Opening
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.
VOL. I.
RICHMOND: T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR. 1834-5.
{1}
SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
VOL. I.] RICHMOND, AUGUST, 1834. [NO. 1.
T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.
PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.
In issuing the first number of the "SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER," the publisher hopes to be excused for inserting a few passages from the letters of several eminent literary men which he has had the pleasure to receive, approving in very flattering terms, his proposed publication. Whilst the sentiments contained in these extracts illustrate the generous and enlightened spirit of their authors, they ought to stimulate the pride and genius of the south, and awaken from its long slumber the literary exertion of this portion of our country. The publisher confidently believes that such will be the effect. From the smiles of encouragement, and the liberal promises of support received from various quarters--which he takes this opportunity of acknowledging,--he is strongly imboldened to persevere, and devote his own humble labors to so good a cause. He is authorised to expect a speedy arrangement either with a competent editor or with regular contributors to his work,--but, in the mean time, respectfully solicits public patronage, as the only effectual means of ensuring complete success.
FROM WASHINGTON IRVING.
"Your literary enterprise has my highest approbation and warmest good wishes. Strongly disposed as I always have been in favor of 'the south,' and especially attached to Virginia by early friendships and cherished recollections, I cannot but feel interested in the success of a work which is calculated to concentrate the talent and illustrate the high and generous character which pervade that part of the Union."
FROM J. K. PAULDING.
"It gives me great pleasure to find that you are about establishing a literary paper at Richmond,--and I earnestly hope the attempt will be successful. You have abundance of talent among you; and the situation of so many well educated men, placed above the necessity of laboring either manually or professionally, affords ample leisure for the cultivation of literature. Hitherto your writings have been principally political; and in that class you have had few rivals. The same talent, directed to other pursuits in literature, will, unquestionably, produce similar results,--and Virginia, in addition to her other high claims to the consideration of the world, may then easily aspire to the same distinction in other branches that she has attained in politics.
* * * * *
"Besides, the muses must certainly abide somewhere in the beautiful vallies, and on the banks of the clear streams of the mountains of Virginia. Solitude is the nurse of the imagination; and if there be any Virginia lass or lad that ever seeks, they will assuredly find inspiration, among the retired quiet beauties of her lonely retreats. Doubtless they only want a vehicle for their effusions,--and I cannot bring myself to believe that your contemplated paper will suffer from the absence of contributors or subscribers.
* * * * *
"If your young writers will consult their own taste and genius, and forget there ever were such writers as Scott, Byron, and Moore, I will be bound they produce something original; and a tolerable original is as much superior to a tolerable imitation, as a substance is to a shadow. Give us something new--something characteristic of yourselves, your country, and your native feelings, and I don't care what it is. I am somewhat tired of licentious love ditties, border legends, affected sorrows, and grumbling misanthropy. I want to see something wholesome, natural, and national. The best thing a young American writer can do, is to forget that any body ever wrote before him; and above all things, that there are such caterpillars as critics in this world."
FROM J. FENIMORE COOPER.
"The south is full of talent, and the leisure of its gentlemen ought to enable them to bring it freely into action. I made many acquaintances, in early youth, among your gentlemen, whom I have always esteemed for their manliness, frankness, and intelligence. If some, whom I could name, were to arouse from their lethargy, you would not be driven to apply to any one on this side the Potomac for assistance."
FROM J. P. KENNEDY.
"I have received your prospectus, along with your letter of the 1st instant. It gives me great pleasure to perceive so just an estimate of the value of literary enterprise as that indicated by your announcement of the 'Southern Literary Messenger.' A work of this kind is due to the talents of your noble state, and I doubt not will be received with a prompt encouragement."
FROM JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.
"Your design is so laudable, that I would gladly contribute to its promotion; but the periodical literature of the country seems to be rather superabundant than scanty. The desideratum is of quality rather than quantity."
FROM PETER A. BROWNE.
"Although you could not have chosen one less able to assist you, owing to my numerous professional engagements, which deprive me of the pleasure of dipping into the other sciences, or literature, I am willing to contribute my mite, and sincerely wish you success."
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SOUTHERN LITERATURE.
It is understood that the first number of the "Messenger," will be sent forth by its Publisher, as a kind of pioneer, to spy out the land of literary promise, and to report whether the same be fruitful or barren, before he resolves upon future action. It would be a mortifying discovery, if instead of kindness and good will, he should be repulsed by the coldness and neglect of a Virginia public. Hundreds of similar publications thrive and prosper north of the Potomac, sustained as they are by the liberal hand of patronage. Shall not one be supported in the whole south? This is a question of great importance;--and one which ought to be answered with sober earnestness by all who set any value upon public character, or who are in the least degree jealous of that individual honor and dignity which is in some measure connected with the honor and dignity of the state. Are we to be doomed forever to a kind of vassalage to our northern neighbors--a dependance for our literary food upon our brethren, whose superiority in all the great points of character,--in valor--eloquence and patriotism, we are no wise disposed to admit? Is it not altogether extraordinary that in this extensive commonwealth, containing a white population of upwards of six hundred thousand souls--a vast deal of agricultural wealth, and innumerable persons of both sexes, who enjoy both leisure and affluence--there is not one solitary {2} periodical exclusively literary? What is the cause? We are not willing to borrow our political,--religious, or even our agricultural notions from the other side of Mason and Dixon's line, and we generously patronize various domestic journals devoted to those several subjects. Why should we consider the worthy descendants of the pilgrims--of the Hollanders of Manhattan, or the German adventurers of Pennsylvania, as exclusively entitled to cater for us in our choicest intellectual aliment? Shall it be said that the empire of literature has no geographical boundaries, and that local jealousies ought not to disturb its harmony? To this there is an obvious answer. If we continue to be consumers of northern productions, we shall never ourselves become producers. We may take from them the fabrics of their looms, and give in exchange without loss our agricultural products--but if we depend exclusively upon their literary supplies, it is certain that the spirit of invention among our own sons, will be damped, if not entirely extinguished. The value of a domestic publication of the kind, consists in its being at once accessible to all who choose to venture into the arena as rivals for renown. It imparts the same energy, and exercises the same influence upon mental improvement, that a rail road does upon agricultural labor, when passing by our doors and through our estates. The literary spirit which pervades some portions of New England and the northern cities, would never have existed, at least in the same degree, if the journals and repositories designed to cherish and promote it, had been derived exclusively from London and Edinburgh. In like manner, if we look entirely to Boston, New York or Philadelphia, for that delightful mental enjoyment and recreation, which such publications afford, we must content ourselves with being the readers and admirers of other men's thoughts, and lose all opportunity of stirring up our own minds, and breathing forth our own meditations. In other words, we must be satisfied to partake of the feast, as it is set before us by our more industrious and enterprising countrymen, and if peradventure, the cookery should not be altogether to our taste, we must, nevertheless, with our characteristic courtesy, be thankful,--and like honest Sancho, "bid God bless the giver."
It is not intended to be intimated that the aristarchy of the north and east, cherish any unkind feelings towards the literary claims of the south. Oh no! In truth, they have no cause whatsoever, either for unkindness or jealousy. If we only continue to patronize their multitudinous magazines, they will pocket our money and praise us as a very generous and chivalrous race; or if, perchance, some juvenile drama, or poem, or some graver duodecimo of southern manufacture, should find its way to the seats of learning and criticism beyond the Susquehanna, it is an even chance, that in order to preserve the monopoly of the southern market, they will dole out to us a modicum of praise, and render some faint tribute to rising merit. Without therefore intending any thing invidious, or without cherishing any unkind or unmanly sentiment towards our political confederates, we ought forthwith to buckle on our armour, and assert our mental independence. All their own lofty and generous spirits will approve the resolution, and be among the first to welcome the dawn of a brighter era in a region of comparative twilight. Their Irvings and Pauldings, their Everetts and Neals, their Coopers and Verplancks, their Kennedys and Flints, their Hallecks and Bryants, their Sedgewicks and Sigourneys, will rejoice in the emancipation of the south, from the shackles which either indolence, indifference, or the love of pleasure, have imposed upon us. We are too old, and ought to be too proud to lag behind even some of our younger sisters, in the cultivation of one of the most attractive departments of human knowledge. It is folly to boast of political ascendancy, of moral influence, of professional eminence, or unrivalled oratory, when, in all the Corinthian graces which adorn the structure of mind, we are lamentably deficient. It is worse than folly to talk of this "ancient and unterrified commonwealth"--if we suffer ourselves to be terrified at the idea of supporting one poor periodical, devoted to letters and mental improvement. It would be an indelible reproach to us, that whilst we waste so many thousands annually in luxury--whilst we squander our means in expensive tours of recreation and pleasure,--and even impoverish our resources in indulgences too gross to be mentioned--we should be unwilling to contribute a single mite towards building up a character of our own, and providing the means of imbodying and concentrating the neglected genius of our country. Let the hundreds of our gifted sons, therefore, who have talents and acquirements, come forth to this work of patriotism, with a firm resolution to persevere until victory is achieved. Let them dismiss their apprehensions,--that because as yet they are unpractised in composition--and the highway to literary eminence is already thronged with competitors--that, therefore, the most vigorous effort will be vanquished in the contest. In the race for political or professional distinction, who is influenced by such timid suggestions? In that noble strife, which animates southern bosoms to control by the magic of oratory the passions of the multitude, or in a more learned arena "the applause of listening senates to command"--who ever heard of discouragements and difficulties sufficient to chill their ardor, or restrain their aspirations? And yet is it less difficult to attain the prize of eloquence--to rival the fame of a Henry, or a Wirt, than to achieve the task of vigorous and graceful composition?
{3} To our lovely and accomplished countrywomen, may not a successful appeal be also addressed, to lend their aid in this meritorious task. Their influence upon the happiness and destiny of society, is so extensively felt and acknowledged, that to dwell upon its various bearings and relations, would be altogether superfluous. It is to the watchful care of a mother's love, that those first principles of moral wisdom are implanted in childhood, which ripen into the blossoms and fruit of maturer years; and it is to the reproving virtues and refining tenderness of the sex, through all its mutations, from blooming sixteen to the matronly grace of forty--that man is indebted for all that is soft, and for much that is noble and wise, in his own character. It is true that there is another side to this picture. If a woman's education has itself been neglected; if she has been trained up in the paths of folly and vanity--and been taught to ornament the casket in preference to the celestial jewel which it contains,--she will neither be a fit companion for the sterner sex, nor be qualified to assume the divine responsibility of maternal instruction. To diffuse therefore not only the benefits of moral but intellectual culture, among those whom heaven has given to restore in part the blessings of a lost Eden--to withdraw their minds from vain and unprofitable pursuits--to teach them to emulate the distinguished names of their own sex, who have given lustre to literature, and scattered sweets in the paths of science--is a duty not only of paramount importance on our part, but claims the united and cordial support of the fair and interesting objects of our care.
Let no one therefore presume to disparage this humble effort to redeem our country's escutcheon from the reproach which has been cast upon it. Let the miser open his purse--the prodigal save a pittance from his health-wasting and mind-destroying expenditures--the lawyer and physician, spare a little from their fees--the merchant and mechanic, from their speculations and labor--and the man of fortune, devote a part, a very small part of his abundance, towards the creation of a new era in the annals of this blessed Old Dominion. It may possibly be the means of effecting a salutary reform in public taste and individual habits; of overcoming that tendency to mental repose and luxurious indulgence supposed to be peculiar to southern latitudes; and of awakening a spirit of inquiry and a zeal for improvement, which cannot fail ultimately to exalt and adorn society.
H.
EXTRACT FROM A JOURNAL.
The following is from the unpublished journal of a gentleman of this state, who visited Europe some years since, with objects, we believe, exclusively literary and scientific. Though not at liberty to mention his name, if we mistake not, the time will come when his country will be proud to claim him as one whose fine natural genius has been adorned and improved by the treasures of learning. Though we do not present this sketch of a voyage over the great deep as having any peculiar claims to admiration, and are sure that the author himself would disclaim for it any such pretensions--yet we do not hesitate to recommend it to our readers as a sportive, graphic, and interesting delineation of the novelties and adventures of a sea trip.
* * * * *
On the 15th of June, 18--, the fine ship Edward Quesnel, E. Hawkins, master, one of the packets between New York and Havre, received her passengers on board at the former place, and dropped down to Sandy Hook Bay, where she anchored, awaiting a favorable wind.
Here she remained until the next morning, which however brought no change of wind, but rather an increase of that which was already blowing full in our teeth, together with a most disagreeable accompaniment in the shape of a misty rain, which caused us to confine ourselves below the deck.
The next morning came--and the next--but still all was dark and lowering, and still did the wind meet us from the ocean, or--what was equally unfavorable--remain hushed and calm. Day after day thus rolled by and found us quietly resting on the bosom of the waters; each morning hoping that
"The breeze would freshen when the day was done;"
and each evening retiring to rest, anxiously expecting to have our slumbers broken by the heaving up of the anchor.
Each day however, were our hopes disappointed, until the evening of the 24th, when the wind proving favorable, we moved from our station with as much pleasure as would animate the garrison of a besieged fortress, marching out after the departure of the besiegers. Our probation of nine days was succeeded by weather as bright as that had been gloomy. The sky was unclouded--
"The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew."
The pilot left us; and it was not until this last link which bound us to terra firma was separated, that I could realize to myself, that I was upon the pathless deep; of which I had heard, and read, and dreamed; but never had it entered my dreams, that I was one day to "wend my way" over its billows. The coast of America, rapidly receded from the view; and when I laid my head upon my pillow, I bade
"My native land good night!"
with a heaviness of heart, which I presume there is no one who has not felt, who sees fading from his sight, the land of his birth--the land which contains all for which he cares to live.
There is something indescribable in the feeling of being thus separated as it were, from the rest of the world. It seems as though our ship is of itself, {4} a distinct and independent world, on which we wing our way, with
"All heaven above, all ocean around us;"
not knowing any, and unknown to all. Empires may fall--states be dissolved--whole nations swept from the earth; yet we pursue our course as profoundly ignorant of aught that has occurred, as are the inhabitants of another planet, of what is done upon our own.
After getting fairly upon the ocean, and being satisfied, that we were making the best of our way to our place of destination, I began to direct my attention to those with whom my lot had been cast, and with whom I was daily to associate, whether willing or otherwise. And surely, since the days of Noah, never was a more heterogeneous congregation deposited within the compass of a ship. Imprimis, there were three ladies--two of them French and one American. There were three Frenchmen, two Germans, one Italian, one Spaniard, one Austrian Baron, one Dutch Naval Officer, one Portuguese--two natives of Massachusetts, two Rhode Islanders, two Pennsylvanians, two Virginians and one Mississippian.
