreams I was never separated from her. You know that, according to the law of our tribe, none but a warrior can dare to think of a wife; and as I was nothing but a youth, and had never taken a scalp, I was therefore ashamed to speak even to _Sinepaw_, much less to her father and mother. One day, whilst preparing to go out to war, where I panted to perform some exploit which should rank me amongst our braves and warriors, and entitle me to the privilege of marrying the girl of my choice, the whole camp was suddenly thrown into an uproar, and I learned that eight of our women who were gathering wild turnip in the prairies, had been captured and carried away by the _Flat-heads_. Sinepaw was one of the eight. A war party, myself among the number, was immediately despatched in pursuit. We followed for several days, but we lost the trail of our enemies in the mountains, and our leader commanded us to return. I thought that my heart would burst with grief; but as yet I had no trophy in battle, and I dared not utter a complaint. When I returned to the camp, my heart was very heavy. I believed that it was dead. I could neither eat, nor sleep, nor join in the merry song or dance, as it was my custom to do. My only pleasure was, to climb to the top of the mountain, seat myself on a bank of snow, and looking to the country of the Flat-heads, pray the Great Spirit to give me the cunning and courage to recover my lost Sinepaw. Once when I had remained in that dismal spot three days and nights, taking neither rest nor food, on the fourth morning the sun drove away the mist from the mountain, and warmed my veins with its beams. I fell into a sound sleep, and the Great Spirit came down and told me to go in pursuit of the _Flat-heads_; that he would take pity on my grief, and restore Sinepaw to her lover. I awoke from my pleasant dream: the Great Spirit was gone, but I remembered his words.

"The next day I started all alone. You saw me when I passed your fort, and you pitied my distress. For thirty-four days I travelled through the mountains, before I found the camp of the _Flat-heads_. The Great Spirit had caused them to place it in the only spot where it was possible I could ever succeed in recovering Sinepaw. It was just at the foot of a high rocky cliff, on the banks of the Snake river.[1] On the top of the cliff, I found a hole in the rock, which served as a hiding place, and from which I could easily see all that passed in the camp. For seven long days I kept a constant watch, before I could once get a glimpse at my girl. At last I saw her, and I thought that my heart would leap from my mouth. My limbs trembled so violently, that I could not stand, and the tears gushed from my eyes, causing the prairie beneath me to look like a vast lake, whose waves were troubled. Soon, however, I brushed away my tears, the lake disappeared--and I again beheld the camp, and Sinepaw standing in the same spot. She was employed in harnessing two dogs for the purpose of assisting the squaws to haul wood from a little island in the middle of the river. She did not return until nearly sun-set; but when she did, I was lucky enough to see the lodge into which she went. I examined that lodge particularly, and all the others around it, so that I should know it again. When it was dark, I spoke to the Great Spirit; told him he promised I should have my Sinepaw again, and begged him not to deceive me. I resolved to carry her off that night, or leave my scalp to be danced in the camp of the Flat-heads!!

[Footnote 1: A small stream that falls into the Columbia.]

"The night was very dark and stormy; the wind mourned around the top of the cliff, and the snow flakes whirling through the air, seemed to me like so many ghosts. Three ravens fluttered up the side of the rock, and lighting on a stunted pine, which grew near my place of retreat, uttered a dismal scream, as if scenting for something to eat, and waiting to feast on my carcass. Beneath me lay a thousand enemies, who would in a moment have cut me into pieces, and given my body to their dogs. My teeth chattered with cold and fear, and I felt like a woman. The cliff was steep and {395} overhung with shelving rocks. It was so dark that I could not see my hand before me; and if I made one false step, I should be dashed to pieces among the rocks, and Sinepaw would remain a slave among my enemies. When my courage was about to expire, this horrid thought revived it, and I immediately commenced sliding down the cliff, holding on the points of the rocks, and grasping the pine bushes which grew in my course. Several times my foot-hold crumbled beneath me, and I fell from rock to rock, but there was always something to stop my descent and prevent my destruction. At length I reached the bottom, and stood on the level prairie. The camp was but a short distance from me, and I walked towards it slowly and cautiously. Every thing was solemn and silent, and the stillness was only broke by the hollow wind whistling through the prairie glass, or by the howl of some dog who could find no shelter from the storm. When I entered the camp, I drew my robe over my head, and boldly stepped forward. Several young men were standing near the different lodges, perhaps to get a sly look at their sweethearts, but they took no notice of me. Once I thought that a dog, belonging to the camp, would have ruined me: he made for the spot where I was, snapping and barking, and running around me several times; but, luckily, an old squaw came from a lodge hard by, and drove him off. No doubt the Great Spirit sent her, for had it been a man, he would have come towards me, and spoken, and all would have been lost.

"When I came to the lodge I was seeking, I knew it by a large white wolf skin, which hung on a pole at the door. I stood a few moments, and prayed the Great Spirit to pity me, then ventured to raise the skin and look into the lodge. A small fire which was burning in the centre, cast a pale and sickly light all around me, and I saw that all who were there, were asleep. Several times I tried to go in, but as often felt as if something was pulling me back; but looking around and beholding nothing, I knew it was the evil spirit, so I raised the skin once more, boldly stepped forward, and stood in the same lodge with Sinepaw. My heart beat so loud, I thought it would wake all the sleepers. At the first glance, I knew it was the lodge of a chief, for over the spot where he lay, hung his medicine bag, his bow and arrows, and immediately under them, two scalps of my own nation. At the sight of the scalps I drew my knife, intending to kill him, but I thought of Sinepaw and stopped. Where was she? Fifteen men and women lay sleeping on the ground, and all so wrapped in their robes, that I could not distinguish them; so I drew my own robe over my face, and sat down to listen to their breathing, for I knew there was music in the breath of Sinepaw, different from that of all other women. I was not deceived: I found that she lay just behind me: so I turned and took the robe from her face. She still slept; a tear was glistening on her eyelash, and her cheek was thin and pale. She murmured something which I could not hear, but, stooping down, I kissed away the tear, which was even sweeter than the blood of my brother's murderer, which I had tasted. She opened her eyes, looked up, and saw me, but thought it was a dream. She looked again, and when she saw that it was really me, she would have screamed, but I laid my hand on her mouth, and whispered in her ear, 'Rise, let us fly from the camp!' She gazed wildly around the lodge, and seemed as if her senses would fly from her. At length I raised her up, and led her to the door, but she stopped and turned my face to the light, as if to be assured that it was me. She hesitated no longer: we both sprung from the lodge, and Sinepaw threw her arms around me!

"Oh, my friend!" exclaimed the impassioned lover, addressing himself to me, whilst his eyes sparkled with extraordinary brilliancy, "at that moment I looked around on the camp, and laughed at all its dangers. I felt as if I should not fear to meet a hundred enemies. It was the first time that Sinepaw ever embraced me, and it kindled a feeling, such as I shall never experience again. I believe when I am dead and mouldered into dust, the parts of my body which her arms encircled, will never be corrupted.

"A number of horses stood tied around the lodge, and Sinepaw cut loose the cords of two of the best, which we quickly mounted. I drew my bow and arrows, and rode slowly forward, making as little noise as possible; but a young man soon discovered us, and gave the alarm! Laying whip to our horses, we soon cleared the camp, dashed down the bank, and crossed the river on the ice; but the uproar which we heard behind us, and the thundering of horses' feet over the frozen prairie, too plainly told that we were closely pursued. The storm continued to roar, and the darkness was greater than ever. Sometimes I heard a shot behind us, and a hundred voices calling out loudly to each other; but we still kept on our way, at the full speed of our steeds, and in about two hours from the time we started, the tempest had spent its rage, and daylight began to dawn. At sun-rise I rode to the top of a hill, in order to survey the country and the better to shape my course, when I spied two _Flat-heads_ on horseback, not far to my right, who, seeing me also, raised a shout of triumph, and immediately rushed forward in pursuit. I knew it was in vain to fly; our horses were already weary and faint, and could hold out no longer. I made signs to Sinepaw to come to the top of the hill, when seizing her horse by the rein, I sheathed my knife blade in his throat, and dealt the same fatal blow at my own. Their lifeblood gushed as a spring, and as they staggered and fell, I placed their bodies around us, to form an entrenchment for defence.

"The warriors soon rode up, and discharged their guns, but their balls fell harmless, or lodged in the carcases which protected us. They fired again and again, but I still lay motionless, for as I had but nine arrows left, I had not one to throw away. At last they began to conclude that I had no arms, and they ventured to ride still nearer. I heard the trampling of their horses a few steps off; my bow and arrows were prepared, and I raised my head, but withdrew it as quick as lightning. They fired at once, but their fire came too late: I sprang upon my feet, and before the _Flat-heads_ could either reload or retreat, I sent two arrows through the body of one, and one through the head of the other. They attempted to fly, but both were brought to the ground. I raised the war whoop of the Spotted Eagle, and rushing down the side of the hill, I secured their scalps and guns. Here they are!" he exclaimed, exhibiting his spoils in triumph; "who can now say that the White Antelope is not a warrior, or who can refuse him his daughter as a wife?"

{396}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Mr. White_,--The following spirited lines, evidently composed on some occasion of serious import, together with a gold ring broken into several fragments, were accidentally found in my neighborhood about two years ago, enveloped in a neatly folded sheet of letter paper, without date, seal, or superscription. I send you a copy of them, hoping that by the aid of your very good "Messenger" they may meet the eye of poor "Corydon" again, or if you please, that of his "faithless one." Should you deem them worthy of publication, they are now at your service. Yours, respectfully,

AGRICOLA.

_Albemarle, March 25, 1835_.

THE LAST GIFT.

When I sit musing on the chequered past, (A term much darken'd with untimely woes,) My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows The tear, tho' half disown'd, and binding fast Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart; I say to her she robbed me of my rest, When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast Received from her this wearying, lingering smart, Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart: Tho' wrong'd, I love her--yet in anger love; For _she was most unworthy_. Now I prove Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams The native pride of my much injured heart.--_H. K. White_.

I said to Love's accursed art, Behold this broken ring! Thus thou hast broke the bruised heart, As 'twere some worthless thing. But tho' it bleed at every pore, Crush'd by the reckless blow, My spirit still shall triumph o'er The tide of wo. I said to Friendship's lifted hand, Smite on--my bosom's bare-- Deep didst thou plunge the fatal brand, And left it rankling there. But still there throbs within these veins, The spirit's manliness, That scorns, amid its keenest pains, To seek redress. I said to Treachery's cunning dame, Come on--I dread thee not; Thou may'st pursue me till my name And being are forgot. But still my spirit ne'er shall weep, Tho' driv'n to Ocean's farthest Isle, I'd rather brave the angry deep, Than thy _cold smile_. I said to Mammon's golden store, Shine on--thou art but dust; I covet not thy worthless ore, Tho' by Misfortune crush'd. For deep within this bosom's shrine, There lives a spirit still, (More costly far than wealth of thine,) Thou canst not kill. I said to Earth's unstable ball, Roll on--it matters not; A few more suns will rise and fall, And I shall be forgot. But still the spirit in its bloom, Tho' oft by sorrow curs'd, Shall yet from thy sepulch'ral gloom With rapture burst. I said to Her, the faithless one, Who vow'd to love me best, Smile on--thy friendship I disown, And spurn thee from my breast. But still the spirit thou hast crush'd, The secret ne'er shall tell, And tho' thou tread it in the dust, 'Twill say--FAREWELL. I said to Him, the mighty Lord, Who reigns above the sky, And governs by his sovereign word, Man's darkest destiny,-- Father, I kiss thy chastening rod, In love I know 'twas given, For while it smites me 'neath the sod, It points to Heaven.

CORYDON.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

APOSTROPHE

Of the Æolian Harp to the Wind.

"Wind of the dark blue mountains, Thou dost but sweep my strings, Into wild gusts of mournfulness, With the rushing of thy wings.

When the gale is freshly blowing My notes responsive swell, And over music's power, Their triumphs seem to tell.

But when the breeze is sighing, Then comes 'a dying fall,' Less--less indeed exalting, But sweeter far than all.

It sighs, like hapless mortals, For youthful pleasures fled, For hopes and friends once cherished, Now mingled with the dead.

And oh! how sweetly touching, Is the sad and plaintive strain, Recalling former pleasures, That ne'er can live again.

Once more thy breezes freshen, And sweep the Æolian strings, And again their notes are swelling, With the rushing of thy wings.

They seem to cheer the drooping, To bid the wretched live, And with their sounds ecstatic, His withering hopes revive."

Alas! and in life's drama, Howe'er we play our part, Hope is forever breathing, On the Lyre of the Heart.

Hope is forever touching Some chord that vibrates there, While bitter disappointment Mars the delusive air.

Alternate joys and sorrows, Obedient to her call, Now breathe a strain that's flatt'ring, And now "a dying fall."

Yet how unlike the measures Of the sweet Æolian string! These soothe the heart that's wounded, Those plant a deeper sting.

Then wind of the dark blue mountains, Still sweep these trembling strings Into sweet strains of mournfulness, With the flutter of thy wings.

{397}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAP. I.

"Every modification of a society, at all lettered, works out for itself a correspondent literature, bearing the stamp of its character and exhibiting all its peculiarities."[1]

[Footnote 1: Sir J. Mackintosh's History of England, vol. I.]

It is thus that we see among the simple progenitors of a now polished race, a simplicity of literature in extreme accordance with their rude and unsophisticated manners. Yet when I speak of a rude literature, I am not to be understood as implying want of merit. On the contrary, the unpruned freedom of thought and unextinguished fire of feeling, so essential to true poetry, are chiefly to be found among a people martial and but little cultivated. Nor is this all; we often discover a beautiful tenderness, breathing of the primeval simplicity in which it has been nurtured. The dangers and hardships of severe employment, were sometimes forgotten in intervals of rest, and at such times, love ditties were made and sung. All natural beauties--the mountain--the waters of the valley--the dingle--the mossy wood, peopled by its vagabond essences and strange spirits--were inexhaustible food for poetry. This love of gentleness was the stronger for its contrast with the tone of feeling which preceded it. There are many instances of "the soft" to be found amongst the mutilated scraps and scattered records remaining to us from the numerous races usually called Barbarians. Montaigne somewhere quotes an original Caribbean song, which he pronounces worthy of Anacreon:

"Oh, snake stay; stay, O snake, that my sister may draw from the pattern of thy painted skin, the fashion and work of a rich riband which I mean to present to my mistress: so may thy beauty and thy disposition be preferred to those of all other serpents. Oh, snake stay!"

If this had been the song of a Peruvian or a Chilian, it would have been less singular. As it is, it was probably sung by a savage Carib in a moment of that rest, of which I have spoken as the season for "love ditties."

The curious student who searches into the authorities of our historians, will find that they are chiefly made up of legends imbodied in the songs of coeval bards and minstrels. This was the source of historical knowledge to the Danish writers, more than to those of any other country; indeed the scald was as well a chronicler as a singer. Nor is this historical foundation to be despised. Those who sung were most frequently eye witnesses of the occurrences celebrated in their songs. Men in those early ages had not so thoroughly learned the art of misrepresentation. Manly openness was a virtue: cunning was scarcely known in action or narration: or, if known, despised. Consequently we find that in many or all cases where other proofs are to be had, the legends of the bards are substantiated.--The chief source of our information with regard to the Saxon rule in the island of Great Britain, is the Saxon Chronicle--a kind of journal or annual, kept by the monks of early ages. This extends considerably beyond the era of the conquest, and is often spun into verse. Indeed the first instance of the use of rhyme in the Saxon tongue, is to be found in this chronicle--I will not however anticipate my subject by quoting the lines in this place.

The materials with which English antiquaries build up their historical creeds, are so slender, that the very existence of the minstrel, as distinct from the poet, prior to William's coming, has been matter of controversy.--After close examination, I am inclined to side with those who maintain that minstrelsey--like the feudal system--was no more than improved by the Normans; that it had accompanied the Saxons from Germany.

We are told that, Colgrin, a Saxon prince, gained access to his brother Baldulph, while the latter defended York against Arthur and his Britons, by disguising himself as a harper.[2] Likewise that the great Alfred stole forth in the same disguise from the Isle of Athelney--whither Guthrun the Dane had driven him--and that in such plight he entered the enemy's quarters unhindered. Another story of the same nature is told us of Anlaff, a Danish chief, who explored the camp of king Athelstane.[3] The learned bishop of Dromore, after quoting these several stories at full length, remarks: "Now if the Saxons had not been accustomed to have minstrels of their own, Alfred's assuming so new and unusual a character would have excited suspicions among the Danes. On the other hand, if it had not been customary with the Saxons to shew favor and respect to the Danish scalds, Anlaff would not have ventured himself among them, especially on the eve of a battle. From the uniform procedure then of both these kings, we may fairly conclude that the same mode of entertainment prevailed among both people, and that the minstrel was a privileged character with each."

[Footnote 2: Geoffrey of Monmouth.]

[Footnote 3: Vide Rapin.]

This proves, to me, that a plant from the same root whence sprung the Danish scald, grew and flourished in England. This idea is farther strengthened by the fact that Saxons and Danes were of one and the same origin--both swarms from the same northern hive--and that the scald retained by the Danes[4] was an important personage among the Teutonic tribes; and nothing can be more natural than for men to recur to the customs and usages of their parent-land.

[Footnote 4: Sir W. Temple.]

It seems therefore that minstrels constituted a privileged race among the Saxons. Yet poetry was not meanwhile confined to their vocal performances. Alfred himself was the author of several written pieces of considerable merit. Among other ballads, one descriptive of the battle of Brunnenburgh, is still extant. This battle--fought between Athelstane and a confederacy of Danes and rebel Britons--was well drawn in the original, and has been translated by a school boy at Eton with unrivalled beauty and truth.[5]

[Footnote 5: Frere.]

Song was used likewise on the field of battle. Many instances of this are on record, but I shall select no more than one for the sake of proof.

When Harold the last Saxon king, drew up his army against the combined forces of Tostigg--his rebel brother--and Harold Hardrada, the Norwegian king, Tostigg rode out upon a hillock, and _after the fashion of the day_, began a war-chaunt. While thus engaged, a herald came from Harold, his brother, greeting him, {398} and offering reconciliation. "The dukedom of Northumberland shall be given thee," said the herald. "And what reward has he for my friend and ally?" replied the haughty rebel. "Seven feet of English ground, or as men call him a giant, perhaps eight." And the herald finding his attempt at reconciliation futile, put spurs to his horse. Tostigg rode backward and forward, tossing his bare sword into the air and catching it as it fell. Meanwhile his brother's archers came within bow-shot, and their arrows whistled from the string. Tostigg fought beside his ally, in a blue tunic and shining helmet. He was yet chanting to his army, when a shaft pierced his throat and ended song and life together.

Thus do we see that poetry existed in three shapes; in the songs of a privileged order, called by the various names of _joculator_, _minstrel_, &c. &c.; in writing; and in the martial chaunts of heroes "bowne for battelle."--And what were the subjects of these several species of poetry? The last explains itself. The first two were probably on martial topics; so we may infer at least from the specimens which have reached us, and from the situation of England, even for centuries after its union under Egbert. Swept by the repeated inroads of the Danes--harassed and ground by the never-ending feuds of the great nobles, "ye might (in the strong words of an old historian,) as well plough the sea."--Thus with warlike customs--the last half of Sir J. Mackintosh's remark, quoted in the beginning of this paper, being at all times a consequent on the first--literature grew up in more harsh strength than graceful beauty. Society was little better than a confederacy for joint defence against watchful foes. The air was redolent of strife and contention. The "clash of armor and the rush of multitudes," mingling _minaci murmure cornuum_, were imitated on the harp's string, and enthusiastic damsels sung the deeds of their lovers, or so far forgot the more tender affection which would prefer the life of its object, to that object's death and after-honor, as to mingle the _io triumphe_ with the burial song; thus giving way to the fierce joy, which weakness, when excited by thoughts of great deeds denied itself, conjures up--the _gaudia certaminis_, ever strongest in the weakest. I have already remarked, that "during intervals of rest, love ditties were sung." We have remnants enough to know that the Saxon poets were not forgetful of all gentler feeling, though these too were most often mingled with alloy. There were not wanting those willing and eager to embalm the names of the beautiful and great. There were not wanting bards to sing of the _loves_ of these.

Elgiva, who drew her royal lover from the board where his nobles, and the sage Dunstan, had met to do him honor. Editha, the lady of the swan-neck, who recognised the body of Harold though mangled and disfigured wofully "for that her eyes were strong with love." These have had their good qualities and misfortunes immortalized by men, who, in the pauses of the bitterest strife, turned to admire beauty and unyielding affection, and to lament the evils brought upon innocent heads.

They sung too of Elfrida, who stabbed young Alfred while feasting in Corfe-castle--a deed "than which no worse had been committed among the people of the Angles, since they first came to the land of Britain." And in this we perceive the alloy, as in their praise of the masculine Ethelflida, "the lady of Mercia," daughter of the great Alfred.

I have barely glanced over the Saxon literature from the middle of the fifth century, to that of the eleventh, without entering into a careful and accurate detail of the changes which must have occurred, and which probably by a closer examination than I have thought needful, might be spread open. One great change occurred about the end of the eighth century. Egbert--Bretwalda, or king of Wessex, one of the seven principalities forming the Heptarchy--long lived at the court of Charlemagne, then the most polished court west of Italy. He united the seven petty kingdoms into one, and as their single head, had an opportunity of using effectually the information gathered abroad.

Several additions were made to this, but the one most worthy notice, was more than two centuries after. Edward the confessor, passed twenty-seven years, from boyhood to middle age, at the court of Rouen; indeed (according to Ingulphus,)

"Paene in Gallicam transierat."

He therefore added to the polish, introduced by his predecessor, though at so late an hour that the change for the better was scarcely perceptible, before it merged in the more important one, introduced by the Norman invasion.

I now proceed to an examination of poetry through ages of comparative light. Although from the gradual intercourse between the two nations prior to their amalgamation, no alteration of feeling or manners had taken place, extensive enough to mark the "conquest" as a grand and important era in the history of national customs, still many and subtle changes were produced, bearing in no small degree upon the subject before us.

The poetry of the Saxons was without rhyme, and the author of "an essay on Chaucer," says, "without metre." The learned antiquary must have attached a meaning to the word _metre_, wholly at variance with that now and usually received. Metre (from the Greek [Greek: metron] and Latin _metrum_) has several meanings, but scarcely distinct ones: all may be included in that of 'an harmonious disposition of words.' It is not enough to say that it differed from prose in being the language of passion. The general rules by which we judge poetry, are immutable, and equally applicable to that of Greeks, Saxons, and modern English. Dr. Blair and his authorities, define poetry to be "the language of passion metrically arranged," (I quote from memory) and supported so ably, I will not consent to a halving of the definition. The before mentioned Essayist on Chaucer, adduces the "vision of Pierce Ploughman" as a specimen of the Saxon style of poetry. And herein it becomes evident that he mistakes the meaning of the word _metre_. For those old lines, composed about the middle of the fourteenth century, are, notwithstanding the ancient mode of writing without breaks or division into lines, beyond doubt capable of being arranged in separate and distinct verses. I am not without support in the opinion here given; Dr. Hickes[6] maintains that the Saxons observed syllabic quantities "though perhaps not so strictly as the Greek and Latin heroic poets." {399} It may be asked how this comes to be at all a question, since monuments of Saxon poetry still remain by which we can judge. But it is no such easy matter to judge correctly. Syllables were accented much at the whim of the versifyer; so much so that general rules for the disposition of accent are little less than useless. Add to this the common custom, before mentioned, of writing poetry and prose alike; and when we remember that the object in view is to ascertain the number and accentuation of syllables, the wonder will disappear.

[Footnote 6: Pref. Sax. Gram.]

One among the earliest specimens of the use of rhyme in the Island of Great Britain, is to be found in the Saxon Chronicle. The author says that he himself had seen the Conqueror, and we may thence infer that the lines were written in the reign of William Rufus, or at farthest in that of his brother and successor Henry. It may be as well before quoting this literary curiosity, to notice a distich in itself trifling, and only worth noticing as the very earliest specimen of Saxon Rhyme, on record.

Aldred, Archbishop of York, threw out two rhyming verses against one _Urse_, sheriff of Worcestershire, not long after the conquest:

"_Hatest thou Urse--Have thou God's curse._" _Vocaris Ursus--Habeas dei maledictionem._

William of Malmsbury, who has preserved this precious morsel, says that he inserts this English, "_quod Latina verba non sicut Anglica concinnati respondent_." The _concinnity_ I presume consisted in the rhyme, and would scarcely have been deemed worth repeating if rhyme in English had not been a rare thing. It is quite apparent that rhyme and an improved metre were introduced by the Normans, among whom composition in their own dialect had been long before attempted in imitation of the jingling Latin rhythm.

The lines in the Saxon Chronicle to which I have referred, are a comment upon the changes effected by William. I will set them down in legible characters.

Thet he nam he rihte And mid mycelan un-rihte He foette mycel deor-frith And he loegde laga therwith-- He forbead the heortas Swylce Eac tha baras; Swa swithe he lufode the hea-deor Swylce he waere heora faeder, Eac he sætte be tham haran, That hi mosten freo faran.--

This may be translated after somewhat the following fashion: "He took money by right and unright--He made many deer parks and established laws by which," whosoever slew a hart or a hind was deprived of his eye-sight--"He forbade men to kill harts or boars, and he loved the tall deer as if he were their father. He decreed that the brindled hares should go free."

In addition to these, Matthew Paris mentions a canticle which 'the blessed Virgin' was pleased to dictate to Godric, a hermit near Durham.

From this time to the reign of Henry II, which began in 1154, we find no records of rhyming poetry. In that reign, one Layamon, a priest of Ernleye, near Severn, as he terms himself, translated from the French of Wace, a fabulous history of the Britons, entitled, "Le Bruit;" which, Wace himself, about the year 1150, had translated from the Latin of Geoffrey of Monmouth. This poem is for the most part after the Old Saxon fashion, without rhyme, except so far as a jingle at intervals may be so called. We next, if guided by the actual records of written poetry, are forced to pass over an interval of 100 years--to the middle of Henry the third's reign. The reasons of this gap are perhaps these--

The[7] scholars of the age affected to write in Latin--which they called the universal language. The more skilful poets who lived, as is usual with the race, upon the bounty of the great nobles, out of compliment to these their Norman benefactors, framed their verse into the Norman French; while the low and popular singers--then the only true _English_ poets--left nothing worth preservation. I will pass on hurriedly through this uninteresting portion of my slight history of written poetry, to the nearest resting-place, and thence take a back view of minstrelsy as nourished in the courts of the English Kings, and principally in that of Richard Coeur de Lion.

[Footnote 7: The poems of this interval have been translated into the English of Elizabeth's time, when the rage for gathering scraps of ballad into "garlands" was at its full. It is, however, impossible to distinguish them from the numerous pieces, really French--i.e. written not only in the French language, but in France, bearing similar date, and translated at the same time. It is impossible to draw hair lines or any kind of lines between these; or if possible, needs a more skilful antiquary, than the author of these cacoethes scribendi.]

In the reign of Henry III, we find that one Orm or Ormin, wrote a paraphrase of the gospel histories, entitled, Ormulum. Hickes and Wanley have both given large extracts from this, without discovering that it was poetry. But a close examination will render evident to any one, with any ear for metre, that the Ormulum is written very exactly, in verses of fifteen syllables[8] without rhyme, in imitation of the most common species of the Latin, tetrameter iambic. Another piece, a moral poem on old age, bears date about the same reign; it is more remarkable for a corrupt MS., from which the only print of the poem at all common, seems to have been taken, than for any thing else.

[Footnote 8: This metre is the same metre with that of the Modern Greeks, which Lord Byron tells us, shuffles on to the old tune: A captain bold of Halifax, &c.]

The next interval from the end of Henry the third's reign, to the middle of the fourteenth century, when Chaucer came upon the _dais_, was filled up with a swarm of 'small poets.' These were principally translators of popular poems from the Roman or French authors, and their compositions were thence called _Romances_. They neither improved on the material before gathered, nor added anything of value to the store. And so we come to Geoffrey Chaucer--whence, let me recur to another branch of the subject in hand.

I have said that minstrels were known among the Saxons before the conquest, and that these were in high repute at the Saxon courts. That Alfred himself was a poet, and on one occasion, a minstrel. The Normans brought with them their harpers and troubadours[9] and the profession received a great acquisition of strength and honor. Every Baron had his own joculator, and we find amongst the records of the Old English families, items of _largesse_ to wandering harpers. Such were at all seasons welcomed by the feudal nobles--perhaps for the same reason that our modern aristocrats of {400} Virginia were hospitable--from a love of news. Minstrels as news-gleaners--often coming too from the royal court--were a source of entertainment to the lords, who, immured in their solitary castles among swampy moors, or perched on hill-tops almost inaccessible to man, seldom heard other than an enemy at their gates.

[Footnote 9: Vid. the story of Taillefer--Du Cange.]

At the court of Henry I,--to whom Sir Walter Scott refers in those lines of his rambling epistle to George Ellis--

"But who shall teach my harp to gain A sound of the romantic strain, Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere Could win the royal Henry's ear,-- Famed Beauclerc called, for that he loved, The minstrel, and his lay approved?"

Minstrels and minstrelsy were especially favored.

Beauclerc--the most accomplished monarch of his day, so far as letters were concerned, became by fellowship of feeling and taste, the patron of all the caste. The court-fed minions, like the lizard whose color depends on the species of grass or plant of which it eats, became of course completely Norman in their feelings. Indeed the greater number were Normans by birth and education, lured to the English court by the ever ready bait of patronage; and those that were not, seeing that these met with favor, imitated them in style and every thing else. The '_Anglo_' might with propriety have been dropped in Sir Walter's verse just quoted.[10]

[Footnote 10: It is a melancholy sight to see so exalted a class of human beings, whether from necessity or not, forever debasing themselves into servile dependency. Even Dante, whose lament that he had to climb another's stair would seem the outbreak of an independent spirit, could humble himself before a Guido.]

That the six kings following the conqueror were, with an exception, completely Norman in their habits and predilections, we may easily discover in the history of English law, traced back to its foundation among the very roots of the feudal system. It was against Norman innovation that the independent Barons of the thirteenth century arose, and held John Lackland in duress until his name was affixed to Magna Charta--a paper purporting to restore affairs to the state in which Edward the Saxon left them. It was this same fondness for French men and French rules that forced from Henry III a signature to the same paper,--John having evaded his on plea of compulsion.

But, although extremely opposed to those principles of freedom which Hengist and his followers had brought from the woods of Germany, and which ages after marked England as a great and prosperous nation, Norman ideas and sentiments were a southern sun to the growth of poetry and other literature.

I have mentioned Henry Beauclerc's love for these. After him, in the struggles of the heroic Maud or Matilda, and in the turbulent reign of the ill-fated Stephen, neither party had leisure for literary pursuits. But in the reign of Henry II, love and poetry both received countenance from that gallant monarch. His amours with Rosamond Clifford of Woodstock, have been the theme of many a popular ballad. Richard Coeur de Lion, the knight errant king,[11] and king of knight errants, invited the most famous of the Provencal bards to his court. _Ubi mel ibi apes_, and London was soon a theatre crowded with troubadours warm from the feet of the Pyrenees and banks of the Rhone. The whispers of the sunny Provencal love-ditty were breathed upon the rough ballad spirit of an earlier time,--mellowing that spirit, and adding to its former dauntlessness the gloss of polish and refinement.--Richard was himself a troubadour; and though at the present day his deeds of verse would damn a schoolboy, they were then thought worthy of being coupled with his deeds in arms.

[Footnote 11: Richard was truly a king _errant_,--for he spent scarcely one out of the ten years of his reign, in England.]

Many romantic traditions have been handed down to us of that adventurous monarch and Blondel de Nesle, his favorite minstrel. We read in the records of our ancient chroniclers, a simple tale of the latter's long pilgrimage in search of the captive king his master. How Blondel came one evening as the sun went down among the hills of the Rhine, to the solitary castle of Trifels, where the monarch lay in a damp cold dungeon. How he seated himself at the dungeon grate, and taking his harp from his shoulder, began a song which Richard and he had made together in Palestine; and how the overjoyed king took up the words as they reached his ear, and chanted to the top of his full voice in answer. And farthermore, how Blondel returned to England, and went 'shoonless and unhooded' through all parts of the land, until the captive's loyal subjects were aroused; and until the great ransom was gathered together by which those subjects bought his freedom. Many such stories are told of the time of the chivalric Richard; and the devoted fidelity of his dependents will ever be a bright spot on the page of that history into which their names have stolen, and through which they are now receiving--reward dearest to noble spirits,--virtuous and stainless renown.

In the reign of John Lackland, the minstrels were the means of saving the life and fortunes of an Earl of Chester, by stirring up the rabble, who had gathered to a fair in the border of Wales, to go to his rescue. This they did under one Dutton, at sight of whom and his followers, the Welsh besiegers retired from before the Earl's castle.

In the time of Edward I, "a _multitude_ of minstrels attended at the knighting of his son."

Under the reign of Edward II, such privileges were claimed by this class, that it became necessary to restrain them by a particular statute. Yet notwithstanding this, towards the latter part of this reign, we find that the minstrels still retained the liberty of entrance at will into the royal presence, and were still remarkable for splendor of dress.

During the short rule of Richard II, John of Gaunt instituted a court of minstrels at Tutbury in Staffordshire. They had a charter, empowering them variously, and bestowing _inter alia_ the right of appointing "a king of the minstrels with four subordinate officers."

Under the usurper Bolingbroke--Henry the Fourth--the profession maintained its dignity and importance, and met with favor from king and noble, notwithstanding the contempt of the stuttering Hotspur.

I had rather be a kitten and cry--mew, Than one of these same metre ballad mongers; I had rather hear a brazen canstick turned Or a dry wheel grate on an axletree, Etc.

Alcibiades cried down lute playing--because, though {401} he excelled his comrades in beauty, eloquence, and gallantry, in this one little thing his skill failed him. Percy "spoke thick" and so song did not suit him. Even as late as Henry VIII, we find minstrels attached in licensed capacities, to the households of the great nobles. But the profession was fast sinking into disrepute; and in the great entertainment at Kenilworth Castle in 1575, a caricature copy of the old minstrel appeared among the sources of amusement prepared by the gallant Leicester for his royal mistress.

Thus had the profession completed a circle, and, in name at least, returned to its primitive state. Centuries before among the Saxons the singer was called _mimus_, _joculator_, _histrio_, indiscriminately. And though these words, like _parasite_, _demagogue_, _tyrant_, _sophist_ and others, bore a respectable meaning at the period of their first use, the minstrel in the course of time adapted himself to the meaning which time and change had given them, and in the reign of Elizabeth had become a mere '_jester_.' He turned the circle and went back to the titles of his progenitors, adding to the ignominy of those titles by wearing them. An act was at length passed, in the thirty-ninth year of the queen just mentioned, classing "all wandering minstrels, with rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars," and ordering them to be punished as such. From this severe judgment, however, those, attached by peculiar circumstances to the house of that Dutton spoken of above as the preserver of Ranulph the last Earl of Chester, were particularly excepted. This statute was the death blow to the few remnants of the genuine old minstrelsy.

I can now proceed undividedly in tracing out my slight sketch of English classic poets and written poetry.

Before I end this chapter, however, let me make a few remarks upon the spirit prevalent among the English after the conquest.

In the scrap of Saxon poetry quoted above, the reader will perceive that the chronicler mentions William's severe restrictions upon the exercise of woodcraft in the wide waste lands of the escheated manors. Following the same lines farther, we find in the old chronicle the winding up words, which I will translate from the original. After remarking that "he forbade men to kill harts or boars," the chronicler adds, "Rich men bemoaned it and poor men shuddered at it. But he was so stern and hot that he recked not the hatred of them all."

In consequence of these laws, Robinhoods and Littlejohns gathered in the matted thickets, and among the oak glades on the banks of every obscure lake and river, from the Thames to the Tweed. There was something alluring in the romantic life of an outlawed forester, and many a tall deer and bristling boar, died on the 'green shawe,' against whom that law, intended as a shield, pointed the arrow.

Thus sprung up a race of men of whom the ballad makers delighted to sing--coupling their names with 'Hereward the hardy outlaw' and the patriot heroes of the ground and trampled Saxons.

That the introduction of Norman manners brought with it more softness--a fact mentioned more than once--we may discover by comparing the productions of those bards who in the same age, sung in the rugged north country, and those who grew up in Kent and on the Thames. These latter were for years before the Norman's coming, receiving polish from their neighborhood, while those of Northumberland retained much of their early rudeness ages after. The bard who sings of the reyde on which

"The Perse out off Northumberland"

went to be killed among the Cheviot hills, has more roughness as well as more strength than any of his compeers on the Thames. This old poem is an important stone in the temple of English literature, and I will treat of it in due season, as coming within the pale of English classic poetry. This polish and increased softness introduced by the Normans, opened the eyes and ears of all to "the soother and honeyeder" style of poetry. And, indeed, unless Lord Bacon's remark,--that verse is a better balm than any the Egyptians knew, "for that it not only preserveth the stateliness of the form and the color of the face--which the Egyptian preservative doth not--but giveth to the one tenfold stateliness and borroweth from the rose for the other,"--be true, their women were passing stately and very beautiful. There were the three Mauds, all queens and all heroines. There was the proud yet "fair Rosamond," who forgot her pride in the arms of a royal lover; and many another fitting sharer in immortality with the Elgivas and Ediths of an earlier time.

Superstition too gave a tinge to poetry.--The Druids had left their foot marks upon the soil, and the ancient rites and feelings cherished in Wales--the last place of refuge for the injured Britons--still held an undefined influence over the hearts of their neighbors. This feeling blazed out for awhile, when the partisans of Henry slew Thomas a-Becket, the "child of love and wonder,"[12] before the altar of St. Bennet. And the murdered Archbishop was doubly canonized, in the holy ritual of Rome, and in the songs of those whom his death had made worshippers.

[Footnote 12: Sir J. Mackintosh tells an odd romance of the mother of the celebrated Archbishop, whom he calls the "child of love and wonder."]

But the greatest characteristic of the ballad, as used among the Norman successors to the Saxons in England, was a love for the legendary. Britagne--that country lying between the Loire and the Seine, had been peopled by a body of British emigrants about the time of the Saxon invasion under Hengist, and these calling themselves _Armoricans_, settled quietly down in a strange land. They retained many of their old British feelings, and when in the course of time they became nearly amalgamated with their Norman neighbors, and followed them into England, the old love of country revived and they sung of King[13] Arthur and his knights as champions of their forefathers. The strange legends of the early contests between Angles and Britons, were mere clews to the discovery of a thousand others, wholly unfounded in truth, yet none the less palatable to the ignorant. This love of the legendary remains to this day among the descendants of these people, and will, perhaps, never be obliterated.

[Footnote 13: "The words _Konung_, _Kyning_, _King_, _Kong_, _Koenig_, and others like them in the Teutonic languages, denoted every sort of command from the highest to that of a very narrow extent. It would be a gross fallacy to understand these words in their modern sense, when we meet them in Anglo-Saxon history."]

{402}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--I offer a very threadbare excuse for the publication of the following verses. They are published "at the request of a friend," for whom, indeed, they were written. You have accused me of obscurity, and to prevent a repetition of your censure, I will here add a scrap of explanation. "The Last Indian" is something of a Salathiel; he has survived his whole race. Stanza VI, refers to the Aztecs and other tribes long ago extinct, and supposed to have lived once upon a time, among the higher valleys east and west of the Mississippi. A second and more hardy people, referred to in stanza V, perhaps drove the Aztecs, as the Huns drove the Goths, southward, upon the rich regions of Mexico. These dead Mexican tribes are described on their return--led by a kind of _amor patriæ_ instinct--to their early homes in the north.

Before ending this scrawl, I would correct an error into which you have fallen with regard to my signature. "Zarry Zyle" should be

LARRY LYLE.

THE LAST INDIAN.

Once more, and yet once more, I give unto my harp a midnight-woven lay; --I heard the ebon waters roar, I heard the flood of ages pass away.--_Kirke White_.

I.

