The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I.,
No. 5, January, 1835, by Various

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Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 5, January, 1835

Author: Various

Editor: James E. Heath

Release Date: January 11, 2017 [EBook #53943]

Language: English

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THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.


Au gré de nos desirs bien plus qu'au gré des vents.
                                      _Crebillon's Electre_.

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.


RICHMOND:
T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR.
1834-5.




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 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 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 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 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 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.




  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.




  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.




  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 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.

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 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 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 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 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]
  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._]




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.

  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 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--
  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.




  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 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
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 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.




  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 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 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 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
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 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
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 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 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 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 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 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
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. 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 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.




  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 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 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 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. 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 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 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_' 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 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?




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 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 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!"

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 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 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
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 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."

  "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
   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 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 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_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [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 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 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 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.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol.
I., No. 5, January, 1835, by Various

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