Of this number there were three, who from their peculiarities, merit a more particular notice, than the mere enumeration I have given; and who, should any chance inform them, that any one had been "takin notes" of this voyage, would never forgive the chronicler who should pass over in silence their multifarious merits;--for however different otherwise, they most harmoniously agreed in the one particular of placing a sufficiently exalted estimate upon their own qualities. One of these notable individuals was a Catholic Priest, a native of Gascony, whose character may at once be comprehended, by referring to the idea which one always conceives of the "Gascon;"--for he imbodied in an eminent degree, those peculiarities which I had hitherto supposed ridicule and satire, but which I now found that truth, assigned to his countrymen. Further, his tolerance towards the gentlemanly peccadilloes of gaming and intoxication, was most praiseworthy. His zeal, or rather wrath, in defence of the Catholic religion, was most edifying--and his admiration of Bishop Dubourg most profound.
Another of these worthies was a young gentleman of ----, from whose dissertations upon the subject, I learned more of the sublime science of cookery, than it had ever before fallen to my lot to acquire. He abused the viands which were every day set before us in profusion, and (as I most unscientifically imagined) of excellent quality, with most gentlemanly and connoisseurlike assurance; for the purpose I presume, of insinuating in that indirect and delicate manner, that he had been used to better things;--and verily his expedient was ingenious--since from no other part of his conduct could this conclusion have been derived. It would be unbecoming to omit to mention three articles which he excepted from the sweeping condemnation, and honored with his commendation. These were--1. Whiskey punch, whereof he occasionally illustrated the potency--2. A dish consisting of mustard, cayenne pepper and broiled ham, and in cuisinical nomenclature ycleped "a devil"--and 3. French mustard--of which the chief excellence seemed to consist in its containing something of almost every thing, save only the article whose name it bears: reminding me of the sermon of a priest who preached before Louis 16th, of whom the Monarch remarked, that had he but touched upon religion a little, he would have had a little of every thing.
The last of the trio was the aforesaid Portuguese--an old doctor--who was equally an epicure with the last named gentleman, but who extended his critical acumen to works of the votaries of the muses, as well as to the productions of the followers of "Le Sieur Louis Eustace Ude." He was indeed a man of extensive reading and various information, but his arrogance detracted from these advantages, as much as they would have been adorned by modesty. In short, this compound of Apicius, Petronius and Dennis, would have served admirably, as the original of Fadladeen, the chamberlain of the Harem in Lalla Rookh, "who was a judge of every thing, from the mixture of a conserve to the composition of an epic poem;" and of whom it is recorded, that "all the cooks and poets of Delhi, stood in awe of him."
The rest of my fellow voyagers were unfortunate enough to be remarkable for no peculiarities, and among them, I found some pleasant companions, who caused the time to pass with as little of irksomeness and inconvenience as can be expected on board a ship, where there is nothing of the beauty and variety of scenery which beguile the land traveller of weariness, and where every one is forced to turn to his companions as the only source which can afford amusement, or which can, for "one treacherous hour," obliterate the recollection that every wave which urges the vessel onward in her course, does but increase the distance between himself and his home.
For some time indeed, the situation of a voyager, who for the first time crosses the ocean, possesses sufficient novelty to interest him; nor is the scene around and above him, destitute of all that can attract the eye and excite admiration. The ship itself is an object worthy of attention. It is delightful to see
"How gloriously her gallant course she goes, Her white wings flying;" ---- ----
to watch the billows which she spurns from her prow, chafed into foam as if enraged at the impotency of their attempts to resist the superiority which the genius of man asserts over their mighty {5} waters. It is beautiful at night to see these billows rolled from the prow in sheets of flame, whilst all around, where the waters are agitated, their surface appears studded with stars, which shine as if to rival those which sparkle on high:--or when the moon arises, to behold the flood of mild radiance which she casts along the deep, which
"Sleeps in the night-beam beauteously."
Should a sail perchance cross this path of light, it seems a fairy visitant of this earth, and just about to take its departure from it for the bright world beneath which it seems suspended.
All this is scenery which can in no other situation be enjoyed, yet which like every thing else, soon palls upon the taste, as I can bear testimony both on my own behalf and on that of
"My comates and brothers in exile."
We soon became accustomed to "the wonders of the deep" and far from responding to the sentiment of Long Tom in "the Pilot," who declared that "the sight of land always made him feel uncomfortable;" rather agreed with Gonzalo in the Tempest, when he asseverated that he would "give a thousand furlongs of sea, for an acre of barren ground." Our taste became so perverted, that we heeded not the grandeur of the ocean or the beauties of the heavens, and sighed that we had
"No delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy our shadows in the sun,"
or engage in the most sage pastime of building castles in the clouds where,
"Sometime we'd see a cloud look dragonish; A vapour sometime like a bear or lion, A tower'd citadel, a pendant rock, A forked mountain, or blue promontory With trees upon 't." ---- ----
In short, every thing which could divert for a while, was eagerly caught at, as a child pursues a butterfly. "A sail in sight," served as the event of a day; a porpoise or flying fish excited as much interest, as would on land be produced by the apparition of a gryphon, a winged dragon, or any other fabulous monster of romance; whilst the huge leviathan, heaving his vast bulk into view and spouting rivers to the skies, created as much sensation, as an earthquake or a revolution.
The graceful little nautilus too, spreading its transparent sail, and pursuing its dancing career over the waves, was ever hailed with acclamation; though as a faithful journalist, who would wish even in the slightest affairs to be considered "an honest chronicler," I am compelled to denounce them as unprofitable sailors, as they ever steer full in the "wind's eye."
A most remarkable event in our voyage was the celebration of the anniversary of our independence; which, happening about the middle of our course, was mirthfully kept by the Americans on board, aided by the representatives of the different nations there assembled. The celebration commenced with a prayer from the Rev. Mr. ---- of ----; and I wish I could say that it ended as appropriately; for soon after dinner it became quite apparent, that a certain young gentleman, and old doctor, of whom I have before spoken, however well fortified against mustard and cayenne, were not proof against champagne--so----they were put to bed.
On the evening of the 16th of July, we were first greeted by that sound of all others, the most grateful to the ears of those who have been for twenty tedious days, upon the unstable element. The deck was soon deserted by the younger portion of the passengers, who climbed to various heights, according to their proficiency, to behold the welcome prospect. The shore of "merry England" could then be seen; presenting to the eye however, nothing save a line faintly sketched, undulating a little above the horizon, so that many still remained in doubt
"---- 'till the light-house far blazed, Like a star in the midst of the ocean."
Thus did we enter the English channel (almost the end of our voyage,) without having encountered any of those "dangers of the seas" of which we hear and read such appalling descriptions. I really felt almost mortified that I should have crossed the great Atlantic, without having beheld the waves running "mountain high," with bottomless abysses between; without having seen,
"---- the strained mast quiver as a reed, And the rent canvass, fluttering strew the gale."
I cannot pretend to say however that this would at all have improved my idea of a sea voyage; towards which I cannot say that my experiment has impressed me very favorably. Indeed I cannot but wonder at the magnificent descriptions sometimes given, of an "excursion over the waters"--gentle Zephyrs swelling the sails--Tritons and Nereids sporting around, melodious with Conchs--Old Neptune calming the waves--and the gallant vessel gaily bounding
"O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,"
as if the whole were a fairy pageant. I can only give it as my opinion, that most of those who give such glowing representations of a sea voyage, have either, never tried one; or are guilty of the common littleness of imitation--imitation of the noble bard who "laid his hand on ocean's mane," and who exclaimed--"I have loved thee ocean!" because in reality he did.
For my own part, I can give no better idea of my opinion of a ship, than by quoting a definition of one, which struck me as peculiarly felicitous--viz. "a dirty prison with a good chance of being drowned."
On the 18th; our eyes when turned towards the east, no longer wandered over a drear expanse of {6} waters, but the coast of "la belle France" offered itself to our view, and as we gradually approached, it assumed the appearance of tremendous cliffs, presenting their awful fronts full to the ocean.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.
Amid the untiring efforts of the present age, to elevate the standard of female education, it is possible that the excellencies of a more ancient system, may be too much disregarded. In our zeal for reformation, we are in danger of discarding, or pronouncing obsolete, some requisitions of salutary tendency. The wider range both of intellect and accomplishment, which is now prescribed, seems to exclude some of those practical and homebred virtues, on which the true influence of woman depends.
There was a fine mixture of energy and dignity, in the character of females, of the higher ranks in our olden time. We of modern days, to whom languor and luxury are dear, allege that it was carried too far. We complain that it involved reserve and sternness. Perhaps, we are not sensible that we verge so palpably to the other extreme, as to retain in our style of manners scarcely the shadow of that power by which folly is checked and frivolity silenced.
The mother of Washington, has been pronounced a model of the true dignity of woman. She seemed to combine the Spartan simplicity and firmness, with the lofty characteristics of a Roman matron. With a heart of deep and purified affections, she blended that majesty which commanded the reverence of all. At the head of a large household, whose charge, by the death of her husband, devolved solely on her, the energy of her tireless superintendence preserved subordination and harmony. The undeviating integrity and unshaken self-command of her illustrious son, were developements of her own elements of character,--fruits from those germs which she planted in the soil of his infancy. To the inquiry, what course had been pursued in the early education of one, whom not only America, but the world, regarded with honor almost divine, she replied,--"his first lesson was to obey." It was her dignity of manner, courteous, yet rejecting all ostentation, and content to array itself in the "plain and becoming garb of the ancient Virginian lady,"--that elicited from those accustomed to the pomp and gorgeous costume of European courts, the high praise, that "it was no wonder that a country which produced such mothers, could boast such a man as Washington."
He therefore, who has been likened to Fabius,--to Cincinnatus, and to other heroes of antiquity, only to show how greatly he transcended them by being a christian,--he who has made the hallowed shades of Mount Vernon, as sacred to the patriot, as the shrine at Mecca, to the pilgrim,--shares his glory with her, who wrought among the rudiments of his being, with no careless or uncertain hand. The monument which now designates her last repose,--which her native clime should have hasted to erect,--but which private munificence exulted to rear,--speaks strongly and eloquently to her sex. It bids them impress the character of true greatness upon the next generation. It warns them to prepare by unslumbering effort, for this tremendous responsibility. It reminds them that in their appointed ministration, they stand but "a little lower than the angels." And let her who is disposed to indulge in lassitude, or to trifle away the brief season of her probation,--or to forget that she may stamp an indelible character either for good or evil, on some immortal mind,--go and renounce her errors, and deepen her energies,--and relumine her hopes, at the tomb of the Mother of Washington.
L. H. S.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SERVILITY.
The most servile are frequently the most arrogant. The possessor of these qualities will display the one or the other according to the condition of the person whom he encounters. For an individual who in the estimation of society holds a rank above him, he will be ready to perform any office, however menial: while to another, whose situation in life is more humble, he will be in the highest degree haughty and assuming. No man of proper feeling can entertain the least respect for such a character. How very different from that of Urbanus. His manner always shows a consideration for those whose station in society may be less desirable than his own. He feels the disposition to oblige, and never fails to indulge it when a proper occasion is presented. Let any individual of correct deportment be in want of aid which Urbanus can give, and no matter how humble his condition, that aid will be extended. Not so, however, when the man who wishes his services assumes a superiority over him. A laudable pride and a proper self-respect will then forbid what otherwise might be done. Urbanus will be courteous and polite to all, but in a state of subjection to none. He will take a pleasure in yielding, of his own free will, to talents, attainments, and high character, their just due. But this must be the result of his own opinion as to what is right, and not the effect of base submission to another's will.
C.
The communication which follows on the subject of that remarkable kind of "extemporaneous speaking" which has been long practised in some parts of Europe, but is entirely unknown in this country,--is entitled to the reader's attention not only on account of the source from which it is derived, but also from its intrinsic merit. An accomplished improvvisatore is certainly an intellectual phenomenon, of the existence of which we should be strongly inclined to doubt--if so many well attested facts did not establish it beyond all controversy. We hope that some one of our readers of taste and erudition will furnish a handsome translation of the Italian poetry which accompanies the article.
{7} For the Southern Literary Messenger.
EXTEMPORANEOUS SPEAKING.
Astonishing as it may appear, there are men who can deliver extemporaneously, not only excellent orations and discourses, but also beautiful poems, tragedies and comedies. Exhibitions of this kind have been so frequent, that no deception can possibly exist. You may even specify the measure in which you desire the poetical production, and the verses, as if inspired, will flow from the lips of the improvvisatore, with ease, elegance, and beauty. When I was in Paris, Sgricci extemporized several tragedies in Italian.[1] Eugene Pradel delivered a poem on Columbus, and proposed to extemporize tragedies and operas in French. Manuel could at any time speak appropriately and eloquently without preparation. The number of improvvisatori is very great, and I might enumerate, if necessary, many of these distinguished men. Italy boasts of the names of several ladies who have acquired fame by their poetical extempore compositions, among whom I may mention the Bandettini, the Mazei and the Corilla. This fact being admitted, two questions arise--1st. Is it possible to acquire this wonderful talent? 2nd. What are the means to be employed in order to succeed in speaking extemporaneously?
To the first question, I answer affirmatively.--The talent of speaking extempore is always an acquired one: all good improvvisatori have followed a course of mental exercises. Illustrious men at first uttered a few words with stammering tongues, then spoke hesitatingly--and by proper combinations of their intellectual faculties, became the extraordinary improvvisatori, who excite wonder and admiration. Experience shows the truth of this assertion.
The second question is, what are the means to be employed in order to succeed in speaking extempore? They are numerous, and they must be pursued with that enthusiasm and perseverance, without which, a man can never reach the temple of fame: for he who feels the noble ambition of distinguishing himself from the crowd which surrounds him--he who wishes to leave traces of his passage on earth, and to raise a monument which ages shall not destroy--must be moved by an energetic spirit, and have the moral courage to banish mental indolence from his bosom--to shake off that apathy so fatal to intellectual improvement, and to imbibe that love of immortality, which will carry him triumphantly through his career. He will bear in mind meanwhile, that
"Aucun chemin de fleurs ne conduit à la gloire,"
and deeply impressed with this important truth, will display the energy necessary to overcome all difficulties. I will not say that it is easy--that it requires but little labor to become a good extempore speaker. Still less will I advance the false opinion, that some men are naturally so. You will perceive by what follows, that I am far from believing it. What are the preliminary acquirements of a good improvvisatore? He must embrace the whole circle of human knowledge. He must know the fundamental principles of nearly all the arts and sciences, (I do not mean by this, that it is necessary he should possess the details connected with them--that is above human strength)--he must be acquainted with all the revolutions in which human genius has been displayed--he must be familiar with all important discoveries, and with the deeds of great men, in all ages and countries. He must be a cosmopolite, that is to say, he must be acquainted with the customs {8} and manners of every nation--and it is necessary he should put aside his prejudices, in order to understand the peculiarities which characterize the members of the great human family. The wonders of nature must be impressed on his mind, and above all, he must have read and meditated upon the works of the classical writers of all nations, and know perfectly the beauties and genius of his own language.