I slept beneath a tree one Summer eve, My couch a bed of blossom-beaded thyme, My roof the bough which spirit fingers weave, My slumber-song a brooklet's mellow chime: I dreamed--and far away thro' space and time, My liberated spirit joyfully Forth went--a pioneer well skilled to climb The cloudy crags and cliffs of mystery. I dreamed--I speak my dream; and canst thou read it me?

II.

On the jagg'd summit of a mountain range, More azure than the blue sky, sternly stood-- Like Sathanas of old--a wanderer strange, Drinking deep grief, as one who meets the flood Of bitterness in some parched solitude; Before him spread, in undulations vast, A Prairie sea, all isled with rock and wood; And young winds closed their wings above its breast, As faint bees close their wings when Summer days have passed.

III.

The Sun had come--a weary traveller-- Up o'er the hills of ether, for methought 'Twas many thousand years since Lucifer Fell from his glory, and, with trial fraught And leaden labor, Time had weakness brought To Sun and Moon. Men saw the Sun upcome, And marvelled at its lustre: Sages sought That lustre's source, and said "at point of doom Mysterious fires full oft the closing eye illume."

IV.

Methought a change came o'er the face of earth; Hill, plain, and hollow shook as with the throe Of mortal agony. The mountain girth Shrunk, heaved, then burst asunder. In mad flow The waters of great lakes foamed, battling through Far scattered crags; and mighty rocks, down hurled From mountain tops, laid bare the volcano-- The great volcano! and its flame unfurled, Streamed redly, wrathfully, above the reeling world.

V.

A voice went forth, far louder than the roar Of bounding rivers; and the summons broke The deep sleep of earth's dead. Each burial shore And tree-robed mound in groaning travail shook, And giant skeletons from death awoke. Barbarians seemed they, armed with spear and bow; And thro' their ribs as thro' the winter oak Winds whistled; while from bone lips evermo' Uptrembled hollowly, horn murmurs, faint and low.

VI.

And, from the charnel valleys of the South, A multitude, vast, vast beyond compare, Moved darkly onward. Song and shout uncouth, Betokened their wild joy; while on the air, Forgotten instruments breathed music rare-- Sweet unknown tunes, as soft as hymn of rills. The Mammoth and the Mastodon were there, All yoked;--and then I heard far-groaning wheels: The tomb had gaped--the dead tribes sought their early hills!

VII.

Amid the groan and rumbling heave of earth, And noise of waters, came each silver tone. But ere my wonder ceased, a storm had birth, And rattling thunder mingled with the moan And sob of nature. O'er car--skeleton-- A cloud-veil passed and hid them from my sight; While o'er that cloud, far on a mountain throne, A city rocked--illumined by the light Of its own burning towers--fit type of frail man's might!

VIII.

And then the Sun waxed dim. The red Moon rode Above the trembling nations, with an eye Of wrath and anguish, and a brow of blood-- While one by one, afar, in the dun sky The stars went out, as dew-drops, when winds sigh, From grass and flower and thin leaf disappear. Then no man saw the Sun! but still on high The great Moon rode; and, ever redly clear, Glared thro' thick fog and mist, till men grew dumb with fear.

IX.

The wanderer looked forth tremblingly, and lo! A wide winged Eagle on the darkness came. Her brood had died,--all died! and wild with wo And reckless wrath, that terror might not tame-- Chasing the swart cloud from her eye of flame-- She sought the summit of that lonely peak. She saw the Red Man, and with joyous scream, Claimed fellowship; but to her iron beak A single death-flash leapt, and wreathed her scornful neck.

X.

Innumerable mounds belched lurid streams, And poured, in hot black showers, the cinder-rain; I gazed and saw, as high the forked gleams Sprang piercingly thro' volumed smoke again, Earth's wan-faced myriads. From the Ocean-plain {403} Her living tribes had flown, to seek the light And safety of that adamantine chain, In shivering crowds; and wildered with affright, They toiled in throngs to reach the mountain's farthest height.

XI.

And one, more daring, stood upon the brink Of a volcano,--and his scathed hand raised, Dripping with hissing lava. Some would shrink; And many called on God; while some, amazed, Stood statuelike: and some in madness seized With Vampyre tooth, and laid their full veins bare. And one--a blue-eyed maiden--upward gazed In speechless wo, while gleamed her long fair hair And ghastly cheek, beneath that flame's unearthly glare.

XII.

Methought, pale girl, that thou wert of the line Of her I loved; and tears flowed full and fast, To see a form so beautiful as thine In the Volcano's death-light. This soon passed! Again with strength I heard and saw. A blast From unseen horn, rang wildly o'er the herd Of dead and living men: The myriad vast Wailed moaningly when each the strange blast heard, And dead and living stood with stony brows upreared.

XIII.

Earth heaved anew, and toppling crags fell down In darkness. Rivers turned and fled the main-- And galloping--like startled steeds back thrown By some strong rampart--rushed in fear again To their far founts, o'erwhelming rock and plain. The fiend Tornado shrieked and wrung the wood, Old Earth's scorched locks--until her ory brain Lay shelterless and bare: while beryl-hued And bubbling streams, breast, cheek, and cloven brow imbrued.

XIV.

Mine eye waned slowly into wakefulness; The wild forms of my dream waxed faint and dim; But ere they fled, methought the pallid race Had crumbled into ashes; while o'er him, Last of the injured, twin in death with time-- A strong joy swept. Woe's furrow had been ploughed Deep in his heart; he was avenged! As swim O'er Autumn skies the fleets of shattered cloud, So swam those scenes and passed. I turned and sobbed aloud.

XV.

A purfled Oreole sate upon a bough Above me, and with gentle carollings Shook the still air; e'er raining on my brow The dewy globules, with her restless wings: I love the bird,--I love the song she sings! For that I heard it by a lonely stream In days, when love and hope were rainbow things: The sweet bird soothed me, but my brain will teem Full many a mirthless eve, with fragments of that dream!

_Winchester, Va._

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WILLIAMSBURG BIRTH NIGHT BALL.

MR. WHITE,--From all I can learn, your "Messenger" seems to give general and increasing satisfaction in this quarter: to use a French phrase, _tout le monde en dit du bien_. Though it is not probable any thing so light and playful, (and particularly at this late period of the month,) should obtain admission into its columns, yet, as one or two stanzas of the annexed _metrical_, have some how or other found their way into the newspapers, I have at last succeeded in procuring a copy of _the whole_, that you may exercise your own discretion in respect to its insertion. It originated as follows: Some young ladies of your place, during a visit to Williamsburg to attend the _Birth-night Ball_, &c. received from an accomplished female friend at Richmond, a charming poetical letter, describing _a musical party_ at which she had assisted; and narrating in a familiar, agreeable manner, the principal incidents that had occurred in their absence. The following lines were composed, as a _response_ to this lively and entertaining communication:--

WINTER SCENES AT WILLIAMSBURG.

Your letter, dear Mary, tho' resting so long, Without a response, gave us infinite pleasure; For seldom indeed, in the language of song, And verse of so beautiful, smooth-flowing measure, Have we met with the news and events of the day, Reported and told, in so pleasing a way-- Is it _thus_, that the _Muses_ to each other write, And render e'en _absence_, a source of delight?

_Euterpe_, perhaps, (ever partial, they say To a _musical_ fête,) your concert attended, And pleased with your talent to sing and to play, Thought _music_ with _poetry_ happily blended-- And so, when you took up the pen to prepare An account of your party, to make it more rare, Bade you write it _in verse_--and _assisted_ you too, To get up a style, so romantic and new.

Be this as it may--'tis certain that such As have been indulged with a sight of your letter, _Sans compliment_, all, have admired it much, And say, of its kind, that they never read better. But how can _we_ answer, in similar style, A missive like yours?--we are sure you will smile At our awkward and feeble attempt to compose, An answer in verse, in our accent of prose.

But smile, if you please--even laugh, if you choose-- We _must_ make an effort to put rhymes together, To give you some _items_ of Williamsburg news, And tell you how well we got thro' the cold weather: In converse and reading, we passed with delight, The keen winter morning, the long winter night, With a family never surpassed upon earth, In kind hospitality, virtue and worth.

'Tis said, this _old city_ has seen its best days-- We cannot think so--its present possessors Are subjects of just admiration and praise-- Whether _Judges_ or _Lawyers_, or learned _Professors_-- All mingle with freedom and ease in the throng, And move in the current of fashion along; At the _ball_, or the _board_, or the cheery _fire side_, Society's ornament, pleasure and pride.

"And are there no _Doctors_ (perhaps you exclaim) Distinguished by talents and virtues and merit?"-- {404} O yes, there are several; whom if we but _name_, Or mention their liberal and generous spirit, "The Messenger's" Critic may cry out--"O fie! _Who ever blamed Hercules?_" Subjects so high, Like Washington, need not a line to exalt Their virtues and worth--_Who ever blamed G----?_

The fear we suggest, of the "Messenger's" lash, As you well may imagine, is merely pretension; Its _Critics_ at monarch-like _Hickories_ dash, And smile at _flowret_ or _shrub's_ apprehension-- _Palmettoes_ escape too! but, _Party_, away! 'Tis time, to the _birthnight_ our homage to pay; E'en _the Critic_ himself, we hope may agree To spare our "_Sic semper_--PATRI PATRIÆ!"

The ball of the _birthnight_, on Monday took place, And, once more, the hall of the _ancient Apollo_, Assembled a train of youth, beauty, and grace, In which, well escorted, we ventured to follow: _Professors_ and _students_, the _bench_ and the _bar_, The _single_ and _married_ of both sexes, _there_, In mirth and good humor, the hours employed, Partook of the _dance_, or the _music_ enjoyed.

The _supper_ was _superabundant_--in fine, No _gourmand_ complained of a scanty provision Of flesh, fish, or fowl--or of excellent wine, Which _Bacchus's_ tribe thought a charming addition; But the _nymphs_ and the _graces_ impatiently flew To the ball room again, the _dance_ to renew; And thoughtless of sleep or repose, in their glee, Kept it up, it is said, till full _two_ or _three_.

Of the cake, fruit, and wine, there yet was such store, Laid in and prepared for the festive occasion, That the Managers thought of _a hop or two_ more, As a matter of justice and easy persuasion; So, on several nights, the beauty and grace Of the young and the old that distinguish the place, With music and dancing enlivened the hall, Till the close of the week, gave repose to us all.

All needed it much; for a deep fall of snow, Fatigued as we were, to _sleighing_ invited-- And who could refuse, pray, a gallant young _beau_, _Alcibiades_ like, with _driving_ delighted?-- Thro' the streets, and _around and around_ on the _square_, For the _belles_ and the _bells_, were all gathered _there_, What racing--what contests _Olympic_ were seen, On the snow-white expanse of the _cidevant_ green!

We have not half finished the _sleighing_ affair, With some other topics of social diversion, But here we must stop--as we now must prepare For a trip to old _York_, on a pleasure excursion-- We _wish_ you were with us. Your eloquent pen Might _there_ find a scene to amuse us again, With lively description of things "old and new"-- But the carriage is waiting; so, dear girl, _adieu!_

UNREASONABLE WISHES.

The subjoined _morceau_ is worthy notice. Many grave essays have been written upon the vanity and unreasonableness of human wishes; but it would seem, without much effect. The rhapsodies of lovers in the olden time were thought sufficiently extravagant, and their wishes have been quoted as the very essence of inordinate imaginations: in fact, Shakspeare has classed the lover and the madman together:

"The lunatic, the lover and the poet, Are of imagination all compact: One sees more devils than vast hell can hold-- That's the madman--the other all as frantic Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt," &c.

Yet the old fashioned lovers kept some rule in their imaginary desires, when compared with the vast conception of our correspondent.

"Ye Gods! annihilate both time and space, And make two lovers happy"--

and the passionate exclamation of Romeo,

"Oh that I were a glove upon that hand! That I might kiss that cheek!"

were thought wild enough for those more stoical times. But it seems that the march of improvement is onward in love-making, as well as in road-making, as we will trust our correspondent's effusion to show.

* * * * *

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MISS S---- S----

Would that thou were some isle, my love, And I the wave that bound thee, With naught but Heaven's pure sky above, And I sole guard around thee.

Then in one fond and long embrace, Through calm and storm I'd cheer thee, And bless the wind, that face to face, Had brought me still more near thee.

_Norfolk, April 9, 1835_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE BROKEN HEART.

I come, a stricken Deer, Bearing the heart midst crowds that bled, To bleed in stillness here.--_Mrs. Hemans_.

I come to my home in the forest shade, By the summer boughs in their minglings made, To my own bright hills and their clear blue sky, With a broken heart in their stillness to die.

I come from the midst of a changing world, And the banners of Hope in my bosom lie furled; I bring from the spoiler a mournful token,-- The unfledged wing of my soul is broken.

There is weight on my spirit too painful to bear-- A feeling of gloom that corrodes like despair; And the Rose's rich hue and the Violet's bloom, Whisper we're nursed but to fade at thy tomb.

And there comes a sound on the murmuring breeze, As it creeps thro' the boughs of a thousand trees, And it echoes back from the stars of night And the placid lake, like a mirror bright,

"Thou art not for earth! thou art not for earth! And thou bearest no part in its gladness and mirth; Its moments of pleasure have ages of care! And the love which thou seekest is never found there!"

And Spring shall return with its leaves and flowers, And the song of birds to the woodland bowers; To me they shall be as to one that's departed-- There is rest in the grave for the broken hearted.

S. W. W.

_Raleigh, N. C._

{405}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A DISCOURSE

On the Progress of Philosophy, and its Influence on the Intellectual and Moral Character of Man; delivered before the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society, February 5, 1835. By _George Tucker_, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Virginia.

_Mr. President, and Gentlemen of the Society_:--

I feel the weight of the task I have undertaken to perform, the more sensibly, when I recollect the brilliant qualifications of the member[1] who was the first choice of the society, and that I must disappoint the expectations which that choice so naturally raised. The grave and sober speculations which I am about to submit to your consideration will, I fear, but poorly compensate those who hear me, for the graces of elocution, the rich, but chaste imagery, and the rare felicity of diction by which that gentleman is distinguished; and I regret on your account, as well as my own, that he has thus unexpectedly failed to fulfil the wishes of his associates.

[Footnote 1: James McDowell, Esq. of Rockbridge.]

I have thought it would not be unappropriate to the occasion, to present to the society some views of the influence which philosophy has exercised, and must continue to exercise, over civilized man. Amidst the din of political controversy, and the bustling concerns of life, it is well sometimes to withdraw our thoughts from the tumultuous scenes around us to the calm views of rational speculation. Our minds may be not merely refreshed by the change, but they are likely to acquire elevation and purity in being thus severed from sordid and selfish pursuits, and made to contemplate human concerns in the transparent medium of truth and philosophy.

_Philosophy!_ a term to which some attach a mysterious import, as implying a kind of knowledge unattainable except by a few gifted minds--whilst others regard it as more an object of aversion than of affection,--inculcating a system of thought and action equally at war with nature and common sense,--as a perversion of human reason and feeling, at once cold and repulsive to others, and profitless to the possessor. This is not the philosophy of which I propose to speak, but her counterfeit; which, being as bold and forward as the other is modest and retiring, has made herself more known to the world than the character she personates, and has thus brought discredit on the name.

By philosophy, I mean that power of perceiving truths which are not obvious--of seeing the complicated relations of things, and of seeing them as they really are, unperverted by passion or prejudice. So far from being repugnant to nature and common sense, it constantly appeals to these for the justness of its precepts. It is indeed _Reason_, exercising its highest attributes in the multifarious concerns of human life. Such was the philosophy of Newton and Locke, and of our own illustrious Franklin.

It will be the object of the following remarks to show, that this philosophy is gradually increasing and diffusing itself over the world; that it now mingles in all human concerns, and gives to the present age its distinguishing characteristics; that its progress must still continue, and more and more influence the character of man and civilized society; and that in no country is its influence likely to be more extensively or beneficently felt than in this.

The most superficial observer must be struck with the prodigious advancement of the human intellect, when he compares the opposite extremes of society. The savage, when his mind is roused from a state of apathy, passes into one of strong emotion; for he is capable of intense feelings, but not of profound and comprehensive thought. He knows but few facts; and they have not that variety and complexity which distinguish the knowledge of the civilized man. All that he sees and hears, is heard and seen by the men of civilization; but to this the latter is always adding the perception of new and intricate relations, of which the former is incapable. Thus, compare the knowledge of the relations of numbers possessed by one who barely knows how many fives there are in twenty, with that of him who can mark out the paths of the planets, calculate their mutual attractions, and predict a distant eclipse to a minute; or the few and simple rules of justice among a tribe of savages, to the intricate and multifarious codes of civilized society; nay, extend the comparison to any other department of human knowledge, and there will be found the same difference between the two, as exists between the wigwam of mud or bark, without a door, window or chimney, and the solid and spacious hall in which we are assembled. Nor is this all; for as the reason, in common with every other faculty, is strengthened by exercise, the severer and more incessant exercise to which it is subjected by the multiplication of new relations, is constantly increasing the authority of reason, and weakening the dominion of the passions and prejudices.

The mind therefore becomes, with the progress of civilization, more capable of perceiving relations--more imbued with a knowledge of these relations--more comprehensive--more capable of making remote deductions. It perceives more truths that are complex and difficult--and has more capacity to detect illusion and error. We thus see human reason gradually extending its empire, successfully assailing former prejudice, and fashioning human institutions to purposes of utility. We see men more and more inclined to value every object only in proportion as it conduces to the happiness of the greater number; and to {406} consider nothing as permanently connected with that happiness, but what gives gratification to the senses without debasing them; to the intellect without misleading it; and to the passions when fulfilling their legitimate objects. It is thus we see each succeeding generation regarding with indifference, and even with contemptuous ridicule, what commanded the veneration of a former age.

It would exceed the limits of such a discourse as the present to give even an outline of the advancement of reason, as exhibited in the various branches of science. Nor is it necessary. It will be sufficient for us to give our attention to some few striking facts in the progress of science and art, especially in those cases which being more recent, are at once better known to us, and have a nearer relation to our interests. Let us turn to any department of human knowledge or inquiry, and we see the clearest manifestations of the growing philosophical spirit of which I speak.

If we look at the character of civil government, we find that every revolution--every important change--is the result of the progress of philosophy--of the extension of the empire of reason. Once kings were regarded as deriving their power not from the consent of the people, but immediately from the Deity. They were said to be the Lord's anointed; and implicit obedience--unresisting submission to the mandate of the sovereign, was enjoined not merely as a civil, but as a religious duty.

In two out of the four quarters of the world, we all know how much these opinions are changed; and that there, with the thinking portion at least, government is now regarded as an institution created solely for the happiness of the people; that they are the judges of what constitutes that happiness; and that government may be changed, either as to its form or agents, whenever it is proved incapable of fulfilling its main purpose. This principle of reason and common sense caused and justified the establishment of the Commonwealth in England; the restoration of the monarchy; the subsequent revolution in 1688; the American revolution in 1776; the French revolution of 1789, under all its various phases; and that which produced a change of dynasty in 1830. We have seen the operation of the same principle in separating the Spanish provinces on this continent from the mother country. We have seen it in the separation of Belgium from Holland, and in the liberation of Greece from the Turkish yoke.

Every subordinate institution too, is now judged according as it tends to promote the welfare of the community; and the notion of rights of particular classes and orders of men, farther than they can be shown to rest on this foundation, is deemed presumptuous and absurd. Even the rights of property itself, the most sacred of any, because they are the most obvious and are possessed by a greater number, are derived from the same source, and are regulated and controlled by it. Every tax in a popular government--every restriction on the free use of one's own,--whether it be in the form of a prohibition against gaming, or of laying out a new road, or of an inspection law, recognizes this principle. It governs legislatures in conferring rights as well as abridging them. They all find their authority and justification in the public good; nor does any one now attempt to resist a tax or defend a privilege, but by appealing to this great test of right, the interests of the community.

You see too in jurisprudence, that all those principles which grow out of barbarous usages, or were the result of accident, or of mistaken theory, are gradually made to give way to the light of reason and the spirit of philosophy. They conform more and more to the common sense and common feelings of mankind. Crimes which once incurred the severest penalties of the law, are crimes no longer; modes of trial originating in superstition have been abolished; many of the frivolous niceties of pleading, or rules founded on a state of things which no longer exist--such as that which excluded written testimony from the common law courts, and which, like noisome weeds, choked up the administration of justice, have been eradicated, in spite of the cry which always will be raised against innovation, and which some of our best principles, as well as our weakest prejudices, concur in raising.

Nor have we yet reached the end of this course of salutary reform. The administration of justice may be still more simple; and though the rules of property and of civil rights must always be numerous and complicated in a civilized community, yet this necessity furnishes a further reason why the modes of investigating truth and the rules of evidence should possess all practicable simplicity. The spirit of philosophy has been actively at work here. In some instances, perhaps, it has been too far in advance of the age, and under the influence of the pride of discovery and reform, or provoked by opposition, it may have been urged farther than reason and propriety would warrant. It has, however, arraigned the whole system of judicial evidence, and endeavored to show that the rules for the examination of contested facts are so erroneous or defective, that the truth is commonly discovered better out of court than in it; and that questions about which all the world is satisfied, when technically examined by tribunals created purposely for their investigation, either receive no answer, or a wrong one. The official expounders of the law, partaking of the liberal spirit of the age, have of late years greatly narrowed the objections to the competency of witnesses; but it is only the legislature and public opinion which are adequate to a complete reform, and they will one day assuredly bring it.

{407} There is much seeming force in many of the other objections of the reformers to the present very artificial and complicated system of jurisprudence; but whether their views are satisfactory or otherwise, they equally serve to show the prevalent disposition of men to bring all human concerns to the bar of reason, and make them submit to her decrees.

There is nothing in which the progress of reason and philosophy are more shown, than in the subject of religion. A large part, perhaps I may say, the best part of religion, as it is most productive of good results, is the religion of the heart; and consists in a profound and thorough sense of the wisdom and beneficence of the Creator--of thanksgiving for the blessings he has vouchsafed to frail and humble beings like ourselves--to vigorous self-examinations by our own conscience--to fervent aspirations after moral excellence in this life, and a purer and higher state of existence hereafter. But all of these are impulses of the feelings, rather than the cold dictates of the reasoning faculty; and being dependant on the laws of our emotions, which are as unchangeable as our forms, and probably as much the result of organization, are the same in character, if not in degree, in every stage of society.

But while philosophy has not altered, and could not alter these impulses of the heart, we may see here also its benignant operations. It has driven away from religion the superstitions which fraud and credulity combined had gathered around it. Man no longer imputes to the Deity the same violent and ignoble passions by which the baser part of his own nature is agitated; and instead of regarding cruelty and vengeance as attributes of the Supreme Being, he is invested with those qualities which appear to our feeble conceptions more consonant with divine perfection. Thus mercy to human frailty and pity for human suffering, are regarded as divine attributes no less than wisdom and power. On the part of its votaries, humility is invoked to take the place of pride; forgiveness of injuries to supersede resentment; meekness and patience and long suffering are held to indicate a truer devotion than pompous rites and vain ceremonies; and instead of incense and sacrifices, good deeds to his fellow mortals, and a lowly and penitent spirit, are deemed the most acceptable offerings which man can make to his Creator. In this transformation, Mr. President, you recognize the leading precepts of christianity, which may well be called the most philosophical of all religions.

It is true that after this religion became the creed of those northern barbarians, who poured like an avalanche over the south of Europe, christianity became greatly perverted from its original simplicity and purity; but it was not destined to remain forever shrouded in these mists of barbarism. After the growing spirit of philosophy prepared men's minds for its reception and welcome, it broke forth in its pristine beauty and splendor. The further continuance of the abuses of the christian church was inconsistent with the increase of general intelligence; and the reformation must have taken place had Martin Luther never existed, or had the Dominican friars never carried on the traffic in _indulgences_; though it might not have happened at the precise time, or in the precise manner in which it did occur.

In truth, man's religion, as well as every thing else relative to his opinions and feelings, partakes of the character of the age; and we are warranted in saying, that the christian religion in the middle ages must as necessarily have been subject to its corruptions, its superstitions, and its persecutions, among a people so rude as that which then swayed the destinies of Europe, as that after the discovery of the art of printing, the revival of letters, and the general progress of science and philosophy, these foul exhalations should disappear.

It has been supposed, that the spirit of philosophy which has been so hostile to superstition, is also unfavorable to true religion; and many, listening to their fears rather than their reason, have readily yielded to that opinion. But they have been too hasty in drawing general conclusions from particular facts. It is true that many of the philosophers of France, and some of those of Great Britain, during the last century, were not only opposed to the prevailing creeds of their country, but seemed to have no very fervid religious feelings of any kind; but they were led first to make war on what they regarded as the abuses of religion, and then their attacks appear to be levelled against every thing which bore its name. It is highly probable that, by a natural process of the mind, from coming to hate the corruptions of christianity, they felt a prejudice against every thing which was associated with it. But on the other hand, we have seen some, occupying the very highest places in the scale of philosophers, who were sincere and zealous christians. Besides, the present age, which is the most philosophical the world has ever seen, is also the most generally and ardently devoted to christianity, as is evinced by the extraordinary number of Churches, Bible Societies, Missionary Societies, Sunday Schools, &c. Let then the sincerely devout and pious dismiss their fears. The foundations of religion are seated in the very nature and constitution of man; in the deepest recesses of his heart. It is a want of his moral nature, as indispensable as food to his physical; and philosophy tends only to separate it from a part of the dross with which every thing earthly more or less mingles, and to leave its own pure essence undiminished and untouched.

Let us now pass to the subject of literature, where we shall see the same evidences of the {408} growing influence of philosophy and reason over the minds of men. Thus poetry, in its efforts to please and elevate the mind, by exciting the imagination and feelings, now never addresses us unattended by philosophy. Her favorite occupation of late has been to delineate the dispositions and characters of men; to reveal the secret workings of the passions and the sources of human sympathy; to exhibit the human mind, in short, under its most impressive phases. The prevalent taste of the age is for metaphysical poetry; by which I mean, poetry imbued with philosophy,--poetry which lays bare the anatomy of the human heart, and discloses all the springs and machinery by which it is put in play. Those who are gifted with this beautiful talent, have conformed to the ruling taste, and their success has been proportionate. It is to this circumstance that Byron owes part of his popularity; for in exhibiting the most subtle processes of human passion, its energies and its susceptibilities, he is superior to any of his predecessors; though in the mere embellishment of smooth and felicitous diction, and of agreeable and varied rhythm, or even in the higher attributes of lively imagery and lofty conception, he can boast of no superiority. Perhaps it would be more correct to say, that the metaphysical character of his poetry proceeded not so much from his wish to adapt it to the public taste, as because he himself partook of the character of his age; that he wrote metaphysically and philosophically because he spoke and thought in this way, and he so spoke and thought from the very same causes as his contemporaries.

This inference is the more warranted, when we find the same tincture of philosophy in the poetry of his contemporaries,--Southey, Wordsworth, Campbell and Coleridge.[2] Even Moore infuses into his amatory poems as much philosophy as the subject will admit, though it is of the sensual school of Epicurus. Sometimes we see the spirit of philosophy controlling the poetic spirit, as was the case with Shelley, Coleridge and some others, in whose poetry the precepts of philosophy were more obscured by the restraints of verse than aided by its ornaments. It is an unnatural alliance, and both the poetry and the philosophy are the worse for the union.

[Footnote 2: The recent poetry of continental Europe exhibits the same psychological character; as for instance, that of Alfieri and Monte in Italy, of Goethe and Tieck in Germany, and of Beranger in France.]

In other works of imagination, those intended for the stage, and in the region of romance, we see the same proofs of the progress of philosophy. Walter Scott's novels are, throughout, the same exhibitions of man, whether acting, speaking or thinking, which a philosopher would take. We are made to see, not by the formality of an instructor, or the impertinence of a _cicerone_, but by the consummate fidelity and skill of the representation, every motive and passion of the actors laid open to our view, and in strict conformity to what we had often previously observed, though we may not have made it the special subject of reflection. There never was before so much philosophy taught by one writer, or taught in so pleasing a mode, or taught to so many disciples.

Such a gallery of moral pictures could not have been created before the nineteenth century; and though they had been, they would not have met with the same unbounded popularity, but, like Milton's Paradise Lost, would have been in advance of the spirit of the age.

In the drama, the plays of Joanna Baillie, and of Byron, are the most metaphysical of all dramatic productions--so much so, as to make them unsuited either to the tastes or capacities of a promiscuous audience. The tragedies of Voltaire are of a more philosophical character than those of Racine or Corneille, and these again more philosophical than the earlier productions of the French drama.

But it is in history that we most clearly perceive the spirit of the age. Formerly it consisted in little more than a recital of the actions of princes, public or private; and no occurrence in the annals of a nation was deemed worthy of commemoration, except battles and conquests, revolutions and insurrections--with now and then the notice of a plague, famine, earthquake or other general calamity. Now, however, the historian aims to make us acquainted with the progress of society and the arts of civilization; with the advancement or decline of religion, literature, laws, manners, commerce--every thing indeed, which is connected with the happiness or dignity of man; he does this, not only because he deems these subjects more worthy the attention of an enlarged and liberal mind, but also because we can, from a faithful narrative of these events, traced out from their causes, and to their effects, learn the lessons of wisdom--and seeing the approach of evil, be better able to avert or mitigate it. It is in this spirit that all history must now be written, to be approved or even read.

In the study of language, we perceive the same evidences of our intellectual advancement. By arranging the elements of speech according to the physical organs employed in their utterance, great light has been thrown on etymology, and in this way, affinities have been traced, first among languages, and through them among nations apparently unconnected. And as all language consists of _signs_ of our mental operations, the general principles of grammar have been sought in the laws of the mind; while language in turn, has been sometimes successfully invoked to explain those laws; and thus philology and mental philosophy have assisted in elucidating each other.

This branch of philosophy (which treats of our {409} mental faculties) has not indeed made as much progress as many others; for it admits not the discovery of new facts. But neither has _this_ been stationary. Great improvements have been made in analyzing its compound states; in separating its original from its derivative properties; in tracing many seemingly diverse operations to one simple principle. To be convinced of this improvement, we have only to regard the theory of associations as it now is, compared with the slight and vague notice of it by Locke; or advert to the opinions of the same eminent man on the foundation of morals. He maintained that there was no original propensity in mankind to approve one action as virtuous, and another as vicious; and that there was no practical principle which was approved or condemned by all nations. He even denied that parental affection, the strongest feeling in the maternal bosom, was an original feeling. He refers to the inventions of travellers in support of his theory, and was as credulous of the anomalous facts they related, as he was skeptical of innate propensities. Thus he says: "It is familiar among the Mingrelians, a people professing christianity, to bury their children alive without scruple; he asserts that the Caribbees were wont to fat and eat their own children;" and that a people of Peru who followed this practice, used, when by the course of nature they no longer had a prospect of more children to eat, "to kill and eat the mothers."

A more intimate acquaintance with the people of this globe, and juster modes of reasoning, have dissipated these illusions; and if I mistake not, the laws of the mind will, in no distant day, be traced with an accuracy and precision little inferior to those which prevail in most branches of physics.

In the science of political economy too, we see the advance of the light of philosophy. The errors which were the result of general and deep-rooted prejudices, have yielded to the force of reason; and all enlightened men now agree that nothing is so injurious to national prosperity as too much regulation; and that the desire which mankind have to increase their means of enjoyment, operates more unceasingly, and sagaciously, and beneficially, than any schemes of the government, however vigilant, intelligent and free from bias; since governments at best can operate only by general rules, which injure some in benefiting others,--while the sagacity of individuals, with few exceptions, devises the best rules for each particular case.

It was for philosophy also to discover the connection between good government and the national prosperity, and that a community will have the most industry, skill and thrift, where property is best protected--where every one can freely exercise his talents or his capital, and securely enjoy the fruits they have yielded. Philosophy, or unprejudiced reason, if you prefer it, also refuted an error once prevalent, that one country, or one part of a country, was injured by another's welfare; and proved both by reasoning and example, that every accession of wealth or prosperity, experienced by one portion, radiates light and heat to all around it.

If the progress of philosophy, or human reason, has done so much in the moral sciences, it has done yet more in the physical branches of knowledge for the material world--more invites our attention and speculation--is more within the reach of experiment, and the benefits it confers are more direct and obvious. It would be foreign to my purpose, if I were competent to the task, to mark the steps by which man has passed from conjecture to certainly--from rash hypothesis to theories founded on cautious observation and experiment--from inquiries which, if successful, had only gratified curiosity, to discoveries and improvements immediately conducive to the benefits of society. To enable us to appreciate the advance of science, it is sufficient for us to look at what the condition of man now _is_, compared with what it _was_.

In whatever direction we turn our eyes, we behold some triumph of mind over matter. We cannot see a ship, a book, a gun, a watch--scarcely the commonest implement or utensil--without being made sensible of the wonders achieved by human science and art,--the result of the combined efforts of a thousand minds and ten thousand hands, embodied in a form that has added incalculably to man's power and enjoyment. If we take the departments of knowledge separately, we are filled with admiration at the labor by which it has climbed, and the elevation it has attained. Astronomy, not content with teaching us the motions of the planets and moons of our system, and by them, enabling us to traverse the pathless ocean with the certainty with which we travel by land--of itself a glorious achievement of science--now undertakes to estimate the weight and density of these bodies--their influence on one another--of the smallest on the largest--the flight of comets, and even some of the changes of position in the stars themselves. Optics has taught us new laws of light, and has subjected the most subtle and the most rapid body in nature to measurements, of as much certainty as the gross portions of matter. We now know the weight, density, motions, elasticity of the air we breathe, and which encompasses the earth; the laws of sound--its velocity, force, repercussion, musical tone. By electricity, magnetism, galvanism, are revealed to us new fluids of the existence of which we did not formerly dream. Their laws have been investigated with all the accuracy, acuteness and unwearied diligence which belongs to modern science; and though this branch of physics is every day {410} receiving new accessions, it already forms a copious science of itself. While yet in the full career of discovery, it affords persuasive evidence of the close affinity if not identity of light, heat, magnetism, electricity and galvanism.

The progress of chemistry, shows us the growth of the human intellect in its numerous useful results. In the power it has acquired over brute matter, it has added infinitely to our means of comfort or enjoyment, by improving the useful arts of husbandry, metallurgy, dying, bleaching, tanning, brewing and medicine. Some of these improvements have, indeed, been the effect of accident; but many, nay the most of them, have been the result of human inquiry and sagacity. And the _atomic theory_, which gives us an insight into some of the primary laws of matter, is a pure deduction of reason.

By chemical discoveries, useful processes which once required months, or even years, are now effected in a few days. The chemist has found means to separate one of several properties from a drug, so that its medicinal effect may be undiminished and unaffected by other combined properties originally with it. Light, which formerly was furnished only by the valuable substances of wax, tallow, spermaceti or oil, has been supplied of a better quality, from the cheapest and most abundant objects in nature; and these improvements are but the precursors of the more splendid retinue which are hereafter destined to make their appearance. This science gives us assurance that all those substances which are most indispensable to man, because they repair the waste which is unceasingly going on in his bodily frame, are dispersed in boundless profusion throughout the universe, but under forms and combinations which conceal them from our unassisted senses; and that it may be within the scope of human art to separate those which are nutritious, and assimilate with our system, from those that are of a noxious or neutral character, and thus to modify the law which has hitherto limited the numbers of mankind. It is now thought whatever vegetable substances can be made soluble can be made digestible, in proof of which, a German chemist[3] has already succeeded in converting ligneous substances into wholesome aliment; and it has long been known that sugar may be made by a similar chemical conversion. What would have been the transmutation for which the alchemist of former days consumed so many anxious days and sleepless nights, compared with these? Gold owes its extraordinary value to its scarcity, and had the adept succeeded in making it at pleasure, he would have lessened its value in the same proportion as he increased the quantity. If he could have converted copper into gold, the gold would have been worth no more than the copper, except for the expense of the transmutation. And if society had gained some advantage in being able to substitute it for metals that are liable to rust, yet it would have lost as much by the destruction of its property of containing great value in a small bulk, and its consequent unfitness to perform the functions of money.

[Footnote 3: Professor Autenrieth of Tubingen.]

It is not improbable that some of these splendid visions of science may never be realized: but then other discoveries and improvements may take place of equal and greater importance; and should those hopes be verified, would they exhibit a greater triumph of art than has been witnessed in our day? they are certainly not more beyond the bounds of seeming probability than balloons, and diving bells, and rail roads, would have appeared to a former age.

The most extravagant fancy in which the man of science has indulged would scarcely exceed the wonders now wrought by steam, whether we consider the simplicity of the means, or the magnitude of the results. When in every vessel of heated water mankind had always seen a vapor arise, who could have supposed that in this simple fact, nature had furnished an agent, which by skilfully managing, he could multiply his natural strength a thousand fold, and move from place to place with the swiftness of a bird? By the alternate production and condensation of this vapor, which he is able to do by the very common agents of fire and water, he is able to extract the ponderous minerals from the bowels of the earth, having made it previously drain off the water which put them out of his reach. By the same power he fashions the metal he has made, into bars, or sheets, or rods, according to his various purposes. By it he performs all those operations which require incessant action as well as preterhuman strength; and thus it is made to spin and weave, to saw and bore and plane. By this he grinds his flour, cuts and polishes marble, prints newspapers, and transfers both himself and his commodities from place to place, by land or by water, with a rapidity which had existed only in the creations of an eastern imagination; and what is no less admirable, with a diminution of fatigue equal to the increase of speed.

The kindred sciences of geology and mineralogy have undergone the same improvements as that of chemistry. And by a course of inductive reasoning, founded on careful observation, the changes which the outer crust of our earth, to the small comparative extent that we are able to penetrate it, have been most satisfactorily shown, and referred to their several chemical or mechanical agents. It has also afforded data from which important facts in the history of organized beings have been deduced, and thus it has shed a light on a branch of knowledge from which it seemed most remote. The notion which once prevailed, that no species {411} of animals is extinct, has been incontestibly disproved; and it has shown not only that there were many species which not only do not now exist, but which could not subsist in the present state of the world. Where important facts have not been discovered by human reason, we see its power exerted in profiting by those which accident has suggested; as in Galvani's discovery and that of Haüy in crystallography, of vaccination and many others.

Of all the branches of human knowledge there is no one which sooner exercised the understandings of men than that of medicine, first as a practical art, and then as a science, as there is none to which he is impelled by stronger motives; and accordingly we find it practised by a separate clan, in some of the rudest nations. Yet long and diligently as it has been cultivated, it has made prodigious advances of late years, and human reason has here too achieved its accustomed triumphs. In the surgical branch diseases are cured every day, often too by young and inexperienced operators, that were once deemed immedicable, and often proved fatal. The materia medica has been improved both by happy accidents, and the scientific labors of the chemist--and the science, trusting only to cautious observation and experiment, has profited as much by what it has rejected from the catalogue of sanative remedies, as what it has added. Reason has here taken the place of superstition and blind credulity, and few prescriptions are now made on purely empirical grounds. We have the most conclusive evidence of the advance of the medical science, in the greater average length of life now, compared with former periods. It has in England increased in 31 years from 1 in 33 to 1 in 58. A similar increase has been found to have taken place in every nation of Europe. In Great Britain, France and Germany, the average increase has been from 1 in 30 to 1 in 38 in less than two generations. And if a part of this melioration may be attributed to the moral improvement of men, to the greater wealth and comfort of a greater number, the diminution of intemperance and other vices, a part also seems fairly attributable to the medical science; but in either way it attests the progress of reason and philosophy.

The progress of those sciences which exercise no other faculty but the reason, also attest the increase and vigor of the human faculties. Algebra is not only more generally cultivated than in a former age, but it is now applied to every species of regular form and motion that matter can assume, and has thus reached conclusions which seemed unattainable by human skill; and the calculus which one generation readily performs, was scarcely intelligible to that which preceded it.

Even our most familiar and household concerns show the increased influence of reason over our actions. The dress of both sexes is more conformable to nature than formerly, and less biassed by caprice and arbitrary or accidental forms. I need only, by way of proof, refer to hair powder and buckles, and the tight ligatures which once bound our limbs or bodies, but bind them no longer. Forms have been discarded or abridged and made subservient to convenience--our modes of eating, drinking and sleeping--all the ordinary habits of social life prove the growing ascendancy of reason over habit and prejudice. Though in all of these we may occasionally see some retrograde steps.