These are the materials of the improvvisatore,--but these acquirements, extensive as they are, will not give him the power of extemporizing. How often do we see men endowed with profound wisdom,--vast experience and learning,--unable to express and convey to others the result of their long meditations! The reason of this is obvious. How could the man who devotes the whole of his time to the acquisition of sciences, expect to express himself well, if he neglects to study the only art which can teach him the means of speaking fluently and extempore?
When a man has learned the arts and sciences of which I have spoken--when he has examined the political, religious and philosophical opinions which have governed the world from the remotest ages--he sees that the number of original ideas is not as great as one might suppose--he perceives that all mental faculties are connected--and that there is a chain which unites all thoughts--that they proceed from each other--that an idea must spring from a cause which gives rise to it. Thus he studies the laws of reasoning--thus by practice he learns to fix his attention on his sensations, and sometimes a single sensation, when properly analyzed, presents him the substance of a whole discourse: for a good discourse is nothing more than a series of judgments logically deduced from each other,--it is a chain of ideas connected by a close analogy. By training his mind to logical deductions, he acquires by degrees, the facility of combining ideas; and, guided by analogy, he reasons correctly without effort. Reasoning is learned like languages. At first, we hesitate in placing the words of a foreign tongue--we are obliged to recollect the rule which is to guide us in every part of speech; but when thoroughly versed in the genius of the language, we speak it fluently, without thinking about the arrangement of words. So it is with reasoning. A man who is equally versed in several languages, may express his ideas without knowing at the moment, in what idiom he imbodies his thoughts. A man who has trained his mind logically, reasons well, without thinking about the principles which guide him. It is well known that men have many ideas in common, and very often an author becomes popular and illustrious, only because he expresses with great superiority and beauty, that which every body thinks and feels. This is the very foundation of poetry and eloquence. It is this art which is called nature, and which gives immortality to literary productions. The work which does not awake our sympathy--which is not in harmony with the feelings of our nature--and which is not expressed in words best suited to its subject, can never acquire fame for its author. Hence the importance of the improvvisatore's studying mankind--hence the necessity of learning to imbody his ideas in appropriate language.--As each passion has its peculiar expression and style, the improvvisatore must engrave on his mind, the association of suitable expressions for every feeling; so, that every time he experiences or brings back to his memory a sensation, a passion, or an idea, he may also, simultaneously recall the words best suited to express them. He must acquire the faculty of bringing before his mind, all the scenes of nature--and the passions which spring from the heart of man; and, at the same time, possess language to convey them with eloquence. His imagination must be active, impetuous, or overwhelming, according to the objects which he intends to describe. The mind of the improvvisatore must be exercised to employ every style: the simple--the flowery--the majestic--the pathetic--the sublime--to combine ideas with the rapidity of lightning;--in a word, he must know all the springs of the human heart, in order to move it at his will, as if by enchantment.
Although it may seem paradoxical, it is seldom for want of ideas, that a man fails in being eloquent. Thought is always ready--always instantaneous. Learn to extemporize its expression. Where is the man who surrounded by an indignant people, breaking the chains of despotism, and defending their sacred rights with courage and patriotism--where is the man, I say, who, at the sight of such a spectacle, could remain unmoved? Where is the man who could not be eloquent, were his mind provided with expressions worthy of his thoughts? Where is the man who can be thoughtless at the view of a vessel beaten by the tempestuous billows in the midst of the ocean--when he perceives this frail nautic dwelling at war with infuriated storms--when on a sudden he sees the long agitated ship breaking asunder, and every human being which she contains scattered and struggling against death? In this frightful scene, where darting lightnings are shedding their vacillating light on the ghastly faces of expiring victims, and when the last beam of earthly hope is to be buried with them in the bosom of the deep,--can that spectator be unconcerned? No. His very soul shudders--his limbs are trembling, and his eyes filled with tears. Are not these feelings impressed in the bosom of every human being? If the witness of such a shipwreck could imbody faithfully in language his sensations at the moment he experiences them, could he fail to excite our sympathy? No--no--a man who has ready {9} expressions to convey his thoughts and feelings will always be eloquent. I need not mention Demosthenes and Cicero, Æschines and Hortensius, Isocrates, Lysias, Pericles, and a crowd of sophists who displayed, in former ages, great skill in the art of speaking. Their writings have been the mental food for those who studied antiquity. In modern times, lord Chatham, Fox, Pitt, Burke, Sheridan, Canning, have shone in the British House of Commons, and their fame is familiar to every American scholar. I will only name some of those illustrious men who displayed splendid abilities in the different political assemblies of France. Who has not heard of the astonishing oratorical powers of Mirabeau, Maury, Barnave and Vergniaud the pride of the Gironde? Manuel, Foy, Benjamin Constant, Lamarque, and several others have of late added a new lustre to French eloquence. All these eminent orators were distinguished for their improvisations. My intention now is not to discuss their peculiar merit as men of genius and extempore speakers; I merely quote them as models. I must not omit mentioning three orators now wandering in exile, after having displayed in their native land all the magic of eloquence, in order to restore liberty to their enslaved country. Though the efforts of Galiano, Argüelles and Martinez de la Rosa were not crowned with success, they will ever be the pride of Spain. These gifted patriots, struggling against adversity and preserving their noble independence, deserve the admiration of mankind.[2]
In concluding, I may say that the power of combining just and useful ideas, and expressing them extemporaneously in an appropriate language--the knowledge of man and of every thing which concerns him--a strong and well modulated voice, and dignified gestures, constitute what is called a good improvvisatore. Few succeed in all the multifarious qualifications of an extempore speaker--few are led by this unabated enthusiastic spirit resolved to meet and triumph over difficulties. This disposition of mind, however, must exist--for in mental contention as in war,
"A vaincre sans péril on triomphe sans gloire."
And every one that has witnessed the wonders of this art, will grant that if there be a talent by which the powers of man are exhibited in all their sublimity, it is undoubtedly that of the accomplished improvvisatore.
J. H.
[Footnote 1: It was in 1825 that Sgricci invited the literati of Paris to meet in a spacious hall, where he was to extemporize a tragedy. Every spectator was allowed to vote for the subject of the play, and the majority decided in favor of the Death of Charles I. A few moments afterwards, Sgricci explained the dramatis personæ, and began to deliver extempore a tragedy of about fifteen hundred verses! That production was printed, and many passages are full of poetical talent. Francisco Gianni extemporized, during one year, every morning and evening, two pieces of poetry under the title of Saluto del Matino, and Saluto de la Sera. In order that the lovers of Italian poetry may judge Gianni's skill in extemporising, I will quote as a specimen, one of his productions.
SALUTO DE LA SERA.
Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda. Dant. Parad. cant. 1.
Or non più de' pianti miei Che parean cangiate in rose. Violette inumidite, Ma nel punto che più fiso Non andrete impietesite. In te gli occhi disbramava, A infiorar quel niveo petto, Cui tra il velo già diviso Che diè funebre ricetto Agitato in sen balsava; Al più amabil degli Dei: Ecce uscir con la facella Chè li dove tomba avea, Da quel sen tra fiore e fiore, Sorger vidilo in subito Ecco uscir volando amore; E sorgendo sorridea E col vento de le penne D'un tal riso, ch'io non dubito, Irritare cosi quella, Per deludermi l'accorto, Che più fervida divenne Abbia únto d' esser morto. E una sua scintilla ardente E tu, bell' amica, in vano, Nel mio cor passò repente: Tenti in van col tuo rigore Come fosca nube tetra, Di celarmi un tanto arcano; Quando in Ciel risorgì il sole, Che mal puù celarsi amore. Se d' un raggio la penetra, Beu del suo risorgimento, Arder tutta e splender suole. Beu m' avvidi nel momento Tale in esso quella immensa Che di lagrime e di fiori Ed antica flamma intensa Io gli offriva il don funebre; Che sembrava spenta affatto Porche allor le tue palpebre Rallumavasi ad un tratto; Un soave e chiare lume E più viva traboccarsi Abbelliva di splendori; Dal mio cor con dolce pena, E le guancie a poco a poco E veloce diramarsi Rosseggiaro oltra il costume La sentii di vena in vena, D' una porpora di fuoco; E di vena in vena errando, Et il tornito sen venusto, Risalir più accesa al core, Che balzando allor più gia Che tremando, va mancando Lo spiraglio meno angusto Di dolcezza a tanto ardore. Fea del vel che lo copria: Onde più de' pianti miei Sin le caste violette Violette inumidite, Che locate su quel seno, Non andrete impietesite Già languenti venian meno, A infiorar quel niveo petto, In sembianze lascivette Che diè funebre ricetto Arrossian si grazione, Al più amabil degli Dei.]
[Footnote 2: Since this was written, the late political events of Spain have placed Martinez de la Rosa at the head of the ministry of the regent queen, Isabella. Supported by the count of Toreno, who is considered as the first statesman of his country, Gareli, who is known by his great talents, general Llander, minister of war, and Remisa, minister of finance, the Spanish government has at last published the Estatuto Real, which regulate the convocation of the Cortes.]
INTERESTING RUINS ON THE RAPPAHANNOCK.
If we do not err in the conjecture, our correspondent "NUGATOR" has frequently charmed the public by his writings both in prose and verse. But whether we are right or wrong, we can assure him that he will always find a ready demand for his "wares" at our "emporium." According to his request we have handed the inscription to a classical friend, whose elegant translation we also subjoin with the original.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
Mr. White,--As I find you are about to establish a sort of Literary Emporium, to which every man, no matter how trifling his capital of ideas, may send his productions, I have resolved to transmit to you my small wares and merchandise. The relation I shall bear to your other correspondents, will be that, which the vender of trifles in a town bears to the wealthy merchant; and, therefore, I shall assume an appropriate title, and under this humble signature, shall consider myself at liberty to offer you any thing I may have, without order or method, and just as I can lay my hands upon it.--My head is somewhat like Dominie Sampson's, which as well as I remember, resembled a pawnbroker's shop where a goodly store of things were piled together, but in such confusion, he could never find what he wanted. When I get hold of any thing, however, I will send it to you, and if it be worth nothing, why just "martyr it by a pipe."
NUGATOR.
"Here lived, so might it seem to Fancy's eye, The lordly Barons of our feudal day; On every side, lo! grandeur's relics lie Scatter'd in ruin o'er their coffin'd clay.-- How vain for man, short-sighted man, to say What course the tide of human things shall take! How little dream'd the Founder, that decay So soon his splendid edifice should shake, And of its high pretence, a cruel mock'ry make."
There cannot be a more striking exemplification of the powerful influence of laws upon the state of society, than is exhibited on the banks of the rivers in the lower part of Virginia. How many spacious structures are seen there, hastening to decay, which were once the seats of grandeur and a magnificent hospitality! The barons of old were scarcely more despotic over their immediate demesnes, than were the proprietors of these noble mansions, with their long train of servants and dependents; their dicta were almost paramount to law throughout their extensive and princely possessions. But since the introduction of republican institutions, and the alteration in the laws respecting the descent of property, and more especially since the "docking of entails," a total change has been effected. Our castles are crumbling on every side--estates are subdivided into minuter portions, instead of being transmitted to the eldest son; and so complete is the revolution in sentiment, that he would be deemed a savage, who would now leave the greater part of his family destitute, for the sake of aggrandizing an individual. It is not unusual to find a son in possession of the once splendid establishment of his fathers, with scarcely paternal acres enough to afford him sustenance, and hardly wood enough to warm a single chamber of all his long suite of apartments. The old family coach, with his mother and sisters, lumbers along after a pair of superannuated skeletons; and some faithful domestic, like Caleb {10} Balderstone, is put to the most desperate shifts to support the phantom of former grandeur. Debts are fast swallowing up the miserable remnant of what was once a principality, while some wealthy democrat of the neighborhood, who has accumulated large sums by despising an empty show, is ready to foreclose his mortgage, and send the wretched heir of Ravenswood to mingle with the Bucklaws and Craigengelts of the west. Many a story of deep interest might be written upon the old state of things in Virginia, if we possessed some indefatigable Jedidiah Cleishbotham to collect the traditions of our ancestors.
Those who took part in our revolutionary struggle were too much enlightened not to foresee these consequences, and therefore deserve immortal credit for their disinterested opposition to Great Britain. Had they been aristocrats instead of the purest republicans, they would surely have thrown their weight into the opposite scale. We do not estimate enough the merit of the rich men of that day. The danger is now past--the mighty guerdon won--the storm is gone over, and the sun beams brightly: but though bright our day, it was then a dark unknown--dark as the hidden path beyond the grave--and it was nobly dared to risk their all in defence of liberty. They knew that freedom spurned a vain parade, and would not bow in homage to high-born wealth; yet their splendid possessions were staked upon the desperate throw, and the glorious prize was won. Such were not the anticipations of the founders of these establishments; but such was surely the merit of their sons: and it is painful to think how few, of all who engaged in that noble struggle, have been handed down to fame. Many a one, whose name has been loudly sounded through the earth, would have shrunk from such a sacrifice, and clung to his paternal hearth; and yet these modern Curtii, who renounced the advantages of birth, and leaped into the gulf for their country's sake, have not won a single garland for their Roman worth.
There is a scene in the county of Lancaster, where these reflections pressed themselves very forcibly upon my mind. Imagine an ample estate on the margin of the Rappahannock--with its dilapidated mansion house--the ruins of an extensive wall, made to arrest the inroads of the waves, as if the proprietor felt himself a Canute, and able to stay the progress of the sea--a church of the olden time, beautiful in structure, and built of brick brought from England, then the home of our people. Like Old Mortality, I love to chisel out the moss covered letters of a tombstone; and below I send you the result of my labors, with a request that some of your correspondents will take the trouble to give you a faithful translation of the Latin inscription. The only difficulty consists in a want of knowledge of the names of the officers under the colonial government. The epitaph will show by whom the church was built, and the motive for its erection. In the yard are three tombstones conspicuous above the rest, beneath which repose the bones of the once lordly proprietor of the soil and his two wives. How vain are human efforts to perpetuate by monuments the memory of the great! The sepulchre of Osymandus is said by Diodorus to have been a mile and a quarter in circumference. It had this inscription: "I am Osymandus, King of Kings. If any one is desirous to know how great I am and where I lie, let him surpass any of my works." With more propriety might he have said, let him search out my works; for we are left to conjecture the very site of his tomb. It would be easy to extend this narrative, but perhaps what struck me as interesting would be unworthy a place in your Literary Messenger.
THE EPITAPH. TRANSLATION. H. S. E. HERE LIES
Vir honorabilis Robertus Carter, Robert Carter, Esquire; an Armiger, qui genus honestum honorable man, who exalted his high dotibus eximiis, moribus birth by noble endowments and pure antiquis illustravit. Collegium morals. He sustained the College of Gulielmi et Mariæ temporibus William and Mary in the most trying difficilimis propugnavit. times.
Gubernator, He was Governor, Senatus Rogator et Quæstor, sub Speaker of the House and Treasurer, serenissimis Principibus under the most serene Princes Gulielmo, Anna, Georgio 1 mo. et William, Anne, George the 1st and 2 do. 2d.
A publicis consiliis concilii Elected Speaker by the Public per sexennium præses, plus annum Assembly for six years, and Coloniæ Præfectus cum regiam Governor for more than a year, he dignitatem tam publicum equally upheld the regal dignity libertatem æquali jure asseruit. and public freedom.
Opibus amplissimis bene partis Possessed of ample wealth, instructus, ædem hanc sacram In honorably acquired, he built and Deum pietatis grande monumentum, endowed at his own expense this propriis sumptibus extruxit. sacred edifice, a lasting monument of his piety to God.
Locupletavit. In omnes quos humaniter incepit, Entertaining his friends with nec prodigus, nec parcus hospes. kindness, he was neither a prodigal Liberalilatem insignem testantur not a thrifty host. debita munifice remissa.
Primo Judithum, Johannis His first wife was Judith, daughter Armistead Armigeri filiam, of John Armistead, Esquire; his deinde Betty, generosa second Betty, a descendant of the Landonorum stirpe oriundam sibi noble family of the Landons, by connubio junctas habuit. E whom he had many children-- quibus prolem numerosam suscepit. On whose education he expended a In qua erudienda pecuniæ vim considerable portion of his maximam insumpsit property.
Tandem honorum et dierum satur At length, full of honors and cum omnia vitæ munera egregiæ years, having discharged all the præstitisset obiit Pri. Non. duties of an exemplary life, he Aug. An. Dom. 1732 Aet. 69. departed from this world on the 4th day of August, 1732, in the 69th year of his age.
Miseri solamen, viduæ The wretched, the widowed and the præsidium, orbi patrem, ademptum orphans, bereaved of their comfort, lugent. protector and father, alike lament his loss.
STORY FROM VOLTAIRE.
We hope to have the pleasure of delighting our readers frequently with the chaste and classic pen of our correspondent M. By a curious coincidence, about the time he was translating the subjoined story from Voltaire, a correspondent of the Richmond Compiler furnished the Editor of that paper with another version, which was published. Without disparagement to the latter however, the reader of taste will find no difficulty in awarding the preference to the one which we insert in our columns.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
Below, is a neat and sportive little story of Voltaire's, never before translated into English, that I know of; though containing sufficient point and good sense to make it well worthy of that honor. No one who has ever sorrowed, can fail to acknowledge the justice of {11} styling TIME the "Great Consoler." The balm he brings, has never failed sooner or later to heal any grief, which did not absolutely derange the mind of its victim. By one part of the tale, the reader will be reminded of the philosopher in Rasselas, who, the morning after he had eloquently and conclusively demonstrated the folly of grieving for any of the ills of life, was found weeping inconsolably, for the loss of his only daughter. Whether Dr. Johnson, or the French wit, first touched off this trait of human weakness, is not material: it may be set down as rather a coincidence than a plagiarism. So much of the region of thought is common ground, over which every active mind continually gambols, that it would be wonderful if different feet did not sometimes tread in identical foot prints.
M.
From the French of Voltaire.
THE CONSOLED.
The great philosopher, Citophilus, said one day to a justly disconsolate lady--"Madam, an English Queen, a daughter of the great Henry IV. was no less unhappy than you are. She was driven from her kingdom: she narrowly escaped death in a storm at sea: she beheld her royal husband perish on the scaffold." "I am sorry for her;" said the lady--and fell a weeping at her own misfortunes.
"But," said Citophilus, "remember Mary Stuart. She was very becomingly in love with a gallant musician, with a fine tenor voice. Her husband slew the musician before her face: and then her good friend and relation, Elizabeth, who called herself the Virgin Queen, had her beheaded on a scaffold hung with black, after an imprisonment of eighteen years." "That was very cruel," replied the lady--and she plunged again into sorrow.
"You have perhaps heard," said her comforter, "of the fair Jane of Naples, who was taken prisoner and strangled?" "I have a confused recollection of her," said the afflicted one.
"I must tell you," added the other, "the fate of a Queen, who, within my own time, was dethroned by night, and died in a desert island." "I know all that story," answered the lady.
"Well then, I will inform you of what befel a great princess, whom I taught philosophy. She had a lover, as all great and handsome princesses have. Her father once entering her chamber, surprised the lover, whose features were all on fire, and whose eye sparkled like a diamond: she, too, had a most lively complexion. The young gentleman's look so displeased the father, that he administered to him the most enormous box on the ear, ever given in that country. The lover seized a pair of tongs, and broke the old gentleman's head; which was cured with difficulty, and still carries the scar. The nymph, in despair, sprung through the window; and dislocated her foot in such a way, that she to this day limps perceptibly, though her mien is otherwise admirable. The lover was condemned to die, for having broken the head of a puissant monarch. You may judge the condition of the princess, when her lover was led forth to be hanged. I saw her, during her long imprisonment: she could speak of nothing but her afflictions."
"Then why would not you have me brood over mine?" said the lady. "Because," said the philosopher, "you ought not to brood over them; and because, so many great ladies having been so miserable, it ill becomes you to despair. Think of Hecuba--of Niobe." "Ah!" said the lady, "if I had lived in their time, or in that of all your fine princesses, and you, to comfort them, had told them my misfortunes, do you think they would have listened to you?"
The next day, the philosopher lost his only son; and was on the point of dying with grief. The lady had a list prepared, of all the kings who had lost their children, and carried it to the philosopher: he read it, found it correct, and----wept on, as much as ever. Three months after, they met again; and were surprised to find each other cheerful and gay. They caused a handsome statue to be reared to TIME, with this inscription:
"TO THE GREAT CONSOLER."
ORIGINAL POETRY.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
I have been permitted to copy the original verses which I send you, from a young lady's album. They were written by a gentleman of literary merit, whose modesty will probably be somewhat startled at seeing himself in print. I could not resist the opportunity however, of adorning the columns of your first number with so fine a specimen of native genius. According to my poor taste, and humble judgment in such matters, these lines are beautiful. They are tinged with the deep misanthropy of Byron, and yet have all the flowing smoothness and vivacity of Moore. Shall it be said after reading such poetry, that the muses are altogether neglected in the Ancient Dominion--that there is no genuine ore in our intellectual mines which with a little labor may be refined into pure gold? Shall it be longer contended that we are altogether a nation of talkers, and that politics, summer barbecues and horse-racing are our all engrossing and exclusive recreations. In truth, is not this the very land of poetry! Our colonial and revolutionary history is itself fruitful in the materials of song; and even our noble rivers--our lofty mountains--our vast and impenetrable forests--and our warm and prolific sun, are so many sublime sources of inspiration. With respect to the belle passion,--that has in all ages, climates and countries, constituted one of the strongest incitements to poetical genius. The imagination, warmed by impressions of feminine beauty and innocence, at once takes wing, and wanders through regions of thought and melancholy--investing the object of its idolatry with attributes and perfections which more properly belong to a purer state of being. Whether the philosophy of the subjoined stanzas is equal to their harmony, I leave to your readers to decide. The voluntary sacrifice {12} of the heart at the shrine of prudence is doubtless heroic; but there are few lovers, and especially of the poetic temperament, who are willing to submit to "brokenness of heart" rather than encounter the hazard of sharing with a beloved object the "cup of sorrow." Whether, moreover, the ingenious author was actually breathing in eloquent earnestness his own "private griefs," or amusing himself only by the creations of fancy,--I am not prepared to determine. One thing I do know, however--that the charming nymph in whose album these lines were written, though not "too dear to love," possesses a heart both "warm and soft," and is in every respect worthy of all the admiration which the most romantic lover could bestow.
H.
Lines written in a Young Lady's Album.
Air--"The Bride."
I'd offer thee this heart of mine, If I could love thee less; But hearts as warm, as soft as thine, Should never know distress. My fortune is too hard for thee, 'Twould chill thy dearest joy: I'd rather weep to see thee free, Than win thee to destroy.
I leave thee in thy happiness, As one too dear to love! As one I'll think of but to bless, Whilst wretchedly I rove. But oh! when sorrow's cup I drink, All bitter though it be, How sweet to me 'twill be, to think It holds no drop for thee.
Then fare thee well! An exile now, Without a friend or home, With anguish written on my brow, About the world I'll roam. For all my dreams are sadly o'er-- Fate bade them all depart,-- And I will leave my native shore, In brokenness of heart. S.
Our young correspondent "M'C." will perceive that his poem has been altered in some of its expressions, and perhaps not altogether to his liking. Our object has been, not to damp the aspirations of genius, but to prune its luxuriance. The ardour of youth too often betrays into extravagance, which can only be corrected by cultivation and experience. We hope that he will persevere in his invocations to the muse,--believing that the time will come when she will amply reward him by her smiles.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SERENADE.
Sweet lady, awake from thy downy pillow! Moonlight is gleaming all bright on yon billow, Night-flowers are blooming,--south winds are blowing So gently, they stir not the smooth waters flowing.
Wake lady! wake from thy gentle slumber, Heav'n's gems are all sparkling, uncounted in number, How calm, yet how brilliant those beautiful skies, Which the wave glances back like the beam of thine eyes.
Wake, dearest! wake thou, my heart's fond desire! All trembling these fingers sweep over the lyre, This bosom is heaving with love's tender throes, And my song, like the swan's last, is wild at the close.
Yet thou wilt not list to me,--then lady, farewell! My lyre shall be hush'd with this last mournful swell; All lonely and desolate,--onward I roam; My bosom is void!--the wide world is my home! M'C.
It is with much pleasure that the publisher is enabled to present in the first number of the "Messenger" the following poetical contributions, not heretofore published, from the pen of Mrs. Sigourney, of Hartford, Connecticut. There are few literary readers on either side of the Potomac, who are not familiar with some of the productions at least, of this accomplished authoress. The purity of her sentiments, and the strength and mellowness of her versification, will remind the reader of the highly gifted and almost unrivalled Hemans.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
COLUMBUS BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY OF SALAMANCA.
"Columbus found, that in advocating the spherical figure of the earth, he was in danger or being convicted not merely of error,--but even of heterodoxy."--Washington Irving.
St. Stephen's cloister'd hall was proud In learning's pomp that day; For there, a rob'd and stately crowd Press'd on, in long array. A mariner, with simple chart Confronts that conclave high, While strong ambition stirs his heart, And burning thoughts, in wonder part From lip and sparkling eye.
What hath he said?--With frowning face, In whisper'd tones they speak, And lines upon their tablets trace, That flush each ashen cheek: The Inquisition's mystic doom Sits on their brows severe, And bursting forth in vision'd gloom, Sad heresy from burning tomb, Groans on the startled ear.
Courage, thou Genoese!--Old Time Thy brilliant dream shall crown; Yon western hemisphere sublime, Where unshorn forests frown, The awful Andes' cloud-wrapp'd brow, The Indian hunter's bow, Bold streams untam'd by helm or prow, And rocks of gold and diamond, thou To thankless Spain shalt show. {13}
Courage, world-finder!--Thou hast need!-- In fate's unfolding scroll, Dark woes, and ingrate-wrongs I read, That rack the noble soul. On!--On!--Creation's secrets probe, Then drink thy cup of scorn, And wrapp'd in fallen Cesar's robe, Sleep, like that master of the globe, All glorious,--yet forlorn. L. H. S.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
INTEMPERANCE.
Parent!--who with speechless feeling O'er thy cradled treasure bent, Every year, new claims revealing, Yet thy wealth of love unspent,-- Hast thou seen that blossom blighted, By a drear, untimely frost? All thy labor unrequited? Every glorious promise lost?
Wife!--with agony unspoken, Shrinking from affliction's rod, Is thy prop,--thine idol broken,-- Fondly trusted,--next to God? Husband!--o'er thy hope a mourner, Of thy chosen friend asham'd, Hast thou to her burial borne her, Unrepentant,--unreclaimed?
Child!--in tender weakness turning To thy heaven-appointed guide, Doth a lava-poison burning, Tinge with gall, affection's tide? Still that orphan-burden bearing, Darker than the grave can show, Dost thou bow thee down despairing, To a heritage of woe?
Country!--on thy sons depending, Strong in manhood, bright in bloom, Hast thou seen thy pride descending Shrouded,--to th' unhonor'd tomb? Rise!--on eagle-pinion soaring,-- Rise!--like one of Godlike birth,-- And Jehovah's aid imploring, Sweep the Spoiler from the earth. L. H. S.
The following beautiful lines have been very generally ascribed to the pen of the Hon. R. H. Wilde, a member of the present House of Representatives from the State of Georgia. We do not know that Mr. W. has ever confessed the authorship, but we think that they would not discredit even their supposed origin. We have had the pleasure to read some of Mr. Wilde's brilliant speeches in Congress, and we are confident that they are the emanations of a mind deeply imbued with the spirit of poesy. Not that we thence necessarily infer that these lines are the genuine offspring of his muse--but merely allude to the character of his parliamentary efforts, in connexion with the common opinion that the poetry is from the same source. One of our present objects is to give what we conceive to be a correct version of these admired lines; for in almost all the copies we have seen, we have been struck with several gross errors, alike injurious to their sense and harmony. Not the least remarkable of these errors has been the uniform substitution of Tempè for some other word,--thereby imputing to the author the geographical blunder of converting the delightful and classic valley of Greece, into a desert shore or strand. We have no doubt that Tampa is the word originally written by the author, there being a bay of that name in Florida sometimes described on the maps as the bay of Espiritu Santo.
MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.
My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, And ere the shades of evening close, Is scattered on the ground to die; Yet on that rose's humble bed The softest dews of night are shed As though she wept such waste to see, But none shall drop one tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leaf Which trembles in the moon's pale ray, Its hold is frail, its date is brief, Restless;--and soon to pass away: Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade The parent tree will mourn its shade, The wind bemoan the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
My life is like the print, which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand, Soon as the rising tide shall beat Their trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea, But none shall thus lament for me.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER EVE.
By Mrs. D. P. Brown.
Fair little flow'r, may no rude storm Impair thy early bloom,-- No cank'rous grief that smile deform, Or antedate its doom.
In soul be ever as thou art Mild, merciful, and kind, Date all enjoyments from the heart, All conquests from the mind.
The body is an empty thing, Frail, worthless, weak, and vain; The mind alone can pleasure bring, Or soothe the bed of pain. {14}
What is the gaudy casket, when The priceless jewel's gone? Such to the eyes of noble men, Is beauty's charm alone.
Fashion may decorate the brow, Fortune the eye allure, But nothing worldly can bestow Those treasures which endure.
Then fix, my child, thy hopes above; All earthly joys deceive: Rest solely on a Saviour's love, My gentle daughter Eve.
Philadelphia.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO MY CHILDREN--ON NEW-YEAR.