The more philosophical spirit of modern, compared with ancient times, is illustrated by what was then considered as the seven wonders of the world. They boasted of magnitude or costliness--of some enormous expenditure of human labor in a pyramid, a statue or temple, which was fitted to make a strong impression on the senses. But what are the objects which now fill men's minds with admiration and astonishment? They are such as are addressed to their powers of reflection--great moral changes like the American or French revolutions; the liberation of Greece or of Spanish America; or if they be of a physical character, then they are of some successful effort of science and art which directly conduces to the benefit of mankind; such, for instance, as the application of steam to manufactures and navigation--the New York Canal, the Manchester Rail Road, and the Thames Tunnel. These, and such as these, are the world's wonders in our day.

Such then, Mr. President, is the character of the changes which the mind of man has wrought on physical nature, as well as in the improvement of his own condition; and these in turn have effected an immense change in the character of his mind. _He has become less subjected to the dominion of his senses and more to that of his reason._ He is necessarily made to perceive an infinite number of new and intricate relations, which the progress of knowledge and civilization are ever adding to those which previously existed, and his reasoning faculties have acquired strength in proportion to their exercise. From particular facts he is continually deducing general laws; and from those general laws, laws still more comprehensive. The consequence of which is, that the elaborate deductions of one age become the obvious truths of that which succeeds it, and each succeeding generation is more capable of intricate processes of reasoning than its predecessor.

In the same proportion too, as reason acquires strength, the dominion of the passions becomes weaker. They are less likely to be excited by unworthy causes, and less violent when excited. Reason obviously tends to prevent those mental perturbations which arise from false views of things, as from mistaken notions of right--from the exaggerations of future good or evil, and {412} wrong estimates of their probability. Many objects which a more ignorant age has deemed important, the light of philosophy exhibits in their real insignificance. And in addition to all these direct causes, it seems not improbable that our minds being now so much more occupied in noticing causes and effects, and other important relations, will be less prone to strong emotions, except so far as they may have the sanction of reason. Let me not be understood to favor the dream of some speculatists, that philosophy will ever eradicate the passions. This result is neither possible nor desirable. It is in their proper indulgence that consists all that is called either happiness or virtue, and all that deserves to be so considered by a moral and intellectual being. They are

"The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife Gives all the strength and color of our life."

The passions have been aptly compared to the winds which impel the ship on the ocean of life,[4] but reason performs higher functions than "the card." It sits at the helm, and guides the course of the bark when the gale is not too strong, and takes in sail when it is.

[Footnote 4: On life's vast ocean diversely we sail, Reason the card, but passion is the gale.--_Pope_.]

One of the consequences of this growing ascendancy of reason is, that there will be less inequality in the civil condition of mankind; and happy are they whose political institutions enable them to accommodate themselves to the change, without going through the process of blood and violence. Whatever may be the advantages, real or supposed, of a difference of ranks, the institution originated in accident, and is supported by illusions, which natural enough in a certain stage of society, the light of philosophy tends to dissipate; and as ghosts, witches and other shadows of the night have vanished at the approaching dawn of reason, the further progress of day will extinguish hereditary rank, which, when it does not, like faux-fire, shine by its own corruption, emits an ineffectual ray at best.

If the preceding views are correct, it would follow that in our reasonings from the past to the future we must take these changes of the human character into account, and if we do, that they would sometimes lead us to expect different results hereafter from those which formerly took place under similar circumstances. The failure to make allowance for these changes, has produced much groundless _apprehension_, much _mistaken confidence_, and much _false vaticination_.

In thus speaking of the gradual progress of reason and philosophy, I do not mean to say that the advancement is uninterrupted. Far from it. Though the tide may be rising, each individual wave does not always reach as far as that which preceded it: so man, in his onward progress to a higher state of existence, does occasionally make oblique and even retrograde steps. By the influence of those prejudices which have not yet been dislodged from their strong holds--under the sway of our passions, which indeed may be regulated, but can never be extinguished, reason for awhile succumbs and philosophy disappears. Thus, in the Reformation, the struggle between those who sought to get rid of the ancient abuses, and those who endeavored to maintain them, was accompanied with ferocity, cruelty and injustice; and men were often hated and persecuted in proportion to their sincerity in avowing their real sentiments, and their firmness in maintaining them. Then too, we beheld those who had been the victims of oppression, when power changed hands, becoming persecutors in turn; and this, not on the principle of retaliation, but because the new persecutors were impelled by the same blind fury as their predecessors, in regarding a mere difference of opinion as synonymous with crime.

Philosophy had not then advanced far enough to teach them that men were responsible only to their own conscience and their God for their modes of faith; and that punishment tended to make hypocrites of the bad and martyrs of the good, but converts of none. They had yet to learn that the unadulterated common sense of that portion of mankind, who were less frenzied by zeal, revolted at such injustice; and that their sympathies acted more powerfully in favor of the sufferer, than their fears in favor of their persecutors; a truth which has suggested the maxim that "the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church."

The French revolution also furnished a signal instance of the retrograde steps of philosophy. The oppressions, the injustice, the absurdities of the French monarchy, and above all, the incongruities of many of its institutions with the state of knowledge and of private society in France, could not be corrected without calling forth all the strongest impulses of our nature--the worst passions of the worst men, as well as the nobler feelings of the best. The advanced state of reason and philosophy among the educated classes, acting on the sense of justice, indelibly stamped on the heart of man, made the mass of the nation see and feel the odium of their civil institutions, and determined them to attempt a remedy. They were prompted in their schemes, and quickened in their sensibility by the superior social condition of their neighbors, the English, and yet more by the American revolution and its happy issue. Before this great event, their notice of the defects or abuses of their government was confined to philosophical speculatists--to rhetorical declaimers--or to those who wielded the lighter, but no less efficient weapons of ridicule--to all of whom many of those classes who most profited by the existing {413} abuses, bowing to the resistless force of truth, and not foreseeing the danger to themselves, gave their cordial support. Public opinion was thus gradually gaining strength and unanimity; and when accident afforded a favorable occasion for the _reformers_ to act, every one was astonished at the rapidity and force with which they acted. But there were strong interests and passions arrayed on the other side, and the shock of the conflict was violent in proportion.

As soon as the cry of reform and change was sounded, every furious and ignoble passion--every sordid and profligate and depraved motive, hoping to profit by the confusion, entered into the strife, and corrupted the whole mass. Then it was that in the heart of Christendom, we saw a city, associated in our minds with every refinement of civilization--the emporium of science, literature and the arts--suddenly transformed into a moral desert. The annals of mankind had recorded no such metamorphosis. To the _senses_ indeed, all the monuments of science and art and social improvement remained, but they seemed to belong to other times. Every thing relative to the human character was forcibly overturned, or wrested from its natural position. Women without humanity or timidity, at one moment braving death, and at another thirsting for blood. Science and practical art employed in devising new modes of taking away life. Statesmen and legislators engrossed by the one great subject of how they might exterminate citizens no less than foreign enemies. Speculative minds racking their inventions to frame excuses for these enormities, or in making frivolous changes in the names of streets and provinces--of the months and days--while _Religion_, finding nothing congenial to her own mildness and purity, fled from the country, and the infuriated multitude hallooed and exulted in her retreat: and in the metropolis of fashion, which had given the laws of dress to all Europe, and one of whose most distinguished literati[5] had asserted that the apparel was a part of the man, an attention to outward appearance was deemed presumptive evidence of aristocracy. Nor was there a more certain mode of awakening suspicion of _incivism_, than to seem to be devout, or moral, or gentlemanly, unless these obnoxious qualities were redeemed by some accompaniment of crime.

[Footnote 5: The Count de Buffon.]

There have been those who would make philosophy responsible for these extravagances and excesses, because it had been assiduously cultivated in Paris, just before the Revolution, and some of its maxims were appealed to in justification of the excesses. But nothing can be more unjust. There was mingled with the enlightened part of the Paris population, a far larger portion which was immersed in the grossest ignorance. They had been brought up as it were in a prison house, into which the surrounding light of heaven could never penetrate; and, when set free from the restraints of law, they were powerful instruments of mischief in the hands of those who were at once skilful and unscrupulous in using them. There were also those who partook of the intellectual light of the age, but who from a faulty education, or accident, or the unjust institutions of society had not proportional moral improvement--men who saw the inequality with which the goods of life were distributed; that those who had the smallest share were the most numerous; and that they might be prompted to the inclination, as they already had the ability, to be their own carvers. An alliance was thus formed between cunning and ignorance--the cunning few and ignorant many--and no wonder that in a short time, all that was venerable and virtuous and generous, as well as all that had been tyrannical and oppressive, were furiously assailed and beaten to the ground. The progress of knowledge had no other agency in producing this result, than that a portion of society borrowed its _intellectual light_ without approaching near enough to profit by its _moral warmth_: and it is as unreasonable to blame philosophy for these outrages, as to blame religion for the bloody massacres and merciless persecutions which were perpetrated in her name. With far greater reason may the moderation observed by the mob of Paris, in the three day revolution of 1830, be ascribed to the influence of the liberal and philosophical spirit, which had been gaining ground throughout the civilized world, and particularly in France for twenty years before: and it deserves notice, that this moderation, as well as the occasion on which it would be exercised, was confidently predicted in this country, by a French gentleman,[6] now enjoying an elevated rank in France; and he founded his prediction on the improved character of the population of Paris.

[Footnote 6: General Bernard, whose anticipations of the leading events of that revolution, in a conversation with the author, had all the accuracy of history.]

Having thus taken a view of the past effects of the progress of philosophy, let us now look before us, and endeavoring to scan the future, learn what are hereafter to be its effects on the world, especially on that portion of it, in which we are most interested.

We are sometimes reproached with being more disposed to look at what our country will be, than at what it is; but when the changes are so rapid and great, we should not only betray a strange insensibility to our future destiny, but be grossly wanting in prudence, not to keep the fact constantly present to our minds. It should affect our policy, legislation, and even our individual contracts and schemes of profit; and while we do not object to other nations seeing, in the {414} mirror of the past, interesting memorials of their former glory, they may suffer us to look at ours, through the prism of hope, in which objects are a little distorted without being exaggerated, and appear in hues delightfully gay and diversified. Let us see then how the certain progress of population, and the probable progress of reason and philosophy are likely to affect us.

Of the rapid advancement of the United States in numbers, powers and wealth, we have now a moral certainty. After the lapse of forty years, we have seen that their population continues to double at the rate which Franklin long ago assumed, and we have full confirmation of the views taken by Malthus more than thirty years ago, and by Franklin long before him, that mankind continue thus to increase where the means of subsistence are easy. There will hardly be any change in this particular here, before our numbers have reached 60 persons to a square mile. Perhaps when we consider the remarkable fertility of the larger part, not before we have reached 100: but with the former limit, our country would contain 100 millions of inhabitants, in three periods of doubling, or in 75 years. Some doubts have been entertained whether our future increase will not diminish in an increasing ratio; and a very general error as to the rate of increase, exhibited at the last census, has favored that opinion. But in point of fact, the increase for the ten years ending in 1830, was a fraction more than 34 per cent., instead of a fraction more than 33 per cent., as our almanacs and other periodicals have stated, because they did not attend to the fact, that the last census shewed the increase only for nine years and ten months. This result is so unexampled and so great, that it requires an effort for us to conceive its reality; yet it rests upon as satisfactory grounds as any future event whatever: and it is not a remote improbability, that some who now hear me will live to see our population amount to 100 millions.

For our political organization we have nothing to desire, if our present government continues. The self-healing power, which more or less pervades all bodies, politic as well as natural, has unrestricted vigor here, and may be expected to bring an adequate remedy for every political disease likely to arise.

But one of the evils apprehended by some, is a dissolution of the Union; and it is asked, if this has already been seriously threatened, how will it be when the sources of collision and rivalship shall be multiplied--when all fear of foreign aggression, which now operates as a band to keep us together, shall be removed--when personal ambition shall seek, by a separation, that field for its enterprises which the Union does not afford--and the natural increase of an indigent and ignorant class shall furnish him with ready tools for his selfish projects?

But I do not see the probability that the proud hopes, which dictated a perpetual league among the states, are to be disappointed. It seems to me that the occasions in which their interests clash are few, compared with those in which they coincide, and that one of the strongest ligaments of union is the diversity of pursuits among the states, by which they are all benefited by a free commercial intercourse. Thus, some produce grain and cattle, others, fish, or sugar, or rice and cotton: some are exclusively agricultural in their pursuits, and are of course venders of raw produce, whilst others are manufacturing states, and purchasers of raw produce: some are largely concerned in navigation, whilst others are inland. Thus all are gainers by an interchange of their respective commodities and species of industry; and this mutual commerce, founded in mutual interests, will less and less require aid from the government.

We may, moreover, reasonably expect, that these sources of mutual benefit and intercourse will increase, and that new products of agriculture and manufactures will arise under some propitious accident or kindness of nature, will extend the mutual dependence of the states, and proportionally multiply the bonds of union. Each state will be important to the rest for its useful products, and they in turn will be valuable to it, both for affording a market, and for the products they give in exchange. The commerce, too, will be the more profitable, and likely to be the more extensive, by its being free from imposts or vexatious restrictions. Under the fostering care of this freedom, we may expect that wine, and silk, and the olive may be added to the products of the south--and that whenever labor shall fall to the point of merely earning a subsistence, tea may be also cultivated; as no doubt some part of our country is similar in climate to China, since it is not only in a correspondent latitude, but on the same side of its continent.

The time will come when most of our manufactures can be procured from the northern or middle states cheaper than from Europe, and when those states will also furnish a larger market for the products of the south. The time has already come when cotton, and rice, and tobacco, if that pernicious weed shall always constitute one of man's artificial wants, can be procured more cheaply from the southern states than elsewhere; and though there is not, within the present limits of the United States, as much land adapted to the cane as will supply its future inhabitants with sugar, without that increase of price which must greatly diminish its rate of consumption, yet the trade in this useful commodity will not therefore be less important, either to the states which sell, or those which purchase it.

This commercial intercourse will be greatly extended by the numerous canals and rail roads, {415} which are destined to intersect our country in every direction. By the greater cheapness of transportation, the commerce will be extended, not only because more distant points will be brought into connection, but also because there will be a greater number of articles which may be advantageously transported. All the canals and rail roads from one state to another, which shall be sufficiently used to compensate for their construction, will be so many sinews to knit together our wide spread and diversified republic. New York and Pennsylvania have already thus bound themselves to the west. Maryland and Virginia, and, without doubt, Georgia and the Carolinas, will follow the example.

When we shall be thus connected by the golden chain of mutual interests instead of the iron fetters of power, and by that homogeneousness of manners which an increased intercourse will produce, what will be likely to effect a separation? Let us suppose any state, considering itself aggrieved by some measure of the federal government, was to withdraw herself from the confederacy, and that the other states were to acquiesce in her course, either because they felt no interest in the matter, or because they were willing to surrender up those interests to a claim of right. It can scarcely be doubted that such seceding state would find the disadvantages of its new situation so great, surrounded by rival and hostile and taunting neighbors--attended with so much contingent danger and certain expense, that after the first irritation had passed away, it would sue to be re-admitted.

But when it is recollected that, in no distant day, every state will either be an outlet for other states to the ocean, or the medium of communication for those lying on each side of it, it would be according to all experience to presume that they will not regard a question thus directly affecting their _interests_, as one also affecting their _rights_, and will vindicate both, by an appeal to force, if necessary: and thus the question of _separation_ will always be a question of _war_. The _constitutional_ question, which may have been previously agitated, will be drowned in the din and tumult of arms, and finally decided by the issue of the war. _Victory_ is the great arbiter of right in national disputes, and that scale of justice on which she happens to light, is almost sure to preponderate.

I have been supposing the case of a single state, or even a small section of states to desire a separation. But it may be asked whether all the states may not voluntarily consent to a dissolution; or at least so large a portion as to make resistance on the part of the rest hopeless. I answer that I am not able to conceive any such general and powerful cause, nor do I know of any example of a similar voluntary disseverance in history. In every case in which an integral community, whether consolidated or confederate, has been separated, it has been by violence, and commonly external violence--either by one nation, subjugating another, or by some successful leader succeeding by his arts and talents in arraying one part against the rest: or the parts of a great empire have been partitioned among the descendants or legatees of the last occupant--none of which causes of separation can be expected to operate here. It is indeed a conceivable thing for some prominent and popular individual to excite a particular state to discontent, and finally to civil war; and although we have happily had no example of such flagitiousness, we have seen enough to make us think it possible: yet whatever may be the supposed success of such men at home, there will always be many counteractions to their influence in the adjoining states, and in the same degree that the agitator is a popular idol in his own state, he will be an object of suspicion in the adjoining states, who will judge of him by his actions, unaffected by his arts or the imposing lustre of his personal qualities.

Our own past history affords some confirmation of these views. It is, for example, now seen, since the veil which once concealed the acts of the Hartford Convention, has been partially raised, that the power of the agents in that combination to separate the union was far less than had been supposed, and that they could not have led on the states there represented to make that shew of resistance to the general government which excited apprehensions for the union, if they had professed any other than the moderate and legitimate objects of making their peculiar interests more respected, and of providing additional guards against the invasion of those interests in the time to come. It now appears, that however we may disapprove the _means_ used to effectuate their objects, the _ends_ were blameless; and there is much reason to believe that the moment the separation of the states had shewn itself to be the ultimate object of their leaders, that moment they would have been deserted by the larger part of their followers.

The case of him whose history has been so pregnant of instruction to lawless ambition, and who eighteen years ago was arraigned in this very capitol for the highest of all crimes, affords another instructive example. So long as his object was believed to be the settlement of the Washita lands, he may have ranked among his followers the most honest and patriotic of the land. So long as he merely proposed to emancipate the Mexicans from the Spanish yoke, the generous and enterprising youth of the west, as unsuspicious of guile in others as they were incapable of it themselves, might have flocked to his standard, and even gloried in the act of self-devotion: but no sooner was it known that the infatuated man was pursuing the phantom of individual aggrandizement, at the expense of his country's peace and in violation of her laws, than he was "left alone in his glory." {416} Most of his followers abandoned him from principle, and the few who were without principle, deserted him from cowardice. It is peculiarly gratifying that both of these examples so strikingly exhibit the attachment of the American people to the union, as it will probably be only in one or the other of these modes that its integrity will ever be assailed.

The event by which the union was still more seriously threatened, has been too recent for me to say much of it on the present occasion. Yet I may be permitted to remark, without opening wounds hardly yet cicatrized, that both those who apprehend disunion and those who dread consolidation may draw salutary lessons from that event; and that each party may, by a course of imprudence, promote the very evil of which it is most apprehensive. I will add, that it affords additional evidence of the strength of the ligaments which bind us together, for if those who felt themselves aggrieved by the general government, had been less sensible of the _value_--of the _necessity_ of the union--then the master pilot,[7] who at the critical moment seized the helm, and steered the ship of state through the breakers that threatened her on either side, had interposed his consummate skill in vain.

[Footnote 7: Henry Clay, who was thus thrice mainly instrumental in giving peace to his country.]

But when it is considered that the continuance of the union is indispensable to our peace, prosperity, and civil liberty--that on it rest our hopes of national greatness, it would hardly seem consistent with prudence to rely altogether on the natural securities I have mentioned. We should also sedulously guard against whatever may tend to weaken our attachment to it; and should therefore confine the functions of the general government to those objects which are most indispensable to the prosperity of the whole, and to which the powers of the separate governments are incompetent. And while it should exercise no power which was not clearly beneficial, as well as constitutional, it should forbear to exercise such powers as come under this description, when they may prove sources of discontent, or of collision with local feelings and interests. The advantages of such a course will be to give the federal government greater efficacy in the execution of its remaining powers, and especially in our foreign concerns; and it will afford us the best security, not only against disunion, but the opposite danger of consolidation. The continuance of our present complex system of government--the only one in which the highest degree of civil liberty can be reconciled with the greatest extent of territory--depends on its maintaining a just equipoise between the general government and the governments of the separate states; and that equipoise may be disturbed no less by enlarging the capacity of conferring favors than that of doing mischief--of appealing to the hopes no less than to the fears of the community.

There is another safeguard against both disunion and consolidation, to be found in the diffusion of instruction among all classes of people; to which object all the states have given encouragement. Besides the general moral effects which such mental culture is found to produce, wherever it has been tried, it will make the mischiefs of a single national government or of several disunited governments, which are already so obvious to those who have reflection and forecast, intelligible to all. The diffusion of intelligence will operate advantageously to the same end in another way. It will raise the self-respect and honest pride of the indigent classes, and these sentiments afford the best security against an over-crowded population and its deleterious consequences, for they naturally tend to raise the ordinary standard of comfort, and the higher _that_ is, the sooner do the checks to improvident marriages begin to operate.

Supposing our federal union to be thus enduring, the progress of philosophy may be expected to continue with our advancement in numbers and wealth, and to exhibit itself in the increased vigor of the reasoning faculties; the greater purity of religion; the better government of the passions; an enlarged dominion over physical nature; a deeper insight into the multifarious laws of mind and matter; and a general amelioration of our condition, social, intellectual, and moral. But dangers and evils are apprehended by some, when we shall have a large class of manufacturers. This must eventually be the condition of the greater part of the population of every civilized country, since in no other way can the greater part of a dense population find employment. A small proportion of the community is sufficient to cultivate the soil, especially with so fertile a territory as the greater part of the United States; and the rest must be employed in manufactures, or starve. Besides, the products of this species of industry are as essential to our comfort and enjoyment, if not to our subsistence, as raw produce. We must have clothes, furniture, utensils, and books, as well as food: and when our numbers shall be sufficiently great to consume the whole of our raw produce, as in time it certainly will be, we shall cease to export; and the great mass of its consumers here, must fulfil the inevitable ultimate destiny of man--he must labor for his subsistence, either in tilling the earth, or in giving to its products some new form, which by ministering to the wants of others, may enable him to satisfy his own. The people of the United States must therefore become a manufacturing people, as well as their progenitors, and that too at no very remote period. At present, most of our citizens are agriculturists, {417} because they find a ready sale for their redundant products; but while it may be easy to obtain a market for the surplus produce of fourteen millions of people, it may not be equally easy to find a vent abroad for the products of the one hundred millions before spoken of; or even of the fifty millions which our numbers will certainly reach in less than another half century. It must be recollected that while we increase at the rate of three per cent. per annum, our customers do not increase beyond the rate of one per cent., and some scarcely increase at all. Those therefore, who will be thus spared from agriculture, must be employed in manufactures.

The political effects of so large a class of manufacturers in our country, has suggested two very opposite theories. According to one, the influence of property will be increased by the change; according to the other, its rights will be endangered. The advocates of the first opinion say, that capital has the same relation to manufactures that land has to agricultural labor; for it is only large capitals that can be advantageously employed in the principal manufactures; and that the laborers in both species of industry, will feel their dependence on their employers. It will therefore happen that the votes given immediately by the laboring class, will be substantially the votes of the rich landlord or capitalist.

But on the other hand, it has been apprehended, and not without some show of reason, that the working class, having the power in their own hands, by the preponderance of numbers, need only to act in concert, to control the course of legislation. It is further urged, that if the means of popular instruction can become general, or though that should be found impracticable, if the intelligence of the community should increase with the progress of society, that this class will more readily feel its power, have stronger inducements to exercise it, and be better able to devise the means. Admitting concerted action practicable, as it would be obviously desirable, what, it is asked, is to hinder these men from ridding themselves of their proportion of the taxes?--of appropriating to themselves the property of the rich by various legislative devices, as in limiting the prices of provisions, in planning expensive schemes in which the utility would be exclusively to themselves, or not in proportion to the cost,--or even in some moment of madness and reckless injustice, of passing an Agrarian law? It is vain to urge that as such a violation of the rights of property would have the ultimate effect of injuring all classes, or at least a far greater number than it would benefit, it is contrary to the general instinct of self interest to suppose the greater portion of the community would pursue it; for these remote interests might not be perceived, and though they were, they would not prevail against the force of present temptation.

But the argument assumes that there will be a majority of the community who will feel a present interest in such violations of the rights of property, and this proposition may well be questioned. In our country, where industry and capital are free to exercise themselves in any way, there will always be a gradation of classes from the richest to the poorest, so as to make the line which separates them an imperceptible one. We have no political institutions, and few prejudices to make such a separation. Every one is estimated according to his individual merits, little affected by those of his ancestors: and although somewhat of the honor or discredit of parents attaches to the child, yet it is probably little more than is warranted by the presumption that there is a resemblance between them. We are not distinguished into castes as in India, where one portion of society engrosses all the more honorable and agreeable employments of life, and the other is allotted to its most irksome and debasing offices; nor into Patrician and Plebeian, as in Rome; nor into lords and commons, as in England; nor _noblesse_ and _canaille_, as formerly in France and the rest of Europe; distinctions which at once provoke combination and make it more practicable.

Nor is the indigent class likely to be as large in this country as in most others. Our institutions, in many ways, favor both the acquisition and the diffusion of property. In the first place, by their being more exempt from restrictions. No trade or occupation is fettered by monopolies or corporation laws, or laws of apprenticeship, so that industry and talent being free to act, wherever and however they please, are likely to find the situations in which they can be most profitably exerted.

In the next place, all offices and professions which are means of acquiring property, or are of themselves a valuable property, while they last, are thrown open to the competition of all; and we see them as often, or more often, won by those who were born in poverty, and who have been accustomed to rely on their own resources, than by the pampered sons of wealth and luxury.

And lastly, the diffusion of property is the greater by the practice of dividing an estate among all the children of a family; which, either by the act of law, or the will of the deceased proprietor, has become almost universal. The law of primogeniture, by artificially damming up property to prevent its natural diffusion, must increase the number of the poor in the same degree that it increases the number of the rich. The estate which remains in the same family in England for three generations, and continues throughout the property of a single individual, is here distributed among twenty or thirty, and often a far greater number. _This single change_ in our municipal law, would necessarily have the effect of converting the {418} property holders into a majority of the community.

Whenever, then, the line between the rich and the poor is drawn in this country, it will always comprehend a far smaller proportion of the last class than in any other, so long as our civil institutions retain their present character; and the number of people who have property to some amount, and who have the hope of acquiring it, will always be much greater than those who have none. When it is further recollected that those who have made their own fortunes--a very numerous class in all free countries--are likely to possess energy and intelligence; they may also be expected to possess an influence more than proportionate to their numbers. To these considerations we may add the connections which arise from favors received or expected, by the poor from the rich; the influence of habit; the protection of the laws; the restraints of morality, of indolence, and fear, and they seem sufficient to assure us that apprehensions of a mischievous combination of the poor against the rich, are groundless; and that all which the indigent class can effect for their own advantage by combination, may not prove a sufficient antagonist to the influence the rich will be able to exert over them.

I know of no instance of a successful combination of the indigent classes, except in the case of the Agrarian laws at Rome. But this subject has been greatly misunderstood, and there never was a more well founded complaint than that which the poor made against the rich, on that occasion. Modern historians seem to have followed up the injustice, by misrepresenting the facts, and assailing the character of those who had been previously defrauded of their property. The diligent researches of German scholars[8] have shewn incontestibly that the Agrarian laws, for which the Gracchi lost their lives, concerned only the _public_ lands, which had been obtained by conquest, and not those which formed part of the territory of the ancient republic. As these public lands were charged with a very moderate,--merely nominal rent,--it was necessary to impose some limit upon the portion which a single individual could obtain, which was accordingly fixed at 500 _jugera_--equal to about 312 of our acres. But the Patrician class soon found means to evade this law, and having engrossed these lands, the purposes for which they were set apart--of affording the means of support to the poor, and of rewarding those by whose bravery and toils they had been won--was thus completely defeated: and the redundant population, unprovided with the means of subsistence, were obliged to become the bondsmen of the rich. Tiberius Gracchus endeavored to have this flagrant wrong, which was a political mischief, as well as a moral injustice, corrected: and whatever may have been his motives, he so evidently had right on his side, that he finally prevailed. But because he succeeded in defending the unquestioned rights of the injured party, does it follow that he would have had equal success in defending injustice? Because he was able to sustain the violated rights of property, would he have been also able to destroy them? Certainly not: For he with difficulty succeeded, even at the cost of his life: and success would have been impossible but for the dauntless intrepidity and the zealous support which the goodness of his cause inspired.

[Footnote 8: Heeren and Niebuhr.]

To the progress of our literature and science we may look with unalloyed hopes. In many branches, both ornamental and useful, we are still behind the country from which we are descended; and we fall as far short of her in the quantity of original productions as in the quality. But this, we confidently trust, is but a temporary inferiority. Our whole faculties are now engaged in cultivating the choicest fruits of civilization, and by and by we shall turn our attention to its flowers. Our late rapid advancement in letters affords a sure presage of future excellence, and symptoms of this gratifying change gladden our eyes in every direction. As soon as the more imperious wants of the country shall be satisfied, and men of superior powers and attainments shall have filled the learned professions, and offices requiring science and talent, then we shall begin to form a class of men of letters, who will devote their leisure and genius to minister to our intellectual wants: And they will find here a wide field both for speculation and description, political, physical and moral. We are justified in pronouncing that our literature will have freshness, boldness, richness and variety, and I would fain hope, the crowning grace of simplicity. Poetry, though not destined again to receive divine honors, or even the same profound homage as in a later day, will always occupy a high place in the world of letters: for the pleasure which can be conveyed to the mind by rhythm, imagery and fervid sentiment combined, are immutable; but the higher province of intellect will be to instruct and convince; to aid us in the arduous duties of life--whether as members of a profession, as citizens of the state, or as moral and responsible beings. Until that day arrives, let us cherish those institutions which best serve to preserve and diffuse a knowledge of science and letters, as well as to increase a taste for them; and never relax in our exertions until we are at least upon a level with the highest. Next to an elevated moral character, this is the most proper object of national ambition: and while I should be content that this country may never give birth to a Phidias, or Canova, a Raphael or Titian--that it should not produce as good musicians as Italy or Germany--as beautiful millinery as Paris--as cheap or good cutlery as {419} Sheffield--I should be mortified to think that we should never be able to boast of such poets as Byron or Pope, such historians as Hume or Gibbon, such moralists as Johnson, such novelists as Walter Scott, or such mathematicians as La Place.

In looking into our future destiny, I have not allowed myself to travel into the regions of fancy, but have confined my attention to those results which seemed fairly deducible from causes now visibly operating; and which are in conformity with the past experience of mankind. I have not indulged in those overstrained speculations with which some have contemplated the future progress of philosophy, but have endeavored to avoid on the one hand, those views of future evil, which it is the nature of gloomy tempers to entertain, and on the other, those visions of future excellence or perfection incompatible with our past experience; such, for example, as the dreams, first of Condorcet, and afterwards of Godwin. Of a similar character, I fear, are the predictions of those who think that war may be banished from the civilized world. Without doubt it is the tendency of the progress of reason and philosophy, to lessen the chances of war: in the same way as refinement of manners checks personal conflicts among individuals. But it will, probably, no more put an end to them in one case, than in the other; and the time may never come, when the interests of nations will not clash, when they will not differ in opinion about their respective rights; when they will not be willing to resent supposed injustice, and hazard their lives to gratify their resentment. Nor can occasions be wanting at any time to call forth these motives to war. Nations may have rivalship in trade; rivalship in fisheries; they may differ about boundaries, or the construction of treaties; or they may be involved in the disputes of others. These causes must be regarded as inseparable from the condition of man, even if he should no longer be exposed to the danger of war, from mere differences of opinion on some speculative points in religion, politics or morals. It may then prove in all future time, as it has proved in all time past, that it is man's nature to quarrel and fight, no less than to love or to hate, and the only difference may be as to the occasions of war, and the mode of carrying it on: in short, that this ultimate argument of republics as well as kings, will continue to be appealed to, as it always has been, when all others have failed.

If this is to be regarded as a part of man's inevitable destiny, let us not indulge in vain repinings at it--but endeavor to prevent it as far as we can, by a course of justice, and moderation, and forbearance: and if, nevertheless, our efforts should be unavailing, let the philosophic and patriotic mind find consolation in the fact, that though war is the cause of much human misery, it calls forth many virtues, and affords occasion for the display of some of the noblest traits of our character--courage, patriotism, generosity, disinterestedness and every form of virtuous self-denial. It gives a stimulus to all the more elevated and severer virtues. It breaks up the icy frost of selfishness, which in the still times of peace may congeal about the heart. The love of country never burns with a purer or stronger flame than in the bosom of the patriotic soldier: nor can any thing but war enable a citizen to make the same sacrifices, or so prove his self devotion to his country. It may then be among the dispensations of the ruler of the universe, that war, as well as peace, is necessary for the development and the preservation of some of our highest qualities, and to fulfil our destiny. Nor let us vainly hope to extinguish national more than individual resentment, but merely to regulate it--to reserve it for those occasions which a sense of justice prompts and reason sanctions: and although it is but a blind arbiter of disputes, it is the only one, in some circumstances, that can be appealed to.

Having thus, Mr. President, brought to your notice, with less of condensation than I could have wished, the great and rapid strides which human reason is now making in the civilized world, as exhibited in every field of intellectual exercise: having noticed the unequivocal signs that this progress will yet continue, that we cannot assign to it any precise limits, and that in all estimates of the future, we must take it into consideration: having endeavored to infer its probable effects on our condition, taken in connection with the other changes to which we are destined, I have discharged my main purpose. Yet I do not feel that I have entirely fulfilled my duty as a member of the Society, unless I say something of its particular objects.

One of these objects was to collect and preserve the perishable memorials of the past history of Virginia, from the time it was a colony to the present day. While this is a subject which must always be one of lively interest to her citizens, it is also one in which diligence will be amply rewarded. Our early colonial history more abounds in events of a striking and diversified character, than that of any of the other colonies; and this state, moreover, has a sort of parental relation to nearly all the states to the south and west. Full justice has never yet been done to this subject. There are indeed points in the history of the settlement of the colony, which require elucidation, and for which the materials are to be found, if at all, only in the archives of England. But on our later history much light has been thrown by a diligent examination of the laws of the colony; and somewhat may be further gleaned from a search into those records of the county courts, which have yet escaped the ravages of war and time. The records of these courts, whose duties were always of a very miscellaneous character, may communicate much information {420} concerning the state of society, the habits, manners and ways of thinking of the people. The authentic details of the public offences and their punishment, is no insignificant portion of a nation's history. Much has been done in this way by Hening's Collection of the Statutes at Large; and though a large portion of the treasure has already been drawn from this mine, it has not been exhausted. After paying a just tribute to the industry and general accuracy of that work, it also suggests a caution to future inquirers against a spirit of skepticism towards preceding narratives, merely because some inaccuracies have been discovered. Of this I may be allowed to mention one or two examples, as in the endeavor to shew (in which Burke concurs,) that the account of all preceding historians of the loyalty of Virginia towards the House of Stuart, immediately before and after the Commonwealth, was erroneous--and that because Robertson in his posthumous historical sketch was plainly mistaken in saying that no man suffered capitally "for his participation in Bacon's rebellion," he is not entitled to credit: or, when Bacon, according to all previous accounts, had, during a wet spell, at the most sickly season of the year, in the county of Gloucester, been seized with a dysentery which proved mortal, to suggest that a death so little violating probability, should be deemed mysterious, and warranted the _suspicion of poison by his enemies_.

The history of the settlements of the west exists only in tradition or family letters, and its materials ought to be collected and preserved, while it is not too late. The contest between the pioneer of civilization and the native savage, is full of daring adventure and romantic interest. If the command of gunpowder, and the use of iron ultimately gave victory to the former, it was one always dearly bought. The Indians defended their native rights with desperate valor and consummate address, and it was only inch by inch that they yielded their native soil to the invaders.

The origin of some anomalous enactments in the statute book, also invite inquiry. Thus in the year 1647, lawyers were forbidden to take any fees whatever, and in 1658 they were excluded from the legislature. For this uncourteous act, it must be confessed that their descendants have made the _amende honorable_. The medical profession seemed also an object of jealousy with the planter; as by another law,[9] physicians were required to swear to the value of their drugs.

[Footnote 9: Passed in 1646.]

There is too, a good deal of uncertainty and inconsistency in the statistical accounts of the state. On the duty of the present generation to collect and preserve every thing relative to the revolution, I need not lay any stress. There are still numerous papers in many families, of no sort of value to them, that may yet shed light on that interesting era.

In all that concerns the other object of this Society, the physical history of the state, every thing is yet to be done. The records here are before us, and are indestructible in any reasonable term of time; but we must first labor to remove the rubbish which conceals them, and then study to decipher them. This is a tempting field of research, as it may not only add to our stock of information, but also to our store of worldly wealth. The great Appalachian chain of mountains, which traverses the United States from Maine to Alabama, is broader no where than in Virginia, or consists of a greater number of distinct ridges, and no where has it given as clear indications of abounding in mineral wealth. We have found in it already gold, copper, lead, iron, manganese, gypsum, salt, coal, nitre, alum, marble in great variety, besides other minerals that are useful in the arts; and a more diligent and scientific search than has yet been made, may by increasing their number increase the profit of those canals and roads that are now projected, and give rise to others not yet contemplated. Our demand for fossil coal is of growing importance; for our increasing population at once increases the demand for fuel, and diminishes the supply of wood. I was happy to see last evening, the specimen of anthracite coal from the county of Augusta; and the value of that mineral deserved the high eulogy it received. We may form some idea of the importance of fossil coal, from the fact that steam engines in England are now computed to perform annually, the work of four hundred millions of men! a number nearly double to that now living on the whole globe.

Nor is the geology of the state to be disregarded. Ever since a careful examination of the materials of the earth's surface has been found to afford indications of its past changes, this science has been diligently and successfully cultivated in Europe, and has not been neglected in some parts of the United States. It is high time that Virginia should contribute her quota to its researches. We should be the more stimulated to cultivate this branch of science in the United States, in consequence of the remarkable regularity of the different formations on this continent. Thus along the coast below the falls, we have south of Long Island the tertiary formation; between the falls and the Blue Ridge, the primitive; and the great Mississippi Valley, from the Alleghany to the Rocky Mountains, if principally secondary. There are however, occasional exceptions to these general rules, and they should be noticed with care. As our useful minerals lie near the surface, our observations will, for a long time to come, be principally confined to that; but as there are instances of shafts being sunk in search of salt water or gold, the strata should be carefully noted; and where any pit of unusual depth is sunk, {421} it would be well to make experiments on the heat of the earth, before the admission of the ordinary air has altered its temperature. It has long been asserted that there was an internal heat in the interior of the earth, and further observation seems to confirm it. This fact has lately had a seemingly conclusive verification in England. A shaft had been sunk there in pursuit of coal, to the extraordinary depth of nearly fifteen hundred feet; and by a number of careful experiments, the heat at the bottom was found to be 28° hotter than the average heat of the earth in this latitude, which would seem to show an increase at the rate of a degree of Fahrenheit for every sixty feet.[10] Should this correctly indicate the measure of the earth's internal heat, then at the depth of something less than two miles, we should come to the temperature of boiling water. When we recollect that this heat is not farther removed from us than a two thousandth part of the distance to the centre, (bearing about the same proportion to the earth as the parchment stretched over it, does to an ordinary globe,) it seems to afford a ready solution for volcanoes, earthquakes, and many geological phenomena; and may even excite our wonder, that some of these results of so mighty an agent are not more frequent and terrible than they are. And when we recollect that the confines between organized matter, and that form of it which is inconsistent with animal or vegetable life, approach so near each other, it is calculated to humble the pride of man, that he has been upon this globe all but six thousand years without a suspicion of the fact.

[Footnote 10: See London and Edinburgh Philosophical Magazine for December 1834. This experiment coincides with the theory regarding the internal heat of the earth, promulgated by a member of the French Institute (Mons. Cordier,) in a memoir presented to that association about six years since, in which he gives a detail of numerous observations and experiments on which he founded his theory, now fully confirmed by the more decisive experiment in England.]

There are also problems concerning our climate which well deserve solution. The acknowledged difference between the eastern and western coasts of climates, has been attributed, with a great show of reason, to the prevalence of the westerly winds; and of the fact of their greater prevalence there, is the most satisfactory general evidence--but it is discreditable that the amount of the difference should not be as well ascertained as the fact itself. The average difference can be ascertained only by repeated and accurate observations.

It has also been asserted that the temperature of the Mississippi Valley is higher than that of the Atlantic coast. Mr. Jefferson long ago advanced this opinion, and it was adopted by Volney; but there is strong reason to believe that the direct contrary is the fact. It is, however, high time that this question should be settled by a series of thermometrical observations, and a comparison of facts derived from the vegetable world.

We have, Mr. President, been three years in existence, and as yet have done little. Let us bestir ourselves in the cause of science and of our country; and endeavor, under some disadvantages, to give Virginia the same rank in science and literature that she has always maintained in her devotion to civil liberty and political integrity. Though borne along with the rest of the world, by the great current of philosophy of which I have been speaking, we should not fold our arms in listless apathy, but diligently ply our oars, lest we should be left further behind by those in advance of us, and be overtaken by those now in our rear.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND--NO. 5.

BY A VIRGINIAN.

Scholars in Virginia are not generally aware, that the classical Greek pronunciation is thought to exist still in Greece; and that (connecting this fact with the close resemblance of the ancient, to some of the modern dialects _as written_) that rich and elegant language is no longer to be regarded as _dead_. Thus confidently think two intelligent and accomplished natives of Greece, now in Connecticut, who are reputed (no doubt deservedly) to be thorough masters of both the ancient and the modern tongue. In a gratifying interview with one of them (Mr. _Perdicaris_ at New Haven), being curious to hear Homer in his native melody, I prevailed on Mr. P. to read me a few lines of the Illiad. They were by no means musical to my ear--vitiated, doubtless, by the faulty pronunciation to which I had been accustomed, and destitute of those associated ideas, which conduce so largely to the beauty of poetry. He sounds _oi_ dipthong, like _e_; _d_ like TH soft; _g_ like a mere aspiration, as our _h_. The word _poluphloisboio_ ([Greek: poluphloisboio]) so expressively sonorous to our ears when pronounced with the full, swelling _roll_ of the dipthong, he would attenuate into _poluphleesbeeo_--to me much more like the whistling of the wind through a key-hole, than the hoarse, multitudinous roar of an agitated ocean. I spare you, here, a speculation that is passing in my mind, as to how far this diversity between different ears, proves the notion of the _sound's echoing to the sense_ to be merely fanciful; and as to the influence of previous association upon our relish of poetical, and of other beauty--how much, for example, of the native Greek's rapture at Homer, is owing to love of country, and how much of an American's ecstacies to classical enthusiasm, the pride of learning, or the influence of names. Yes, I spare you--partly, because I have not _much_ that is new to say upon the subject; and partly because, if I had, it would be wholly out of season.

By special invitation, I attended a lecture (one of a series) delivered by Mr. Perdicaris, upon the literary and political history of modern Greece. It was marked by a rich yet chaste imagination, a generous glow of patriotic enthusiasm, and the eloquence which they naturally inspire. You may feel a curiosity, as I did, {422} to know somewhat of the _outer man_ of a modern Greek. Mr. P. is about the middle height, or five feet nine; shoulders broad, and a stout frame; black hair, disposed to curl; large black whiskers, flanking a broad oval face, the complexion whereof is a darkish olive--as dark, at least, as Mr. Webster's. Having been eleven years in this country, he speaks our language fluently and intelligibly: indeed, as is usual with those who learn a foreign tongue from books, and from enlightened native speakers, his _English_ is remarkably pure. A few rhetorical and grammatical faults there were--for instance, "_he left Athens_" was curtailed (_a la Yankee_) to "_he left_." This is a New England-ism not confined to the vulgar: neither is the phrase "he _conducted well_," for "he conducts _himself_ well;" nor "considerable _of_ a place," for "a considerable place." We hear Yankees of respectable literary pretensions, too, saying _shall_, where the English idiom certainly requires _will_; as, "shall you visit Boston during your tour?"[1]--and clipping the infinitive mood, in a way equally contrary to the good customs of the realm--thus--"I have not written yet, but to-day _I intend to_." But I am chasing game that is hardly worth the powder.

[Footnote 1: If I mistake not, I have heard Mr. Webster himself use _shall_ in this manner. It is an innovation, sustained by no eminent authority or precedent in England; and is confined, in America, to the north side of the Potomac, if not to the east of the Hudson. With that still grosser affectation, "the house is _being built_," "a war is _being waged_," it should be promptly arrested, before it shall have become inseparably mingled in the "well of English undefiled." By the way, this latter _refinement_ prevails more in the south than in the north.]

I owe to Mr. P. another intellectual treat: the inspection of an Illiad, edited by Mr. Felton, Professor of Greek at Harvard. Of all the editions that I have examined, this is by far the best adapted to schools; and the most likely to gratify the taste, or to aid the study, of a retired scholar. The _character_ is a _fac simile_ of Porson's M.S. Greek--surpassingly neat, simple, and distinct. The text seems to be given with exemplary fidelity. And it is interspersed with _Flaxman's Illustrations_; engraved cuts, of all the principal scenes: which, though mere hints of incidents, and too meager outlines of persons, greatly heighten the interest of the work. But its crowning merits, are the Editor's English Preface and Notes. I read the former, and most of the latter--much more, I dare say, than is usually deemed needful for a reviewer. They do Mr. F.'s learning, judgment, taste, feeling, and eloquence, very high honor. He does not make much ado about the trivialities of _dialect_, _quantity_, and _various readings_, like the cumbersome annotators upon the classicks, criticised in the Spectator; nor does he, like "piddling Tibbald," 'celebrate himself for achieving the restoration of a comma,'[2] or the correction of an accent. But beauties are pointed out and commented on, with a critical taste and elegance, calculated to make the learner's task a luxury; while difficulties are cleared up with a fulness that leaves little need for oral instruction. The edition is in one volume; and I hope soon to see it supersede the clumsy affair of the too learned Samuel Clarke, which now has such fast foot-hold in our schools.

[Footnote 2: Johnson's Preface to Shakspeare.]

You perhaps think it odd, that I have said nothing of the _judicial systems_ of New England; and ascribe it either to my acting on Young Rapid's maxim--"sink the shop, Dad!"--or to my being cloyed with courts at home, and so, loathing them amid the countless attractions of my journey. Neither, neither--be assured. 'Though last, not least'--they have formed a leading subject of my inquiries: and to judge speculatively, as well as from what is told me of their practical operation (which I have had no opportunity to witness) they have some points worth _considering_, if not _imitating_.

The judiciary power of Rhode Island is vested in a supreme court, consisting of a chief and two associate justices; and a court of common pleas (composed of five judges) for each of the five counties. _All the judges are appointed annually by the legislature_. This feature alone suffices to stamp the whole system with insignificance: for what skill in jurisprudence--what independence of popular excitements and party influences--could be expected from judges whom the breath of a party leader can make and unmake, at each year's end? When to this we add, that the chief justice of the supreme court receives a salary of $650, and each associate $550, we need not wonder that no decision of the Rhode Island bench is ever quoted in other states. The governor's salary is $400; the lieutenant governor's, $200. But if, in scantiness of territory and a corresponding scantiness of means, this state is ordained by nature to be the San Marino of America, yet it is purely her own fault if, by the precarious tenure of her judicial offices, she reduces one of the most important departments of _mind_ to the same diminutive scale, and goes far to make herself morally and intellectually also, the insignificant miniature of a commonwealth.

In Connecticut, justice is administered in causes of small amount by county courts, whose judges are chosen annually: and in larger causes, by superior courts. The latter are held semi-annually in each county by one of five judges, who also form the supreme court. They hold office during good behavior, or until seventy years of age: and have both law and chancery jurisdiction. The supreme court sits once a year _in each county_. I do not know what actual loss of valuable services Connecticut has suffered, by her rule which drives judges from the bench just at the juncture when their faculties are in many instances the most happily ripe for its functions: but, that she has lost and will lose, no one can doubt who remembers, that thirteen of the best years of Mansfield's judicial life, and fourteen or fifteen of Wythe's and Pendleton's, were after the age of seventy; and that such a rule would have deprived the United States' judiciary, ten years ago, of its present gigantic Coryphæus--confessedly one of the purest and most powerful minds that ever filled any judgment seat. But what heightened or adequate terms of censure can be found for the New York rule, which displaces every judge at sixty? A rule which prematurely discarded Spencer and Lansing; and which, for more than ten years, has made Kent employ the full vigor and maturity of his intellect in writing abstract treatises, and selling _chamber_ opinions, instead of going on as he had begun, to build up for his state a system of jurisprudence hardly inferior to that which Mansfield reared for England?

In Massachusetts, are some very striking peculiarities. The _supreme court_, consisting of four judges, sits {423} once a year _in each county_, to decide questions of law, in the last resort. Some one of these judges, besides, holds annually a _Nisi Prius_ term in each county, to try appeals from an inferior grade called "courts of common pleas," original suits in chancery, and upon the bonds of executors and administrators. The appeals to them from the common pleas, are _as to both law and fact_: a jury being empanneled, witnesses examined, &c., as if it were an original proceeding. The latter courts are held twice a year in each county, by some one of four judges; who hold office (like those of the supreme court) during good behavior. They have cognizance of all causes, except what I shall designate as vested elsewhere.

Presentments and indictments for all offences, are found only in the _common pleas_; where, also, they are tried--_except in capital cases_. These, after the indictment is found, are certified and removed from the common pleas to the _supreme court_; at whose bar the culprit is tried by a jury: a special term being held on purpose, in any county where the judges are notified that a prisoner awaits trial for life or death. _En passant_--though _eight crimes_ are, by the laws of Massachusetts, punishable with death, _only twenty-six persons_ in the whole state have been capitally convicted, _in thirty years!_ The number of trials (I do not exactly remember it) bears an immense disproportion to the number of convictions: so immense, as to prove that either an undue severity in the laws, or the unreasonable and too common lenity of juries, aided by the overwhelming superiority of defending advocates--or (what is most probable) all three causes together--have well nigh made those laws a dead letter. Prosecutions are conducted by _district attorneys_, of whom there are four in the state; each prosecuting within his allotted district. In the supreme court, however, the attorney general is counsel for the commonwealth.

_Chancery_, or _equitable relief_, is rarely sought in the Massachusetts courts. Indeed it was unknown, until, within a comparatively recent period, two or three statutes empowered the supreme court to administer it, in a very few specified cases--_mortgages_, _trusts_, _accounts between partners and co-executors_, _waste_, _nuisance_, and two or three others: omitting the fruitful subjects of _fraud_, _accident_, _dower_, _et cetera_--and especially the sweeping power to relieve _wherever there is no remedy at law_--subjects which, by the multiplication of cases, have made _our_ chancery, like that of England, the dormitory if not the grave of justice. And even as to the few specified subjects of jurisdiction, those statutes rigidly restrict the relief to cases in which there is _not a plain and complete remedy at law_. Before these enactments (and _since_, too, in cases without their scope,) the rigor of the law was mitigated only by the sense of justice in juries; and by sundry expedients--curious enough, to Virginian eyes--which seem to have left few _wrongs_ unremedied. For instance--if I am unjustly cast in a trial at law, by accident or surprise, or for want of testimony which I did not know of till the term was over; not a bill of injunction, but a petition to the judge in vacation, within a limited time, will procure me a new trial. If my debtor fraudulently dispose of his property; instead of a bill in chancery to ferret out the fraud, I may have, along with my execution (if I have obtained judgment) a _summons_ to the colluding purchaser as _garnishee_, to disclose orally on oath, in open court, what effects he has, of the debtor.

Roads are laid off by a board of commissioners, established for that purpose in each county; and invested with judicial powers, in controversies on the subject.

The probat of wills, the granting of administrations, the appointment of guardians, and the supervision of the accounts and conduct of guardians, executors, and administrators, are confided to an officer, called the _Judge of Probat_, appointed in each county for those purposes only; and holding his court monthly, in several convenient places of the county, to hear motions and decide disputes on those subjects. His records and proceedings are kept by a distinct clerk, called the _Register of Probat_; and an appeal lies from his decisions immediately to the supreme court. We, in Virginia, sorely need some tribunal like this; specially charged with the interests of widows and orphans.

Equally worthy to be copied, is the Massachusetts mode of constituting _juries_. Lists of all persons qualified to serve, are kept by the town-clerks; from which, just before a court, the town quota of jurors is drawn by lot: and no one is compellable to serve oftener than once in three years. _They are paid for their service._ Against juries thus formed, I heard no complaints, of partiality, corruption, or undue ignorance. They receive a compensation, which at least defrays their reasonable expenses; and if there be still some burthen, it is borne equally by all, and recurs at such long intervals, as to be absolutely unfelt. How different is our plan, of sending out the sheriff just before a trial, to gather in the sweepings of the court-yard! Suitors and witnesses, attending perhaps for the tenth time, in hopes of having their causes determined--strangers from other counties, nay, travellers from other states--tipplers from the tavern porch--the nearest merchants, mechanics, and farmers, torn suddenly and capriciously from their employments--such is the medley, produced by a system as oppressive to most of the jurors themselves, as it is subversive of the important ends for which they are empanneled. One is really tempted to believe, that in adhering so pertinaciously to a system so obviously defective and so easily remedied, our statesmen have been governed by a fixed design to bring jury-trial itself into disrepute.

Wiser in another respect also than we, these "Bay folk" have no courts (except for cases of twenty dollars or less) held by _men who have not themselves studied the science they are to expound_: no parallel to our county courts--those _crack_ tribunals of some great men, whose admiration arises either from the want of intimate knowledge--they having ranged generally in a higher sphere--or from their enjoying over that bench an _influence_, flattering to their vanity, and blinding to their judgments. How long will the public attention sleep--how long will the hand of reform be palsied--when will an attempt be made to cure the unfitness of these courts for the weighty, multifarious, and difficult functions entrusted to them?--the ludicrous, if it were a less mischievous, uncertainty of their decisions, owing to their ignorance of any fixed rules by which to decide?--the delays, so fatal to justice, that attend their unsteady ministration?--the ruinous accumulation of costs, besides harassment and loss of time in dancing attendance upon them through years of litigation?

{424} The Massachusetts and Connecticut plan, of an _itinerant supreme court_, cannot be commended to imitation. The common arguments, of _bringing justice home to the people_, and _enabling suitors to see in person to their causes_, are not pertinent, where the whole case is contained in the record; where no witnesses are to be summoned or examined--no counsel to be instructed in the cause. Then, the loss of time in travelling, and the want of so extensive a library and so able a bar, as would be formed if the court sat always in one place, must essentially impair the correctness of its decisions, and lower the superiority of its intellect.

The common-law of England is made the basis of Massachusetts law, not, as in Virginia, by a legislative declaration that it shall be so, but by adjudications of the courts, recognizing and adopting it as such. By a still bolder stretch, the courts have acknowledged as generally binding, English statutes made in amendment of the common-law--not only before, but _since_ the foundation of the colony: nay, the terms of the decision do not exclude English statutes subsequent to the American revolution. This comprehensive grafting of a foreign code upon the domestic, not by professed and authorised law-givers, but by mere judges, is perhaps one of the most remarkable instances of judicial legislation, any where to be found: and must have arisen from a licentious spirit of _construction_, which, when it acts upon written laws, may naturally be expected to make them mean almost any thing that the interpreters choose.[3] The admirers of an _unwritten law, reposited in the breasts of judges and to be sought only in precedents and decisions_, may vaunt, if they will, its happy _elasticity_, dilating and contracting to fit every conceivable emergency: but I doubt if (among other evils) it does not nurture habits of latitudinous interpretation, destined to be well nigh fatal to one of the great boasts of modern times--written forms of government. Minds accustomed always to make the law adapt itself to the particular occasion; to regard that _as law_, which the immediate case requires; naturally fritter away constitutions with as little ceremony, as children demolish or alter their sand houses and dirt pies.

[Footnote 3: Hardly less startling an exercise of legislative power by the judiciary, was in the abolition of slavery. The Bill of Rights prefixed to the constitution of Massachusetts, adopted in 1780, asserts, as most of our state constitutions do--substantially copying the Declaration of Independence--"_that all men are born free and equal_, and have certain natural and unalienable rights;" namely, the right of enjoying their lives and liberties, &c. On this, some masters spontaneously yielded freedom to their slaves; others, on its being demanded of them. In 1781, a master who refused, was sued by his slave for a trespass, assault and battery, and false imprisonment; and pleaded, that the plaintiff, being his slave, had no right to sue him. The court held, that slavery was contrary to the first article of the Bill of Rights; and that therefore the plea was bad, and the plaintiff was free. This decision virtually abolished slavery in Massachusetts, without any legislative act for doing so. Some other suits were brought; but in most cases, masters yielded at once. There were then not quite five thousand slaves in the state. Abolition was similarly effected in New Hampshire. It was by legislation in New York, where there were twenty-one thousand slaves, in a whole population of three hundred and forty thousand.]

The chief court of Massachusetts has tasked the readers of law-books, as heavily as our's has done. Its decisions fill twenty-seven or twenty-eight octavo volumes--about our number. The supreme court of New York has issued more than thirty; the supreme court at Washington eighteen or twenty; Pennsylvania, Connecticut, South Carolina--but I forbear the appalling list. Every good law library, however, should have at least the five sets first named; and they are as yet but just begun. If the monstrous increase be not checked, what purse can buy, what head can read (much less remember,) nay what room can hold them, a century hence? Already, indeed, we are grievously over-tasked: for besides the thousands of tomes, English and American, now accumulated,[4] it is impossible to keep pace with the daily accessions, poured forth from a hundred manufactories of legal oracles. Some powerful condenser, or another Caliph Omar, is our only hope. The oppressive bulkiness of law-reports is owing partly to the reporters; but more, to the judges--who, apparently more intent on the display of learning and ingenuity, than upon adjusting the rights of the parties, often swell the simple and clear page or two, which the case requires, into a rambling and voluminous disquisition of twenty pages. Nay, not content with _one_ such disquisition in each case, each judge presents his own; and the reporter spreads them all at length in his next volume. I wish that both judges and reporters could be obliged to study, as models of lucid brevity, Yelverton's Reports, and the still more admirable decisions of Chief Justice Tindal, of the English Common-Pleas[5]--who frequently compresses into half a page or less, what our American judges would wire-draw into half a dozen pages.

[Footnote 4: "Immenso aliarum super alias acervatarum legum cumulo."]

[Footnote 5: In the late "English Common-Law Reports."]

Lawyers are very numerous in Massachusetts--somewhere about seven hundred; of whom one hundred and sixty or one hundred and eighty are in Boston. Their intercourse appears to be marked by the same fraternal spirit, which strews the toilsome path of the profession in the south with so many sweets and flowers. Admission to the bar is procured, not by examination, but by leave of court, on recommendation of those who are already practising there; provided the candidate have studied five years in some lawyer's office; or have so studied three years, and be a graduate of some college. He has, besides, to pay for admission into the supreme court, a fee of thirty dollars, and for the common-pleas, twenty dollars; to be expended towards a joint library, for the use of the bar in each county. These libraries are sometimes large, and well selected. The emoluments of practice, except to the very leaders of the profession, seem far inferior to those of practisers occupying correspondent grades of talent and fame in Virginia: indeed, I doubt whether any but Mr. Webster receives an amount comparable to the incomes of several there, whom I could name. Yet the life of a lawyer is probably more pleasant in Massachusetts. From the pre-requisites to admission, you may infer that well-stored minds abound more with the fraternity: at least it was so, till our university, and our several excellent law-schools, began to give a clearer and more expanded ken to the mental optics of our young lawyers. Then, in society at large--certainly in the towns and villages--there is more literature afloat in Massachusetts: amusements are of a more rational cast. Where _we_ have a horse-race, a barbecue, a whist-party, or a _pool_ at back-gammon, our Yankee brethren have a meeting of some lyceum, or other society for mutual {425} improvement, at which a lecture is given or a debate held, upon some interesting subject, of economy or morals: or an unceremonious evening visit is dedicated to conversation, in which politics engross no unreasonable share. The newspapers--even the most violent political ones--at once attest and foster the prevalent taste for general knowledge, by devoting a considerable part of their sheets to literary and useful matter: unlike the two giants of the press in Virginia, that can hardly ever spare a column, and never a page, from the embittering--aye, the brutalizing--themes of party strife, to topics which might exalt, enlighten, purify, innocently amuse, and humanize the public mind. There is less locomotion in the practice of a Massachusetts lawyer: he rarely attends more than two counties; for the most part, only one. This, if he loves domestic life, is a great point for him. And in the ordering of a New England home-stead, there is a quiet, smooth despatch--a neatness--a happy fitting of means to ends--a nicety of contrivances for comfort--an economy of trouble in every thing--all calculated doubly to endear it to a home-loving man. When to all this we add, that though the prime necessaries of life are cheaper with us, those elegancies and luxuries which as the world goes have become necessaries, are so much more accessible in New England, as to make a smaller income yield a larger store of comfort; it will not seem wonderful, that the balance of enjoyment is on the Massachusetts lawyer's side. I take for granted, you see, that he is not insensible to intellectual pleasures; and that _they_ conduce the most of all to happiness.

This is probably the last time you will hear from me before we meet; as my tour is drawing near its close. The six weeks it has occupied, have been crowded with more mind-stirring incident, than any six months of my previous life. Vivid indeed is the contrast, between the plodding, eventless tenor of the preceding eight years, and the exciting, the feverish interest of these six weeks. Yet they have afforded scarcely a describable adventure; nothing, at all calculated to make an auditor's eyes stretch wide, or his hair stand on end. In truth, the interest is explicable in great part by the simple case of a plough-horse, turned loose to kick up his heels for an hour. He enjoys the recreation (if his spirit is not broken by excessive work,) five fold more than a daily roamer of the pasture could do. Judge how the sport has kept my faculties aroused, by the fact, that though habitually a great sleeper, requiring seven or eight hours in the twenty-four, my sleep, since leaving Virginia, would hardly average five hours. Even while on foot--walking from twenty to thirty miles a day--my nightly allowance was sometimes less than five, never more than six hours.

Let me commend to tourists, _foot-travelling_--if they wish to see a country thoroughly: I do not mean its rivers and mountains, cities, forests, and churches, but its MEN and WOMEN. _These_ "constitute a State." Whoever would see _them_ in their truest, every-day garb--of dress and manners--upon occasions and amid scenes, where refined disguises are laid aside, and life appears with the least sophistication possible in our state of society; should walk among them without equipage and in very plain clothes; call in at their houses--partake of their meals--nay, find some excuse for tarrying a day or two at one place--enter their schools, and their public meetings--see them at their work--and hold "various talk" with them. In two or three weeks thus employed, he will obtain a deeper insight into their customs, character and institutions, than from months spent in whirling along the highways, and attending formal dinner parties. Unless he is a hardened pedestrian, he should take care to begin by short journies, of only eight, ten, or fifteen miles a day; and not till after five or six days, stretch away at thirty miles daily. Otherwise he may cripple himself, so as greatly to mar the pleasure of his jaunt. I speak from sore experience on this point.

Though I have been obliged to concede to the Yankees, a superiority in some respects over ourselves, you will not suspect me of having over-colored my limnings, or of having wantonly--much less ill-naturedly--disparaged our good old commonwealth. Without wishing to lower the generally just and salutary, (though sometimes amusing) pride her children feel at the bare mention of her honored name, I have aimed to draw their attention to some traits of Yankee life and character, which we may advantageously copy--nay, the _want of which_ is the main cause of our lagging march in the numberless improvements, that distinguish this age, and appear so fruitful of blessings to mankind. My aim too has been, to disabuse them of a few of the prejudices, which ignorance and misrepresentation have fostered against our Northern brethren. Let any one who thinks I have exaggerated their excellencies, only come among them, and see for himself; bringing to the scrutiny _a candid mind_, prepared to _allow_ for unavoidable differences.--Indeed our people ought to travel northward oftener. It would be a good thing, if exploring parties were frequently sent hither, (as to a moral _terra incognita_,) to observe and report the particulars deserving of our imitation. Our independent planters, and shrewd, notable housewives, could not make such an excursion, without carrying home a hundred _notions_, for which they and their neighbors would be the richer and better all their days. Nor might they profit less, by sending their statesmen and law-givers, to take lessons in civil polity. There are admirable things of every magnitude; from TOWNSHIP GOVERNMENTS, COMMON SCHOOLS, and COURTS OF PROBAT, down to _closed doors_, _splayed_ and _rumfordized_ fire-places,[6] _seasoned wood_,[7] {426} and _cold light-bread_.[8] Some things, too, they would see, to be shunned: I need only name excessive _banking_,--enormously multiplied _corporations_, for manufacturing, and other purposes--and, what strikes yet more fatally at the foundation of popular government, the _caucus_ system. But the strongest reason for a more frequent intercourse, is the liberalizing of mind that would result; the unlearning of our long cherished prejudices, from seeing the Yankees _at home_--that place, where human character may always be the most accurately judged. They too, have some (though fewer and less bitter,) reciprocal prejudices, to be cured by a more intimate acquaintance. No mind but must see the unspeakable importance of weeding away these mutual and groundless dislikes. The perpetuity of our union--and the liberty, the peace, the happiness of its members--in a great degree depend upon the accomplishment of that expurgation. There cannot be a simpler _recipe_. _The North and the South need only know each other better, to love each other more._

[Footnote 6: When the sides of a fire-place are slanting, instead of being square with the back, they are said to be _splayed_. When the back leans forward at top, approaching the inner side of the arch or front top, so as to make the flue only six or eight inches wide, it is said to be _Rumford-ized_, If my readers pardon me for being thus elementary, I will presume further upon it, and add, that the latter term comes from Count _Rumford_, who invented that improvement. The sides of a New England fire-place often slope at an angle of 120 or 130 degrees with the back; so as to make the width _behind_, not more than half the width in front. The wood is usually sawed, to fit the hinder part of the fire-place.]

[Footnote 7: The wood is cut 12, sometimes 15 or 18 months, before it is burned. If cut in the summer, it is suffered to lie out for a few months, and then put away till the second winter, in the _wood-house_; a constant and close appendage to every dwelling. Southrons have no idea, though Yankees have experimental knowledge, of the saving and comfort there is in using this, instead of green wood--how vastly further any given quantity of the former will go, in producing heat. It has been satisfactorily shewn, that in a cord of green wood, there are about 140 or 150 gallons of _water_; all of which must be changed to steam--that is, _evaporated_--before the particles of the wood in which it is lodged can burn: and in doing this, just so much _heat_ is expended, which would otherwise be employed in warming the room. The time spent in this process, makes our people fancy that green wood actually _burns_ longer than dry: and because a dozen billets of green, when the water is entirely evaporated, give out more heat than four dry ones, they think that hotter fires can be made of green wood!]

[Footnote 8: The bread should not be eaten till it is _cured_, or stale; i.e., at least twenty-four hours old; and it is _good_, for several days more. The superior wholesomeness of _cured_ bread is explained by the fact, that on coming out of the oven, it has an over-proportion of carbonic acid gas--well known to be poisonous when unmixed; but by lying in the open air, the bread parts with most of this noxious gas, and imbibes instead of it, oxygen gas--the wholesome, vital _principle_ in the atmosphere.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE WALTZ AND THE GALLOPADE.

MR. WHITE,--Although a short time only has passed since I wrote you a long letter, partly to fulfil a promise made before your Messenger began to perform his most welcome peregrinations, yet the spirit moveth me irresistibly to address you again. The immediate cause of this second tax upon your patience being so soon levied, is the perusal of an article published some time ago in that spirited paper, the "Constitutional Whig" of your city,--wherein, to my great gratification, its talented editor has lashed in well merited style, that outrage upon the yet unsophisticated manners and customs of our country, seen, I believe, for the first time in the city of Washington last winter, as if in mockery of the character and memory of its illustrious founder. I mean the "Fancy Ball," as it is styled by those who have undertaken to describe it; although with all due deference to their superior taste and knowledge, I would venture to suggest "the frantic hurlyburly" as a more appropriate term. I do this from having some reason to believe, that a more deplorable caricature of what was designed to be represented, was never perpetrated by the would-be fashionables in any country--either _in_ or _out_ of Christendom. This foreign and apish intruder has not yet, thank heaven, gained such footing among us, as altogether to preclude the hope of extirpating it from the land, if a few such pens as that wielded by the editor of the Whig, could be exerted for so laudable a purpose; and therefore it is that I venture to cry--"to the rescue," in the hope that several others will obey the call. Let it once be deemed "_the fashion_" to have "Fancy Balls," and even the greatest clodhoppers among us are sufficiently acquainted with the despotism of this tyrant, to know that _his_ behests will bid defiance alike to reason, ridicule, and reproof--to good sense, good manners, and good principles.

I am much gratified, Mr. Editor, at another circumstance brought to my notice incidentally by this article in the "Whig." It is, that our language, copious as it certainly is, does not yet afford terms of its own to express several of the foreign fooleries and attempts to corrupt our yet simple, unaffected character, described as a part of this extraordinary exhibition, "the Fancy Ball;" such, for example, as the waltz and the gallopade. For the benefit of those who may wish to know the literal meaning of these outlandish terms, without the means of gratifying such wish, I beg leave to offer the fruit of my researches--aided, as I confess myself to have been, by far better scholars than I am.

The first term--"_waltz_," is evidently of German extraction, being plainly derived from the verb "_walzen_" which, with the adjunct "_sich_," means to roll, welter, or wallow oneself; and with the prefix "_das_" becomes the participle rolling, weltering, wallowing; from which selfish process the transition is quite easy, to roll, or welter, or wallow another. In either case the predominant idea is, that the term describes some action natural to an animal of the order Belluæ; for our English correlative terms are never applied to human beings, but by way of derision or contempt expressed in figurative language. Quere: how does it accord with human pride and vanity--how far is it reconcileable to the lowest aspirations that we are ever willing to acknowledge ourselves capable of feeling, to be ambitious of imitating either hogs, horses, or monkies in our actions?

If there could be any doubt in regard to the derivation of the first term "_waltz_," or the object of the practice of _waltzing_, the etymology of the second term "_gallopade_," must settle the question beyond farther controversy; and must prove that an imitation of certain belluine gambols and gesticulations most be the grand desideratum in adopting these exotic fashions. "_Gallopade_" is manifestly from the French word "_galloper_," and that again from the Greek "_kalpazein_" to gallop like a horse. From all this it seems perfectly clear, that this latter dance at least, (if it may be so called,) in order to honor its Greek Etymon, should be performed on _all fours_; since for a biped successfully to imitate any action of a quadruped, in which all its limbs are used, the biped must make its arms, if it has any, execute the function of legs. The quadruped resemblance then, which seems to be the thing coveted, would be brought as near to perfection as the nature of the case could possibly admit. Add to this, it is the best imaginable expedient for working off that dissatisfaction at the ways of Providence which these gallopading or galloping gentry appear to feel, at perceiving that all the genera of the Belluæ order, (unless, perhaps, the Kangaroo may be excepted,) have been so much more liberally dealt with, as to be provided with one more pair of legs than they have. It may however be well questioned, how far it is _good policy_ (to say no worse of it,) to encourage this downward tendency, since the natural proclivity of our species to indulge brute appetites and passions is generally allowed to {427} be already much greater than becomes us who claim to be the only rational part of God's visible creation. Heaven knows that we even _now_ approximate far too closely to the lower order of animals in many of our propensities and practices, not to take any particular pains, nor to use any extraordinary exertions to render this approximation still more striking. If we can not prevail upon ourselves to cherish higher aspirations, to act in a manner more worthy of our exalted station among living and sentient beings, let us at least strive hard _not to retrograde_.

So much, Mr. Editor, for _the degradation_ of these foreign fooleries. But their _demoralizing tendencies_ are matters of much higher concern--of infinitely deeper interest. Let me endeavor to point them out. The perfection of the "_waltz_" consists in exhibiting to the gaze of a numerous company of both sexes, the female form in every variety of position and attitude into which activity of body and suppleness of limb can throw it--short of what all would exclaim against as absolutely indecent, continually however verging to that point. No modest woman ever beheld it for the first time, without the burning blush of shame and confusion. As to the horse galloping dance, I know not what allurement _that_ may in time be capable of producing, since it is not yet sufficiently domesticated to be well understood, nor very skilfully executed--to say nothing of the very reasonable doubts yet entertained by many nice calculators on such intricate subjects, whether such a thing be possible as either an alluring or graceful gallop performed by horse, man, or woman. But that which I have said of the "_waltz_," none can deny, however some may be disposed to palliate it, by alleging that all its numerous postures and gyrations are still practised under that powerful sense of decorum which the ladies of our country, (God bless them,) who venture to indulge in it, have not yet been able entirely to subdue. But the anxious question is,--_can this always last?_ Can a sense of _decorum_ or of _any thing else_ continue under the constant operation of causes tending powerfully, nay, inevitably, to annihilate it? There is nothing so great that time cannot destroy--nothing so small that it may not increase to an almost inconceivable magnitude. Thus it is, comparatively speaking, with our best principles--our most approved manners. Injuries too slight at first to be regarded or feared, accumulate by unperceived or neglected degrees, until at last they grow past remedy, and all is lost that was worthy of preservation. Can our beloved wives and daughters--beloved, because still uncontaminated by foreign corruptions--can _they_ suffer themselves to be continually whirled about in all the giddy, exciting mazes of the licentious waltz, like so many French or Italian Opera girls, without impairing or losing all self-respect--all that most lovely and endearing modesty for which they have ever been so justly celebrated, so highly prized? Can not polished manners, easy carriage, graceful deportment, be taught at less sacrifice, less risk, than by calling in for the purpose these deleterious foreign auxiliaries? Surely--_most surely_ they may; for all, I think, will admit, that no more admirable and perfect examples of these qualities _can_, or probably ever _will_ be found, than among the ladies of what may be called _the old school_, many of whom to our own great happiness, are yet spared to teach their daughters, among numerous useful lessons, that neither waltzing nor horse-like-galloping is at all necessary to gain for them all the esteem, regard, and devoted love which they can possibly deem essential to their happiness in the present life. Thoughtless as too many of our young men are, and desirous as they may often be to choose waltzing and gallopading young ladies for _partners in a dance_, most rarely do they yet commit the egregious folly of seeking them as _partners for life_. However giddy, rash, and improvident some of them may be in other respects, they are too well aware that a fondness for these indecorous displays of the person--these ridiculous, antic gambols, will do any thing rather than fit their practitioners for the various, complicated, and arduous duties of the married state--through _not one of which_ can either a waltz or a gallopade carry them with the least credit to themselves or benefit to their families. Better--far better would it be for these daughters to live and die utterly ignorant of what dancing is, than to be qualified to participate in its pleasures, at the hazard of soiling, in the slightest degree, that spotless purity of feelings and character, which _we men_ rank (and long, very long may we have a right to do so,) as the richest, the most precious by far of all our moral possessions. Deprive us of these, and we shall be poor--miserably poor indeed! Rather let our beloved girls be subject forever to the ridicule and contempt of all the infatuated votaries of these modern and foreign[1] corruptions, both of our manners and principles, than to be longer exposed to their deeply pernicious influence.

[Footnote 1: That your readers may know what our English friends think of waltzing and gallopading, I take the liberty to add the following extract from an article in the New Monthly Magazine, "on the Revolutions of the 19th century." Here it is--

"Look at our balls: In 1800, modest woman danced modestly; and let the conversation which passed between two partners, standing as far distant from each other as people ordinarily do in a drawing room, be what it might, it could do no harm in the way of example. Within this century it has become the fashion for a delicate girl, who would, as Fielding's 'Huncamunca' says--'shudder at the gross idea' of man's advance, to permit herself, and be permitted by her mother--aye, or her husband, to flourish about a room to a wriggling German air, with a strange man's arm round her waist, and her delicate hand upon his brawny shoulder. This thing is called--_a waltz_: there is another of the same character, called--_a gallopade_, where the same operations are performed, and in which, instead of turning the woman about until she gets giddy, the fellow makes no more ado, but claps her up in his paws, and hurries right on end from one corner of the room to another."

Thus speaks one of the most popular periodicals in England of these foreign abominations; and it is for Virginia parents and heads of families to say, whether they shall be naturalized among us, or banished from our society as a moral pestilence.]

I am no enemy, sir, to dancing; for I believe it to be not only an exhilirating, healthful, and joyous amusement, but also entirely innocent, when not carried to excess: quite as innocent as any other imaginable thing that can properly be called amusement, in which the two sexes participate together. But at every hazard of incurring the ridicule and scorn of our American exquisites, I denounce waltzing and gallopading, because, from my inmost soul, I dread any thing and every thing that threatens, in the slightest degree, to change, for the worse, the character of _the Virginia lady_; for upon _that character_ I most conscientiously believe, the happiness both of ourselves and our children--aye, and of our children's children, vitally depends. I cling to _it_ {428} therefore as our best, our last hope, to guard us against all corrupting innovations. Those upon which I have ventured to address you, will probably be deemed very trivial matters, I dare say, by thousands; but many of our ladies, I trust, whose opinions have still much influence in all our social circles; many who will acknowledge me for their true, devoted friend, although quite too old to be their beau, will decide, that I have not ascribed too much power to these exotic fashions. Like all other corrupting influences, they have gradually insinuated themselves into favor; their approach has not been so sudden and violent as to excite alarm. Of this fact, there is no stronger evidence, than that which is furnished by the history of the waltz itself, which, trifling as it may seem, _will and must_ have a powerfully demoralizing effect, especially when followed up by its congenial ally, Masquerades,--of which the fancy-ball-folly is the certain precursor. Mark the prediction, sir, for I know it will be laughed to scorn by all the fashionables of the present day, although I ask only two years for its fulfilment, but expect it much sooner.

When the waltz first made its appearance in this country, it was exhibited only on the public stage, and _even there_ met with almost universal reprobation, except from a few reckless profligates, whose sole object in life is mere sensual indulgence. None so much as surmised that such a dance could ever be introduced into private society. At last, a few adventurous foreigners succeeded in introducing it into private parties: but, for a considerable time, _they themselves_ were the only performers. It was long before our country-women could so far forget the early lessons of decorum, self respect, and modesty, taught them by their mothers, as to make that public display and spectacle of their persons, which must unavoidably be made, in waltzing at all, if executed as the fashion required. But these most natural and laudable feelings, which caused them to revolt at such an innovation, such an outrage against all their preconceived notions of propriety, have gradually yielded to the almost resistless force of example "_in high places_," until the waltz has not only domiciliated itself permanently in nearly all our towns and cities, but has enlisted in its defence many bold country advocates. The few ladies, (comparatively speaking,) among us, who yet have firmness and moral courage enough, to resist what they deem a very pernicious example, cannot, I fear, long maintain their most laudable opposition, against such a host of assailants. Even _you_, Mr. Editor, (if you will pardon my freedom in making the remark,) seem a little inclined--judging by some late comments of your's upon waltzing--to submit to the practice without further resistance.