By Mrs. D. P. Brown.
Another year has wing'd its flight, And left us where it found us, In health, affection, and delight, With every charm around us.
The overseeing Eye of Heaven Has guided, guarded, cheer'd us, Its bounteous hand has freely given, Its bounteous love endeared us.
Time shall roll on, and still each year Enhance our mutual pleasure,-- Tho' fortune frown on our career The heart shall be our treasure:
And when at last stern Fate's decree Our kindred souls shall sever, In regions of eternity They'll join in joy forever.
Philadelphia.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MUSINGS--By the Author of Vyvyan.
A patchwork of disjointed things-- Of grave and gay imaginings.--The Visionary.
My thoughts resemble scattered leaves, Which Fancy, like the Sybil, weaves, Just as may suit her wayward whim, Into a many colored dream.
* * * * *
A tablet resteth on my knee-- The gift of one most dear to me; Upon its fair unwritten face My pencil now and then may trace The flitting visions of my mind, Like cloud-forms varying in the wind-- Too incoherent, wild and roving, To weave into a song of loving-- Such as might suit the gentle ear Of one--I wish to heaven were here.
All things breathe loveliness--the sky Looks on me like my lady's eye, Clear--beautiful as crystal blue And darkling in its own bright hue.
The faint air, sighing from the south, Steals sweetly o'er my cheek and brow, As late I felt and fancy now The breath of her own rosy mouth When, in her eagerness to look Into the pages of my book She stood by, o'er my shoulder leaning, In innocent but simple meaning.
* * * * *
Amid the voiceless wild Of the ancestral forest, I feel even as a child, Whose pleasure is the surest When most by wonderment beguiled. A lovely lake before me sleeps, Whose quiet on my spirit creeps-- Around and o'er me, solemn trees Of the eternal forest, dart Their wildly straggling boughs athwart The sky--with their rich panoplies Of varied foliage. Here and there A withered trunk by storms laid bare, Spectre like--whitening in the air, Spreads wide and far its skeleton limbs, Where, up the creeping verdure climbs, And wreathes its draperies, ere they fall, In festoons so fantastical.
* * * * *
Here moves the Genius of Romance, With lofty mien and eagle glance-- No plumed casque adorns his brow-- No glittering falchion does he wield-- Nor lance bears he, nor 'scutcheoned shield. Nor among fallen columns low, Behold him crouch and muse upon The shattered forms of sculptured stone-- Fair classic marbles, which recall The glories of an ancient time-- Its pride--its splendor and its fall-- Such things belong not to our clime. The Genius of our Solitude Stalks forth in hunter's garb arrayed, A child of nature--wild and rude-- Yet not averse to gentle mood: The same high spirit, undismayed, Amid the stormy battles roar, As when he wooes his dusky maid, Beside some dim lake's lonely shore; Or paddles his skiff at eventide, O'er Niagara's waters wide.
* * * * *
'Tis sweet to sit alone, and muse In such a spot as this-- Thus imperceptibly to lose In dim, imagined bliss, The vulgar thoughts and cares that shroud The spirits of the busy crowd-- That chain their grovelling minds to earth And wretched things of little worth. Years seem not many, since a child, I loved to haunt this pathless wild, And wearied lay me down to rest Upon some broad rock's mossy breast, Lulled by a dreamy listless thought, From loneliness and quiet caught-- {15} Or, prying with most curious eye Into dark hollows, to descry Some robber haunt or hidden grot, Where haply it might be my lot, Like Alla-Ad-Deen, to find a treasure Of gems and jewels without measure. But what a change is wrought since then! I've mingled with the world and men, Who scoff at boyhood's guiltless joys, Yet scorn them but for greater toys. Well--let them mar their health for fame, And waste their days, to gain a name, Built on the rabble's wretched praise, Whose voice awhile may sink or raise, But cannot rescue from the lot Old Time, the despot, hath assigned Impartially to all earth's kind. Such record vain I envy not, Nor burn with mightier men to mate-- The followers of a fiercer fate, Who trample on all human good To win awards least understood. Such is renown reaped with the sword-- Such glory! Empty, fatal word, That lures men on through fire and flood-- Through scenes of rapine, crime and blood, To write in history's page, a tale, O'er which their fellow man grows pale. Could half the tears they cause to flow Bedew that page--how few could read The blotted record of each deed, Which laid the brave by thousands low And broke more living hearts with wo, That ONE might be what good men hate, And fools and knaves miscal "THE GREAT."
ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.
INAUGURAL ADDRESS, DELIVERED BY THE REV. STEPHEN OLIN, President of Randolph-Macon College, on the occasion of his induction into office, 5th March, 1834. Richmond: Nesbitt & Walker.
Randolph-Macon College is a new institution, in Mecklenburg county, Virginia; and President Olin, we believe, is a late comer into the state: at least we are so ignorant as not to have heard of him before. If we are permitted to judge from the "inaugural address," we congratulate the commonwealth upon the acquisition of an instructor of solid endowments, sound practical views, and elegant taste. He treats the subject of education like one who had thoroughly mastered the philosophy upon which it is founded--and who evidently prefers to be guided by the safe lights of experience, rather than by the specious but uncertain theories which acquire a transient popularity--but which cannot bear the test of sound investigation and analysis. President Olin, we think, combats with effect a very popular error, to wit: that education ought to be so directed as to subserve a particular profession or pursuit; in other words, that the profession or pursuit of a young man ought to be previously selected, and the course of instruction made to conform accordingly. Now nothing, in our view, can be more preposterous; and we concur entirely with the President in the opinion, that one of the objects of education it to develop the intellectual aptitudes and moral qualities, and that these when developed, should entirely control the preference or choice of a profession. Not that if these aptitudes and qualities when manifested, should point in an evil direction, they should therefore be indulged. By no means. The primary object of education should be--the highest development of morals and intellect. In the pursuit of this great object however, if the course of instruction is rightly ordered, the predominant aptitudes and qualities will appear--and then is the time for the judicious parent or guardian to co-operate with the wise indications of nature.
In conformity to this view of the subject, the President urges the choice of such studies in a collegiate course, as have a tendency to enlarge, invigorate and discipline the mind. To the mathematics he assigns a high rank. "They habituate the mind to protracted and difficult efforts of attention, and to clear and lively perception of truth, and at the same time furnish it with principles and facts of inestimable value in many of the departments of useful industry and philosophical research."
Nor does he attach less importance to the study of the Greek and Roman languages. In the opinion of President Olin they "give useful employment to the intellectual faculties at a period when they are incompetent to more abstract and severe occupations. They call up the attention to such short and easy, but repeated efforts, as are best calculated to correct its wanderings and increase its energies. The mind is accustomed to analysis and comparison, and its powers of discrimination are improved by frequent exercises in declension, inflexion and derivation, and by the constant necessity that is imposed upon it, of deciding between the claims of rival definitions. The memory is engaged in the performance of such tasks as are precisely fitted for its development, and the judgment and other reasoning faculties find ample and invigorating employment in the application of grammatical rules, and the investigation of philological principles." We wish we had space for the whole of Mr. Olin's remarks upon classical learning. He considers the growing scepticism in reference to its utility and importance as an evil omen.
Next to pure and mixed mathematics and the learned languages, the President is inclined to give a place to intellectual philosophy. "It familiarises the student with the laws and the phenomena of mind, and with such efforts of subtle analysis and difficult combination as are best fitted to enlarge and fill the grasp of the highest intellectual capacities." He also recommends as subordinate, but highly important studies--composition and eloquence--moral and natural philosophy--chemistry--the French language--and geology and mineralogy.
Mr. Olin opposes with much force the excessive multiplication of studies without a correspondent prolongation of the collegiate term. "The industry which was profitably directed to a few, may be divided amongst a multitude of objects; but it will incur the inevitable penalty of fitful and dissipated intellectual exertion--superficial attainments and vicious intellectual habits." In what is denominated the art of {16} education, the President is not inclined to set as high a value upon the lecture system as upon the mode of frequent recitations from well digested text books. From the history of the two universities, and of the literature of Scotland and England for the last century, he is led to draw the conclusion that the "lecture system is more favorable to the improvement of the professor, and the reputation of the university--whilst the opposite method has been more productive of thorough and accomplished scholars."
Upon the subject of moral restraint and college discipline, Mr. Olin is forcible and interesting. With a mind well organized for the clear perception of truth, we take the President to be fearless in proclaiming his convictions, without stopping to calculate the strength of opposing prejudices and opinions. He does not hesitate to come up boldly to the mark, and to advocate the only rational system by which our erring nature, and especially our youthful nature, can be brought to a just sense of what is due to its own interests, as well as to the requirements of society. Upon this subject, however, we prefer that the President should speak for himself.
"In proportion as virtue is more valuable than knowledge, pure and enlightened morality will be regarded by every considerate father the highest recommendation of a literary institution. The youth is withdrawn from the salutary restraints of parental influence and authority, and committed to other guardians, at a time of life most decisive of his prospects and destinies. The period devoted to education usually impresses its own character upon all his future history. Vigilant supervision, employment, and seclusion from all facilities and temptations to vice, are the ordinary and essential securities which every institution of learning is bound to provide for the sacred interests which are committed to its charge. But safeguards and negative provisions are not sufficient. The tendencies of our nature are retrograde, and they call for the interposition of positive remedial influences. The most perfect human society speedily degenerates, if the active agencies which were employed in its elevation are once withdrawn or suspended. What then can be expected of inexperienced youth, sent forth from the pure atmosphere of domestic piety, and left to the single support of its own untested and unsettled principles, in the midst of circumstances which often prove fatal to the most practised virtue! I frankly confess that I see no safety but in the preaching of the cross, and in a clear and unfaltering exhibition of the doctrines and sanctions of christianity. The beauty and excellence of virtue are excusable topics, though they must ever be inefficient motives, with those who reject the authority of revelation; but in a christian land, morality divorced from religion, is the emptiest of all the empty names by which a deceitful philosophy has blinded and corrupted the world. I venture to affirm, that this generation has not given birth to another absurdity so monstrous, as that which would exclude from our seminaries of learning the open and vigorous inculcation of the religious faith which is acknowledged by our whole population, and which pervades every one of our free institutions. Our governors and legislators, and all the depositaries of honor and trust, are prohibited from exercising their humblest functions till they have pledged their fidelity to the country upon the holy gospels. The most inconsiderable pecuniary interest is regarded too sacred to be entrusted to the most upright judge or juror, or to the most unsuspected witness, till their integrity has been fortified by an appeal to the high sanctions of christianity. Even the exercise of the elective franchise is usually suspended upon the same condition. The interesting moralities of the domestic relations--the laws of marriage and divorce--the mutual obligations of parents and children--are all borrowed from the christian scriptures. The fears of the vicious and the hopes of the upright--the profane ribaldry of the profligate, no less than the humble thanksgiving of the morning and evening sacrifice, do homage to the gospel as the religion of the American people. Our eloquence and our poetry--our periodical and popular literature in all their varieties--the novel, the tale, the ballad, the play, all make their appeal to the deep sentiments of religion that pervade the popular bosom. Christianity is our birthright. It is the richest inheritance bequeathed us by our noble fathers. It is mingled in our hearts with all the fountains of sentiment and of faith. And are the guardians of public education alone 'halting between two opinions?' Do they think that in fact, and for practical purposes, the truth of christianity is still a debateable question? Is it still a question whether the generations yet to rise up and occupy the wide domains of this great empire--to be the representatives of our name, our freedom and our glory, before the nations of the earth, shall be a christian or an infidel people? Can wise and practical men who are engaged in rearing up a temple of learning to form the character and destinies of their posterity, for a moment hesitate to make 'Jesus Christ the chief corner stone?"
It is not to be supposed, however, that Mr. Olin is in favor of subjecting our public seminaries to the control of any particular religious denomination, or that the faith of the student is either to be influenced or regulated by sectarian views. On the contrary, he considers that such a course would be a manifest violation of the principles of free government. His remarks upon the internal discipline of a college are sound and excellent. He is decidedly opposed to that "multitude of vexatious enactments," and those frivolous and arbitrary regulations which too often disgrace our seats of learning. In the administration of such wise and salutary laws, however, as experience has proved to be necessary, President Olin refers to the co-operation of parents and guardians as absolutely essential. We wish that conviction on this subject was more general than it is, and that all who are in any wise responsible for the intellectual and moral training of youth, whether at colleges, academies, or private schools, would consider the importance of sustaining, by parental authority, the just and wholesome government of the teacher. A weak or capricious parent, who from false tenderness, countenances the wayward inclinations of a child in opposition to school authority, is not only inflicting upon it irreparable mischief, but is doing equal injury to others by the encouragement of a bad example.
A DISCOURSE ON THE LIFE AND CHARACTER OF WM. WIRT, late Attorney General of the United States; pronounced at the request of the Baltimore Bar before the Citizens of Baltimore, on the 20th of May, 1834, by John P. Kennedy. Baltimore: Wm. & Joseph Neal. 1834.
Mr. Kennedy is favorably known as an eloquent lawyer and literary writer of distinction. The task therefore of delineating the character and genius of Mr. Wirt, could not have been confided to abler hands. We have read his oration with great pleasure; a pleasure it is true, alloyed by the reflection that the country has sustained a bereavement so afflicting and irreparable. There is a mournful satisfaction in recalling the eminent {17} virtues, and matchless accomplishments of the deceased,--in dwelling upon his bright example, and retracing the incomparable graces and excellencies which adorned his public and private character. Mr. Kennedy has touched with the hand of a master, the sad but brilliant theme, and has poured forth in "thoughts that breathe and words that burn"--a most eloquent tribute to the memory of one of the brightest and purest spirits of the age. Mr. Wirt, though a native of Maryland, was in truth a Virginian, by all the endearing ties of social and domestic life. He spent the prime of his youth and manhood among us, and it was here in the Metropolis of the Old Dominion, that he reared that enduring fabric of illustrious talent and virtue which placed him first among his equals--and which will long be embalmed in the recollection of his contemporaries. Hundreds in this city, still remember those surpassing triumphs of his genius as an orator and advocate, achieved in the celebrated trial of Burr;--how he depicted in colors glowing and beautiful the enchanting island of Blennerhassett--the misery of his disconsolate wife--and the wiles of that evil genius who entered the Paradise of the Ohio, and withered forever its enjoyments. Hundreds here and elsewhere have hung with ecstasy over the rich pages of the "British Spy" and "Old Batchelor"--have listened to the magic of his voice both in public and colloquial discourse--and have been constant eyewitnesses of the "daily beauty" and sublime morality of his life. Proudly and sacredly however as his native and adopted states ought to cherish his memory--the fame of such a man as Wirt, must be regarded as the property of the whole nation. His great and commanding genius illustrated and adorned the age and country in which he lived, and thousands and tens of thousands of American bosoms have exulted at the thought that he was their countryman.