Having made up my mind, Mr. Editor, to meet as I can, for this attack upon foreign fashions, the sneers and scoffs of all our American exquisites, should any condescend to notice me--a class of bipeds (by the way,) who bear the same sort of resemblance to their European prototypes, that the buffoon does to the head performer in a company of tumblers and rope dancers--I shall say nothing to deprecate their displeasure. But I must still beg leave to assign a few of my chief reasons for addressing you on this occasion, lest that numerous and highly respectable portion of your readers, whose good opinion I am anxious to retain, may mistake my motives. Without some satisfactory explanation, some of them might even be tempted to exclaim at me, as old Edie Ochiltree did at the Antiquary--"Lordsake! he's gaun gyte!"--"he has run crazy, to venture upon taking by the horns this mad creature, Fashion, as if his feeble arm could at all check the wild headlong course of such an animal." To prevent such comments, if possible, I will urge in my own justification, should any be necessary, that I have done this deed, because I deem it an essential part of every aged person's obligations to his fellow men, as long as life lasts, to oppose either orally or in print, for the benefit of the youth of our country, every innovation, be it what it may, which threatens to affect them injuriously. Whether they will listen to him or not, depends upon themselves; _his duty_ in this behalf will have been fulfilled. I have done it too, because I believe, that the most feeble laborer with honest intentions, in a good cause, may accomplish some good which will amply compensate him for his efforts. I have done it, because apparent trifles are rarely noticed in books, although many of these trifles have a most powerful and deleterious influence, not only on our principles of action, but over our manners and conduct. And lastly, I have done it, because I believe, without the most remote possibility of this conviction ever being changed, that the happiness of _the present_, as well as of _every future generation_, depends upon preserving unsullied the purity of the female character. _The matrons_ of our country are the first, the most watchful, the best guardians of our children, where they themselves have been virtuously educated. _They_ form the manners and character of these children: _they_ sow the seeds of all their good qualities: _they_ first discover and cherish with boundless affection and solicitude, the earliest dawnings of each amiable disposition; and never relax while life lasts, their anxious efforts to fit them both for their present and future state of existence. How momentous then! how vitally important it is! that, when the mothers depart hence to another and a happier world, their surviving daughters should be qualified to take their places, with equal capacity to fulfil all their duties. But this, alas, cannot possibly be, without the most zealous, unremitting and assiduous care, to guard them, as we would the most inestimable of our possessions, against all demoralizing influences whatever. Corrupt the source, and what will be the effect of its streams? Poison the fountain, and who can drink of its waters without death--death, both in a figurative and literal sense? An atom of dust in itself is unworthy of notice; but in reference to the great planet we inhabit, it is a constituent and essential part. A drop of water alone, is apparently valueless; yet the mighty ocean itself is composed of individual drops, without which its bed would be an arid desert.

The application of these general remarks to our subject, is too manifest, I hope, to be mistaken. Let nothing, therefore, however trivial it may appear on a cursory view, be deemed unworthy of serious attention, which either directly or indirectly, can injuriously affect the yet distinctive, still unsullied character of our justly and dearly beloved country-women.

Having thus thought and felt, as long as I have been at all capable of serious reflection, it is quite too late to change: I am consequently prepared to submit unmoved to whatever sentence may be pronounced against this second communication, from your friend, and constant reader,

OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.

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[The following amusing incident, is related in the lively manner for which its author is much celebrated. The moral predicated upon the bashfulness of his visiter, seems however disproportionably serious. There are few cases of such extreme _mauvaise honte_ in the present day, when an excess of _modest assurance_ (by some denominated impudence,) is rather to be complained of.]

From the New York Mirror.

A BASHFUL GENTLEMAN.

BY M. M. NOAH.

Modesty, diffidence, and a proper humility, are jewels in the cap of merit; but downright bashfulness, your real _mauvaise honte_ is terrible, and is a distinct mark of ill-breeding, or rather of no breeding at all. Your dashing impudent fops, who say a thousand silly things to the ladies, and flutter around them like butterflies, are yet more endurable than your bashful fellow who sneaks into a corner, terrified to catch a look, or exchange a word with a pretty woman.

Such an identical person paid me a visit on one of the cold days last week, and broke in upon me with a thousand bows and apologies, while busily engaged with pen in hand, thinking of a whig candidate for president, who would not run the risk of being knocked on the head by our friends the moment his name was announced.

"Sit down, sir, if you please; make no more apologies; sit down and tell me your business." "Well, sir, I'm come for a curious business, quite an intrusion, I'm sure, but so it is; necessity knows no ceremony. Some time ago I read in your paper a description of the miseries of an old bachelor, and it was so to the life--so true, and so exactly my condition, that I have made bold to call on you for advice; for misery, they say, loves company, and one wretched bachelor may be able to counsel another--thus it is.--" "Stop, stop, my friend; before you proceed, let me correct an error in which you have, no doubt, inadvertently fallen. Though I may be able from memory to describe the misery of single wretchedness, I had not the courage constantly to face it. You must not be deceived, I am no longer a bachelor; do you want the proofs, look there; that black-eyed, ruddy cheeked fellow on the carpet, employed in cutting out ships and houses from old newspapers, is my oldest; he designs himself to be an editor, for he contends that nothing is easier; it is only, he says, cutting out slips from one paper and putting them into another. That little one who struts about in a paper cocked-hat and wooden sword, with which, ever and anon, he pokes at my ribs, while deeply engaged in considering how the nation is to be saved, is my second hopeful; he is a Jackson man; all children, sir, are Jackson men; he goes for a soldier if there be wars. That little golden-haired urchin, with a melting blue eye, who is sure to ask me for candy, while I am describing, in bitter terms, the tyranny of the Albany regency, is my youngest; and there, with a basket of stockings near her, sits my better half; there is the sparkling fire, and here are my slippers: does all this look like the miseries of a bachelor?" "Well, I beg your pardon, sir, for believing that you were as wretched as I am; but still when you hear my story you may possibly advise me what is best to be done." "Go on, sir." "Well, sir, thus it is: My father realized a handsome property by his industry, which he left to me; but such were his rigid notions of the necessity of constant occupation to prevent idleness and other evils, that my time was employed, after I had left school, which was at an early age, from sunrise to bed-time. It was an incessant round of occupation--labor, keeping books, and making out bills. Behold me now, at the age of twenty-three, with a good constitution, correct principles, and a handsome income. I have lost my parents--am alone in the world. I wish to marry, but really, sir, to my shame I confess it, I have no acquaintance among young ladies. I do not know any. My secluded manner of living has prevented my cultivating their acquaintance; and if by accident I am thrown into their society, my tongue is literally tied. I do not know how to address them--I am not conversant with the topics which are usually discussed. In short, sir, I wish to advertise for a wife, and not knowing how to draw up such an advertisement, I came to beg that favor at your hands."

"So, so," said I to myself, "here's a little modesty tumbled into decay--'Coelebs in search of a wife.'" He was a good-looking young fellow, and had a quick eye, which led me very much to doubt his reserved, retired and abashed condition before the ladies.

"Have you, sir, considered the risk in taking a wife in this strange way? How very liable you may be to gross imposition? What lady of delicacy or reputation would venture to contract an alliance so very solemn and obligatory, through the channel of a newspaper advertisement?" "Very probably, sir; but a poor honest girl might be struck with it; a clever, well-educated daughter, ill-treated by a fiery step-mother, might, in despair, change her condition for a better one; nay, a spirited girl might admire the novelty, and boldly make the experiment." "Well, sir, and how are you to conduct the negotiation with your native bashfulness? You have no superannuated grandmother or old maiden aunt to arrange preliminaries." "That's very true; but, sir, necessity will give me confidence, and despair afford me courage."

I wrote the advertisement for him, which he thankfully and carefully placed in his pocket-book, and bade us good morning. "Poor devil," said I, "here's a condition--here's a novelty--here's a _rara avis!_ a fellow of twenty-three, with a good character and income, and not sufficient impudence to ask for a wife. I know lots of young ladies who would have sufficient charity to break him of his bashfulness in a few lessons."

However, his case is not a novel one. It shows the necessity of parents accustoming their sons in early life to cultivate the society of respectable females. They should be encouraged in any disposition they may manifest for good female society, although they may incur the charge of being either a beau or a dandy. Boys should go to dancing-school, not only because it teaches them grace, but it accustoms them in early life to the society of women. They dance with those girls, whom, in later periods, they may admire and respect as ladies. The lives of children should be checkered with innocent amusements--study and labor require such relief; and they should not be brought up in close confinement, in a doggerel way which unfits them for society when they are men; nor be driven to the dire necessity of advertising for a wife, and taking the risk of such a desperate adventure.

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From the Knickerbocker.

A SCENE IN REAL LIFE.

'The facts not otherwise than here set down.' _Wife of Mantua_.

Amidst the exaggerations of modern literature, and the fictions of that exuberant fancy, which in these latter days is tasked to gratify a public taste somewhat vitiated, it is useful to present occasional views of actual existence. Such are contained in the following sketch, which is studiously simple in its language, and every event of which is strictly true. We have this assurance from a source entitled to implicit credit.

_Editors Knickerbocker_.

There is a vast amount of suffering in the world that escapes general observation. In the lanes and alleys of our populous cities, in the garrets and cellars of dilapidated buildings, there are pregnant cases of misery, degradation, and crime, of which those who live in comfortable houses, and pursue the ordinary duties of life, have neither knowledge nor conception. By mere chance, occasionally, a solitary instance of depravity and awful death is exposed, but the startling details which are placed before the community, are regarded as gross exaggerations. It is difficult for those who are unacquainted with human nature in its darkest aspects, to conceive the immeasurable depth to which crime may sink a human being,--and the task of attempting to delineate a faithful picture of such depravity, though it might interest the philosopher, would be revolting to the general reader. There are, however, cases of folly and error, which should be promulgated as warnings, and the incidents of the annexed sketch are of this character. Mysterious are the ways of Providence in punishing the transgressions of men,--and indisputable is the truth, that Death is the wages of Sin.

* * * * *

Twenty years ago, no family in the fashionable circles of Philadelphia was more distinguished than that of Mr. L----: no lady was more admired and esteemed than his lovely and accomplished wife. They had married in early life, with the sanction of relations and friends, and under a conviction that each was obtaining a treasure above all price. They loved devotedly and with enthusiasm, and their bridal day was a day of pure and unadulterated happiness to themselves, and of pleasure to those who were present to offer their congratulations on the joyous event. The happy pair were the delight of a large circle of acquaintances. In her own parlor, or in the drawing-rooms of her friends, the lady was ever the admiration of those who crowded around her, to listen to the rich melody of her voice, or to enjoy the flashes of wit and intelligence which characterized her conversation.

Without the egotism and vanity which sometimes distinguish those to whom society pays adulation, and too prudent and careful in her conduct to excite any feeling of jealousy in the breast of her confiding husband, Mrs. L----'s deportment was in all respects becoming a woman of mind, taste, and polished education. Her chosen companion noticed her career with no feelings of distrust, but with pride and satisfaction. He was happy in the enjoyment of her undivided love and affection, and happy in witnessing the evidences of esteem which her worth and accomplishments elicited. Peace and prosperity smiled on his domestic circle, and his offspring grew up in loveliness, to add new pleasures to his career.

The youngest of his children was a daughter, named Letitia, after her mother, whom, in many respects, she promised to resemble. She had the same laughing blue eyes, the same innocent and pure expression of countenance, and the same general outline of feature. At an early age her sprightliness, acute observation, and aptitude in acquiring information, furnished sure evidences of intelligence, and extraordinary pains were taken to rear her in such a manner as to develope, advantageously, her natural powers. The care of her education devolved principally upon her mother, and the task was assumed with a full consciousness of its responsibility.

With the virtuous mother, whose mind is unshackled by the absurdities of extreme fashionable life, there are no duties so weighty, and at the same time so pleasing, as those connected with the education of an only daughter. The weight of responsibility involves not only the formation of an amiable disposition and correct principles, but in a great measure, the degree of happiness which the child may subsequently enjoy. Errors of education are the fruitful source of misery, and to guard against these is a task which requires judgment, and unremitting diligence. But for this labor, does not the mother receive a rich reward? Who may tell the gladness of her heart, when the infant cherub first articulates her name? Who can describe the delightful emotions elicited by the early development of her genius,--the expansion of the intellect when it first receives and treasures with eagerness, the seeds of knowledge? These are joys known only to mothers, and they are joys which fill the soul with rapture.

Letitia was eight years old, when a person of genteel address and fashionable appearance, named Duval, was introduced to her mother by her father, with whom he had been intimate when a youth, and between whom a strong friendship had existed from that period. Duval had recently returned from Europe, where he had resided a number of years. He was charmed with the family, and soon became a constant visitor. Having the entire confidence of his old friend and companion, all formality in reference to intercourse was laid aside, and he was heartily welcomed at all hours, and under all circumstances. He formed one in all parties of pleasure, and in the absence of his friend, accompanied his lady on her visits of amusement and pleasure,--a privilege which he sedulously improved whenever opportunity offered.

Duval, notwithstanding his personal attractions and high character as a 'gentleman,' belonged to a class of men which has existed more or less in all ages, to disgrace humanity. He professed to be a philosopher, but was in reality a libertine. He lived for his own gratification. It monopolized all his thoughts, and directed all his actions. He belonged to the school of Voltaire, and recognized no feeling of the heart as pure, no tie of duty or affection as sacred. No consideration of suffering, of heart-rending grief, on the part of his victim, were sufficient to intimidate his purpose, or check his career of infamy. Schooled in hypocrisy, dissimulation was his business: and he regarded the whole world as the sphere of his operations,--the whole human family as legitimate subjects for his villainous depravity.

That such characters,--so base, so despicable, so lost to all feelings of true honor,--can force their way into respectable society, and poison the minds of the unsullied {431} and virtuous, may well be a matter of astonishment to those unacquainted with the desperate artfulness of human hearts. But these monsters appear not in their true character: they assume the garb and deportment of gentlemen, of philosophers, of men of education and refinement, and by their accomplishments, the suavity of their manners, their sprightliness of conversation, bewilder before they poison, and fascinate before they destroy.

If there be, in the long catalogue of guile, one character more hatefully despicable than another, it is the libertine. Time corrects the tongue of slander, and the generosity of friends makes atonement for the depredations of the midnight robber. Sufferings and calamities may be assuaged or mitigated by the sympathies of kindred hearts, and the tear of affection is sufficient to wash out the remembrance of many of the sorrows to which flesh is heir. But for the venom of the libertine, there is no remedy,--of its fatal consequences, there is no mitigation. His victims, blasted in reputation, are forever excluded from the pale of virtuous society. No sacrifice can atone for their degradation, for the unrelenting and inexorable finger of scorn obstructs their progress at every step. The visitation of death, appalling as is his approach to the unprepared, were a mercy, compared with the extent and permanency of this evil.

Duval's insidious arts were not unobserved by his intended victim. She noticed the gradual development of his pernicious principles, and shrunk with horror from their contaminating influence. She did not hesitate to communicate her observations to her husband,--but he, blinded by prejudice in favor of his friend, laughed at her scruples. Without a word of caution, therefore, his intercourse was continued,--and such was the weight of his ascendant power,--such the perfection of his deep laid scheme, and such his facility in glossing over what he termed _pardonable_, but which, in reality, were grossly licentious, indiscretions of language and conduct,--that even the lady herself was induced, in time, to believe that she had treated him unjustly. The gradual progress of licentiousness is almost imperceptible, and before she was aware of her error, she had drunk deeply of the intoxicating draught, and had well nigh become a convert to Duval's system of philosophy. Few who approach this fearful precipice are able to retrace their steps. The senses are bewildered,--reason loses its sway,--and a whirlpool of maddening emotions takes possession of the heart, and hurries the infatuated victim to irretrievable death. Before her suspicions were awakened, the purity of her family circle was destroyed. Duval enrolled on his list of conquests a new name,--_the wife of his bosom friend!_

An immediate divorce was the consequence. The misguided woman, who but late had been the ornament of society and the pride of her family, was cast out upon the world, unprotected, and without the smallest resource. The heart of the husband was broken by the calamity which rendered this step necessary, and he retired, with his children, to the obscurity of humble life.

* * * * *

At a late hour on one of those bitter cold evenings experienced in the early part of January, of the present year, two females, a mother and daughter, both wretchedly clad, stood shivering at the entrance of a cellar, in the lower part of the city, occupied by two persons of color. The daughter appeared to be laboring under severe indisposition, and leaned for support on the arm of her mother, who, knocking at the door, craved shelter and warmth for the night. The door was half opened in answer to the summons, but the black who appeared on the stairs, declared that it was out of his power to comply with the request, as he had neither fire,--except that which was furnished by a handful of tan,--nor covering for himself and wife. The mother, however, too much inured to suffering to be easily rebuked, declared that herself and daughter were likely to perish from cold, and that even permission to rest on the floor of the cellar, where they would be protected, in some degree, from the 'nipping and eager air,' would be a charity for which they would ever be grateful. She alleged, as an excuse for the claim to shelter, that she had been ejected, a few minutes before, from a small room which, with her daughter, she had occupied in a neighboring alley, and for which she had stipulated to pay fifty cents per week, because she had found herself unable to meet the demand,--every resource for obtaining money having been cut off by the severity of the season. The black, more generous than many who are more ambitious of a reputation for benevolence, admitted the shivering applicants, and at once resigned, for their accommodation for the night, the only two seats in the cellar, and cast a fresh handful of tan upon the ashes in the fire place.

It was a scene of wretchedness, want, and misery, calculated to soften the hardest heart, and to enlist the feelings and sympathies of the most selfish. The regular tenants of the cellar were the colored man and his wife, who gained a scanty and precarious subsistence, as they were able, by casual employment in the streets, or in neighboring houses. Having in summer made no provision for the inclemencies of winter, they were then utterly destitute. They had sold their articles of clothing and furniture, one by one, to provide themselves with bread, until all were disposed of, but two broken chairs, a box that served for a table, and a small piece of carpeting, which answered the double purpose of a bed and covering. Into this department of poverty were the mother and daughter,--lately ejected from a place equally destitute of the comforts of life,--introduced. The former was a woman of about fifty years, but the deep furrows on her face, and her debilitated frame, betokened a more advanced age. Her face was wan and pale, and her haggard countenance and tattered dress, indicated a full measure of wretchedness. Her daughter sat beside her, and rested her head on her mother's lap. She was about twenty-five years of age, and might once have been handsome,--but a life of debauchery had thus early robbed her cheeks of their roses and prostrated her constitution. The pallidness of disease was on her face,--anguish was in her heart.

Hours passed on. In the gloom of midnight, the girl awoke from a disturbed and unrefreshing slumber. She was suffering from acute pain, and in the almost total darkness which pervaded the apartment, raised her hand to her mother's face. 'Mother,' said she, in faltering accents, 'are you here?'

'Yes, child: are you better?'

'No, mother,--I am sick,--sick unto death! There is a canker at my heart,--my blood grows cold,--the torpor of mortality is stealing upon me!'

{432} 'In the morning, my dear, we shall be better provided for. Bless Heaven, there is still one place which, thanks to the benevolent, will afford us sustenance and shelter.'

'Do not thank Heaven, mother: you and I are outcasts from that place of peace and rest. We have spurned Providence from our hearts, and need not now call it to our aid. Wretches, wretches that we are!'

'Be composed, daughter,--you need rest.'

'Mother, there is a weight of woe upon my breast, that sinks me to the earth. My brief career of folly is almost at an end. I have erred,--oh God! fatally erred,--and the consciousness of my wickedness now overwhelms me. I will not reproach you, mother, for laying the snare by which I fell,--for enticing me from the house of virtue,--the home of my heart-broken father,--to the house of infamy and death: but oh, I implore you, repent: be warned, and let penitence be the business of your days.'

The hardened heart of the mother melted at this touching appeal, and she answered with a half-stifled sigh:

'Promise me then, ere I die, that you will abandon your ways of iniquity, and endeavor to make peace with Heaven.'

'I do,--I do! But, alas my child, what hope is there for me?'

'God is merciful to all who ----'

The last word was inaudible. A few respirations, at long intervals, were heard, and the penitent girl sunk into the quiet slumber of death. Still did the mother remain in her seat, with a heart harrowed by the smitings of an awakened conscience. Until the glare of daylight was visible through the crevices of the door, and the noise of the foot passengers and the rumbling of vehicles in the street had aroused the occupants of the cellar, she continued motionless, pressing to her bosom the lifeless form of her injured child. When addressed by the colored woman, she answered with an idiot stare. Sensibility had fled,--the energies of her mind had relaxed, and reason deserted its throne. The awful incidents of that night had prostrated her intellect, and she was conveyed from the gloomy place, A MANIAC!

The Coroner was summoned, and an inquest held over the body of the daughter. In the books of that humane and estimable officer, the name of the deceased is recorded,--'LETITIA L----.'

B. M.

_Philadelphia_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CHRISTIAN EDUCATION.

It is a grand desideratum in all the affairs of life, to hold fast what we get. The business of evangelizing the world, is like the stone of Sisyphus, continually recoiling upon each successive generation. We want something like what the sailors call a Paul to the Capstan,--a sort of Ratchet. This is the business of Christian Education, and the problem is to devise such a system of religious training and instruction, as shall be best adapted to that end.

It must be admitted that hitherto but little has been done, notwithstanding that the blessings of the gospel are promised to believers and to their children also. It is not found that the care of pious parents, to infuse religious sentiments into the hearts of their children, is attended with any remarkable success. Indeed, there is often found a prejudice against religion, which seems to have grown up with them, and is eradicated with the more difficulty, because it has sprung up and rooted itself in a soil cleared from the rank weeds of vicious indulgence, and prepared to receive the seed of the spirit of God. This seed the enemy snatches away, and scatters the tares of enmity and rebellion in the place of it. They spring up in the night. They grow in darkness, shaded by the pall of a staid demeanor and assumed sobriety of deportment.

The promise is nevertheless often fulfilled in a remarkable manner, long after the anxious parent has gone to his rest, and the child, grown up to manhood, has taken his station among his fellows, in the affairs of life. Then it is, that the recollections of his youth, of the discipline and habits of his childhood come upon him, like a confused and troubled dream. Softened by time, as by distance, objects lose their asperities; any harshness which had once estranged him is forgotten, and he now comes to dwell, with sad and self-reproachful feelings, on his departure from the example of strictness, sobriety and gravity, which he had once renounced:--

"How gladly would the _man_ recall to life The _boy's_ neglected sire, whose sternest frown Was but the graver countenance of love."

Under the influence of such feelings, he often turns back into the path from which he strayed. But how much better never to have left it! How many sorrows has he in the mean time brought upon himself, by vicious self-indulgence! How much matter of repentance has he provided for his future life! How many has he led astray by evil counsels and evil example, who are still wandering in the mazy wilderness of sin, and may never recover the way that leads to heaven!

It is surely well to consider, whether there is no remedy for these evils. Every man is a priest in his own house, and is not only charged with the care of the souls of his children; but is bound also, as far as possible, to make them instruments of good to others. What should we say to him who should make his house a menagerie of ravenous and destructive beasts, to be turned out as they grow up to prey upon the flocks and herds of his neighbors? And what better is he who carefully adorns and accomplishes the persons and minds of his children, with all the graces of manners, intelligence and address, which give them so much power over the principles and conduct, and happiness, of their associates, without guarding against the abuse of this power, by impressing their hearts with the love of religion and virtue, and a sense of the value of the souls of others? They go forth as fiends of darkness, in the garb of angels of light, and contamination, and misery, and death, are the fruits of their intercourse with the children of men.

Of this fault, it is not pretended that christian parents are willingly guilty. They are not even careful in many instances, to impart the ornamental parts of education, which so much enhance the power of seduction, but they innocently supply an instrument hardly less powerful, in the familiarity with the language of the Bible, which is often acquired by those who have no taste for its doctrines. When the devil cannot robe himself in the rainbow garment of Ithuriel, he can, at {433} least, "quote scripture for his purpose," and many a heart has been corrupted, and many a mind confounded by scraps and ends of texts, torn from their connexion, and uttered in derision by those who have been taught to get verses by rote--but not, as the good old phrase is, _by heart_. O! ever while we live, let us make our children learn the Bible BY HEART, or not at all, that when they speak its language, they may speak as one whose "mouth speaketh out of the fulness of his own HEART."

This is the great point to be accomplished. How is it to be effected? The answer is plain. By addressing the gospel to the HEART. By the same means which a judicious and affectionate parent uses to infuse into the bosom of his child, the spirit of cheerful and willing obedience to himself. Let him carefully show both himself and his Maker to the infant's mind, as the personification of love. While he anxiously contrives to make him feel that to the love of his earthly parent, he owes all the benefits that he receives, let him point his attention also to that Father who is in heaven, and from whom he himself derives all the means of ministering to the wants and pleasures of the child. When he gives a bit of bread to the hungry urchin, and asking if it is good, receives an answer which shows that the little fellow's heart is full of grateful love, let him tell him what it is made of, and while he shews him the green blade from which, by a wonderful and mysterious contrivance, the grain is to be elaborated, and marks the half-incredulous wonder with which the information is received, let him tell him that this is the work of God, who causes the rain to fall, and the sun to shine, and matures the fruits of the earth for the benefit of his children. Such occasions of calling the attention of a child to the goodness, and bounty, and love of God, are continually recurring. He is never too young to receive impressions of love. Before he knows the meaning of the word, he takes them from his experience of the care and fondness of his mother; and long after he has begun to prattle, this feeling thus early implanted, continues to flourish alone, and affords the only sanction of parental authority. How happy is he, and how sweet to behold his happiness, while in the pursuit of his little foolish joys, the "todlin wee thing" needs no restraint from mischief, but the playful look, half-smile, half-frown, and the admonishing voice which warns without alarming. Well might our Saviour say, "that of such is the kingdom of heaven," where love is the only law, and love the only duty, and love the only sanction. Under this sweet engaging discipline, love becomes the habit of his mind, and long before he is capable of comprehending any but the simplest ideas, the foundation is laid in his heart, of those affections, by means of which he is to be formed to virtue, honor and happiness. What idea (next after those derived from things present, to the senses,)--what idea is more simple, more easily apprehended, than this; that while he receives all good things from the hands of his parents, they are sent to him by a friend he has never seen, whose name is God. What occasion for telling him who God is, or where he dwells, or any thing more than that he is good, and loves good boys, and will continue to love him and send him good things as long as he is good? Is it not easy to impress his mind with the same feeling which is cherished towards his dear Aunt or kind Grandmama, of whom he is reminded every morning, when he drinks his milk out of a pretty cup, on which he is taught to read, "a present for my dear boy?" There is no time lost. The idea of the spiritual nature of God cannot be communicated until the mind is ready to receive it, and then it is uttered in one word, and comprehended in one moment. The vanity of a parent may be mortified, that his child does not know any thing of these high mysteries, at an age when other children of whom we read in good books, have been found disputing with the doctors about the trinity and the compound nature of the Redeemer. But this vanity, like many other human errors, needs the restraint of reason. For if it be asked, how long should this state of things be kept up? I would answer, as long as possible. If man is never to enter into the kingdom of heaven but as a little child, I would gladly keep him as a little child to the day of his death. But as this is not possible, I would apply my answer to the actual state of facts, and say that the discipline of love should be continued as long as love continues to supply the necessary motives to necessary restraint.

I would therefore venture to recommend the imposition of no restraints, and no tasks, but such as are necessary; and if possible, I would impose only such upon an infant as are obviously necessary, and, on an older child, such as he can be clearly made to see the necessity of. Such a system not only prolongs the reign, and confirms the habit of love, but prepares the mind to acquiesce with entire confidence in the wisdom and discretion of the parent. Let care therefore supply, as much as possible, the place of authority. Let the mother's eye be on her child, and then, instead of turning him loose with a code of unexplained laws upon his back, she will have it in her power to draw his attention from unlawful to lawful objects, and to lead him away unconsciously from forbidden places. The beautiful story of the mother who bared her bosom to draw away her child from the edge of the cliff, illustrates this idea.

I would say then to christian parents, prolong as much as possible the season of childhood--the empire of endearment and love; prolong that season when the hearts of your children are all your own, and divide them with God. Let their heads alone. No one ever teaches a child to talk. He learns it of himself more readily and more perfectly, than he can ever afterwards acquire a new language under the most skilful instructor. He has enough to do in acquiring those ideas which are necessary to him, and are suggested by the objects around him. He learns a great deal, and it is easy to help him to learn, without giving him lessons. He may have nothing of what we would dignify by the names of _knowledge_ and _wisdom_, but he will acquire a great deal of _sense_, and may have very just notions of what it is to be a good boy, without having his mind perplexed with definitions of sin. The spirit of imitation will keep him busy. Teach him to love you, and he will need no command to make him try to do what he sees you do. Let him crawl. He will not long be content to go on all fours, when he sees his beloved and honored father walking erect. Curiosity will make him eager enough to know the meaning of letters, and he will esteem it a privilege to be allowed to look at round O, and crooked S, and to be taught to read for {434} himself in the pretty picture books, out of which his dear mother is in the habit of reading entertaining stories to him. Keep bad examples from before his eyes, and the opportunities of mischief out of his way, and keep his heart alive to a sense of the love of his parents and the love of God, until his mind has time to settle into a HABIT of love, obedience and virtue.

For reasons of the same sort, I would refrain from presenting in the second stage of education, any views of religion that to the literal and unpractised mind of a child, _might seem_ at variance with his earlier conceptions of the divine character. I am very sure that any doctrines _actually_ at variance with them must be false; and though I believe that none such may be entertained by any sincere and intelligent christian, yet it has somehow so happened, that many modes of expression have obtained currency in the world, which a novice would be startled at. I should therefore be careful, not to go beyond the plain letter of scripture in explaining to him religious truth.

The well digested form of sound doctrine as it is there set forth, would be almost my sole reliance. I would be careful to accompany this with appeals to his own experience and observation for the truth, that, as a general rule, it is our own fault if we are not happy. That occasionally, indeed, we receive injury at the hands of others, and that therefore it is that we are so often led to fall into pits of our own digging, that we may be not so fond of digging them in future. I would endeavor thus to familiarize him with a sense of the necessity of punishment, as the preventive of evil, and to enable him to comprehend to what lengths of mischief the simple principle of self-love would impel the best imaginable finite being, if he could feel perfectly sure that no manner of harm to himself could possibly arise from the indulgence of any desire. This idea, as it seems to me, is capable of being placed in plain colloquial language, in so clear a light, that any ingenuous mind would be readily brought to acquiesce in the necessity of God's moral government of the moral universe, in the necessity of punishing sin in order to prevent it, and the true benevolence of resolutely inflicting the necessary punishment, as the preventive of the far greater sum of suffering which the impurity of sin would produce. I should not fear that a mind habituated throughout to cherish the sentiments of gratitude and love, would be slow to understand, or reluctant to believe a plan of comprehensive and _general utility_ devised by the spirit of universal benevolence for the _greatest possible good_ of the whole, or impatient to endure such portion of evil, as, in the execution of such a plan, it might be called to bear.

I should anxiously endeavor to make my pupil sensible, that a plan of coercion, intended to procure a cheerful, affectionate and happy obedience, (and no other obedience can be happy,) must be understood by those who are made subject to it, to be so intended, and to explain to him the decisive proof of such intention which is afforded, when the ruler himself condescends to endure a portion of the punishment due to the sins of his people, and graciously pardons all whom this exhibition of his goodness brings to sincere repentance.

With these suggestions, gently insinuated from time to time, and containing as I verily believe the pure milk of the word, the best aliment for youthful minds, I should content myself, and leave him to seek the confirmation of these ideas in the Bible; nor would I suffer him, until on the verge of manhood, to puzzle his understanding and _afflict his spirit_ with the perusal of works of theology.

In confirmation of the ideas I have suggested, let me beg the reader to observe how much more readily, and more frequently, the principles of religion take root in female minds, than in those of men. How many examples do we see among them of the most tender and fervent piety, and how seldom do we find it incumbered with the heavy lumber of theological learning, or frittered down into nice and shadowy distinctions. Yet are they wise unto salvation, possessing that faith by which the _heart_ believeth unto righteousness, though perhaps unable to give any other reason for their faith, than that God is love, and in proof of his love gave himself to die for the sins of the world. Whence comes this tendency among them to imbibe this simple and saving faith, unless it be from the peculiarities of their education? The discipline of infancy is prolonged with them. They are kept under the eye of the mother, whose unsuspected vigilance supplies the place of commands, imposes an unperceived restraint, and renders the habits of decorum, propriety, meekness and obedience, a sort of second nature. Restrained only by the silken cord of love, whose weight they feel not, they never strain against it, nor try to throw it off. Their minds and tempers are formed rather by habit than precept, and their obedience is secured, not by punishment or the fear of it, but by prevention. They are accustomed to do right, because they have no opportunities of doing wrong, without violating that instinct of propriety, which makes it painful to do what we feel to be wrong in the presence of those we love. When left to themselves, they do what is right, because they have been long accustomed to do it; and they know it to be right, because thus acting, they have always lived in the enjoyment of those peaceable fruits which an upright conduct can alone produce.

It will be seen that many of my remarks on the subject of instruction, apply also to that of discipline. I have already shown that the discipline, whose purpose is to prepare the child for his duties to his parents, should be modified by a proper regard to his duties to God. In like manner, that which may be called religious discipline, should be so regulated as not to counteract what has been already done. _Parental_ training, if I may so distinguish it, should be so managed as to cultivate the love of the child for his parents; _religious_ training, so as to cultivate his love for God. It would be strangely inconsistent, that we should be careful not to offend and estrange a child by imposing on him, of our own authority, any harsh, unexplained and inexplicable commands, and at the same time load him, by the alleged command of God, with burthens grievous to be borne. Duties which he is not old enough to understand the nature of, are not his duties. There is no more violation of God's law in a child of a certain age playing on the Sabbath, than in the sports of a puppy. Yet long before he is old enough to be capable of a violation of this law, it is a matter of great importance that he should be gradually and carefully trained, and prepared to obey it. In this training, I would carefully avoid any thing like austerity. I would familiarize his {435} infant ear to the name of _Sunday_, and accustom him to regard it as a day of privileges. Put on his best clothes, caress him, praise him, warn him to keep himself sweet and clean, make him take notice that every body else is so, and that nobody is made to do any work, and all because it is Sunday; make him observe the staid and quiet behavior of every body about the house, and see how soon he will get his little stool, and set up with his hands before him, and try to _behave pretty_ too. When this is done, enough is done for the beginning. When he is tired of imitating the grave demeanor of others, let him go. The spirit of imitation will return again and again; the habits it induces will make a deeper and deeper impression, and if he is carefully imbued with a love for his parents, and a love for God, without being taught to dread and hate the Sabbath, he will be thus well prepared to submit cheerfully to its restraints, by the time he is old enough to know the reason of them. Let him see that you too, submit to them cheerfully. Let him miss nothing of your accustomed kindness or amenity of manner on that day. Do not let him learn to think of it as "a day for a man to afflict his soul, and hang down his head like a bull-rush," a day of fault-finding, and formal observance, and Judaical austerity. In short, let him see that you esteem the Sabbath as a day of privilege, and leave the rest as much as possible to the spirit of affectionate imitation.

I would say the same of other religious duties. Do not force the little drowsy urchin to sit up to family prayers. When he happens to do so, let him hear you thank God in simple terms for the privilege of being permitted to pray to him, and implore of him blessings whose value he feels and knows. If you find occasion to preach in your prayers, (a bad practice by the way,) do not preach about matters which none but a Doctor of Divinity can be expected to understand.

On the interesting subject of fashionable amusements, as they are called, I own I feel more difficulty. It chiefly arises from the consideration that the youth who is old enough to take an interest in such amusements, is at a more unmanageable age than formerly. It is not so easy to restrain him, without letting him be conscious of the restraint. It is not so easy to draw him off from a pernicious pursuit, to one less dangerous. He is no longer to be satisfied with those cheap equivalents for forbidden gratifications, which made it easy to command his obedience, without estranging his affections. The whole business of education at this stage, is a difficult and delicate operation. I cannot imagine any general rule for a class of cases as various as all the infinite varieties of the human character. Let us suppose some of them.

If, in spite of all the care that had been taken to soften and subdue his heart, and beguile him from self-love to the love of his friends, and of God his best friend, if in spite of all this he continued obdurate, wilful and rebellious, I am conscious that I should be at my wit's end. I do not know but that in such a case, it would be the part of wisdom to yield to those feelings which a parent would naturally experience, and, acting as in obedience to the unerring instincts of nature, to resort to severity instead of tenderness, and endeavor to bring down his heart with sorrow. As a part of such a system, it would be a matter of course, to deny him this indulgence.

A different case would be that of a youth of mercurial temper, and warm feelings, who had grown up in habitual love and reverence for his parents and his Maker, and whose buoyant spirit and restless temper, and keen appetite for enjoyment, might render him impatient of such restraint. Even in this case I should not too readily relax it. I should endeavor if possible to ascertain whether it might be enforced without impairing those tender and reverential sentiments. If so, I should enforce it. If not, I would yield with undissembled reluctance, but without reproach. I should endeavor to draw him into a contest of generosity, with a hope that he would not long consent to be outdone. But in no case would I surrender the end for the means, and do violence to the best, and kindliest, and holiest affections of the human heart, and run the risk of destroying them, by restraining a youth from things not evil in themselves, but only evil in their tendencies. The only antidote to the love of pleasure, is the love of God. In truth the great evil of the love of pleasure, is that it is an antidote to the love of God, and when the authority of God is used to force one away from a much coveted enjoyment, there is danger that it may but make him love God less, and pleasure more. But it is the saying of a wise man, that where an appetite for any thing actually exists, the best security against excess, is in a regulated indulgence; and to this indulgence I would resort with an humble hope that my pupil might find wisdom to add this too to the list of blessings experienced at the hands of his Maker, until the victory should at last result to him to whom it belongs.

For the remaining case of a young man having no taste for such pleasures, and content to spend his time in reading and meditation, I would prescribe nothing more than this; that he should not be encouraged to bless God that he was not as other men, but be kept on the alert by a warning that sin enters into the heart by more avenues than one.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

Festival of San Agustin de Las Cuevas--El Paséo de Las Vigas.

MAY 23d, 1825.--Yesterday and to-day we attended the festival at _San Agustin de las Cuevas_. The avenues leading to this little town, were thronged with people on foot, on asses, on mules, on horses, and in coaches drawn by six or eight mules. The whole population of Mexico seemed flocking to it and to _Istapalapa_, at which latter place is the feast of the Indians. Most persons take lodgings for the three or four days of the _Pascua_,[1] for which they pay enormous rent. From day-light until ten o'clock, these pious christians hear mass in the parish church. We had to travel four or five leagues, and, therefore, did not arrive in time to witness these religious solemnities; but at twelve, we were introduced into the cock-pit--a rough, circular building, with seats around it rising one above the other--and in the centre, an area serving as an arena for the combatants. Its roof, high and open to admit light and air, was decorated with long wide shreds of various colors--diverging from the centre--all in scenic taste. The seats were soon filled with spectators of all ages, sexes and classes. The {436} most fashionable ladies of Mexico were present, and the most distinguished men of the republic were engaged in betting heavily on the champions of the pit. The noisy clamor of fifty voices, seeking bets with stentorian cries, warned us of the approaching fight. The cocks, armed with sharp slashers, like double edged sabres, are arrayed before us--suddenly the pit is cleared--an awful silence prevails--they rush to the conflict--a few moments decide the fate of one--and all is again confusion. For three hours the sport continues, to the great diversion of the spectators, who appear to take an eager interest in the cruel scene. The women around me were betting and smoking, and two friars sat at my right hand. What a picture of Mexican customs is before us! Women--fashionable women, and priests in a cock-pit on a Sunday! 'Tis quite bad enough for us to be seen here, but we are curious travellers, and must observe every thing we can. After witnessing a few fights, we visited the gambling rooms, to see the game of _monte_, which resembles faro. The tables were loaded with doubloons and dollars, and surrounded by players, who, in a few minutes, won and lost many hundreds.[2] Here I saw no women betting, but there was one a looker on like myself, but I don't know if the scene was as novel to her as to me. On walking next through the plaza, I observed all species of games, at which the blanket gentry--male and female--young and old--were trying their fortune, invited in many instances by an image of the Virgin or of some patron saint. Gambling is, I may safely conclude, the general vice of this nation. Drunkenness is not common in these assemblages, and is confined chiefly to the Indians.

[Footnote 1: Whitsuntide is the period for this festival.]

[Footnote 2: Mr. Ward, who is good authority, states that "the bank at these tables varies from 1,000 doubloons (16,000 dollars) to 3,000 doubloons, (48,000 dollars.) Fifty or sixty of these (800 or 1,000 dollars,) are an ordinary stake upon the turn of a card; but I have seen as many as six hundred and twenty, (9,920 dollars,) risked and won."--_Ward's Mexico_.]

After dinner, we walked to a green plot without the village, where the ladies were dancing to the music of two or three guitars. At this amusement we left them each evening, and returned to the Hacienda. At night the cock-pit is carpeted, and converted into a ball room. Thus the fashionable people of the city of Mexico, celebrate for three successive days this religious feast.