In one respect especially, Mr. Wirt was an uncommon man. Most persons distinguished for their moral and intellectual qualities, have at some time or other, been the objects of illiberal censure. Greatness is almost invariably the mark of envy, and envy gives birth to detraction. The deceased however, it is believed, lived and died without an enemy. His manners were so bland and gentle--his purposes so pure--and his life so blameless--that even malice had no nourishment left whereon to feed. In the language of Mr. Kennedy "he possessed, in a remarkable degree, that trait which has been called simplicity of heart--it was single mindedness, straight forward candor. His manners had the wayward playfulness of a boy, that won upon, and infected with their own buoyancy every class of his associates, from the youngest to the oldest--from the humblest retainer about his person, or casual stranger, to the most eminent and most intimate."
In analyzing the intellectual qualities of the deceased, Mr. Kennedy is inclined to the opinion, that powerful as was his legal acumen, and almost unsurpassed his eloquence, yet, that if circumstances had permitted an exclusive devotion to literary pursuits, his fame might have become still more brilliant. We cannot forbear to extract from the oration, the whole passage which illustrates this idea.
"In taking this survey of the chief productions of Mr. Wirt's pen, I am tempted to pause for a moment, to express my regret that the pursuits of his life had not been more decidedly applied to literary labors, than either circumstances or his own choice seem to have permitted. He was remarkably qualified by the character of his mind, and, I think I am warranted in saying, by his inclination, to attain great distinction in these pursuits. A career, in a larger degree, directed to this end would certainly have been not less honorable to himself, nor less useful to his country, and, I would fain persuade myself, not less profitable,--although the consideration of gain be but an unworthy stimulant to the glorious rewards which should interest the ambition of genius. He had, however, a large family around him who depended upon him for protection; and it may be that, surveying the sad history of the gifted spirits who have lighted the path of mankind with the lamps of their own minds and made their race rich with the treasures of wisdom and science, he has turned distrustfully from the yearnings of his ambition, and followed the broader and more certain track that led to professional fame and wealth. I can excuse him for the choice, whilst I lament over the dispensation of human rule by which the latter pursuits should have such an advantage.
"As a literary man he would have acquired a more permanent renown than the nature of professional occupation or the exercises of the forum are capable of conferring upon their votaries. The pen of genius erects its own everlasting monument; but the triumphs of the speaker's eloquence, vivid, brilliant and splendid as they are, live but in the history of their uncertain effects and in the intoxicating applause of the day:--to incredulous posterity they are distrusted tradition, the extravagant boasting of an elder age prone by its nature to disparage the present by the narrated glories of the past. So has it, even now, befallen the name of Patrick Henry, whom not all his affectionate biographer's learned zeal has rescued from the unbelieving smile of but a second generation. The glory of Cicero lives more conspicuously in his written philosophy than even in his speeches, which, although transmitted by his own elaborate and polished hand, may rather be assigned to his literary than to his forensic fame.
"Mr. Wirt had many inducements to the cultivation of letters. He might have entered upon the field, in this country, almost without a rival. Our nation, young in the career of liberal arts, had but few names to reckon when asked, as she has sometimes been in derision, where were the evidences of her scholarship. Her pride would have pointed to a man like William Wirt with a peculiar complacency. His comprehensive and philosophical mind, acute and clear-sighted, was well adapted to master the truths of science: it was fruitful and imaginative and full of beautiful illustration. He had wit and humor of the highest flavor, combined with a quick and accurate observation of character: his taste, sensitive and refined, delighted in the harmony and truth of nature: his full memory furnished him abundant stores of learning: his style, rich and clear, like a fountain of sparkling waters played along a channel of golden sands and bright crystals and through meads begirt with flowers. Above all, the tendency of his mind was to usefulness: he indited no thought that did not serve to inculcate virtuous sentiments, noble pursuits, love of country, the value of generous and laudable ambition, trust in Heaven, or earnest attachment to duty. He has embellished and vivified the grave experience of age with all the warm enthusiasm of youth, and has taught his countrymen the most severe and self-denying devotion to purposes of good, in lessons of so amiable a tone, as to win many a young champion to virtue by the kindness of his persuasion. His sketches of character are pleasantly graphic, and leave us room to believe that, either, in the drama or in that species of fictitious history which the great enchanter of this age has made so popular a vehicle for profound philosophy, he would have attained to an exalted fame. In short, there are {18} but few amongst us who, in scholarship, learning, observation or facility and beauty of expression, may claim to be ranked with William Wirt."
Our readers must not be denied the pleasure of another quotation in which Mr. Wirt's powers of oratory are sketched with a graphic pencil.
"He was a powerful orator, and had the art to sway courts and juries with a master's spirit. The principal traits of his eloquence were great clearness and force in laying the foundations of an argument, and the steady pursuit of it through the track of logical deduction. He was ingenious in choosing his position, and, that once taken, his hearers were borne to his conclusion upon a tide almost as irresistible as that which wafts the idle skiff upon the Potomac, downward from the mountains to the last cataract that meets the ebb and flood of the sea. In this train of earnest argumentation the attention of his auditory was kept alive by a vivid display of classic allusion, by flashes of wit and merriment, and by the familiar imagery which was called in aid to give point to his demonstrations, or light to what the subject rendered obscure to the common apprehension. He sometimes indulged in satire and invective, and, where the subject called for it, in stern denunciation. Many have felt with what indignant power these weapons have been wielded in his hand. His utterance, in early life, was said to have been confused and ungraceful. Practice had conquered these defects, and no man spoke with a more full, effortless and unobstructed fluency. His diction was scrupulously neat, and might have often deceived an audience into the opinion that his speeches were prepared in the closet. His manner was remarkably impressive. Endowed with a commanding figure, a singularly graceful carriage and with a countenance of manly and thoughtful beauty, that struck an instant sense of respect into all that looked upon him, he was pre-eminent in that most significant trait of an orator, action. We can all remember the rich and flowing music of that voice which was wont to stir the inmost souls of our tribunals and bring down the loud applause of delighted bystanders; the dignity with which we have seen his majestic person dilate itself before the judgment seat; the ineffable grace that beamed upon the broad expanse of his brow, and the kindled transport of his fine face, in those wrapt moments when his mind was all in a blaze with the inspirations of his own eloquence. These were the rare gifts that imparted a charm to his oratory, which often wrought more powerfully for the success of his cause than even the efficacy of 'right words set in order.'"
We shall conclude with one more passage, in which the man who filled so large a space in the public eye--whose eloquence placed him on the highest pedestal of fame, and whose writings have charmed by their richness and beauty so many thousand readers--is exhibited in a light more attractive and enduring than the highest human attainments are able to bestow. Mr. Wirt looked far beyond the narrow bounds of earth for his reward. He saw that neither wealth, nor power, nor fame, could satisfy the immortal cravings of the mind--and he lifted up his thoughtful eye to another and more permanent state of being.
"Lastly, he was a zealous and faithful christian. In such a mind as his, so inquiring, so masterly, so discriminating, religion was the child of his judgment, not the creation of his passion. It was an earnest, abiding sense of truth, and showed itself in daily exercise and constant acknowledgment. With the sublime system of revelation resting ever in his thoughts, the christian law hung like a tablet upon his breast, and duty ever pointed her finger to the sculptured commands that were graven there to serve him as a manual of practice. He loved old forms and old opinions, and, with something like a patriarch's reverence, he headed his little family flock on their Sunday walks to church: morning and evening he gathered them together, and on bended knee, invoked his Father's blessing on his household; and at the daily meal bowed his calm and prophet-like figure over the family repast, to ask that grace of the Deity, on which his heart rested with its liveliest hope, and to express that thankfulness which filled and engrossed his soul. Such was this man in the retirement of his domestic hearth, and thus did his affections, in that little precinct, bloom with the daily increasing virtues of love of family, of friends, of his country and of his God."
We hope that Mr. Kennedy's discourse will be extensively circulated and read. We confess that we rose from its perusal much wiser, better, and happier than before. It not only gave play to the imagination, but it distilled precious dews of thought and feeling, the memory of which is still delightful.
A LETTER TO HIS COUNTRYMEN. By J. Fenimore Cooper.--New York: John Wiley. 1834.
Mr. Cooper's letter is partly private and controversial, and partly political, and therefore any thing like an extended notice or review of it does not fall within the range which has been prescribed for the "Southern Literary Messenger." We cannot but express our regret, however, that Mr. Cooper should have suffered himself to be seduced into the arena of party politics. Upon that theatre he will meet with many distinguished rivals--whereas he had none or few to contend with on his favorite ground of romantic fiction. Is it possible that Mr. Cooper will suffer himself to be driven from the field on which he has earned so many enduring laurels, by the criticisms or even illnature of a few newspaper editors? Why, if we had been fortunate enough to write the "Red Rover," or even the "Bravo," we would have good humoredly defied the whole fraternity from Maine to New Orleans. Mr. Cooper forgets that there are thousands, who form their own opinions of literary works, without ever once thinking to turn over the pages of a daily or semiweekly instructor in order to learn its opinion. What if some of his finest romances have been criticised? Is there any human production which can be said to be perfect? Even Walter Scott acknowledged that his "Monastery" and probably some of his other works were total failures. We hope to spend many a long winter night yet in reading some of Mr. Cooper's new novels.
DIARY OF AN ENNUYEE. Boston: Lilly, Wait, Colman & Holden. 1833.
We opened this book, we confess, with some reluctance. The reading world has been so completely surfeited, especially in late years, by works of the same description,--by the diaries and letters of travellers and tourists,--and many of them have been so obviously designed to encourage the art of book making, rather than to impart solid instruction or intellectual pleasure, that we had almost resolved to proscribe altogether that branch of literature. France, Switzerland and Italy, have, moreover, been so often described, that neither the theatre of Napoleon's glory, nor the {19} sublimities of Alpine scenery--nor the classical antiquities of the "Eternal City"--could impart any longer, it was supposed, the grace or freshness of novelty to the sketches of a new adventurer. Fortunately for us, however, we did not carry our resolution into effect, until we looked into the charming volume whose title is at the head of this article. For rich and powerful thought,--for glowing and beautiful description,--for chaste composition and elegance of taste, we have seldom or never seen it surpassed. It is, too, the production of a lady,--an Englishwoman of rank and fortune, who seems to have visited the sunny clime of Italy in order to restore a constitution wasted by disease, and if possible, alleviate some secret misery which was "feeding on her damask cheek" and withering her heart.--Notwithstanding her efforts to conceal her wretchedness, enough is told to excite the reader's sympathy and impart a melancholy interest to the narrative. She finally fell a victim to her sufferings, and found at the age of twenty-six, a premature grave at Autun, in France, on her return to her native England.
In the course of her pilgrimage she visited Paris, Geneva, Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples, Genoa, and various other cities. All the wonders of art and glories of nature in Italy's elysian land, seem to have borrowed additional splendor and beauty from the touches of her magic pencil--and in her reflections upon men and manners there is a purity of sentiment which could neither be sullied by the temptations of wealth and fashion, nor by the prevalence of licentious customs in that voluptuous climate.
We cannot deny to our readers the pleasure of a few extracts, which will fully justify the estimate we have placed upon this delightful volume.
The frivolous extravagance which in many things characterises the French people, and especially the Parisian circles, is thus described:
"La mode at Paris is a spell of wondrous power: it is most like what we should call in England a rage, a mania, a torrent sweeping down the bounds between good and evil, sense and nonsense, upon whose surface straws and egg-shells float into notoriety, while the gold and the marble are buried and hidden till its force be spent. The rage for cashmeres and little dogs, has lately given way to a rage for Le Solitaire, a Romance written, I believe, by a certain vicomte d'Arlincourt. Le Solitaire rules the imagination, the taste, the dress of half Paris: if you go to the theatre, it is to see the 'Solitaire,' either as tragedy, opera, or melodrame: the men dress their hair and throw their cloaks about them à la Solitaire; bonnets and caps, flounces and ribbons are all à la Solitaire; the print shops are full of scenes from Le Solitaire; it is on every toilette, on every work table;--ladies carry it about in their reticules to show each other that they are à la mode; and the men--what can they do but humble their understandings and be extasiés, when beautiful eyes sparkle in its defence, and glisten in its praise, and ruby lips pronounce it divine, delicious, 'quelle sublimité dans les descriptions, quelle force dans les caractères! quelle âme! quel feu! quelle chaleur! quelle verve! quelle originalité! quelle passion!' &c.
"'Vous n'avez pas lu le Solitaire?' said Madame M. yesterday; 'eh mon dieu! est-il donc possible! vous? mais, ma chère, vous êtes perdue de reputation, et pour jamais!'
"To retrieve my lost reputation, I sat down to read Le Solitaire, and as I read, my amazement grew, and I did in 'gaping wonderment abound,' to think that fashion, like the insane root of old, had power to drive a whole city mad with nonsense; for such a tissue of abominable absurdities, bombast, and blasphemy, bad taste and bad language, was never surely indited by any madman, in or out of Bedlam: not Maturin himself, that king of fustian,
'---- ever wrote or borrowed, Any horror half so horrid!'
and this is the book which has turned the brains of half Paris, which has gone through fifteen editions in a few weeks, which not to admire is 'pitoyable,' and not to have read 'quelque chose d'inouie.'"
Again,
"This is the place to live in for the merry poor man, or the melancholy rich one; for those who have too much money, and those who have too little; for those who only wish like the Irishman, 'to live all the days of their life,'--prendre en légère monnoie la somme des plaisirs--but to the thinking, the feeling, the domestic man, who only exists, enjoys, suffers through his affections--
'Who is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noonday grove--'
to such a one, Paris must be nothing better than a vast frippery shop, an ever varying galanty show, an eternal vanity fair, a vortex of folly, a pandemonium of vice."
At Milan the fair invalid was induced to visit the Scala, where she saw the Didone Abandonnato, a ballet by Vigano. This piece was founded upon the loves of Dido and Eneas, and the celebrated cavern scene in the 4th book of Virgil was copied almost to the life. A noble English family just arrived at Milan, was present at the performance, and the effect upon one of its members is thus described:
"In the front of the box sat a beautiful girl, apparently not fifteen, with laughing lips and dimpled cheeks, the very personification of blooming, innocent, English loveliness. I watched her, (I could not help it, when my interest was once awakened,) through the whole scene. I marked her increased agitation: I saw her cheeks flush, her eyes glisten, her bosom flutter, as if with sighs I could not overhear, till at length, overpowered with emotion, she turned away her head, and covered her eyes with her hand. Mothers!--English mothers! who bring your daughters abroad to finish their education--do ye well to expose them to scenes like these, and force the young bud of early feeling in such a precious hotbed as this?--Can a finer finger on the piano,--a finer taste in painting, or any possible improvement in foreign arts, and foreign graces, compensate for one taint on that moral purity, which has ever been, (and may it ever be!) the boast, the charm of Englishwomen? But what have I to do with all this?--I came here to be amused and to forget:--not to moralize, or to criticise."