In choosing San Agustin for these amusements, the selection is certainly a good one. Conveniently situated at the edge of the plain of Mexico, about twelve miles from the city, to the south, the site is very pretty, and the scenery is extremely gay in contrast with the sterility which immediately surrounds the capital. Water is so abundant in this village, that every garden is irrigated, and the trees and plants always possess a freshness of verdure which is rarely seen upon the table land. The mountain of _Ajusco_[3] rises behind the town--the tallest peak of this southern ridge--its top is rugged and barren. It is sometimes sprinkled with snow during the winter. A remarkable bed of lava from an adjacent peak, overlays a large corner of the plain near _San Agustin_, round the point of which the road leads from Mexico--so distinctly is it defined, that it is easy to imagine the melted mass flowing from the furnace of the volcano till it gradually congealed.

[Footnote 3: The _Cerro_ of Ajusco is, according to Humboldt, 12,119 feet above the sea--consequently 4,649 feet above the plain on which the city of Mexico is situated.]

* * * * *

FEBRUARY 26th, 1826. I have just returned from witnessing the gayest sight which Mexico ever presents. This is the promenade of _Las Vigas_.

_El Paséo de Las Vigas_ is a beautiful road just without the inhabited part of the city, at its south-eastern extremity. It is bordered by double rows of aspins and willows; and upon one side of it, passes the canal which connects the lakes of _Chalco_ and _Tescuco_. Though it is the month of February, nature has assumed the gay mantle of spring--all is verdant--all is smiling with luxuriant sweetness. The temperature of the shade is most delightful.

At the moment when the sun, sinking behind the mountains, has lost its oppressive warmth, the population of Mexico pours itself upon this charming spot. Hundreds of coaches roll along amid multitudes on horseback and on foot. These ponderous vehicles, uniform in shape, are various in their decorations, showing the several fashions which prevailed at the time of their construction;--some adorned with paintings commemorative either of heathen mythology or of remarkable historical events; the pannels of some tell us of sieges or of battles in days long gone by; some represent the perils of the deep; others exhibit Neptune riding gently upon his subdued waves, or perhaps the "pale Diana" or the "laughing Venus," or Calypso in her grotto using her bewitching sorceries to win the youthful hero. These, and similar devices, mark the period of vice-regal magnificence, and are now peculiar to the hackney coach. Those of modern date, are in better taste, being painted modestly, of a uniform color, but the wheels and carriage part are generally richly gilded.

The coaches are filled with well dressed women--I won't say that many of them are beautiful--who recognize their acquaintances by a coquetish quirk of the fan--(a never-failing attendant even in coldest weather)--or an active play of the fingers, at which the Mexican ladies are very dexterous, and which might be misconstrued by the uninitiated as a beckon to approach. Horsemen, in the characteristic costume of the country elsewhere described, pass and repass, exhibiting their proud and gallant steeds; and the multitude on foot display their Sunday dresses, in which there has been of late a manifest improvement.

The canal is strewed with boats, crowded with passengers of the lowest class, who are amusing themselves with guitars, to which they sing and dance. They return decorated with flowers woven into a chaplet, which, contrasted with the black hair hanging down in a single plait behind, of a pretty Mestiso girl, renders her quite interesting, notwithstanding her copperish color.

All these in themselves present a highly exhilarating picture; but added to the fine prospect of the mountain barriers of the Mexican plain, and especially of the snowy peaks of the volcanoes of Puebla which rise in full view to the south-east, this scene can scarcely be equalled.

As pleasing however, as the scene is, and though we meet none but smiling faces, yet I cannot refrain from observing that remarkable inequality so revolting to the feelings of a republican. Marchionesses and countesses with the richest jewels, are seen at one glace with the poor _lepero_, whose all is the single blanket which hides {437} his nakedness. Nor is it agreeable to see a strong guard of cavalry, whose attendance it must be presumed, is necessary to prevent disorder. Sentinels, indeed, are posted around and in all the public buildings of Mexico--they are posted at the entrance to the halls of Congress and to the galleries, in various parts of the palace, (a name by which the government house is still known,) where the President resides, and in which are the public offices--and they are posted even in the theatre. I am sorry thus to detract any thing from the scene which I witnessed this evening with so much pleasure, but candor requires it.

Lent has now commenced. Public amusements (except occasionally a concert at the theatre,) and large parties are suspended for a while. The ladies complain occasionally of ennui. Their present diversion is stupid enough. They assemble in small _tertulias_ every night at each others' houses, and play an uninteresting game with cards, called lottery. The sole object achieved is to kill time, of the value of which Mexicans have no idea, for in themselves they have no resources whatever. Reading is so irksome they cannot endure it--and work of any kind costs labor. They can do naught but eat, sleep, smoke, talk, and visit the theatre.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NATURE AND ART.

There is extant a beautiful tradition relative to the visit of the Queen of Sheba to King Solomon, when she "proved him with hard questions," in order to ascertain the greatness of his wisdom and the acuteness of his ingenuity. She ordered before him two vases of elegant flowers--one natural, the other artificial, but of workmanship and colors so exquisitely beautiful, that to detect in them any unlikeness or inferiority to the genuine ones, seemed beyond the power of the human eye. They were placed in a lattice which opened on a parterre of the royal palace, the appropriated residence of swarms of bees, which were engaged in gathering their delicious food. The King ordered the lattice to be opened, and the gathering and nestling of the bees among the honied petals of the natural blossoms, developed at once the eye-defying secret and the ingenuity of the monarch.

The wily Queen at the lattice placed Twin vases, rich and rare, Each with a cluster of blossoms graced, Beautiful, bright and fair. Roses, the glory of Sharon's vale-- Lilies of thousand hues, Such as are rock'd by Judean gales And nursed by her crystal dews, Mingled in beauty their tints of light;-- "Which," said the royal dame, "Are the fresh-born buds of the day and night? And which from the artist came?" The Tyrian dyes and the Tyrian skill, Glow'd in the art-made flowers,-- Those that were nursed by the gurgling rill Or petted in Flora's bowers, No grace of fashion or shade could show With the beauteous things to vie; Alas! for him who the truth must know Alone by his own keen eye. But the lattice ope'd on a soft parterre That blushed to the sun's warm kiss, And Bees at their nectar banquet there Revelled in summer bliss. "Open the lattice," the Monarch cried-- Sweet in the melting ray The humid blossoms the Bees descried, And pilfered the sweets away. Trembled in pride on their wiry stems The flowers that the artist made, But show'd not a cup where the honied gems Or soft farina laid. _Fragrance was not!_ oh! the blighted heart, Lured in a fatal hour, By the dazzling glow of deceptive art, Like a Bee to the scentless flower,-- How it turns in the blight of its grief away From the figure that _looks_ so fair, But in Love's own blessed, unclouded ray, Is soulless and senseless there!

ELIZA.

_Maine_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE OF THE WEST.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

The course of true love never did run smooth.--_Shakspeare_.

The incidents which I am about to relate, suggest some very natural reflections. He who now migrates to the mighty west, in pursuit of wealth or fame, encounters none of those innumerable hidden and open dangers which thronged the way of those who turned their faces thitherward half a century ago; he feels not, nor need he possess, the adventurous spirit, the intrepidity, and the astonishing resoluteness and daring of those brave and hardy pioneers. They ascended the lofty Alleghany, and looked off upon the ancient and almost unbroken forest, extending far beyond the Mississippi, and covering the vast valley which lay between them and the Rocky Mountains; while only here and there a small settlement, composed of a few families collected together for mutual convenience, and defence against their common enemy, disturbed its solitary reign. So soon as they entered upon it, they met with a foe the most wary and subtle, the most sleepless and untiring in his hostility, the most vigilant to seize every opportunity to satiate his bloodthirsty disposition, inflicting the most cruel and merciless tortures, and murdering indiscriminately every age and sex; the bold and dauntless husband, who met him hand to hand in murderous conflict, the helpless imploring wife, and the innocent babe sleeping upon her bosom, ruthlessly torn from her dying grasp, fell alike beneath the deadly blow of the savage, as he smiled with a fiendish satisfaction over his bloody deed. And is there no cause to mitigate our anger when contemplating such scenes? Is there no excuse for the wild, uncivilized Indian, though pursuing with a hatred the most vindictive his enemy, yet displaying towards his _friend_ a noble and disinterested conduct which puts to blush the enlightened white man? Yes! They had discovered the designs of the whites; oppressed with a thousand wrongs, driven from their homes and the tombs of their ancestors, to which they are more fondly attached than any other people,--"hunted down like the partridge upon the mountain," they had formed a deadly hostility, an undying revenge against those, whom, when few and defenceless, they had received with open arms, and by {438} whom they were now, viper like, stung to the heart; and they had stationed themselves upon the verge, and lurked throughout what they believed to be their own possession, their own inheritance,--determined to dispute every foot of it with those who were encroaching upon them, and pursuing with a steady purpose their extermination.

Slowly would the emigrant plod his weary and fearful way, for months, before he could reach the place of his location, his thoughts frequently recurring to the peaceful and quiet abode he had left, for a home in the wilderness filled with multiplied hazards. Here a small hut was erected to shelter his family, while he labored from morn till night, with his rifle by his side to protect him from his insatiate enemies, bent upon the destruction of all who invaded their territory. Almost every day, reports of aggravated murders perpetrated by the Indians reached his ears, filling his family with alarm and terror lest they should become the next victims; and himself liable at every moment to be hurried off from them upon an expedition to drive back the enemy, and check for a while their invasion of the settlements. No one ever felt secure; and never did they retire to rest without taking all necessary precaution to repel an attack, and barring securely every entrance into the house. And even in the more dense settlements, should they collect together for the purpose of divine worship, it was necessary that every one should meet well armed, lest even _there_ they might be attacked by their relentless and implacable enemy.

Now how changed the scene! What wonders have fifty years effected! The mighty tide of emigration has rolled on rapidly, diffusing prosperity and every convenience in its train. The vigorous and powerful arm of the government, after all other proffered terms had been rejected, has forced the savage hordes beyond the limits of the Union, or reduced them to a tame submission, and subdued their natural warlike and ferocious disposition by the introduction among them of the arts and principles of civilization. The inhabitant upon the most extreme western frontier, feels as secure in his log cabin as the wealthy farmer upon the seaboard. Under the fostering protective wing of a free constitution, the population has swelled to an astonishing amount. _States_ have sprung up, exercising a large degree of weight and influence in the government, where but yesterday the red man, now constrained to retire, pursued through the tangled woods the wild deer, secure and undisturbed in his enjoyment by the presence of one single envious _pale face_. Where once the savage held his frantic revels or pitched his wigwam, now stands the populous and flourishing city, whose spires pierce the clouds, and where arts, science, and literature, flourish in all the vigor of maturity. Cultivated farms and splendid mansions, occurring at short intervals, beautify the interior, where but lately the wild beasts roamed their native forests. Upon the placid bosoms of the most noble and beautiful streams, where once naught was seen or heard but the rough hewn canoe of the Indian and the dip of his paddle, now may be constantly heard "the puff of the engine and flutter of the wheel" of that most beneficial production of Fulton's immortal genius, as it rides majestically by, wafting to a profitable market the productions of a fertile and alluvial soil. For the advantage of commerce and the facility of communication, distant waters have been united and noble thoroughfares constructed from one section of the country to the other; mountains have been levelled and plains elevated. An energetic government sends with unrivalled rapidity, and unerring certainty, intelligence of every kind from one end of the Union to the other, so that the most distant friends scarcely realize their separation. The whole region now teems with industry and enterprise. Independence, ease, contentment and hospitality characterize the inhabitants. The emigrant from the eastern states now leaves his home and his friends with a light heart, for a country where merit receives its reward, where he will meet with success in every undertaking, and where wealth or fame will crown his labors. And all this in fifty years! The valley of the Mississippi, _then_ a wilderness, _now_ a populous and mighty empire! What unbounded resources, what powerful energies do the people of this country possess! What glorious and encouraging fruits are these, of self government--of a republican constitution.

Among the emigrants to Ohio, just after the revolution, were a Mess. Claiborne and Newton, who removed, with their families, from one of the tide-water counties of Virginia, and settled upon the beautiful banks of the Scioto, some distance above its mouth. Mr. Newton selected as a site for his dwelling, a small hill upon the west side of the river, gently descending to the water's edge, sparsely covered with the tall majestic trees of the forest, and commanding a delightful prospect of the river, as it lay like a polished mirror reflecting the sunbeams from its smooth surface, or gently rippling as the soft breezes of evening played upon its bosom; also, of the extensive rich bottoms on either hand, and of the extensive woodland in front. Behind, the country gracefully undulated, presenting the pleasing variety of hill and dale, of wood and prairie. It was, in fact, a charming situation. And long since that time, the enterprise of another owner has made it the most handsome country seat in the state. A noble mansion now crowns the hill with every ornamental appurtenance, while the flats on each side, regularly divided, wave in golden plenty, or are clothed in living green, on which hundreds of cattle graze, or repose beneath a few of the old trees which are yet standing. It fails not to arrest the attention and call forth the admiration of the passenger along the Scioto. 'Twas here Mr. Newton built him a tolerably convenient cabin, and commenced his labors. He had taken up a large tract of country, sufficient to present each of his children with a handsome patrimony. To the bank was moored a graceful sail boat, such as had never floated on those waters before, and which glided upon their even current as "a thing of life." This was kept principally for the purpose of visiting Mr. Claiborne, who had selected a level grove about half a mile above, on the other side, in full view of Mr. Newton's. Directly to the rear, a frowning cliff reared itself to the clouds; the river laved the rocky bank in front, down which there was a descent by a flight of steps hewn out of the limestone, where also was tied a small sail boat. There was, however, a broader and better way a little above. Mr. Claiborne too, had made extensive surveys in the country, intending to divide his large possessions among his children. Modern improvements have also made this a spot upon {439} which the eye of the delighted and tasteful traveller is pleased to linger.

An undisturbed intimacy had ever existed between these two families; and now that they were separated entirely, as it were, from the rest of the world, exposed to a common danger, and were pursuing no clashing interests, it had refined into a warm and steady friendship. A constant intercourse was kept up between them, and means provided to communicate immediately the alarm, should danger threaten. These two gentlemen being in the prime and vigor of manhood, labored with untiring industry. As there was no underwood, and the trees were tall and did not grow very thick together, _girdling_ sufficed, and they soon had a considerable farm prepared for planting Indian corn.

The woods abounded in excellent game, and they frequently accompanied each other in hunting excursions, but never venturing too far, for fear of accidents or attacks from the Indians; and always taking along their eldest sons, in order to gratify their anxiety; but principally to instil into them a bold, fearless, and adventurous spirit,--to teach them some of the rudiments of the arts and stratagems of border warfare,--and to train them to a skilful management of their rifles,--all qualifications indispensably necessary for the inhabitants of an unsettled and hostile country.

Among all the youths of these two families, Charles Claiborne had early attracted notice. He displayed indubitable evidences of a superior intellect, the most gratifying to his father, and which at the same time won for him the respect and love of his associates. No envious feelings rankled in their pure bosoms; they sincerely admired him, and felt that in hours of peril to his skill, intrepidity and bravery, they must principally look for safety. He had now nearly attained his eighteenth year, tall and erect as an Indian Chief, possessing an ease and grace the most simple and natural. No mark of effeminacy was visible about his manly frame; compact, nervous, and as active as the wild panther which he hunted. His high, broad and open forehead, over which his smooth dark locks fell in neglected richness, betokened the freeness and equability of his disposition, and at the same time his resoluteness and determination; and a slight wrinkle betrayed the existence of busy thought. Beneath an arched projecting brow, his dark gray eye shot forth the fire of youth and genius. It shone with a peculiar lustre; it would kindle with indignation or contempt, as he contemplated crime or baseness, or soften down to tenderness as a tale of woe or distress enlisted his sympathies. The whole contour of his face was of a perfect mould. Devotedly fond of intellectual culture, of acquiring information, he soon made himself master of the little library which his father had brought with him, composed of a few standard histories, Shakspeare and the Spectator; and was now, at every spare interval, drawing rich stores of legal knowledge from a musty old Coke, which he found among the rubbish brought in his father's wagon, determined to "offer his professional services" to the litigious part of the community when the country should become more densely populated.

Several other families had already settled in the neighborhood, and Charles was deservedly the favorite of them all. But there was _one_ to whom I shrewdly suspect he was even now _peculiarly_ agreeable, and for whom the kind and obliging neighbors,--who will have their young acquaintances in love or engaged, any how, and who arrange all such matters in their gossiping conclaves without the conusance of the parties,--had already allotted him. In this case they were not (as usual) without some ground for their suspicions.

Eliza Newton was now arrived at that most interesting period in a woman's life, just sixteen, when combined with the simplicity and coyness of the girl, she possesses many of the graces and charming attractive attributes of maturer womanhood. Like the opening rose, which displays its crimson folds at morn before one sunbeam has kissed the dew-drop from its leaves of softest texture, or dimmed its fresh rich tints, her loveliness was unfolding every day. Like the wild flowers which she loved to gather from the meadow, she had grown up without any artificial culture of fashionable _hot beds_, in all her native sweetness, unpretending beauty, and unaffected modesty. Roaming at will among the delightful groves around her father's dwelling, brushing the early dew with her pretty feet from the fragrant herbage, or wandering at even along the silent banks of the gentle Scioto, when each zephyr

Offered his young pinion as her fan,

she acquired all the freshness and buoyancy of perfect health. Agile as the young roe upon the mountain, she moved with the ease, elegance and elasticity of a Sylph. Not too low to want a sufficient dignity of mien, she was not so tall as to exceed the proper stature of her sex. "Her hair's long auburn waves," curbed by a silken fillet, rolled back from her small white forehead, flowed upon a chiselled neck white as an Alpine mountain top; her dark blue eyes lay sleeping behind long raven lashes, until roused, when they betrayed every sentiment of her soul, beaming with affection or melted with pity; the transcendent hue of her cheeks contrasted finely with the pure, healthful whiteness of her complexion, and her sweet moist lips, just curved out enough to bespeak her mild and even temper. In fine, she was so perfect a model that

The eye might doubt if it were well awake, She seemed so like a vision.

Amiability and kindness were the prominent traits of her character, accompanied with the other female graces. Of a most delicate and acute sensibility, she was keenly alive to the slightest insult, and would repel it in a firm and dignified manner; but was ever ready to pour the balm of reconciliation into a wound mistakenly inflicted. She carefully forebore to speak disrespectfully of any one, and always endeavored to place their conduct in the fairest light, which sprang from the pure benevolence of her heart. And yet withal, she had no little of the pride of her sex, ready to tear herself from a heart where she had reason to believe she reigned not sole empress; slightly imbued with jealousy, which is frequently a concomitant of the most ardent and devoted attachment, as the deadly viper oft lays encoiled under the bed of violets upon which we are tempted to repose. From the small stock of substantial literature which her father's poorly filled book case afforded, she had cultivated her mind to a degree which thousands fail to do who have _skimmed_ over an Alexandrian library.

Let no one deem these portraitures exaggerated in {440} any respect, for these families were among the most respectable and intelligent on the eastern shores of the Old Dominion; but the barrenness of their sandy plains yielded them but a small quantum of what was necessary to sustain them in their high and expensive mode of living. They found that vast retrenchments were to be made, or they must experience the pinchings of poverty; and, too proud to endure the mortification of either in the midst of their old associates and visiters, they determined to emigrate to the west, where the rich soil affords, with but little labor, abundance of the necessaries of life, while the woods and rivers furnish many of its luxuries.

The parents of Charles and Eliza themselves, had marked with satisfaction and pleasure their growing attachment, and failed not by evidences of approbation to encourage it. And for _once_ the designs of prudent parents and the inclinations of inconsiderate, confiding youths coincided, and promised to result in the happiest of consequences. Would that it _could_ be always so! How many gray hairs would it save from going down to the grave loaded with a weight of sorrow! how many tender hearts would it preserve from an early and hopeless blight! How many lovely and interesting females would it save from tortures worse than the fabled one, of being linked to dead bodies, those of being wedded to rich fools, or sots, or knaves, upon whom they can never place their affections, and whom they frequently hate from their inmost hearts.

Though they had ever been in habits of constant intimacy, taught to view each other in the light of brother and sister, and mingling freely for years in every sport of their childhood, yet a year or two having almost magically brought Eliza to womanhood, she began to feel a strange restraint in the company of Charles, which the presence of no one else produced. As rapidly as the sweet accents might be falling from her active tongue, his entrance hushed them completely; and even he would _labor_ for some time, through a few short sentences. Yet notwithstanding these unusual effects, each felt that the cause which produced them was not unwelcomed; and when _plagued about it_, (as the phrase is) the crimson blush that mantled their burning cheeks, indicated too clearly where arose this sudden alteration in their deportment towards each other,--what had put an end to all the little familiarities before so frequent. Gradually, however, would the leaden weight fall from Charles' tongue; and as he would relate to the company in most graphic and thrilling terms his dangerous pursuit of the fierce panther or infuriated wolf, following them into the most retired recesses, encountering them in their darkest caverns, and drawing them forth dead, to the astonishment of his less venturesome associates,--or his "hair breadth escapes" in wresting from the infuriated she-bear her whelps, the very great interest vividly manifest in Eliza's countenance, the breathless attention with which she hung upon every word and caught each syllable as it fell from his lips, and the quickly averted glance, her color slightly heightening as he _frequently_ directed his eye towards her, soon convinced Charles that he was the object of something more than an ordinary regard in her bosom; nay, that he had actually won her affections. As for himself he had long since been enthralled; nor could it be otherwise. There is in every bosom, susceptibilities for all the emotions; and so soon as causes calculated to excite them are presented, quick as an electric flash the emotions succeed. Thus in love, there is a susceptibility in every mind to be pleased with certain virtues or actions; and when we perceive them, it is as impossible not to admire them as to believe that they have never existed. And when a combination of such qualities without a blemish is discovered in any person, he had as well try to drive back the current of the Mississippi as to resist the inevitable consequence. The emotion of _love_ involuntarily arises; he _must_ love, for such is his mental constitution; the feeling becomes a part of himself; he had no agency in effecting it; he feels not, nor can he feel a disposition to divest himself of it. Circumstances may induce him to check it, to trample it down, to clip each bud as it appears, but he can never extinguish it; he cannot destroy it. But let him give himself up to be bound in its pleasant fetters; let him suffer it to sway an undivided sceptre over him; let him give loose reins to it; let him plunge himself into its delicious tide, and drink with a quenchless thirst its intoxicating draughts; and then let him be thwarted, and no one may safely predict the consequences to even the most powerful intellect, that contemns every other loss or reverse of fortune. Until something is done to excite a contrary emotion, ages of separation cannot dim or extinguish it. For as in some fluids the application of heat may entirely alter their qualities, so in love, a deception or disappointment in some admired or prominent qualification, frequently changes every feeling of regard for the object, into the most bitter and relentless hatred.

A very short time intervened, before Charles summoned the resolution to communicate the existence of his passion. Upon a mild evening in May, as the shadows stretched their gigantic lengths across the plain, Charles moored his little boat at the foot of the hill, and ascended to Mr. Newton's. Eliza (as usual) met him at the door, and ushered him into an apartment denominated the parlor, though appropriated to various uses. They were seated by an open window toward the west, along the frames of which a honey-suckle twined its clinging tendrils; the mild, red rays of the setting sun peered through its thick foliage, and added a brighter tint to Eliza's fine complexion; the evening dews were falling upon the blooming honey-suckle, which breathed its fragrant odors upon the happy pair. She seemed to look peculiarly sweet and lovely. A few desultory remarks upon the serenity and pleasantness of the evening, and then--in language which I shall not detail--he poured out his heart's fulness into her ear. At this avowal, her face budded into a rich rubescent glow, and the veins in her clear, round neck, swelled almost to bursting. She replied not; but a yielding of her soft little hand, which be involuntarily pressed to his lips, confirmed the happiness of the enraptured swain--and blew into an inextinguishable flame, that spark of love, which he had long cherished within his heart, and fanned with a sleepless assiduity. He soon departed for his father's; he rowed slowly up the river, whose waves reflecting the moonbeams, seemed like molten gold, while the stars twinkled brightly above him: the scene was enchanting, and his already excited feelings caught the inspiration. A plunge against the bank awakened him from his reverie, and he {441} discovered that he was far above his father's. The delighted girl retired to her room, and wept herself to sleep--when she dreamed incessantly of Elysian fields, and happy islands upon the bosom of the deep blue sea, through which she and her Charles roamed happy as their fabled inhabitants. Very _frequently_ after this, was Charles' little boat seen gliding, in the cool of the evening, towards Mr. Newton's; and he seemed much more addicted to hunting of late, particularly on the _west_ side of the river, especially as he never failed, on his return from his fatiguing rambles, to meet at Mr. Newton's the best refreshments, prepared in Eliza's most tasty style.

Thus a year marched onward in the track of time, unmarked by any unusual incident. The parties heeded not its rapid flight, but enjoying together every amusement and innocent pleasure which their imaginations could devise, they lived in a state the nearest to bliss they ever saw on earth.

Early however, in the following summer, as Mr. Claiborne's family were sitting beneath a large oak in the yard, being refreshed by the pure, cool breezes from the river, Charles espied Eliza wandering, with a little sister, along the meadows on the opposite side, gayly and joyously taking her accustomed recreation, and plucking the innumerable wild flowers that decorated her path. So long had this settlement been undisturbed, that a dread of the savages no longer existed; both children and females walked miles unaccompanied, and without the least apprehension of danger, relaxing their precaution in many particulars. While Charles was eyeing with delight Eliza's graceful movements, he saw two Indians dart suddenly from the edge of a thick copse of pawpaw, and seizing the frantic girl and child, bear them off, shrieking, into the woods. Charles distinctly heard the screaming, which pierced his inmost soul. "My God!" he exclaimed, "she is taken;" and springing from his seat, he rushed into the house. The affrighted family followed him, to learn the cause of his conduct; but all he said was, "the Indians have taken her! have taken her!" Excited almost to madness, seizing his rifle, he flew to the stable, mounted his fleet hunter without his saddle, and calling his faithful bloodhound, went as fast as his charger, urged on by every incentive, could carry him; and at the same time crying, "Indians! Indians!" He swam the river, and the astonished family soon saw him entering the woods, his fierce dog upon the track. The alarm was soon given, and the whole neighborhood was in commotion. Charles pursued, as well as he could through the trees, the course of his unerring bloodhound. Swift as the wind, had the Indians run over hill and dale towards the lakes, until long after midnight; thinking they had not been seen, and had eluded pursuit; weary with bearing upon their backs their helpless captives, and reaching a deep ravine, they determined to kindle a fire and prepare some refreshments. They bound each of the girls to a sapling with a strip of bark, and commenced their culinary operations. Scarcely had they been seated an hour, before Charles approached, and seeing the light, called in, softly, his hound, and dismounted to reconnoitre. A moment's observation satisfied him. He could see but one of the Indians, and he sat just beyond Eliza, his _head_ only perceptible above her's. The least tremor or precipitancy might defeat his purpose--kill the prized object which he wished to rescue, or place them both at the _mercy_ of the savages. With deliberation, a firm and steady arm, he levelled his rifle, and fired,--the impatient dog at the same time springing forward with the fierceness of a tiger. Charles rushed to the spot, with a drawn knife. One Indian lay senseless weltering in his blood; and seizing a tomahawk, he plunged it into the head of the other, who was engaged in mortal strife with the eager hound, which clung to his throat with an iron grasp. He severed at a stroke the cursed cords that bound the pretty form of his Eliza. As the truth opened to the vision of the enraptured girl, overpowered with joy, she fell insensate into his arms: he drew her closely to his bosom, felt the wild fluttering of her little heart, and kissed to life again her bloodless lips. Gradually she revived, and in the bewildered consciousness of waking, threw her arms around his neck, calling his name in the most tender, affectionate accents. "Could all the hours of hope, joy and pleasure in Charles' previous life, have been melted down and concentrated into a single emotion, that emotion would have been _tame_ to the _rapture_ of Eliza's momentary embrace."[1] Upon complete restoration, she wept with real pleasure; poured out upon her benefactor, her deliverer, her own Charles, ceaseless expressions of gratitude and love--renewed her faithful vows, and "plighted them upon her heart." Ah, why not, in such a moment, let the bright spirit wing its upward flight, nor keep it here to feel the stings of remorse or pain. Day had dawned. This was the first human blood Charles had ever shed; and as he left this eventful spot, yet pointed out to the traveller, he cast an eye of pity upon the senseless corpses, and even then a sigh of regret escaped his tender bosom. Taking Eliza behind him, and her sister before, he pointed out the way to his hound, and commenced his return. He soon met with some of the party who had commenced the pursuit, and with them, returned to bear the precious, rescued captives, to their anxious, miserable parents. Such a day of rejoicing, the settlement had never seen before, when the glad tidings were made known; and the heroic adventure of Charles received the merited applause of all.

[Footnote 1: Bulwer.]

Of late years, there had been a rapid influx of emigrants from the east to this part of the Ohio; and a small village had sprung up, as a mushroom in the night, a few miles below this settlement. To this place all the produce of the country was carried, by the inhabitants, to be exchanged for such articles of necessity or luxury as they wanted. It soon became a flourishing little town. Its necessities called for a post office, to which there was a weekly mail on horseback from the East, and from Fort Washington, (now Cincinnati.) A very respectable merchant of that place was appointed, with general satisfaction, the post master. His name was Bryant, a native of Pennsylvania. He was considered a very honorable and active young gentleman--very prepossessing in his appearance, easy and agreeable in his manners, intelligent, and quite popular. His evident fondness for drinking was not _then deemed_ a disgrace, and his tendency to extravagance was attributed to his generous and liberal disposition; and every body sagely predicted, that age would lop off these excrescences {442} from a character otherwise very good. He had seen Miss Newton several times, and had become enamored of her, and his visits to her father's became very frequent; for though he received no encouragement whatever from the daughter, he was always treated politely and respectfully, and with true old Virginia hospitality, by the parents.

The earnest efforts of the President of the United States, to give security to the northwestern frontier by pacific arrangements, having proved unavailing, it became evident that vigorous offensive operations only would bring the Indian war to a happy conclusion. Accordingly, in 1791, General Harmer was ordered to leave Fort Washington with a considerable body of troops, and to bring the Indians to an engagement, or at least to destroy totally their villages upon the Scioto and Miami rivers. A general call was made upon the militia of Ohio and the surrounding states, to join in this expedition, which if successful, would permanently secure them against the dreadful incursions of their savage foes. Fired with indignation at the late outrage committed in the neighborhood, and impelled by a noble ambition for distinction, young Claiborne commenced enlisting a company of volunteers. He soon succeeded in obtaining a hundred signatures to his list, from the extensive county of Ross, and was unanimously elected their captain. The first of October was appointed as the day for commencing their march.

As much as Eliza admired this manifestation of bravery and patriotism in Charles, and how highly soever she might be pleased to hear of his distinction, this resolve of his was a source of real pain to the affectionate and devoted girl. The innumerable dangers and hardships of Indian warfare, magnified by her attachment to him who was to be subject to them, overwhelmed her with grief and sad apprehensions. Charles' visits to Mr. Newton's were no less frequent than heretofore, and his efforts to console his weeping Eliza, and relieve her fears, were unceasing. He painted to her, her own late fortunate escape, and told her of the salutary consequences to their own security and prosperity, which must ensue from a subjugation of the enemy. She was partly reconciled and resigned. But banish she could not, her forebodings of ill, so natural. Ah! love, why

"With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers?"

Why is the brimming cup of bliss dashed down just as it touches the opening lips? Why are all our fond hopes delusions--all our realities as fruit of the dead sea, beautiful to the eye, but turning to bitter ashes on the tongue--but to loosen the already too tenacious hold with which we cling to this world, and fasten it on the skies? Who reads not this in every day's experience? Yet who, alas! obeys the warning? With painful, tortured feelings, did this devoted pair note the merciless rapidity with which time bore off the two short weeks yet remaining, before his departure. The last day of September had arrived, and to-morrow Charles must meet his company at the village. Towards evening he rowed over to Mr. Newton's, with a heavy heart; yet fearful of no consequences from his absence, but the pain of a separation from one whose being constituted a part of his own existence. Charles had given up his whole heart, and loved with an ardency stronger than death itself. A melancholy sadness sat upon Eliza's countenance, and a crystal tear-drop glistened in her pensive eye,--which made her appear peculiarly interesting to the devoted Charles. The reader must imagine the thousand mutual vows of unaltered and unalterable affection--the unreserved surrender of the whole heart--the frequent oaths by the immoveable hills--the pressing importunities never to forget or forsake--to casket in each other's heart but one jewel, each other's image--and the innumerable other such things which lovers are wont to pour forth on far less serious occasions. He promised to write frequently; and to insure her of his purpose, he said that should he not, she might properly think that he had forgotten her, and that all his vows were false; for there would be a constant intercourse between the army and Fort Washington,--to which place he could forward his letters, and thence they would certainly come safely by mail. When about to leave, he took her pretty little hand, and drawing a plain gold ring from his pocket, placed it on her slender, tapered finger; and knowing that the blood which flowed beneath his grasp, came warm from a heart that throbbed for him alone, he impressed it with a thousand kisses, and washed them off with his manly tears. Let not the callous, cold-hearted worldling, curl his worthless lip in derision--or the _proud_ man made of sterner stuff, "blush for his sex." Unfeeling indeed, would he have been, had he done otherwise; for there stood the prettiest creature in the world, who had enriched him with an enviable affection, one arm around his neck, her aching head leaning against his breast, and her pure, innocent bosom, which never yet felt the piercings of sorrow's icy dart, heaving with the most convulsive sobs. Who has not felt that the thought of a month's separation from one we love, though conscious of its short duration, sickens the heart? But hope, the mild soother of every ill which betides us, and which brightly gilds our darkest forebodings, could here scarcely administer its delusive consolation; and they were to separate, pained and tortured by the "undying thought, that they _no more_ might meet." He who can look with scorn or coldness on such a scene as this, or calling it weakness, laugh at it,--may keep his poor enjoyment for me, and without my envy, go along his cheerless path, unillumed by a single ray of true and warm affection, himself a stranger to one tender emotion.

The volunteers commenced their march on the morrow, intending to unite with the main body of forces on the Miami; but in a few days met General Harmer on his way to reduce the savages upon the Scioto, and did much brave service in the severe but fruitless conflict on that river,--Claiborne gallantly and heroically distinguishing himself at their head, and obtained a particular notice in the public despatches of the commanding officer. He returned with the troops to Fort Washington, and addressed a letter to his father, and one to Eliza, giving a glowing description of the deadly engagement.

In the disastrous battle upon the Miami, under General St. Clair, he was among the bravest of those who, under General Darke, so daringly charged at the point of the bayonet the concealed Indians, and drove them from their covert twice, but without material advantage; and among those who greatly distinguished themselves for fearlessly fronting the most threatening danger, was Captain Claiborne--and justice was done to {443} his intrepidity and cool bravery in the official despatches. In the glorious battle upon the Maumee, where General Wayne commanded--refusing to surrender the station of commandant of his own brave and hardy volunteers, now greatly reduced, for the office of Colonel in the regular army, he was in the front rank of that legion, which advanced with trailed arms, and hunted the Indians from their concealment, which produced the utter route of the enemy, terminated in their overthrow, and forced them to a tame submission--which eventuated in a definitive treaty of peace in 1795, and brought joy and gladness to the heart of every western citizen.

Four tedious and eventful years had Charles been absent from one, around whom his heart's tenderest affections clung with a deathless tenacity, and for whose sake not one hour in the day o'erslipped him, that he sighed not. Why he never returned while the army was stationed at its various winter quarters, I am unable to say. But unnumbered times had he written the most passionate and affectionate letters; and to them all he had never received an answer. For this he consoled himself with the thought, that they had supposed it fruitless to send letters to one whose situation was so uncertain, or to Eliza's delicacy to entrust her communications to so precarious a mode of conveyance, which was rendered probable by his _father's_ not having written. Any excuse satisfied him, and quelled every doubt of the fidelity of one whose constancy it was painful to _suspect_. 'Twas the thought of her--the thought that the unyielding opposition of these savages so long detained him from her presence, that drove him upon their unshrinking ranks with a tiger-like ferocity, and nerved his arm for the resistless stroke. And now that his object was accomplished, at the head of the few remaining volunteers who started with him, he took up his line of march for the peaceful valley of the Scioto, where he flattered himself he should close his life in tranquillity and with honor, possessed of a treasure, richer far

"Than all the trophies of the victor are."

How false, alas! all human calculations! What a cheat our every hope!

After a long and painful journey, he reached a hill which overlooked his home--that silent valley, where he had enjoyed his only bliss unmixed with grief.

"He stopped. What singular emotions fill Their bosoms who have been induced to roam, With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill?"

He reached his father's house, and was received with the greatest joy by its inmates. They had almost despaired of his return, so long had they been ignorant of his very existence; and his arrival dissipated the cloud of grief which had frequently overshadowed them. The bustle of first greetings over, he had some excellent refreshments set out for his companions; and when they drank his health with repeated cheers, he addressed them for a few minutes in the most feeling strains, expressed his gratitude for the noble and faithful manner in which they had discharged their duties, and wished them years of prosperity and happiness to compensate them for their toils and dangers. When he finished, each one pressing his hand, shouldered his knapsack and left for his own _home_.

And now he hurried to his mother's apartment to gather some intelligence concerning his friends; and to his first inquiry about Eliza, the old lady rather pleasantly remarked, "you staid too long--she's married!" Little did she anticipate the effect this communication produced. With an incredulous air, he replied, "you jest. Eliza Newton, married! dead, rather! no, never. But to whom!" "To Mr. Bryant?" At once the fatal truth flashed upon his mind, and pierced his brain like a hot fire-brand. "_Eliza Newton_, so forgetful, so ungrateful, so inconstant, so _deceitful!_" His heart sunk within him. The object which he adored, _unworthy!_ Suddenly his head drooped to his knee, and one convulsive groan told the anguish of his soul. His mother called to him in soothing accents. He lifted himself, deadly pale, his lips all dabbled with blood, a vein had burst, his fiery eyes gleamed with a wild and unnatural glare, and gazing with a piercing stare upon his petrified mother, he shrieked in a thrilling, fearful tone, "impossible, _she_, false! then where is truth?" and springing to his feet, he fell senseless on the floor. His distracted mother just recovered from her alarm, flew for assistance; he was soon consigned to a bed, and a messenger despatched to the village for a physician. He gazed on all with a vacant stare--his old broken-hearted father sat beside him, and he turned himself away. His weeping sisters sat around his pillow, but he knew them not. His temples throbbed furiously, and his blood coursed through his veins in rapid, boiling waves. All feared that his manly intellect had been shivered by this sudden and tremendous stroke. The physician arrived,--and assured them, that he had hopes that his mind was not irreparably impaired, and by keeping him still and quiet, with the help of some cooling draughts, he might yet recover, though his brain was considerably affected. He remained a while to watch the symptoms, and then leaving such directions as his skill suggested, he left this afflicted family. He returned and reported the case and its cause. The report soon reached the ears of Mrs. Bryant--when with a chilling effect, the remembrance of early affection came across her--the ghosts of by-gone joys stalked around her--but no distraction ensued--_tears_ came to her relief, and quenched the fires that seemed to consume her heart. Frequently the stroke which crushes the stout and stubborn mind of man, only bruises the more pliable and yielding intellect of woman, as the storm before which the slender reed bows to the ground, but rises when it is past, tears up by the roots, and dashes to a thousand pieces the gnarled oak. There was one consoling thought, however, which mitigated the pains that Mrs. Bryant felt. There was another reason which calmed her troubled bosom. Whenever there appears an object of pity, or charity, every feeling of woman is enlisted to administer relief; and as the lighter bodies float upon the surface, self, with all its concerns and every other consideration, for the present, sinks to the bottom,--while tenderness, sympathy and kindness, direct every sentiment and exertion in favor of the sufferer. Such was the case in the present instance. Her husband was from home, and Mrs. Bryant loaded with every thing suited to Claiborne's situation, hastened to her father's, and then to Mr. Claiborne's. She was kindly and affectionately received by the family. Pale and agitated, she entered the apartment of her unfortunate Charles. He turned an unmeaning glance upon her, but recognised her not. {444} This she scarcely regretted, as she might administer each healing potion, or bathe his burning temples, without his knowing the hand which did it. For a week or two she remained at her father's, going over every day, and frequently sitting beside his bed through the long silent watches of the night, ruminating with a bleeding heart, upon her own unfortunate situation, all her affection revived for one she had driven to madness, and whom she could never possess--keen despair and biting remorse, her only reward for the part she had acted in this sad tragedy. As memory retraced upon her mind with a burning finger each happy moment of her youth now gone, and her fond hopes disappointed--she cursed bitterly the hour in which she first saw the light. Unspeakable anguish!--Mr. Bryant returned, _and thought her presence necessary at home_. Reluctantly she obeyed, she feared to see his face. She was deceived--she had never rendered him her whole heart, and even that little seemed now to quit its hold. Censure her not, but listen further. With a sharp reproof for her _imprudence_, Bryant suffered her no more to visit her father's. Submissively she obeyed. She endeavored to respect and appear agreeable to her husband. And by her unceasing exertion she partly succeeded, and he seemed reconciled, but from her heart of hearts, his image was excluded. 'Twas true the nuptials had been celebrated, the troth plighted, but it was all a sacrilege, they had never been united "heart in heart." Her affections had never been _wholly_ estranged from Claiborne. Assidiously after his departure, did Bryant urge his suit, but without the least prospect of success: yet the ardency of his love, suffered no denial to frustrate his designs. He however grew apace, in favor with her father; his bland, and agreeable manners, and business habits, made him quite acceptable to the old gentleman. Two years had now gone by, and yet not one word in any shape from Charles. The defeats of Harmer and St. Clair had reached their ears, and probably he had fallen among the heroic officers, who met their fate in those calamitous engagements. So thought Mr. Newton,--if not, he had treated them very disrespectfully. Eliza was loath to think so. But we have observed that she was acutely sensible, and possessed of some of the pride of her sex. She remembered Charles' last words, and began to suspect they were designedly spoken, and that probably he had gone on this expedition for the express purpose, else why would he have staid so long unnecessarily, as she supposed; and not a syllable had he written her, though two years had elapsed. Even to a less jealous mind these incidents would have been strong confirmations. And dwelling upon them, she wrought herself into the belief that Charles had deceived her--and she determined to be independent, and to tear her affections from him, cost what it might. She sighed that it was so, but gave him up without an effort. Had he never returned, she might probably have lived at least a contented life.

Bryant was scrupulously silent on the subject of Charles' absence or his neglect, suffering it to produce its own effects. Yet Eliza loved _him_ not. But since she had loosed her hold on Charles, she seemed to be out on the boundless sea--without a spot on which to cast hope's anchor; and woman must love something--she loves to love. And yielding to the importunities, the frequent suggestions of her father, who thought it would be a very _prudent_ match, and a very agreeable one with a little exertion on her part--she determined to _hazard_ the throw, and granted Mr. Bryant her hand. Would that parents grown prudent with age, and thinking only of _wealth_, would recall for a moment their own youthful sentiments, and not urge their children into engagements against which every feeling revolts--for however small the defect objected to, or how groundless soever each little prejudice, yet they may produce jars and schisms the most disagreeable and painful, and for which no splendor of equipage or name can ever compensate. The nuptials of Eliza and Bryant were celebrated the fall before Charles' return, with considerable eclat for that quiet settlement. And though the bride seemed calm and contented, yet she had lost her former gaiety and buoyancy of spirits. With the exception of a slight ebullition of anger, occasionally, things had glided on smoothly till Charles' return, and thus they stood at that time.

Slowly and gradually Claiborne recovered his senses and health. After three months close confinement he was so far improved as to be able to ride a little on horseback, or take short excursions upon the river in the sail boat. The presence of old scenes revived his memory, and seemed to strengthen his other faculties. Though pensive ever, yet his alienation returned not. After he had fairly recovered, for the first time, he inquired, if they had never heard from him. When told _never_, he said it was mysterious, as he had written hundreds of times, and first from Fort Washington itself. He said a black deed might yet develope itself. And when informed that Eliza had kindly waited on him, until prohibited by her husband, he exclaimed, "deception! I am satisfied. But let me not stay where every scene sends a dagger to my heart." All preparations were soon made and the unhappy Claiborne left his home, his weeping friends, the haunts of his early youth, and the theatre of his only blissful hours, for the territory of Mississippi, where he practised law. He soon became popular throughout the whole country, and was finally elevated to the Chief Magistracy of the state. After having filled his term of office with distinguished honor, he retired to private life; and soon after sunk to an early grave, "unregretting--regretted by all." Like the meteor flash, his career was brilliant, but transient. With his health he never regained his natural gay and lightsome temperament. Gloomy and melancholy he shunned the abodes of pleasure or merriment--lived in retirement, and cherished within his bosom an unextinguishable flame, that "finally corroded each vital part," and sunk him to the tomb.

Not long after Claiborne's departure, Bryant went upon a trading expedition, and for the first time left his keys with his wife, with the charge, that if a certain person called for some money, to let him have it out of his desk. While there for that purpose, her curiosity--I might say her suspicions--led her to examine the contents of the drawers, when in one, oh! blackest deed on memory's record! oh! most base and villainous deception! She met with a large packet of letters addressed to herself and Claiborne's father. Pale and motionless she stood, struck with amazement and horror. She saw herself the _wife_ of a vile hypocrite--the author of all her own misery and sorrow--the demon of the desolation and blight of happiness she had witnessed in an {445} excellent family--the injurer and almost _murderer_ of the noble and generous Charles Claiborne. The idea froze the blood in her very heart. She read Claiborne's repeated declarations of increasing affection in every letter--the irksomeness of all his pursuits uncheered by her smiles,--his kind but touching reproofs for not writing--his marked effort in every line to please and delight--they were all unsealed and had been read by this cool-blooded villain. The blackness of the deed was aggravated by the deliberation with which it was done, and that too, while he perceived the anxiety and painful suspense of the dearest friends of one, whom he was thus so deeply injuring. The poor Eliza had borne up under all but this; and now that she saw her _husband_ a fiend at heart--her anguish was insupportable--her bosom was racked with every conflicting emotion--her eyes swam--her bewildered brain whirled, and she sank to the floor. How long she lay in this state she knew not; but when she recovered, she replaced every thing carefully, and retired. Ten thousand agonizing reflections inflicted their torments upon her mind. She soon resolved upon her course. Erring on the better side, she determined to endure every suffering, to preserve her _husband_ from ignominy, but to cherish her sorrows, which she hoped would very soon wear out the little of life that remained--

But life's strange principle will often lie, Deepest in those who long the most to die.

And she _did_ live, to be chained yet longer to one she could but hate--she lived to receive the abuse of one who by a hell-engendered artifice seduced her from the sheltering, peaceful roof of her father--she lived to see him a beastly slave to intoxication--she lived to see her whole family reduced to want and misery by becoming sureties for this now unprincipled spendthrift--she lived to see the just retribution of heaven poured out upon the defenceless head, of this serpent, which wound his way into Paradise and brought its inmates to shame and poverty--she lived to see him die in want and disgrace, raving with the agonies of despair. And she herself survived but a short time, a pensioner upon the bounty of a few friends, who received her into their houses, to cheer, if possible, the approaching close of her painful and wretched existence;--which blind, presumptuous man, ignorant of the wise designs of Providence would fain pronounce too severe a fate, for a flower so tender and beautiful in its first buddings.

_Lovingston, Virginia, March 25, 1835_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE OF A NOSE.

BY PERTINAX PLACID.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.--_Byron_.

The story which I am about to relate may by some be considered extravagant. I shall not argue the point; but content myself with the reflection that mankind have never yet been unanimous in their opinions in relation to any subject which admitted of a question. There are two special merits which I claim for my story, viz: that it is _brief_, and that it has a _moral_. Such as it is I offer it to the consideration of the reader.

It was a beautiful night in July.--The noble steamer "Dewitt Clinton" was speeding her way through the moonlit waters of the Hudson, thronged with passengers. We had left Albany late in the afternoon; already we had passed the majestic Cattskill, and were entering among those gorgeous scenes of nature which have been celebrated by an hundred pens.--Julia and myself had escaped from the crowd below, to the upper "round house" or roofing of the boat, which commanded an unobstructed view of the objects on either side of the river, and where we were secure from interruption, the myriads below being too busily engaged in contending for berths, and preparing for their night's lodging, to seek out our retreat or participate in the enjoyment of the beauties we were contemplating.

After paying due homage to the magnificent scenery around us, our conversation took a more common-place turn, and, as we had met that day after a long separation, during which Julia had paid a visit to some of our old friends in the north, she detailed to me the many happy meetings and amusing incidents of her excursion. She had gone through a long narration of the sayings and doings of aunts and cousins, and had given me a full list of new members of several families which we remembered in their simple elements, when the fathers and mothers were girls and boys, innocent of all thoughts of matrimony, and ignorant of its joys and sorrows. She enumerated the births, deaths and marriages of a whole village, in each individual resident of which we had felt more or less interest in our early years, and detailed their various changes of fortune and situation. In fact she brought up many years' arrearages of information, to me of more importance than the result of the Kentucky election, or the fate of the prime match on the Union Course between the best horses of the north and south. The private history of the old associates of my youth, as thus narrated to me, might have afforded a moral to adorn a tale of much higher interest than this I am now writing.

"And you saw my Aunt Deborah," said I. "Pray how does she look, and what did she say? I remember the eccentric old soul, as if the ten long years since I have seen her had been but as many months. Many a lecture did she utter on the extravagance, the impetuosity, and the recklessness of my boyhood; and much did she preach to me of prudence and moderation, I fear, in vain. Does she still remember my wild pranks?"

"Oh yes--but her censure of your wildness was so mingled with praises of your good qualities, that I doubt whether she would have permitted another person to speak ill, even of those points in your character which she blamed the most."

"Kind old woman! It was so when I was a boy. She was perpetually lecturing, and yet she was most kind to me. And somehow, in spite of her irksome admonitions, for which I had then no great relish, I soon discovered that I was a favorite with her."

"On one point she was particularly urgent. She questioned me whether you had as yet learned the value of money, observing, that in your younger days you had been a good-for-nothing little spendthrift."

"I hope you did not deceive the good old lady. It would be but fair that she should know that the prudence with which I was not born, has failed as yet of obtaining a lodgment in my head. It would have been a pity to deprive her of the glorious consolation of {446} knowing that her predictions of my improvidence have been fully realized."

"Well, I did not think it necessary to inform her of the full extent of your delinquency; but I admitted to her that you had not the gift of _saving_, which she admires so much."

"She often told me that I would never acquire it."

"Oh, now I remember, she charged me to deliver to you a renewed admonition to prudence and economy. 'Tell E----,' said she, with great solemnity, made still more solemn by the huge pinch of snuff which she disposed of at the moment, 'that he must look forward to the future, and now, while he is prosperous, prepare for a less plentiful time, which may come. Tell him that, unless he studies prudence and economy, sooner or later, _his nose must come to the grindstone_.' I hope you will profit by the exhortation."

"I wish I could, I hope I may," said I, with something like a sigh interrupting for a moment the laugh, which I could not resist, at the expense of my good-hearted aunt Deborah.

Some further conversation occupied us for a short time, when we were admonished by the comparative quiet which had taken place of the bustle below, that it was time to seek such rest as we might find among the crowd.

Those persons who have not travelled in a "night-boat," as a steamer is called which performs its trips during the night, are probably not aware of the kind of lodgings which it affords when the number of passengers is large. The disposal of five hundred lodgers on board a steam boat is no trifling task. The berths are of course limited in number, and when crowded, the floors of the cabins are covered with sleeping contrivances of various descriptions. Settees, cots, and a kind of oblong box, having thin mattresses spread over them, with a sheet and blanket perhaps, are wedged together, each calculated to hold the body of a human being, by the most scanty and economical measurement. The berths are first exhausted by those who are most prompt in looking after their own comfort; and then comes the scramble for the cots, settees, &c. In this contest high words often occur, and in some instances I have heard of serious conflicts for the possession of one of these miserable dormitories.

On this occasion I had enlisted the good offices of the younger Captain Sherman, who promised to secure me a lodging, and when I entered the cabin it was pointed out to me. Numbers had been less fortunate, and unable to procure a place of rest below, had accommodated themselves upon benches, chairs, &c. above,--or wrapped in cloaks, had stretched themselves on the deck. Clambering over those who had already retired, I stretched myself on my pallet. In doing so I awoke my next neighbor, a gigantic Kentuckian, who lay cramped up in his scanty cot, like a stranded leviathan among a shoal of porpoises.

He cast his eyes upon me, and with an ineffectual attempt to extend his limbs, muttered, "Close stowing this, stranger."

I assented to the truth of his remark; but he seemed in no mood for conversation, and was soon fast asleep. The heat was suffocating from the effusions of so many human bodies lying in rows, almost touching each other,

"Thick as the autumnal leaves which strow the brooks In Vallombrosa."

I found it impossible to sleep. The feverish state of the atmosphere, and the tumult around me, scared the drowsy god from my pillow--[I had no pillow by the way, but made my great coat serve as a substitute for one.] The thundering and crashing of the engine,--the dashing of the paddles in the water--the stamping of feet above our heads--the uproar of many voices, heard at intervals when some order was given to the crew--the _banging_ of the wood upon the planks, at it was transferred from the pile to the engine-room--the rumbling of ballast-boxes, as they were occasionally transferred from side to side, for the purpose of _trimming_ the steamer--the harsh rattling of the tackle, as a boat was lowered, to land or take off passengers by a _tow line_,[1] and the simultaneous rush to the gangway of those who were to go on shore, while the subtile fluid which gave motion to our floating caravan, being partially restrained, emitted a wheezing and uncomfortable sound.

[Footnote 1: This method of landing and taking off passengers was practised for many years on the Hudson, but finally abolished by law, on account of its risks, several fatal accidents having been caused by it. The steamer was not brought to during the operation; but a tow line attached to the small boat, was out from the steamer, and drawn in by the machinery with great velocity.]

But who shall describe the varied and terrific music of the steam engine? I do not attempt it, not doubting that in the march of improvement, the poet will hereafter make it a special theme; and that some American Mayerbeer or Mozart, will consider the composition of a passage by steam from Albany to New York, as affording facilities for expression and contrast, equally sublime with the March in Saul or the Battle of Prague.--Occasionally we came to a dead stop at some principal landing place. For a moment the engine was hushed, as silent as death; then a feeble whistle was heard from the steam pipe, (sweet, shrill and almost plaintive,) followed by a roar of the imprisoned element, fiercely exulting at its recovered liberty, as it was _let off_ from the engine, and rushing forth with such gigantic impulse as to shake every timber in the vessel.--Gradually the roar subsides; slowly, slowly, until a humming sound succeeds, as though all the bees of Hybla were swarming around our heads. Suddenly it ceases, and for a moment the steam is silent. Then again, the hoarse thunder of the machinery commences, the paddles dash the water from beneath them, with giant strides, and the motion of the vessel is distinctly felt, as she rushes onward in her course.

Such were the sounds above which afforded to the hundreds of sleepers a discordant lullaby, sufficiently hostile to repose, one would think, to drive slumber from the eyelids of Somnus himself. But all this "mortal pudder o'er our heads," was less distracting than the concert of discords which was in a coarse of performance immediately around me, comparatively, it is true, in a _minor key_.--One hundred and fifty _wind instruments_ of various constructions and dimensions, were playing _ad-libitum_, in every diversity of tone and time, concertos, fantasias and airs, which breathed of any thing but heaven. Here could be heard the mournful strain of a proboscis which seemed attuned to {447} melancholy--there, the fierce blast of a nostril which emulated the magic horn of the wild huntsman; while in ludicrous contrast, hard-by were heard the stifled eruptions of a snout, which might have been taken for the rehearsals of an inexperienced porker. One drew in his breath with a painful squeel and a low whistle, and puffed it forth as he would have done in extinguishing a candle--another, began in a gentle strain, "like the sweet south, breathing upon a bed of violets"--gradually rising to a full and manly tone--still gaining strength as it advanced--now louder and more rapid--dashing onward with alarming impetuosity--louder, louder still; and now, the very brink of this musical cataract having been reached--a _crash_ ensues, like the termination of that terrific passage in the overture to Der Freyschutz, which almost freezes the blood. The explosion past, this fantastic nose commenced again its tender strains, and again rose to its climax. Another rolled forth a heavy bass, deep, solemn and monotonous, like the muttering of distant thunder, or the roar of the vexed ocean heaving its waves on the shore after a storm. Another, with teeth compressed, seemed to draw in breath repeatedly without respiration, and suddenly to disembogue this over supply of air with a single emphatic snort, which threw his mouth open to its full extent. Some squeeled continuously; some groaned; and others whistled through their mouths in drawing in breath, and through their noses, in respiring it.

It will not be wondered that I could not sleep, yet my fellow travellers seemed unannoyed. I fell into a train of profound thought upon the causes of the various cadences of different noses, and puzzled myself upon the shapes and dimensions suitable to produce certain simple or compound tones in the concert. In following out these reflections, I wondered what description of music I must make myself, and could not but wish to hear myself snore--(a thing I believe impossible.) I could not avoid handling my own nose, to fix according to my imperfect theory, the extent and character of its musical capacity. By an association of ideas, the consideration of this question brought back to my mind the prophecy of aunt Deborah. I pondered upon it until the reflections which it suggested became painful. I endeavored to banish it from my thoughts, but could not entirely succeed. After a considerable time, I fell into a kind of _snooze_--a state which was neither absolute sleeping or waking--a kind of conscious unconsciousness, partaking of both in nearly equal degrees. Visions of imaginary objects glanced before me, which seemed to partake of or to be blended with the scene and sounds around me. Dim figures came and went between me and the lamp, hanging at the extremity of the cabin, on which my eye was fixed. Among these beings my aunt Deborah two or three times made her appearance; her starch'd cap, peaked nose, and keen grey eye, were not to be mistaken. I could identify even her tortoise snuff-box, which seemed as new as when I saw it ten years ago. Her look was rigid and menacing, and seemed to bode me no good--for I dreaded a lecture. These objects were the materials of dreams:--active thought and volition had nothing to do with their production. Yet my eyes were open,--my senses were awake. I could see and mark the motion of the red curtains, swinging to and fro--I still heard the unwearied nasal minstrelsey to which I have alluded, as distinctly as before.

The philosophers, I believe, have explained this contradictory state of the body and mind. I fear I have not described it so as to make myself clearly understood; but I am no philosopher, unless it be a laughing one. Those who have experienced a visitation of the "night mare," will I presume, comprehend my meaning.--I am not aware that this state of things had ceased, but believe the combat between real and unreal impressions was still going on in my mind, when I plainly perceived two large, gaunt blackamoors (whom I well remembered to have seen when at home in Richmond, pursuing their daily toil in Myers's tobacco factory,) descend the cabin stairs, and approach the spot where I lay. The obstacles of a crowded room did not seem to impede them; and I soon felt their iron grasp on my limbs. I was lifted by them from my pallet, and borne, I know not how, up the stairs, past the engine, to the forward deck. I endeavored from the moment they laid hands on me, to struggle with them; but my limbs were powerless: I endeavored to call out, and awaken my fellow lodgers; but my voice had lost its sound, my tongue seemed paralyzed: I could not articulate a syllable. The cold sweat of terror stood upon my brow. I had a presentiment that some awful fate awaited me, but I could form no conception what it was to be.

At the place where they halted in their progress, I saw a huge grindstone, from behind which a little black urchin leaped up, and seizing the handle, commenced turning it with surprising velocity, looking into my face and laughing with that hearty glee so peculiar to the cachinations of his race. I knew the imp too well, for I had seen him in his tatters an hundred times, hopping the gutters in front of the Eagle Hotel. A horrible consciousness of my fate now flashed upon me. The prophesy of my aunt Deborah came into my mind, and I felt that it was to be fulfilled. I cast my eyes around me in despair, when they fell upon the figure of the old lady herself, standing upon the prow of the vessel. Her look was severe and reproachful. The finger of her right hand was uplifted, as if she would have said, "I have warned you in vain!"--while her left hand conveyed a pinch of snuff to her nostrils, which they received with an inspiration so keen that it hissed in my ears like hot iron. My glance at this figure was but momentary. Scarce had the imp commenced turning the instrument upon which I had now become aware that I was to be tortured, when the Titans in whose gripe I was held, forced my head downward, until my proboscis rested upon the revolving stone, and I felt its horrid inroads upon that sensitive member. The first excoriation was severe. I writhed and struggled to free myself, but the power which held me was indomitable. Gradually the urchin relaxed in the rapidity of his motions--the stone revolved slowly, and I saw that my torment was to be a lingering one.

In the midst of their task the inhuman wretches began to chaunt songs and incantations adapted to the horrid ceremony. I remember some snatches of the ballads they sung. Never shall I forget them, for the cruel mockery of their fiendish merriment was more galling than the pain I endured, or the awful reflection {448} that I must pass the rest of my days the noseless object of pity and contempt. One of the stanzas ran thus:

De man who hold he nose too high Mus' be brought low: Put him on de grinstone And grind him off slow. Wheel about, and turn about, And wheel about slow; And every time he wheel about De nose must go.

I was at no loss to recognize in this a parody on a popular ballad by James Crow, Esquire, very skilfully arranged for the piano-forte by Mr. Zephaniah Coon; and I despised my tormentors the more for their plagiarism and want of originality. At the end of each _refrain_, the barbarians sent forth as a kind of supplementary chorus, shouts of laughter, which seemed to come from their very souls. It was none of your civilized _ha ha's_--nor your modish _he he's_--but the hearty, pectoral _yeoh yeoh yeoh_ of the unsophisticated "_nigger_."

All this time my nose was gradually diminishing. The imp at the handle turned it slowly but steadily; the grasp upon my shoulders was firm, and the pressure upon my head was so heavy, that the inexorable stone was fast penetrating flesh, cartilage and bone, and reducing to a level the inequalities of my visage. This could not last forever; and at length I felt that the sacrifice had been consummated--the friction of the stone upon my cheeks, gave fearful evidence that what had been a nose, existed no longer, and brought the horrid reflection that I was noseless! That the pride of my countenance was gone, and forever!

The awful consciousness of my bereavement made me desperate, and strung up my sinews to a gigantic effort for freedom and revenge.--Suddenly the grasp upon my body was loosened, and as suddenly the agents and the instrument of my torment vanished.

I awoke, covered with perspiration and in a mortal tremor. The cabin was dark, and but for the snoring of my neighbors, I should not have known where I was. My nose was still suffering a most uncomfortable sensation, and I breathed with difficulty from some unknown obstruction. Although instantly aware that, to use the language of Molly Brown, I had merely "dreampt a dream," I instinctively lifted my hand to my face to reassure myself that my nose remained in undiminished amplitude and longitude. In searching for that interesting feature, I found that it was eclipsed and borne down by some weighty substance, which the sense of feeling soon informed me was the ponderous fist of my Kentucky neighbor, who had in shifting his position during his slumbers, unceremoniously thrust it into my face. I was cramped for room, and tugged to rid myself of the incumbrance, when its owner awoke.

"Halloo stranger!" said he, "you kick about like an eel out of water."

I explained to him the cause of my uneasiness, for which he briefly asked my pardon; and re-adjusting himself, again fell asleep. I could not follow his example, my mind being occupied in recalling the incidents and sensations of my dream, which fully engaged my thoughts until I was made aware, by the shouting and scampering upon deck, that we had reached New York.

And now for the _moral_ which I promised my readers. It is this--Do not think too much of your nose--or hold it too high,--lest it should be brought to the grindstone in good earnest; and moreover, never sleep in a steam boat cabin, where men are planted, like Indian corn, _in rows_--if you can avoid it.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MORELLA--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

Auto kath' auto meth' autou, mono eides aei ou. Itself--alone by itself--eternally _one_ and single. _Plato_. _Sympos_.

With a feeling of deep but most singular affection I regarded my friend Morella. Thrown by accident into her society many years ago, my soul, from our first meeting, burned with fires it had never known--but the fires were not of Eros--and bitter and tormenting to my eager spirit was the gradual conviction that I could in no manner define their unusual meaning, or regulate their vague intensity. Yet we met; and Fate bound us together at the altar: and I never spoke of love, or thought of passion. She, however, shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone, rendered me happy. It is a happiness to wonder. It is a happiness to dream.

Morella's erudition was profound. As I hope to live, her talents were of no common order--her powers of mind were gigantic. I felt this, and in many matters became her pupil. I soon, however, found that Morella, perhaps on account of her Presburg education, laid before me a number of those mystical writings which are usually considered the mere dross of the early German literature. These, for what reasons I could not imagine, were her favorite and constant study: and that in process of time they became my own, should be attributed to the simple but effectual influence of habit and example.

In all this, if I err not, my reason had little to do. My convictions, or I forget myself, were in no manner acted upon by my imagination, nor was any tincture of the mysticism which I read, to be discovered, unless I am greatly mistaken, either in my deeds or in my thoughts. Feeling deeply persuaded of this I abandoned myself more implicitly to the guidance of my wife, and entered with a bolder spirit into the intricacy of her studies. And then--then, when poring over forbidden pages I felt the spirit kindle within me, would Morella place her cold hand upon my own, and rake up from the ashes of a dead philosophy some low singular words, whose strange meaning burnt themselves in upon my memory: and then hour after hour would I linger by her side, and dwell upon the music of her thrilling voice, until at length its melody was tinged with terror and fell like a shadow upon my soul, and I grew pale, and shuddered inwardly at those too unearthly tones--and thus Joy suddenly faded into Horror, and the most beautiful became the most hideous, as Hinnon became Ge-Henna.

It is unnecessary to state the exact character of these disquisitions, which, growing out of the volumes I have mentioned, formed, for so long a time, almost the sole conversation of Morella and myself. By the learned in what might be termed theological morality they will be readily conceived, and by the unlearned they would, at all events, be little understood. The wild Pantheism of {449} Fitche--the modified [Greek: Palingenesia] of the Pythagoreans--and, above all, the doctrines of _Identity_ as urged by Schelling were generally the points of discussion presenting the most of beauty to the imaginative Morella. That _Identity_ which is not improperly called _Personal_, I think Mr. Locke truly defines to consist in the sameness of a rational being. And since by person we understand an intelligent essence having reason, and since there is a consciousness which always accompanies thinking, it is this which makes us all to be that which we call _ourselves_--thereby distinguishing us from other beings that think, and giving us our personal identity. But the Principium Individuationis--the notion of that Identity _which at death is, or is not lost forever_, was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense interest, not more from the mystical and exciting nature of its consequences, than from the marked and agitated manner in which Morella mentioned them.

But, indeed, the time had now arrived when the mystery of my wife's manner oppressed me like a spell. I could no longer bear the touch of her wan fingers, nor the low tone of her musical language, nor the lustre of her melancholy eyes. And she knew all this but did not upbraid. She seemed conscious of my weakness, or my folly--and, smiling, called it Fate. She seemed also conscious of a cause, to me unknown, for the gradual alienation of my regard; but she gave me no hint or token of its nature. Yet was she woman, and pined away daily. In time the crimson spot settled steadily upon the cheek, and the blue veins upon the pale forehead became prominent: and one instant my nature melted into pity, but in the next I met the glance of her meaning eyes, and my soul sickened and became giddy with the giddiness of one who gazes downward into some dreary and fathomless abyss.

Shall I then say that I long'd with an earnest and consuming desire for the moment of Morella's decease? I did. But the fragile spirit clung to its tenement of clay for many days--for many weeks and irksome months--until my tortured nerves obtained the mastery over my mind, and I grew furious with delay, and with the heart of a fiend I cursed the days, and the hours, and the bitter moments which seemed to lengthen, and lengthen as her gentle life declined--like shadows in the dying of the day.

But one autumnal evening, when the winds lay still in Heaven, Morella called me to her side. There was a dim mist over all the earth, and a warm glow upon the waters, and amid the rich October leaves of the forest a rainbow from the firmament had surely fallen. As I came, she was murmuring in a low under-tone, which trembled with fervor, the words of a Catholic hymn:

Sancta Maria! turn thine eyes Upon the sinner's sacrifice Of fervent prayer, and humble love, From thy holy throne above.

At morn, at noon, at twilight dim, Maria! thou hast heard my hymn. In joy and wo, in good and ill, Mother of God! be with me still.

When my hours flew gently by, And no storms were in the sky, My soul, lest it should truant be, Thy love did guide to thine and thee.

Now, when clouds of Fate o'ercast All my Present, and my Past, Let my Future radiant shine With sweet hopes of thee and thine.

'It is a day of days'--said Morella--'a day of all days either to live or die. It is a fair day for the sons of Earth and Life--ah! more fair for the daughters of Heaven and Death.'

I turned towards her, and she continued.

'I am dying--yet shall I live. Therefore for me, Morella, thy wife, hath the charnel house no terrors--mark me!--not even the terrors of the _worm_. The days have never been when thou couldst love me; but her whom in life thou didst abhor, in death thou shalt adore.'

'Morella!'

'I repeat that I am dying. But within me is a pledge of that affection--ah, how little! which you felt for me, Morella. And when my spirit departs shall the child live--thy child and mine, Morella's. But thy days shall be days of sorrow--that sorrow which is the most lasting of impressions, as the cypress is the most enduring of trees. For the hours of thy happiness are over, and Joy is not gathered twice in a life, as the roses of Pæstum twice in a year. Thou shalt not, then, play the Teian with Time, but, being ignorant of the myrtle and the vine, thou shalt bear about with thee thy shroud on earth, like the Moslemin at Mecca.'

'Morella!'--I cried--'Morella! how knowest thou this?'----but she turned away her face upon the pillow, and, a slight tremor coming over her limbs, she thus died, and I heard her voice no more.

Yet, as she had foreseen, her child--to which in dying she had given birth, and which breathed not till the mother breathed no more--her child, a daughter, lived. And she grew strangely in size and intellect, and was the perfect resemblance of her who had departed, and I loved her with a love more fervent and more intense than I believed it possible to feel on earth.

But ere long the Heaven of this pure affection became overcast; and Gloom, and Horror, and Grief came over it in clouds. I said the child grew strangely in stature and intelligence. Strange indeed was her rapid increase in bodily size--but terrible, oh! terrible were the tumultuous thoughts which crowded upon me while watching the development of her mental being. Could it be otherwise, when I daily discovered in the conceptions of the child the adult powers and faculties of the woman?--when the lessons of experience fell from the lips of infancy? and when the wisdom or the passions of maturity I found hourly gleaming from its full and speculative eye? When, I say, all this became evident to my appalled senses--when I could no longer hide it from my soul, nor throw it off from those perceptions which trembled to receive it, is it to be wondered at that suspicions of a nature fearful, and exciting, crept in upon my spirit, or that my thoughts fell back aghast upon the wild tales and thrilling theories of the entombed Morella? I snatched from the scrutiny of the world a being whom Destiny compelled me to adore, and in the rigid seclusion of my ancestral home, I watched with an agonizing anxiety over all which concerned my daughter.

And as years rolled away, and daily I gazed upon {450} her eloquent and mild and holy face, and pored over her maturing form, did I discover new points of resemblance in the child to her mother--the melancholy, and the dead. And hourly grew darker these shadows, as it were, of similitude, and became more full, and more definite, and more perplexing, and to me more terrible in their aspect. For that her smile was like her mother's I could bear--but then I shuddered at its too perfect _identity_: that her eyes were Morella's own I could endure--but then they looked down too often into the depths of my soul with Morella's intense and bewildering meaning. And in the contour of the high forehead, and in the ringlets of the silken hair, and in the wan fingers which buried themselves therein, and in the musical tones of her speech, and above all--oh! above all, in the phrases and expressions of the dead on the lips of the loved and the living, I found food for consuming thought and horror--for a worm that would not die.

Thus passed away two lustrums of her life, yet my daughter remained nameless upon the earth. 'My child' and 'my love' were the designations usually prompted by a father's affection, and the rigid seclusion of her days precluded all other intercourse. Morella's name died with her at her death. Of the mother I had never spoken to the daughter--it was impossible to speak. Indeed during the brief period of her existence the latter had received no impressions from the outward world but such as might have been afforded by the narrow limits of her privacy. But at length the ceremony of baptism presented to my mind in its unnerved and agitated condition, a present deliverance from the horrors of my destiny. And at the baptismal font I hesitated for a name. And many titles of the wise and beautiful, of antique and modern times, of my own and foreign lands, came thronging to my lips--and many, many fair titles of the gentle, and the happy and the good. What prompted me then to disturb the memory of the buried dead? What demon urged me to breathe that sound, which, in its very recollection, was wont to make ebb and flow the purple blood in tides from the temples to the heart? What fiend spoke from the recesses of my soul, when amid those dim aisles, and in the silence of the night, I shrieked within the ears of the holy man the syllables, Morella? What more than fiend convulsed the features of my child and overspread them with the hues of death, as, starting at that sound, she turned her glassy eyes from the Earth to Heaven, and falling prostrate upon the black slabs of her ancestral vault, responded 'I am here!'

Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct--like a knell of death--horrible, horrible death, sank the eternal sounds within my soul. Years--years may roll away, but the memory of that epoch--never! Now was I indeed ignorant of the flowers and the vine--but the hemlock and the cypress overshadowed me night and day. And I kept no reckoning of time or place, and the stars of my Fate faded from Heaven, and, therefore, my spirit grew dark, and the figures of the earth passed by me like flitting shadows, and among them all I beheld only--Morella. The winds of the firmament breathed but one sound within my ears, and the ripples upon the sea murmured evermore--Morella. But she died, and with my own hands I bore her to the tomb, and I laughed, with a long and bitter laugh as I found no traces of the first in the charnel where I laid the second--Morella.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CONTENT'S MISHAP:

A VERITABLE HISTORY.

BY PERTINAX PLACID, ESQUIRE.

CONTENT once dwelt in humble cot Beside a stream with music flowing, Embower'd in shade--a verdant spot-- Woodbines and wild flowers round it growing.

There NATURE lavish of her store Breath'd fragrance over plain and mountain; A soft entrancing aspect wore, And sang sweet strains by brook and fountain.

Within the cot where dwelt the maid PEACE ever reign'd, with mild dominion, And LOVE, reform'd, no longer stray'd, But loos'd his bow, and furl'd his pinion.

There PLENTY crown'd each savory meal With simple food from NATURE'S bounty; And HEALTH contemn'd the boasted skill Of all the Doctors in the county.

One morning PRIDE, a city belle, In FASHION'S gaudiest trappings glaring, The fragrant meads for once to smell, That way had driven to take an airing.

By chance, a vagrant cloud sent down A shower to cool the sultry weather, When PRIDE protested with a frown, 'Twould spoil her riding-hat and feather.

CONTENT'S snug dwelling stood hard by, And thither PRIDE her car directed: Welcomed with homely courtesy, She smiled to find her dress protected.

The first brief salutations o'er, PRIDE view'd with scorn the humble cottage, Its narrow rooms, its sanded floor-- And turn'd her nose up at the pottage.

Then thus, to meek CONTENT she spoke: "I wonder so genteel a maiden Should dwell in this secluded nook, As dull as ever hermit pray'd in.

'Tis shameful such a form and face Should hide themselves in this mean hovel: That so much loveliness and grace Should with such stupid people grovel.

How would you grace those splendid halls Where I and PLEASURE lead the million! There you would shine at routes and balls, Queen of the _waltz_ and gay _cotillion_.

These humdrum folks you live with now Are _cut_ by all who aim at fashion: To see you so beset, I vow, It puts me quite into a passion.

Here's PEACE, a tiresome, dowdy thing, Fit only for the chimney corner, To listen while the crickets sing, And teach the brats their _Jacky Horner_.

PLENTY is well enough 'tis true, Where hungry peasants gorge their rations; But her rude fare would never do, For FASHION'S delicate collations.

And LOVE,--who once was all the rage, And turn'd the heads of half the city, {451} Dealing his shafts on youth and age, As you have learnt from many a ditty--

Has long been voted quite a bore, He made so many a sad miscarriage; And now, the part he play'd before, CONVENIENCE takes at every marriage.

This rustic-looking, sheepish boy I ne'er should dream was master CUPID,-- Whom once I knew so full of joy-- He looks so quiet and so stupid.

I cannot bear that you should dwell In such a lonely sequestration, When you might reign a city belle, And taste the sweets of admiration.

Come then, nor longer tarry here In this retreat so lone and dreary: In PLEASURE'S brilliant throng appear, Where TIME'S bright pinions never weary."

The artless nymph, ta'en unawares, Was dazzled by PRIDE'S invitation; But still she fear'd the City's snares, And answer'd with great hesitation.

She said a happy life she led, That care had ne'er her bosom enter'd Tho' tenant of an humble shed, Here all the joys she ask'd for centred.

But PRIDE protested 'twas a sin, That so perversely she should prattle, When HOPE, (the jade) who just dropp'd in That moment--closed the wordy battle.

HOPE whisper'd in the maiden's ear-- What 'twas I never could discover,-- But from her beaming eye, 'twas clear CONTENT'S resistance all was over.

Suffice to say, the car was brought, The ladies in it soon were seated: PRIDE took the reins, and quick as thought, The valley from their vision fleeted.

'Tis true CONTENT some sorrow felt At leaving PEACE and LOVE behind her; But HOPE sat by, and fondly dwelt On all the happiness design'd her.

* * * * *

Soon by Dame FASHION'S mystic aid CONTENT became another creature; Such _art_ was in her form display'd, She needed not the charms of nature.

* * * * *

Behold our country maiden now! In PLEASURE'S train a gay attendant; Before her throng'd admirers bow; Her beauty was pronounced transcendent.

In every scene where PLEASURE reign'd CONTENT was found, a radiant charmer; And while the novelty remain'd, Her wild career did not alarm her.

Months pass'd in one continued round Of parties, balls, and routes and levees, And tired CONTENT at length had found No happiness in PLEASURE'S bevies.

Jaded in this unceasing maze, Her eye grew dim, her cheek grew pallid: PRIDE only could her spirits raise, And oft her melancholy rallied.

But long even PRIDE could not hold out; Sorely the maid her change repented-- Her dreams had all been put to route-- CONTENT was sadly discontented.

One morning HOPE, who scarce had seen The maiden since she sought the City, To make a flying call, popp'd in,-- And saw her alter'd looks with pity.

"Ah faithless HOPE!" exclaim'd CONTENT: "Why did you flatter and deceive me-- Why urge the step I now repent, And be the first to scorn and leave me.

Oh, but for you, deceitful friend, I still had lived untouched by SORROW, Where beauteous flowers their fragrance blend, Nor blushes from cosmetics borrow.

I might have dwelt, a happy maid, With PEACE and LOVE, in blest seclusion, Afar from FASHION'S dull parade, Her endless throngs of gay confusion.

Fain would I to my cottage fly, But PRIDE resists, and SHAME upbraids me; And PLEASURE, ever hovering nigh With some delusive tale dissuades me."

HOPE, with a woman's ready wit, From all reproach herself defended; And forced her listner to admit Her counsel "_for the best_" intended.

* * * * *

CONTENT at length "made up her mind" ('Gainst PRIDE'S usurp'd control rebelling,) To leave the bustling town behind, And seek again her humble dwelling.

'Twas a bright morn in early Spring, When, HOPE her languid steps attending, Through vales where birds were on the wing, To that lone cot the maid was wending.

The sun shone bright on hill and lea, The flowers from leafy shades were peeping; The brook ran murmuring merrily, And flocks were in the valleys leaping.

The Cottage reach'd, she met once more The smile of PEACE, and LOVE'S embraces; JOY lit the maiden's eye again, And from her brow chased sorrow's traces.

Soon HEALTH return'd, with genial glow, Her languid frame with strength induing, The blood resumed its wonted flow, The roses on her cheeks renewing.

HOPE views the change with fond delight; Vows from CONTENT she ne'er will sever; Controls each wild impassion'd flight, And points where mercy beams forever.

What more could Providence bestow To yield CONTENT an added blessing? Each hour her heart's pure offerings flow, To Heaven its gratitude addressing.

And ever since, CONTENT has dwelt From the gay crowd, in vale secluded:-- Their joyless strife she once has felt, And cannot be again deluded. {452}

Oft have I seen the humble roof, Where, with PEACE, LOVE and HOPE uniting, She dwells, from worldly cares aloof, Even while her story I am writing.