The picture of Venice, "throned on her hundred isles," is vivid and beautiful.
"The morning we left Padua was bright, lovely and cloudless. Our drive along the shores of the Brenta crowned with innumerable villas and gay gardens was delightful; and the moment of our arrival at Fusina, where we left our carriages to embark in gondolas, was the most auspicious that could possibly have been chosen. It was about four o'clock: the sun was just declining towards the west; the whole surface of the lagune smooth as a mirror, appeared as if paved with fire;--and Venice with her towers and domes, indistinctly glittering in the distance, rose before us like a gorgeous exhalation from the bosom of the ocean. It is farther from the shore than I expected. As we approached, the splendor faded: but the interest and the {20} wonder grew. I can conceive nothing more beautiful, more singular, more astonishing, than the first appearance of Venice, and sad indeed will be the hour when she sinks, (as the poet prophecies) 'into the slime of her own canals.'
"The moment we had disembarked our luggage at the inn, we hired gondolas and rowed to the Piazza di San Marco. Had I seen the church of St. Mark any where else, I should have exclaimed against the bad taste which every where prevails in it: but Venice is the proper region of the fantastic, and the Church of St. Mark, with its four hundred pillars of every different order, color, and material; its oriental cupolas, and glittering vanes, and gilding and mosaics, assimilates with all around it: and the kind of pleasure it gives is suitable to the place and people.
"After dinner I had a chair placed on the balcony of our inn, and sat for some time contemplating a scene altogether new and delightful. The arch of the Rialto, just gleamed through the deepening twilight; long lines of palaces, at first partially illuminated, faded away at length into gloomy and formless masses of architecture; the gondolas glided to and fro, their glancing lights reflected on the water. There was a stillness all around me, solemn and strange in the heart of a great city. No rattling carriages shook the streets, no trampling of horses echoed along the pavement:--the silence was broken only by the melancholy cry of the gondoliers, and the dash of their oars; by the low murmur of human voices, by the chime of the vesper bells, borne over the water, and the sounds of music raised at intervals along the canals. The poetry, the romance of the scene stole upon me unawares. I fell into a reverie, in which visionary forms and recollections gave way to dearer and sadder realities, and my mind seemed no longer in my own power. I called upon the lost, the absent, to share the present with me--I called upon past feelings to enhance that moment's delight. I did wrong--and memory avenged herself as usual. I quitted my seat on the balcony, with despair at my heart, and drawing to the table took out my books and work. So passed our first evening at Venice."
At Florence she met with the poet Rogers, who seems to have been a familiar acquaintance:
"Samuel Rogers paid us a long visit this morning. He does not look as if the suns of Italy had revivified him--but he is as amiable and amusing as ever. He talked long, et avec beaucoup d'onction, of ortolans and figs; till methought it was the very poetry of epicurism; and put me in mind of his own suppers--
'Where blushing fruits through scatter'd leaves invite, Still clad in bloom and veil'd in azure light. The wine as rich in years as Horace sings;'
and the rest of his description worthy of a poetical Apicius.
"Rogers may be seen every day about eleven or twelve, in the Tribune, seated opposite to the Venus, which appears to be the exclusive object of his adoration; and gazing, as if he hoped, like another Pygmalion, to animate the statue: or rather, perhaps, that the statue might animate him. A young Englishman of fashion, with as much talent as espiéglerie, placed an epistle in verse between the fingers of the statue, addressed to Rogers; in which the Goddess entreats him not to come there ogling her every day;--for though 'partial friends might deem him still alive,' she knew by his looks he had come from the other side of the Styx; and retained her antique abhorrence of the spectral dead, &c. &c. She concluded by beseeching him, if he could not desist from haunting her with his ghostly presence, at least to spare her the added misfortune of being be-rhymed by his Muse.
"Rogers with equal good nature and good sense, neither noticed these lines, nor withdrew his friendship and intimacy from the writer."
The fine arts which are cultivated with so much distinction in the "Etrurian Athens," attracted the particular attention of our accomplished traveller. Referring to the Dutch school and the Salle des Portraits,--she says,
"The Dutch and Flemish painters (in spite of their exquisite pots and pans, and cabbages and carrots, their birch brooms, in which you can count every twig, and their carpets in which you can reckon every thread) do not interest me; their landscapes too, however natural, are mere Dutch nature (with some brilliant exceptions,) fat cattle, clipped trees, boors and wind-mills. Of course I am not speaking of Vandyke, nor of Rubens, he that 'in the colors of the rainbow lived,' nor of Rembrandt, that king of clouds and shadows; but for mine own part, I would give up all that Mieris, Netscher, Teniers and Gerard Duow ever produced, for one of Claude's Eden-like creations, or one of Guido's lovely heads--or merely for the pleasure of looking at Titian's Flora once a day, I would give a whole gallery of Dutchmen, if I had them."
The following coup-d'oeil of Florence is distinct and impressive:
"We then ascended the Campanile or Belfry Tower to see the view from its summit. Florence lay at our feet, diminished to a model of itself, with its walls and gates, its streets and bridges, palaces and churches, all and each distinctly visible; and beyond, the Val d'Arno with its amphitheatre of hills, villas, and its vineyards--classical Fiesole, with its ruined castle, and Monte Ulivetto, with its diadem of cypresses; luxuriant nature and graceful art, blending into one glorious picture, which no smoky vapors, no damp exhalations, blotted and discolored; but all was serenely bright and fair, gay with moving life, and rich with redundant fertility."
But it was in Rome, "the city of the soul," that the spirit of the authoress revelled amidst the magnificent trophies of art, and was refreshed in spite of pain and despondency, by the reviving beauties of nature.
"The weather is cold here during the prevalence of the tramontana: but I enjoy the brilliant skies, and the delicious purity of the air, which leaves the eye free to wander over a vast extent of space. Looking from the gallery of the Belvedere at sun-set this evening, I clearly saw Tivoli, Albano, and Frascati, although all Rome, and part of the Campagna lay between me and those towns. The outlines of every building, ruin, hill and wood, were so distinctly marked, and stood out so brightly to the eye! and the full round moon, magnified through the purple vapor which floated over the Appenines, rose just over Tivoli, adding to the beauty of the scene. O Italy! How I wish I could transport hither all I love! how I wish I were well enough, happy enough to enjoy all the lovely things I see! but pain is mingled with all I behold, all I feel: a cloud seems for ever before my eyes, a weight for ever presses down my heart. I know it is wrong to repine; and that I ought rather to be thankful for the pleasurable sensations yet spared to me, than lament that they are so few. When I take up my pen to record the impressions of the day, I sometimes turn within myself, and wonder how it is possible, that amid the strife of feelings not all subdued, and the desponding of the heart, the mind should still retain its faculties unobscured, and the imagination all its vivacity, and its susceptibility to pleasure,--like the beautiful sun-bow I saw at the falls of Terni, bending so bright and so calm over the verge of the abyss, which toiled and raged below."
Having visited and examined in detail, with the feelings of an amateur, almost every thing worthy of note {21} in the ancient city--the sublime architecture of St. Peter's--the treasures of the Vatican and the Capitol--the numberless galleries of painting and sculpture--and having loitered with the spirit of an antiquary amidst the ruins of tombs and temples, our fair tourist describes the rapid survey which she made with a view to generalize the whole.
"For this purpose, making the Capitol a central point, I drove first slowly through the Forum, and made the circuit of the Palatine hill, then by the arch of Janus (which by a late decision of the antiquarians has no more to do with Janus than with Jupiter,) and the temple of Vesta, back again over the site of the Circus Maximus, between the Palatine and the Aventine (the scene of the Rape of the Sabines,) to the baths of Caracalla, where I spent an hour, musing, sketching, and poetizing; thence to the Church of San Stefano Rotundo, once a temple dedicated to Claudius by Agrippina; over the Celian hill, covered with masses of ruins, to the Church of St. John and St. Paul, a small but beautiful edifice: then to the neighboring church of San Gregorio, from the steps of which there is such a noble view. Thence I returned by the arch of Constantine, and the Coliseum, which frowned on me in black masses through the soft and deepening twilight, through the street now called the Suburra, but formerly the Via Scelerata, where Tullia trampled over the dead body of her father, and so over the Quirinal, home.
"My excursion was altogether delightful, and gave me the most magnificent, and I had almost said, the most bewildering ideas of the grandeur and extent of ancient Rome: every step was classic ground; illustrious names, and splendid recollections crowded upon the fancy--
'And trailing clouds of glory did they come.'
On the Palatine Hill were the houses of Cicero and the Gracchi: Horace, Virgil, and Ovid resided on the Aventine; and Mecænas and Pliny on the Æsquiline. If one little fragment of a wall remained, which could with any shadow of probability be pointed out as belonging to the residence of Cicero, Horace, or Virgil, how much dearer, how much more sanctified to memory would it be than all the magnificent ruins of the fabrics of the Cæsars! But no--all has passed away. I have heard the remains of Rome coarsely ridiculed, because after the researches of centuries, so little is comparatively known, because of the endless disputes of antiquarians, and the night and ignorance in which all is involved. But to the imagination there is something singularly striking in this mysterious veil which hangs like a cloud upon the objects around us. I trod to-day over shapeless masses of building, extending in every direction as far as the eye could reach. Who had inhabited the edifices I trampled under my feet? What hearts had burned--what heads had thought--what spirits had kindled there, where nothing was seen but a wilderness and waste, and heaps of ruins, to which antiquaries--even Nibby himself, dare not give a name? All swept away--buried beneath an ocean of oblivion, above which rise a few great and glorious names, like rocks, over which the billows of time break in vain."
Her journey from Rome to Naples was short and delightful. The following is one among innumerable descriptive passages in her diary:
"In some of the scenes of to-day--at Terracina particularly, there was a beauty beyond what I ever beheld or imagined: the scenery of Switzerland is of a different character, and on a different scale; it is beyond comparison grander, more gigantic, more overpowering, but it is not so poetical. Switzerland is not Italy--is not the enchanting south. This soft balmy air, these myrtles, orange groves, palm trees; these cloudless skies, this bright blue sea, and sunny hills, all breathe of an enchanted land; 'a land of Faery.'"
At Naples our traveller was fortunate enough to witness a brilliant eruption of Mount Vesuvius--and overcoming the natural timidity of her sex, she resolved to ascend the mountain at midnight attended by chosen guides and companions. Her account of the terrible spectacle is too graphic to withhold from our readers.
"Before eleven o'clock we reached the Hermitage, situated between Vesuvius and the Somma, and the highest habitation on the mountain. A great number of men were assembled within, and guides, lazzaroni, servants, and soldiers were lounging round. I alighted, for I was benumbed and tired, but did not like to venture among those people, and it was proposed that we should wait for the rest of our party a little farther on. We accordingly left our donkeys and walked forward upon a kind of high ridge, which serves to fortify the Hermitage and its environs, against the lava. From this path as we slowly ascended, we had a glorious view of the eruption, and the whole scene around us, in its romantic interest and terrible magnificence, mocked all power of description. There were, at this time, five distinct torrents of lava rolling down like streams of molten lead; one of which extended above two miles below us, and was flowing towards Portici. The showers of red hot stones flew up like thousands of sky rockets; many of them being shot up perpendicularly, fell back into the crater, others falling on the outside, bounded down the side of the mountain, with a velocity which would have distanced a horse at full speed: these stones were of every size, from two to ten or twelve feet in diameter.
"My ears were by this time wearied and stunned by the unceasing roaring and hissing of the flames, while my eyes were dazzled by the glare of the red, fierce light: now and then I turned them for relief, to other features of the picture, to the black shadowy masses of the landscape stretched beneath us, and speckled with little shining lights, which showed how many were up and watching that night; and often to the calm vaulted sky above our heads, where thousands of stars (not twinkling, as through our hazy or frosty atmosphere, but shining out of 'heaven's profoundest azure,' with that soft steady brilliance, peculiar to a highly rarified medium) looked down upon this frightful turmoil, in all their bright and placid loveliness. Nor should I forget one other feature of a scene, on which I looked with a painter's eye. Great numbers of the Austrian forces, now occupying Naples, were on the mountain, assembled in groups, some standing, some sitting, some stretched on the ground and wrapped in their cloaks, in various attitudes of amazement and admiration; and as the shadowy glare fell on their tall martial figures and glittering accoutrements, I thought I had never beheld any thing so wildly picturesque."
After spending the day with a select party of friends amidst the ruins of Pompeii, she draws the following picture of the celebrated environs of Naples.
"Of all the heavenly days we have had since we came to Naples, this has been the most heavenly; and of all the lovely scenes I have beheld in Italy, what I saw to-day has most enchanted my senses and imagination. The view from the eminence on which the old temple stood, and which was anciently the public promenade, was splendidly beautiful: the whole landscape was at one time overflowed with light and sunshine; and appeared as if seen through an impalpable but dazzling veil. Towards evening, the outlines became more distinct: the little white towns perched upon the hills, the gentle sea, the fairy island of Rivegliano with its old tower, the smoking crater of Vesuvius, the bold forms of Mount Lactarius and Cape Minerva, stood out full and clear under the cloudless sky; and as we returned, I saw the sun sink behind Capri, {22} which appeared by some optical illusion, like a glorious crimson transparency suspended above the horizon: the sky, the earth, the sea, were flushed with the richest rose color, which gradually softened and darkened into purple: the short twilight faded away, and the full moon, rising over Vesuvius, lighted up the scenery with a softer radiance."
We intended to have quoted other passages, in which our fair authoress sketches with striking eloquence, the exhibitions of Sestine, one of that extraordinary race called Improvvisatori--a race which seems to be almost peculiar to Italy; and which, far from being extinct, are still to be found in almost every town from Florence to Naples. Her description too of a splendid illumination at St. Peter's, and her just observations upon the works of the great masters, particularly of the Divine Raffaelle, are worthy of particular designation; but it would be an almost endless task to select passages from a work, which from beginning to end, and through almost every page, is a volume of thrilling interest. We shall content ourselves with one or two beautiful extracts distinguished for their deep moral tone, and somewhat connected, as we suppose, with that all-engrossing and mysterious source of melancholy which seems to have imbittered the peace and hastened the dissolution of this interesting female.
"It is sorrow which makes our experience; it is sorrow which teaches us to feel properly for ourselves and for others. We must feel deeply before we can think rightly. It is not in the tempest and storm of passions, we can reflect--but afterwards, when the waters have gone over our soul; and like the precious gems and the rich merchandise which the wild wave casts on the shore out of the wreck it has made--such are the thoughts left by retiring passions."
Again; what can be more affecting than her final adieu to Naples.