The following beautiful reply to the stanzas of Mr. Wilde, published in the first number of the Messenger, is attributed to Mrs. Buckley, the wife of a distinguished physician of Baltimore, a lady whose fine taste and poetic capacity are most happily displayed in these touching lines. The answer is a very perfect counterpart of Mr. Wilde's stanzas, and if we were called on to decide upon their relative merits, we do not know which of the two would most demand our admiration.

ANSWER

To "_My Life is Like the Summer Rose_."

The dews of night may fall from Heaven, Upon the wither'd _rose's_ bed, And tears of fond regret be given, To mourn the virtues of the dead: Yet morning's sun the dews will dry, And tears will fade from sorrow's eye, Affection's pangs be lull'd to sleep, And even love forget to _weep_.

The _tree_ may mourn its fallen _leaf_, And autumn winds bewail its bloom, And friends may heave the sigh of grief, O'er those who sleep within the tomb: Yet soon will spring renew the flowers, And time will bring more smiling hours; In friendship's heart all grief will die, And even love forget to _sigh_.

The _sea_ may on the desert _shore_ Lament each _trace_ it bears away; The lonely heart its grief may pour O'er cherish'd friendship's fast decay: Yet when all trace is lost and gone, The waves dance bright and gaily on; Thus soon affection's bonds are torn, And even love forgets to _mourn_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ----

We parted--not as lovers part-- No tear was in thine eye; No mantling blush was on thy cheek, Thy bosom heaved no sigh; Yet there was something in thine air That seemed to all unmoved,-- Something that told my bursting heart, Dearest, that I was loved.

For, when I took thy gentle hand To bid a short adieu, Methought within my trembling clasp, That white hand trembled too; And when too, from my faltering tongue The parting accents fell, Thou didst not, dearest--can it be Thou couldst not say farewell!

Forgive, if I have boldly erred-- If fancy 'twere alone, That check'd thy voice, and lent thy hand The tremors of my own. Forgive, forgive the daring thought-- Forgive the hopes--the love-- That bids me seek thee soon again, My bliss or wo to prove.

T. H. T.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHAT I LOVE.

I love to stray at early morn, 'Mid flowers along the verdant dale, Inhale the fragrance of the thorn, And hear the Dove's low plaintive wail.

I love within some forest deep, At sultry noon reclined to lie, And watch the fleecy clouds that creep, With quiet pace along the sky.

I love at quiet eve to go, Far from the noisy crowd, and dream Of all the glorious hopes which throw Their sunshine o'er life's gloomy stream.

But more than all, at silent night, I love with one fair form to rove, Beneath the pale moon's pensive light, And whisper burning words of love.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ----

Let not your heart be troubled.--_John_ 14: 1.

Let Ocean swell with angry spite, And yawn and lash the heedless shore; And billows rage with mount'nous height, As if they'd be at peace no more. Let storm 'gainst storm their fury hurl, And loudly roar with fearful might, Till sea and land--yea, all the world-- May seem to grope in trouble's night.

But let _thy heart_ thy Saviour know, Whose word once calmed the troubled deep, Who spake to winds that dared to blow, And _hushed_ them in the lap of sleep. Tis He can quell each rising sigh, And calm thy heart from cruel fears, As when the storms in silence lie, And not a wave the Ocean mars.

SIWEL.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AN ITALIAN EXTRAVAGANZA.

Addressed to a beautiful lady.

Se tutti gli alberi del mondo Fossero penne-- Il cielo fosse carta, Il mare, inchiostro-- Non basterebbero a descrivere La minima parte della vostra perfexione!

AN ATTEMPT AT TRANSLATION.

Could we the sky's unbounded range, To paper all convert-- And had we power, miraculous, to change, To _pens_, the _trees_, To _ink_, the _seas_-- These would not all suffice to paint, in part, The rich perfections of thy mind and heart-- Thy _graces_--thy _desert_!

ELLA.

{453}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHERE IS MY HEART?

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD.

Where is my heart? Its place of rest is not within this aching breast;-- Where does it dwell? It is not in the glittering hall, Where sunbright glances gaily fall 'Neath pleasure's spell.

Where is my heart? Not in the crowd 'mid mirth and wine and revel loud;-- It is not there. Nor is it where the summer's sky Gives birth to flowers of brightest dye And balmy air.

Where is my heart? Upon the sea, where dwell the joyous and the free, It has not gone. My withered heart, it has not flown Where love or hope or joy is known, Or pleasures dawn.

Where is my heart? To the cold grave, where yew and cypress darkly wave, My heart has fled. Yes, where the form it worshipped sleeps, My blighted heart its vigil keeps, Beside the dead.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

INVOCATION.

Come my love--O! come with me, We will wander wild and free,-- Where the pale moon sheds her light, And the dew-drops glisten bright;-- Where is heard the gurgling flow Of the streamlet, we will go, And our joyous feet shall tread, Near the humble violets bed. We will breathe the rich perfume, Born of fragrant flowers in bloom; All that's sweet and all that's fair, From green earth or scented air, Nature brings in vesture gay, Laughing strews around our way.

We will seek the shady grove, Through its mazes we will rove, Sit upon the moss-grown seat, And our youthful vows repeat. Years have passed since we were there, Still thy cheeks are fresh and fair, Not a single care-worn line, Mars that lovely brow of thine. Many gay and gladsome hours, We have spent in sunny bowers; Not one cloud of care or strife, E'er has dimmed our path thro' life,-- And our pilgrimage doth seem As one long and happy dream.

Come my love the Moon's on high, Sailing o'er the summer sky, And the stars are twinkling through Boundless fields of azure-blue-- Faintly from the leafy trees, Sighs the balmy southern breeze. Down the valley we will stray, Where the night-flowers scent the way; Arm in arm we'll wander o'er Many a scene beloved of yore; Tell the oft repeated tale, By the fountain in the vale,-- Talk of deep, confiding love, And of hearts that never rove.

ALEX. LACEY BEARD.

_Aldie, Va._

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AUTUMN.

Come to the forests, while the leaves are falling In rustling showers from every yielding bough-- Seek the wild haunts, where, save some lone bird calling Its mate departed, all is silence now.

Leave the bright hearth, where love and peace are smiling, To dream awhile 'midst Autumn's falling leaves, To watch her power the Summer's charms despoiling As time of early joys the heart bereaves.

There, as the year's bright glories fade around thee Bring home the lesson to thy saddened heart; Muse on the loves and friendships that have bound thee, Which thou hast seen like autumn leaves depart.

Or if the Past yield no sad recollection, Upon the Future let thy thoughts be cast; Nor check the current of the sad reflection That whispers, human life is fleeting fast.

Then bow to Him, in meek and low contrition, Whose Wisdom, full of Mercy, doth ordain To man a second spring in realms elysian, Where the bright hues of Summer ever reign.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NAPOLEON.

Aye! there he lies,--the mighty one! Death's hand is on him now; And fearfully he puts his seal Upon that haughty brow.

What boots it that his own proud name In foreign lands has rung? That orators his fame have spoke, That bards his deeds have sung?

What boots it that the hills of Spain Shook 'neath his lordly tread-- That with the blood of her best sons, Her vallies' streams ran red?

That over Moscow's battlements, His flag-folds he shook out-- That e'en the lofty pyramids Rang with his charging shout?

He who subdu'd so many lands, Must now from England crave (Although she is his deadliest foe) What man last wants--a grave!

{454}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--You have published at page 199 of your January number, four outlandish-looking lines, with a hope that some one of your numerous readers may not only be able to inform your correspondent who furnished them, in what language they are written, but let him still further into the secret by giving their meaning. Happening to know a little of the Gaelic, I have no hesitation in saying that that is the tongue in which they are written; and further, I think I have succeeded, after a good deal of trouble, in discovering to a certainty that they are a translation of the first stanza of Sappho's celebrated Ode addressed "_To the Beloved Pair_," and commented upon at some length by Longinus, in the tenth section of his De Sublimitate. The stanza in question runs thus:

[For want of proper type we cannot give it in the Greek.--_Ed._]

Videtur mihi ille æqualis Diis Esse Vir, qui oppositus tibi Sedet, et prope te dulce loquentem audit Et rides amabiliter.

Blest as the immortal Gods is he The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak and sweetly smile.

An interesting critique upon the Ode, with the whole of Ambrose Philips' spirited translation of it, is to be met with in the two hundred and twenty-ninth number of the Spectator. Yours, &c.

UDOCH.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

No. II.

----If the painter saw Naught but the prose of things, and dared but draw The literal, aged, uninspiring truth, And saw not nature in her winged youth Her rainbow aspect, when she stands array'd In floods of sunshine and in nights of shade, What would he gain?--_Barry Cornwall_.

In my last number, I undertook to show, that "uncultivated taste, is incapable of estimating excellence in art" and that, "the beautiful in nature, like philosophy and science, can only be comprehended by those who study it profoundly and observe it habitually." But those who think nature an unveiled beauty to be gazed upon by every wanton eye, or that the arts aspire no higher than the "prose of things;" those who are resolved to admire what they like, rather than learn to like that which is admirable, may spare themselves the trouble of reading this article,--as my object is, to instruct the teachable, to ramble with the lover of nature amidst the shades of rural life, and converse with the amateur of art, about all that is excellent in ancient or modern works.

Before we can perceive what is beautiful in art, we must comprehend what is beautiful in nature; and without entering into the abstruse question of _beauty_, which has so much divided the erudite in all ages, we may say, that every thing from the hand of the Creator is beautiful in its _proper place_: and it is precisely this, that is beautiful in art. But to know the place where beauteous nature lurks, and to trace the harmony and fitness of every object to the part it supplies in the picturesque of scenery, requires a mind

"----by nature's charms impress'd, An ardor ever burning in the breast, A zeal for truth, a power of thought intense; A fancy, flowering on the stems of sense; A mem'ry as the grave retentive, vast That holds to rise again, the imprison'd past."

Beauty is not confined to the waving line of Hogarth, or to objects smooth and soft, as Mr. Burke thought, but is multiform in nature, and therefore admits of a diversity of tastes; yet it is not an arbitrary principle subject to the fancy of every individual, but like harmony in music, it vibrates on the imagination and affections of a cultivated mind, as doth the octave in a well tuned instrument;--the tutored ear perceives the slightest discordance in sounds, and the cultivated eye detects with equal facility the want of harmony in art or nature. It has been said "that the peasant youth, would require more red in the cheek of his beauty, than would be agreeable to a man of cultivated taste," and the inference was, "that the delicate is more beautiful than the florid," but in fact, they are each beautiful in their _place_. In rustic life, amidst the scenes of the vintage, in the hay field, or milking the cow--how beauteous is the flush and healthful bloom of the cottage maiden! The ruby lip and liquid laughing eye bespeak the joyous heart, pleased with its vocation. Here, the delicate and courtly dame of polished life would appear unequal to the task; would be incongruous to the scene, and as much out of place as epic verse in pastoral poetry;--yet in her proper sphere

"----those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul, Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart,"

she moves the attractive star of cultivated taste.

The choice of these subjects, constitutes the difference between the Dutch and the Italian schools of art. The former painted pastoral scenery with a fidelity incomparably superior to the Italians, yet greatly inferior in the higher excellencies of art. They are justly admired for their attention to detail, to exact finish, and all the results of "mere mechanic pains," but are void of classical taste, of moral instruction, and the poetry of the imagination, that highest effort of genius. Their works may therefore be beautiful, but never sublime, and their attempts at historic painting degrade it to something worse than caricature. I remember to have seen in the Louvre, a little painting of this school, designed for "Peter denying his Lord in Pilate's house." The interior was a _Holland kitchen_; boors _were smoking_ before a _chimney_ place, or _playing at cards_ on a tub reversed; a coarse looking woman held Peter by his collar, and chanticleer sat perched on a beam of the house. The costume and furniture were equally out of keeping, but executed with the most harmonious tone and finest touch of the pencil. Now the same subject in the schools of Italy would represent a hall becoming the governor of Judea, soldiers in Roman costume would be grouped around an antique vase of embers, placed upon a tripod, and Peter would quail under the pert recognition of a beautiful damsel; the grey dawn would appear through the intercolumniations of the portico, and the warning {455} clarion of the cock would be expressed on the brow of the conscience-stricken Apostle.

This may not be considered a fair comparison, but rather the antithesis of the two schools. What then shall we take as the highest effort of Dutch genius? The Bull of Paul Potter![1] As well might we compare a wax figure of Tecumseh with the Apollo Belvidere, or the Sleeping Beauty with the Venus de Medicis. But, if indeed, it be the highest effort of genius to produce an _exact representation_ of things, the modeller in wax, is superior to the sculptor in marble, and the Bull at the Hague, to the Transfiguration in the Vatican. As no one of any pretension to taste will ever assent to this conclusion, I must again insist, that art aspires to a higher attainment than the mere portraiture of nature, and claims poetic honors; it is the poetry of form and color: it selects the agreeable from the discordant parts of the great prototype--combines and disposes them--and without changing the features, elevates and ennobles them; it seizes upon incidental effects to cast a shadow over the asperities of objects, and throws a broad and brilliant light on the more beautiful parts. When Dominichino was asked what obscured a part of his picture, "_una neblia si passa_," was his reply; and by thus imagining a passing cloud, he was enabled to preserve that breadth of light and shade so remarkable in the English school at present. The Italians however, did not often seek after _effect_; they did not address themselves so much to the eye, as to the judgment; and their distinguishing excellence is _correctness_ of _design_ and _dignity of character_. It was this that acquired for them the praise of a "grand gusto," or sublimity of style, superior to all other artists.

[Footnote 1: This is esteemed the greatest of the Dutch school.]

G. C.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ETYMOLOGY.

----The inventor of a new word must never flatter himself that he has secured the public adoption, for he must lie in the grave before he can enter the Dictionary.--_D'Israeli_.

_Mr. White_:--I am an odd old fellow, and fond of etymology, and frequently amuse myself with tracing to their roots, words in familiar use. Having been confoundedly puzzled of late by the term CAUCUS, which is in every body's mouth, and not being able to satisfy myself as to its origin, I have determined to have recourse to you, and will be infinitely obliged to you or any of your readers for a solution of the difficulty. If it be true as D'Israeli says, that the inventor of a new word cannot be secure of its adoption by the public, for he must lie in the grave before he can enter the Dictionary--the man who made the aforesaid word must be still living, though at a very advanced age. I rather suppose however that D'Israeli is mistaken, and that the inventor has been dead a long time, and lived to see the general adoption of his word, notwithstanding it has as yet no place in any Dictionary that I have seen. Supposing it to be an English word, I consulted Walker, and was mortified to find that he took no notice of it. I then made sundry combinations of other terms, but could light upon none that seemed at all plausible, except the words _calk us_, which, united into caucus, may produce a kind of _onomatopoeia_, descriptive of the assemblage in question; for to calk, is, according to the abovementioned lexicographer, "to stop the leak of a vessel;" and inasmuch as a caucus is urged by the admirers of Mr. Van Buren, to be the means of stopping all leaks in our political vessel, there seems to be some show of reason in this derivation. Upon further reflection, however, I concluded that the word must be Greek, and having recourse to Schrevelius, found the paronymous term _kakos_, malus. This I presently rejected, though apparently descriptive of the pernicious tendency of a caucus, because the institutors of that pestilent oligarchy would hardly have selected so barefaced an epitheton, such a cacophony, if I may so speak. On further search, upon meeting with _kaukis_, I was so much delighted with the near resemblance of sound, as to jump up and cry out _eureka_; but moderated my rapture on discovering that "_genus calceamenti_," the explanatory terms in Latin, could not be tortured to any manner of application, unless indeed it was intended to indicate that the members of a caucus would be willing to stand in the _people's shoes_, upon the occasion of electing a President of the United States; or unless we observe further the _aliter baukos, jucundus_; for it is literally a very pleasant and right merry way of getting rid of the difficulty of a choice by the people. So far the Greek. As for the Latin, I have consulted every Dictionary in my possession, from Ainsworth and Young, up to _old Thoma Thomasius_, printed _Coventriæ Septimo Idus, Februarii 1630_, and can find nothing resembling our Caucus, but the three headed robber _Cacus_, who by paronomasia, might be considered as the grand prototype of that modern monster, which has stolen, if not the _cattle_, at least the property of the great American Hercules, and will keep it, unless he rise in his might, and crushing the political thief, resumes his original rights. Now, Mr. White, I am disposed to rest here; though not quite so well satisfied as Jonathan Oldbuck was about the locality Of Agricola's camp, from those mysterious initials which the mischievous Edie Ochiltree so wickedly interpreted to mean "_Ailie Davy's lang ladle_," and not "_Agricola dicavit libens lubens_," as _Monkbarns_ would have it;--but do observe, sir, the singular coincidences between Cacus and Caucus; the one a three headed rogue--the other a sort of political Cerberus; the first slily taking away the cattle of another--the second insidiously cajoling the people of their rights; the former hiding them in a cave, where they were discovered by their bellowing--the latter betrayed by a bellowing from Maine to Georgia; and finally Cacus demolished by Hercules, and Caucus easily demolished by the Herculean force of public sentiment.

I acknowledge, however, that I am not entirely satisfied, notwithstanding this "_confirmation strong_," and hope you will speedily relieve the perplexity of

Your most obedient,

NUGATOR.

P.S. A friend facetiously suggests that Caucus is nothing more than a corruption,--Caucus, quasi cork us; that is, shut close the doors that nobody may hear us.

REMARK.

We will do all in our power to assist our esteemed friend Nugator in his etymological researches.--We remember to have read in a work of a New {456} England author, some years since, an elaborate inquiry into the origin of the word which so much puzzles our correspondent. If our memory serve us faithfully, that writer fixes the nativity of the term in the city of Boston, and the date of its birth previous to the revolution. The circumstances out of which it sprang he asserts to be these. In that stormy period, when every class of citizens was agitated by the sentiments which exploded shortly afterwards in the thunders of revolution, public meetings were frequently held by the different trades and professions. For reasons which we now forget, particular attention was attracted to one called by the _Calkers_, a large body of citizens in so commercial a town. Their proceedings being peculiar, (perhaps in exclusiveness or secrecy,) caused this assemblage to be much talked of; and every subsequent meeting characterized by similar peculiarities in its formation or proceedings, was called a "_Calker's Meeting_." Gradually, in the lapse of time, although the term continued to be used, its origin was forgotten; and a knowledge of its etymological parentage no longer preserving it from corruption, an erroneous pronunciation, and consequently an erroneous manner of spelling it, gave to it the form and shape which it now wears--a change not at all surprising in regard to a word which was probably _unwritten_ during the first thirty years of its existence. We give this derivation from memory alone; we cannot even recall the work in which we saw it. If it be the true one, our friend will perceive that in one of his surmises he is not far wrong. It is high time that the birth, parentage and early condition of a particle of our language, which has of late become a word of power, equal in its magic influence to the fabled spells of ancient necromancers, should be settled beyond dispute. Seeing what Caucus now means, it is natural that we should desire to know from what beginnings it has arisen to its present stupendous importance in the ranks of our modern political vocabulary.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

THE CRAYON MISCELLANY. By the author of the Sketch Book. No. 1. Containing a Tour on the Prairies. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1835.

A book from the pen of Washington Irving, is a _morceau_, which will always be eagerly sought after by literary epicures. He is decidedly one of the most popular writers in this country: his sketches of character and scenery, are always true to the life, full of freshness and vigor; and there is usually a clear stream of thought pervading his pages, in fine contrast with the crude and indistinct conceptions of ordinary writers. The volume before us cannot be said indeed to rival some of its predecessors from the same pen, but the cause is not so much in the author as in his subject. In spite of an agreeable and highly descriptive style, the mind becomes wearied with the monotony of a journey through the solitudes of the Western Prairies, and after we have once formed a tolerably distinct idea of a buffalo hunt, and the lasoing of the wild horse, we become tired of the repetition of adventures, which possess so little variety. Considering his materials, however, Mr. Irving has contrived to sustain his narrative with his usual ability. It is true, that most readers will somewhat regret that he did not present more finished portraits of some of the personages who accompanied the expedition. We have quite satisfactory sketches of that "swarthy, meager, braggart" Tonish, and of the "sullen saturnine" half breed Beatte, but we desire to know something more of the wild young Swiss Count, of his travelling companion and mentor, the virtuoso, and of the hardy old hunter, Ryan, a true member of the leather-stocking family.

Notwithstanding the famed perspicuity and purity of Mr. Irving's style, he occasionally adopts a form of expression which creates some surprise. We will give one instance, in particular, because the inaccuracy, if we may so term it, is repeated several times in the volume before us:--"The horse, which was fearless as his owner, and like him, had a considerable spice of devil in his composition, and who beside, had been familiar with the game, no sooner came in sight and scent of the buffalo, than he set off _like mad_, bearing the involuntary hunter," &c. &c. &c. (Page 232.)

We should have supposed the expression, "_like mad_," a typographical error, if it had not been frequently used.

We copy for the reader's amusement, a short chapter, containing an account of "_A Republic of Prairie Dogs_," a kind of quadruped, with which we, at least, in this portion of North America, are not very familiar. The harmony, vigilance and energy, with which these little brutes rally around their rights and their laws, might whisper a sage lesson even to the wisdom of rational and intellectual beings:--

A REPUBLIC OF PRAIRIE DOGS.

On returning from our expedition in quest of the young Count, I learned that a burrow, or village, as it is termed, of prairie dogs, had been discovered on the level summit of a hill, about a mile from the camp. Having heard much of the habits and peculiarities of these little animals, I determined to pay a visit to the community. The prairie dog is, in fact, one of the curiosities of the far West, about which travellers delight to tell marvellous tales, endowing him at times with something of the politic and social habits of a rational being, and giving him systems of civil government and domestic economy, almost equal to what they used to bestow upon the beaver.

The prairie dog is an animal of the coney kind, and about the size of a rabbit. He is of a sprightly mercurial nature; quick, sensitive, and somewhat petulant. He is very gregarious, living in large communities, sometimes of several acres in extent, where innumerable little heaps of earth show the entrances to the subterranean cells of the inhabitants, and the well beaten tracks, like lanes and streets, show their mobility and restlessness. According to the accounts given of them, they would seem to be continually full of sport, business and public affairs; whisking about hither and thither, as if on gossiping visits to each other's houses, or congregating in the cool of the evening, or after a shower, and gambolling together in the open air. Sometimes, especially when the moon shines, they pass half the night in revelry, barking or yelping with short, quick, yet weak tones, like those of very young puppies. While in the height of their playfulness and clamor, however, should there be the least alarm, they all vanish into their cells in an instant, and the village remains blank and silent. In case they are hard pressed by their pursuers, without any hope of escape, they will assume a pugnacious air, and a most whimsical look of impotent wrath and defiance.

The prairie dogs are not permitted to remain sole and undisturbed inhabitants of their own homes. Owls and rattlesnakes are said to take up their abodes with them; but whether as invited guests or unwelcome intruders, is a matter of controversy. The owls are of a peculiar kind, and would seem to partake of the character of the hawk; for they are taller and more erect on their legs, more alert in their looks and rapid in their flight than ordinary owls, and do not confine their excursions to the night, but sally forth in broad day.

Some say that they only inhabit cells which the prairie dogs {457} have deserted, and suffered to go to ruin, in consequence of the death in them of some relative; for they would make out this little animal to be endowed with keen sensibilities, that will not permit it to remain in the dwelling where it has witnessed the death of a friend. Other fanciful speculators represent the owl as a kind of housekeeper to the prairie dog; and from having a note very similar, insinuate that it acts, in a manner, as family preceptor, and teaches the young litter to bark.

As to the rattlesnake, nothing satisfactory has been ascertained of the part he plays in this most interesting household; though he is considered as little better than a sycophant and sharper, that winds himself into the concerns of the honest, credulous little dog, and takes him in most sadly. Certain it is, if he acts as toad eater, he occasionally solaces himself with more than the usual perquisites of his order; as he is now and then detected with one of the younger members of the family in his maw.

Such are a few of the particulars that I could gather about the domestic economy of this little inhabitant of the prairies, who, with his pigmy republic, appears to be a subject of much whimsical speculation and burlesque remarks, among the hunters of the far West.

It was towards evening that I set out with a companion, to visit the village in question. Unluckily, it had been invaded in the course of the day by some of the rangers, who had shot two or three of its inhabitants, and thrown the whole sensitive community in confusion. As we approached, we could perceive numbers of the inhabitants seated at the entrances of their cells, while sentinels seemed to have been posted on the outskirts, to keep a look out. At sight of us, the picket guards scampered in and gave the alarm; whereupon every inhabitant gave a short yelp, or bark, and dived into his hole, his heels twinkling in the air as if he had thrown a somerset.

We traversed the whole village, or republic, which covered an area of about thirty acres; but not a whisker of an inhabitant was to be seen. We probed their cells as far as the ramrods of our rifles would reach, but could unearth neither dog, nor owl, nor rattlesnake. Moving quietly to a little distance, we lay down upon the ground, and watched for a long time, silent and motionless. By and bye, a cautious old burgher would slowly put forth the end of his nose, but instantly draw it in again. Another, at a greater distance, would emerge entirely; but, catching a glance of us, would throw a somerset, and plunge back again into his hole. At length, some who resided on the opposite side of the village, taking courage from the continued stillness, would steal forth, and hurry off to a distant hole, the residence possibly of some family connexion, or gossiping friend, about whose safety they were solicitous, or with whom they wished to compare notes about the late occurrences.

Others still more bold, assembled in little knots, in the streets and public places, as if to discuss the recent outrages offered to the commonwealth, and the atrocious murders of their fellow burghers.

We rose from the ground and moved forward, to take a nearer view of these public proceedings, when, yelp! yelp! yelp!--there was a shrill alarm passed from mouth to mouth; the meetings suddenly dispersed; feet twinkled in the air in every direction; and in an instant all had vanished into the earth.

The dusk of the evening put an end to our observations, but the train of whimsical comparisons produced in my brain, by the moral attributes which I had heard given to these little politic animals, still continued after my return to camp; and late in the night, as I lay awake after all the camp was asleep, and heard in the stillness of the hour, a faint clamor of shrill voices from the distant village, I could not help picturing to myself the inhabitants gathered together in noisy assemblage, and windy debate, to devise plans for the public safety, and to vindicate the invaded rights and insulted dignity of the republic.

* * * * *

_North American Review_.--The April number is for the most part excellent. But we are forcibly reminded by it of a defect in the Reviews of this country, which it seems to us, might with some little exertion, be remedied. The fault to which we allude, is their tardiness in noticing the publications of the day. In this number of the North American, we find several pages devoted to a review of _Burkhardt's Travels in Africa_, which have been before the public _sixteen years_, while the crowd of new works of undoubted merit which fill our book stores, have not as yet, with but few exceptions, attracted the attention of the reviewers. In this book-making age, we are aware that it is impossible for a Quarterly to review the twentieth part of the productions constantly issuing from the press: but if, as we suppose, it is the design of these periodicals to direct the taste of the public in every department of science and literature, surely they should contain reviews of such works selected from the mass, as are best worthy attention; and should endeavor to keep pace with the stream of publication. We can see little value in a review of a book after every reading man in the community has perused it, and formed his opinion upon its merits. Thus to lag behind the march of current literature, deprives the criticisms of the reviewer of much of their value and weight. In the instance to which we have alluded, it might well be asked whether the travels of Burkhardt, English reviews of which we read ten or twelve, or more years ago, could have the same claim upon the public interest as the newer works of Burnes, Jacquemont, Bennet and many others, whose books possess the charm of novelty? We subjoin the contents of the April number: 1. Politics of Europe: 2. Coleridge: 3. Mineral Springs of Nassau: 4. Life of G. D. Boardman: 5. National Gallery: 6. Italy: 7. Last Days of Pompeii: 8. Immigration: 9. Burkhardt's Travels in Africa: 10. Popular Education.

The first article contains a spirited review of the political events in France since the revolution of 1830, and of the foreign and internal policy of Louis Philippe. The progress of the _juste milieu_ system is well delineated, and a forcible picture is drawn of the present posture of the French government. We do not entirely coincide with the writer's ideas of the onward course of the cause of liberty, (or perhaps more correctly, of revolution) in France; but consider the article generally correct and instructive. That on Coleridge is admirable: and we heartily rejoice that in a work so much looked up to in England as is the North American, for the expression of our literary opinions, justice so ample should have been done to that extraordinary mind. A Baltimore newspaper, in allusion to the article in question, speaks of "the pitiful shifts to which the reviewer is driven to account for a fact which he admits, viz.--that there is but here and there an individual who understands him," [Coleridge.] "What stronger proof do we want," says the journalist, "of that confusion of thought and mysticism with which he has been charged?" We think _far_ stronger proofs are necessary to support the accusation. That but few comprehend the metaphysical treatises of Coleridge, is owing to the simple fact, that few are so thoroughly versed in psychological knowledge as to maintain a position in the van of the science, the post universally acceded to Coleridge by the learned in ethics. It is for this class of men that he has written, and in whose applauses he has received a plentiful reward. These, at least, will not hesitate to say that so far from being justly charged with confusion of thought, and its consequence confusion of expression, no man who ever lived thought _more distinctly even when thinking wrong_, or more intimately felt and comprehended the power of _the niceties of words_. That his philosophical {458} disquisitions are abstruse, is the fault of the subjects, and not of the language in which he has treated them, than which none can be more lucid or appropriate.

The article on Italy is interesting--also that on the National Gallery. In the notice of the _Last Days of Pompeii_, justice is by no means done to that most noble of modern novels.

* * * * *

The _London Quarterly Review for February_, American Edition, No. 1. Vol. 2. is printed on good paper, with excellent type. It contains, 1. Wanderings in New South Wales, by George Bennet, Esq. F. L. S. Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons: 2. Correspondence of Victor de Jacquemont: 3. Population of Great Britain and Ireland: 4. Coleridge's Table Talk: 5. Egypt and Thebes: 6. Rush on the Prophecies: 7. The Church and the Voluntary System: 8. Recent German Belles Lettres: 9. England, France, Russia and Turkey: 10. Sir Robert Peel's Address. The eighth article contains much information on a subject with which Americans are, for the most part, indifferently conversant. Coleridge's Table Talk is highly interesting, as every authentic fragment of his sentiments and opinions must be. The work reviewed in this article, is published by Mr. Henry Coleridge, a near relative of the departed philosopher and poet, and is made up from notes of numerous conversations, taken down by the publisher immediately after their occurrence. They bear the impress of Coleridge's mind, will be read with interest by all classes, and probably do more to make the general reader acquainted with him and his opinions, than all else that has been written.--We take this opportunity of noticing the excellent American Edition of the London, Edinburg, Foreign and Westminster Reviews, combined. It does much honor to Mr. Foster of New York, the publisher; and the compression of matter is such, without being printed too fine, as to give to subscribers for the sum of eight dollars, these four periodicals for which upwards of twenty dollars was formerly paid. The paper, type, and execution, are good.

* * * * *

_The Life of Samuel Drew_, the shoemaker and philosopher of Cornwall, by his son, is published by Harper & Brothers, and consists of 360 pages. Drew was an extraordinary man, whose works, especially his theological ones, have gained him no little celebrity. It now appears that he had much to do with the writings attributed to Dr. Coke.

* * * * *

_The Life of the Emperor Napoleon, Vol. 1, by H. Lee. New York, Charles De Behr._ This work has great merits and remarkable faults. Published ostensibly as a corrector of the numerous errors of other biographers of Napoleon, and especially those of Sir Walter Scott and Lockhart, it cannot but be read with interest. The errors detected and set right, are numerous and important. In most instances Mr. Lee clearly makes out his charges--in some we are sorry to see that he seems to be governed by a spirit of captiousness: And we cannot but object to the tone of his strictures upon Sir Walter Scott. Milder language would better have graced his cause. We have prepared a review of this work, which we are compelled to postpone to the next number of the Messenger.

* * * * *

_Celebrated Trials of all Countries, and remarkable cases of Criminal Jurisprudence, selected by a Member of the Philadelphia Bar. Philadelphia, E. L. Carey and A. Hart._ Such a book as this was much wanted. The records of criminal trials were scattered through the newspapers or buried in some huge tomes of antique law reports, almost inaccessible to the ordinary reader. And this book seems fitted to supply the deficiency to a considerable extent. It is a large octavo, and contains a selection of criminal trials from the early period of 1588, down to the present day, among them some of the most celebrated cases on record, such as that of Sir Walter Raleigh in 1602, of the Earl of Strafford in 1643, of Alexis Petrowitz Czarowitz in 1815, of the rebels, Kilmarnock, Cromartie, Balmerino, &c. in 1745, and others of equal interest--the judicial proceedings in relation to which, belong to history. The contents of the work are highly interesting, but we cannot withhold our censure of their arrangement. The trials are huddled together without the slightest attention to chronological order; and it would seem that the gentleman of the Philadelphia Bar, who is made responsible for the compilation of the work, could merely have selected the several cases leaving the printer to arrange them as he pleased. The consequence is, that the reader finds himself shifting backward and forward, from century to century, in a complete medley of dates. This is to be lamented, because the history of criminal jurisprudence is a history of the progress of civil liberty, and of the expansion of the human mind. And the interest which we find in tracing the progress of just and equitable rules in the trials of malefactors, is marred by this defect of arrangement. As future volumes of this work are partly promised, it is to be hoped that in them this fault will be amended.

* * * * *

_No Fiction_. _A Narrative founded on recent and interesting facts, by the Rev. Andrew Reed, D.D._ has been republished by the Harpers. With a plot of great simplicity, and with diction equally simple, this work has attained much celebrity. It is indeed thrillingly interesting. _Martha_, a more recent effort by the same writer, is however, in every respect a book of greater merit.

* * * * *

_Memoirs of Celebrated Women of all Countries. By Madame Junot. Philadelphia, Carey, Lea and Blanchard._ These memoirs are amusing, and so far we can recommend them highly, but no farther. Their morality is questionable indeed; and they bear upon their face, in a certain pervading air of romance, sufficient evidence of their own inauthenticity. There is a sad mistake too in the title of the work. These are not memoirs of celebrated women in _all_ countries: they are merely Madame Junot's celebrated women in a few particular regions. The greater part of them have no pretensions to celebrity. It has been remarked that the sketch of Marina Minszech will afford a fair sample of the Duchess's biographical style. In this opinion we concur, and as it is a pretty fable, we advise all to read it who have no inclination for the book entire.

* * * * *

_Influence, a Moral Tale, by the author of Miriam. Philadelphia, Key and Biddle._ There is an air of modest tranquillity about this book which we admire. It is a pleasing tale addressed to the young, to serious parents, and to friends--and it pretends to be nothing more. {459} Its style too is unobjectionable. If the work developes in the author no extraordinary capabilities, it is, we think, because there was no intention of developing them.

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_Lives of the English Pirates, Highwaymen and Robbers, by Whitehead. Philadelphia, Carey and Hart._ These lines will be read in spite of all that a too fastidious taste may say to the contrary. We see no very good reason why they should not be.

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_Confessions of a Poet, 2 vols. Carey, Lea and Blanchard._ The most remarkable feature in this production is the bad paper on which it is printed, and the typographical ingenuity with which matter barely enough for one volume has been spread over the pages of two. The author has very few claims to the sacred name he has thought proper to assume. And indeed his own idea on this subject seem not to satisfy himself. He is in doubt, poor man, of his own qualifications, and having proclaimed himself a poet in the title page, commences his book by disavowing all pretensions to the character. We can enlighten him on this head. There is nothing of the _vates_ about him. He is no poet--and most positively he is no prophet. He is a writer of notes. He is fond of annotations; and composes one upon another, putting Pelion upon Ossa. Here is an example: "_Ce n'est pas par affectation que j'aie mis en Francais ces remarques, mais pour les detourner de la connoissance du vulgaire._" Now we are very sure that none but _le vulgaire_, to speak poetically, will ever think of getting through with the confessions: thus there the matter stands. Lest his book should _not_ be understood he illustrates it by notes, and then lest the notes _should_ be understood, why he writes them in French. All this is very clear, and very clever to say no more. There is however some merit in this book, and not a little satisfaction. The author avers upon his word of honor that in commencing this work he loads a pistol, and places it upon the table. He farther states that, upon coming to a conclusion, it is his intention to blow out what he supposes to be his brains. Now this is excellent. But, even with so rapid a writer as the poet must undoubtedly be, there would be some little difficulty in completing the book under thirty days or thereabouts. The best of powder is apt to sustain injury by lying so long "in the load." We sincerely hope the gentleman took the precaution to examine his priming before attempting the rash act. A flash in the pan--and in such a case--were a thing to be lamented. Indeed there would be no answering for the consequences. We might even have a second series of the Confessions.

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_The Language of Flowers, embellished with fine colored engravings. Philadelphia, Carey, Hart and Co._ This is a book which will find favor in the eyes of the ladies, and thus, _par consequence_ in the eyes of the gentlemen. Its motto is pretty and apposite:

By all those token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well.

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_Mr. and Miss Edgeworth's Practical Education_ has been republished by the Harpers. Its character is well established.

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_The Highland Smugglers. By the author of Adventures of a Kussilbush, &c. 3 vols. Carey, Hart and Co._ This book is very much praised and we think justly. It is full of exquisite descriptions of that region of romance the Scottish Highlands, and has _a manner of its own_.

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Mr. Lockhart's excellent novel _Valerius_ is republished by the Harpers. The scene is in the time of Trajan, and the subject is managed in that masterly style which we look for in Lockhart. We have heard objections urged to the antique nature of his tale--ill-mannered sneers, and by men who should know better, at travelling back to Roman history for interest which could as well be found at home. _Procul--O procul este profani!_ Valerius is a book _to live_.

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_An Account of Col. Crockett's Tour to the North and Down East, written by himself. Carey, Hart and Co._ We see no reason why Col. Crockett should not be permitted to expose himself if he pleases, and to be as much laughed at as he thinks proper--but works of this kind have had their day, and have fortunately lost their attractions. We think this work especially censurable for the frequent vulgarity of its language.

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_Illorax de Courcy, an auto-biographical novel, by Josiah Templeton, Esq., 2 vols. Baltimore, William and Joseph Neal._ We have looked at this book attentively--for we confess it was impossible to read it. A glance over one or two pages will be sufficient to convince any reasonable person that it is a mere jumble of absurdities. The gentleman should not have thrust his name (if it be not a _nom de guerre_,) into the title page.

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_A Winter in the West, by a New Yorker. New York, Harper and Brothers._ This is a work of great sprightliness, and is replete with instruction and amusement. The writer evinces much talent in producing an interesting narrative of a journey performed in the most unpropitious period of the year. His observations on life in the backwoods are sensible, and we should imagine correct, and his details in relation to Michigan particularly interest us. The adventures of the road are told with great vivacity, and although there are no thrilling scenes or surprising incidents in the book, it cannot be read with indifference. The traits of Indian character scattered through its pages are vivid and striking, and the reflections on the condition of that fast failing race mark the philanthropic spirit of the author. Mr. Hoffman, formerly connected with the New York American, and now Editor of a Monthly Magazine, is the reputed author of this spirited work.

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Note: The journal of Mrs. Frances Ann Butler, better known as Miss Fanny Kemble, has, after a long delay, made its appearance; but at so late a period that we are unable to present our readers with our opinions at large of its merits, which we regret the more, as the work has created much excitement in the literary and fashionable world. Numerous extracts from its pages have been published in the newspapers, and the daring authoress has received but little mercy from any quarter. It will be reviewed in our next.

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EDITORIAL REMARKS.

We recommend the contents of our present number with entire confidence, to our readers.

The article on the "_Influence of Free Governments on the Mind_," is from the same gifted and exuberant pen which produced the "_Impediments to Literature_," republished in our fifth number, from the Western Monthly Magazine.

The selection from Mr. Mitchell's Manuscripts, or the story of the "_White Antelope_," will, we doubt not, be read with zest enough to create a strong desire for future contributions from the same source. The peculiarities of those wild sons of the forest who have never been _corrupted by civilization_, (we hope the solecism will be pardoned,) cannot fail to attract the curious. The story we publish is truly _unique_ and excellent of its kind.