"When we turned into the Strada Chiaja, and I gave a last glance at the magnificent bay and the shores all resplendent with golden light; I could almost have exclaimed like Eve, 'must I then leave thee, Paradise!' and dropt a few natural tears--tears of weakness, rather than of grief: for what do I leave behind me worthy one emotion of regret? Even at Naples, even in this all-lovely land, 'fit haunt for gods,' has it not been with me as it has been elsewhere? as long as the excitement of change and novelty lasts, my heart can turn from itself 'to luxuriate with indifferent things:' but it cannot last long; and when it is over, I suffer, I am ill: the past returns with tenfold gloom; interposing like a dark shade between me and every object: an evil power seems to reside in every thing I see, to torment me with painful associations, to perplex my faculties, to irritate and mock me with the perception of what is lost to me: the very sunshine sickens me, and I am forced to confess myself weak and miserable as ever. O time! how slowly you move! how little you can do for me! and how bitter is that sorrow which has no relief to hope but from time alone!"
We shall quote only one of the many interesting specimens of poetry with which the volume is interspersed. It is an extempore translation of a beautiful sonnet of Zappi, an Italian poet.
"Love, by my fair one's side is ever seen, He hovers round her steps, where'er she strays, Breathes in her voice, and in her silence speaks, Around her lives and lends her all his arms.
"Love is in every glance--Love taught her song; And if she weep, or scorn contract her brow, Still Love departs not from her, but is seen Even in her lovely anger and her tears.
"When, in the mazy dance she glides along, Still Love is near to poise each graceful step: So breathes the zephyr o'er the yielding flower.
"Love in her brow is throned, plays in her hair, Darts from her eye and glows upon her lip, But oh! he never yet approached her heart!"
Upon the whole we earnestly recommend this book to the attention of the public, and especially to our fair countrywomen, whose pride and curiosity will be gratified in so rich an example of the taste and intellectual power of their own sex.
THE MAGDALEN AND OTHER TALES. By Jas. Sheridan Knowles, author of Virginius, The Hunchback, The Wife, &c. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard, 1833.
SKETCHES, by Mrs. Sigourney. Philadelphia: Key & Biddle. 1834.
Both these volumes are by writers of distinction; the first a gentleman well known to the British public, and the last an American lady who devotes her delightful seclusion, near Hartford, Connecticut, to the cultivation of the muses and to the moral improvement of society. Though both are excellent in their way, each is adapted to a distinct class of readers. Mr. Knowles will be particularly acceptable to those who think that the happiness of reading consists in amusement. He depicts with a graphic pencil, and his pictures will be highly attractive to the young, the ardent and romantic. Mrs. Sigourney takes a loftier aim. Though highly gifted with the powers of imagination, and of course capable of exciting that faculty in others, her object seems to be rather to touch the springs of the heart and awaken the moral feelings of our nature. Her spirit is not only imbued with poetry but religion. In all her productions that we have seen, there is a direct tendency to improve as well as to delight. She is an example altogether worthy of imitation among the professors of literature, in enlisting all its allurements in the great cause of human virtue.
Mr. Knowles' book consists of various interesting tales, one of which, "Love and Authorship," we have selected for publication as a fair specimen of the rest. It is a genuine love story, and of course will have its admirers. From Mrs. Sigourney's volume, we have transferred to our own pages the story of the "Patriarch," in which the fair authoress personates, in the narrator of the tale, a minister of the gospel. The scene is laid in the state of North Carolina; and the few remarks in allusion to Bishop Ravenscroft will strike many of our readers as faithful notices of the eloquence and piety of that distinguished and lamented champion of the cross.
LOVE AND AUTHORSHIP.
"Will you remember me, Rosalie?"
"Yes!"
"Will you keep your hand for me for a year?"
"Yes!"
"Will you answer me when I write to you?"
"Yes!"
"One request more--O Rosalie, reflect that my life depends upon your acquiescence--should I succeed, will you marry me in spite of your uncle?"
{23} "Yes," answered Rosalie. There was no pause--reply followed question, as if it were a dialogue which they had got by heart--and by heart indeed they had got it--but I leave you to guess the book they had conned it from.
'Twas in a green lane, on a summer's evening, about nine o'clock, when the west, like a gate of gold, had shut upon the retiring sun, that Rosalie and her lover, hand in hand, walked up and down. His arm was the girdle of her waist; hers formed a collar for his neck, which a knight of the garter--ay, the owner of the sword that dubbed him--might have been proud to wear. Their gait was slow, and face was turned to face; near were their lips while they spoke, and much of what they said never came to the ear, though their souls caught up every word of it.
Rosalie was upwards of five years the junior of her lover. She had known him since she was a little girl in her twelfth year. He was almost eighteen then, and when she thought far more about a doll than a husband, he would set her upon his knee, and call her his little wife. One, two, three years passed on, and still, whenever he came from college, and as usual went to pay his first visit at her father's, before he had been five minutes in the parlor, the door was flung open, and in bounded Rosalie, and claimed her accustomed seat. The fact was, till she was fifteen, she was a child of a very slow growth, and looked the girl when many a companion of hers of the same age had begun to appear the woman.
When another vacation however came round and Theodore paid his customary call, and was expecting his little wife as usual, the door opened slowly, and a tall young lady entered, and curtseying, colored, and walked to a seat next the lady of the house. The visitor stood up and bowed, and sat down again, without knowing that it was Rosalie.
"Don't you know Rosalie," exclaimed her father.
"Rosalie!" replied Theodore in an accent of surprise; and approached his little wife of old who rose and half gave him her hand, and curtseying, colored again; and sat down again without having interchanged a word with him. No wonder--she was four inches taller than when he had last seen her, and her bulk had expanded correspondingly; while her features, that half a year before gave one the idea of a sylph that would bound after a butterfly, had now mellowed in their expression, into the sentiment, the softness, and the reserve of the woman.
Theodore felt absolutely disappointed. Five minutes before, he was all volubility. No sooner was one question answered than he proposed another--and he had so many capital stories for Rosalie, when she came down--and yet, when Rosalie did come down, he sat as though he had not a word to say for himself. In short, every thing and every body in the house seemed to have changed along with its young mistress; he felt no longer at home in it, as he was wont; and in less than a quarter of an hour he made his bow and departed.
Now this was exceedingly strange; for Rosalie, from a pretty little girl, had turned into a lovely young woman. If a heart looked out of her eyes before, a soul looked out of them now; her arm, which formerly the sun had been allowed to salute when he liked, and which used to bear the trace of many a kiss that he had given it, now shone white through a sleeve of muslin, like snow behind a veil of haze; her bosom had enlarged its wavy curve, and leaving her waist little more than the span it used to be, sat proudly heaving above it; and the rest of her form which, only six months ago, looked trim and airy in her short and close-fitting frock now lengthening and throwing out its flowing line, stood stately in the folds of a long and ample drapery. Yet could not all this make up for the want of the little wife that used to come and take her seat upon Theodore's knee.
To be sure there was another way of accounting for the young man's chagrin. He might have been disappointed that Rosalie, when five feet four, should be a little more reserved than when she was only five feet nothing. Romantic young men, too, are apt to fancy odd things. Theodore was a very romantic young man; and having, perhaps traced for himself the woman in the child--as one will anticipate, in looking at a peach that is just knit, the hue, and form, and flavor of the consummate fruit--he might have set Rosalie down in his mind as his wife in earnest, when he appeared to call her so only in jest.
Such was the case. Theodore never calculated that Rosalie knew nothing about his dreams--that she had no such vision herself; he never anticipated that the frankness of girlhood would vanish, as soon as the diffidence of young womanhood began its blushing reign; the thought never occurred to him that the day would come when Rosalie would scruple to sit on his knee--ay, even though Rosalie should then begin to think upon him, as for many a year before he had thought upon her. He returned from college the fifth time; he found that the woman which he imagined in a year or two she would become, was surpassed by the woman that she already was; he remarked the withdrawal of confidence, the limitation of familiarity--the penalty which he must inevitably pay for her maturing--and he felt repelled and chilled, and utterly disheartened by it.
For a whole week he never returned to the house. Three days of a second week elapsed, and still he kept away. He had been invited, however to a ball which was to be given there the day following; and, much as he was inclined to absent himself, being a little more inclined to go--he went.
Full three hours was he in the room without once setting his eyes upon Rosalie. He saw her mother and her father, and talked with them; he saw 'squire this and doctor that, and attorney such-a-one, and had fifty things to say to each of them; he had eyes and tongue for every body, but Rosalie--not a look, or a word did he exchange with her; yet he was here and there and every where! In short he was all communicativeness and vivacity, so that every one remarked how bright he had become since his last visit to college!
At last, however, his fine spirits all at once seemed to forsake him, and he withdrew to the library, which was lighted up for the occasion as an anti-room, and taking a volume out of the book-case, threw himself into a chair and began to turn over the leaves.
"Have you forgotten your little wife," said a soft voice near him--'twas Rosalie's--"if you have," she added as he started from his seat, "she has not forgotten you."
She wore a carnation in her hair--the hue of the flower was not deeper than that of her cheek as she stood and extended her hands to Theodore who, the moment he rose, had held forth both of his.
"Rosalie!"
"Theodore!"--He led her to a sofa, which stood in a recess on the opposite side of the room, and for five minutes not another word did they exchange.
At length she gently withdrew her hand from his--she had suffered him to hold it all that time--"We shall be observed," said she.
"Ah Rosalie," replied he, "nine months since you sat upon my knee, and they observed us, yet you did not mind it!"
"You know I am a woman now," rejoined Rosalie, hanging her head, "and--and--will you lead off the next dance with me?" cried she, suddenly changing the subject. "There now; I have asked you," added she, "which is more than you deserve!"--Of course Theodore was not at all happy to accept the challenge of the metamorphosed Rosalie.
One might suppose that the young lady's heart was interested, and that Theodore was a far happier man than he imagined himself to be. The fact was neither more nor less. Little Rosalie was proud of being called Theodore's wife, because she heard every body else speak in praise of him. Many a marriageable young lady had she heard declare--not minding to speak before a child--that Theodore was the finest young man {24} in B----; that she hoped Theodore would be at such or such a house where she was going to dine, or spend the evening; nay, that she would like to have a sweetheart like Theodore. Then would Rosalie interpose, and with a saucy toss of her head exclaim, nobody should have Theodore but Rosalie, for Rosalie was his little wife, 'twas thus she learned to admire the face and person of Theodore, who more than once paid for her acquired estimation of them; for sometimes before a whole room full of company she would march up to him, and scanning him from head to foot, with folded arms, at length declare aloud, that he was the handsomest young man in B----. Then Theodore was so kind to her, and thought so much of any thing she did, and took such notice of her! Often, at a dance, he would make her his partner for the whole evening; and there was Miss Willoughby, perhaps, or Miss Miller, sitting down, either of whom would have given her eyes to stand up if only in a reel with Theodore.
But when the summer of her seventeenth year beheld her bursting into womanhood; when her expanding thoughts, from a bounding, fitful, rill-like current, began to run a deep, a broad, and steady stream; when she found that she was almost arrived at the threshold of the world, and reflected that the step which marks a female's first entrance into it is generally taken in the hand of a partner--the thought of who that partner might be, recalled Theodore to her mind--and her heart fluttered as she asked herself the question--should she ever be indeed his wife? when, this time, he paid his first visit, Rosalie was as much mortified as he was. Her vexation was increased when she saw that he absented himself; she resolved, if possible, to ascertain the cause; and persuaded her mother to give a ball, and specially invite the young gentleman. He came: she watched him, observed that he neither inquired after her nor sought for her; and marked the excellent terms that he was upon with twenty people, about whom she knew him to be perfectly indifferent. Women have a perception of the workings of the heart, far more quick and subtle than we have. She was convinced that all his fine spirits were forced--that he was acting a part. She suspected that while he appeared to be occupied with every body but Rosalie--Rosalie was the only body that was running in his thoughts. She saw him withdraw to the library; she followed him; found him sitting down with a book in his hand; perceived, from his manner of turning over the leaves, that he was intent on any thing but reading.--She was satisfied that he was thinking of nothing but Rosalie. The thought that Rosalie might one day become indeed his wife, now occurred to her for the thousandth time, and a thousand times stronger than ever; a spirit diffused itself through her heart which had never been breathed into it before; and filling it with hope and happiness, and unutterable contentment, irresistibly drew it towards him. She approached him, accosted him, and in a moment was seated with him, hand in hand, upon the sofa!
As soon as the dance was done,--"Rosalie," said Theodore, "'tis almost as warm in the air as in the room! will you be afraid to take a turn with me in the garden?"
"I will get my shawl in a minute," said Rosalie, "and meet you there;" and the maiden was there almost as soon as he.
They proceeded, arm-in-arm, to the farthest part of the garden; and there they walked up and down without either seeming inclined to speak, as though their hearts could discourse through their hands, which were locked in one another.
"Rosalie!" at last breathed Theodore. "Rosalie!" breathed he a second time, before the expecting girl could summon courage to say "Well!" "I cannot go home to-night," resumed he, "without speaking to you." Yet Theodore seemed to be in no hurry to speak; for there he stopped, and continued silent so long that Rosalie began to doubt whether he would open his lips again.
"Had we not better go in?" said Rosalie, "I think I hear them breaking up."
"Not yet," replied Theodore.
"They'll miss us," said Rosalie.
"What of that?" rejoined Theodore.
"Nay," resumed the maid, "we have remained long enough, and at least allow me to go in."
"Stop but another minute, dear Rosalie!" imploringly exclaimed the youth.
"For what!" was the maid's reply.
"Rosalie," without a pause resumed Theodore, "you used to sit upon my knee, and let me call you wife. Are those times passed forever? dear Rosalie!--will you never let me take you on my knee and call you wife again?"
"When we have done with our girlhood, we have done with our plays," said Rosalie.
"I do not mean in play, dear Rosalie," cried Theodore. "It is not playing at man and wife to walk, as such, out of church. Will you marry me, Rosalie?"
Rosalie was silent.
"Will you marry me?" repeated he.
Not a word would Rosalie speak.
"Hear me?" cried Theodore. "The first day, Rosalie, I took you upon my knee, and called you my wife, jest as it seemed to be, my heart was never more in earnest. That day I wedded you in my soul; for though you were a child, I saw the future woman in you, rich in the richest attractions of your sex. Nay, do me justice; recal what you yourself have known of me; inquire of others. To whom did I play the suitor from that day? To none but you, although to you I did not seem to play it. Rosalie! was I not always with you? Recollect now! did a day pass, when I was at home, without my coming to your father's house! When there were parties there, whom did I sit beside, but you? Whom did I stand behind at the piano forte, but you? Nay for a whole night, whom have I danced with, but you? Whatever you might have thought then, can you believe now, that it was merely a playful child that could so have engrossed me? No, Rosalie! it was the virtuous, generous, lovely, loving woman, that I saw in the playful child. Rosalie! for five years have I loved you, though I never declared it to you till now. Do you think I am worthy of you? Will you give yourself to me? Will you marry me? Will you sit upon my knee again, and let me call you wife?"
Three or four times Rosalie made an effort to speak; but desisted, as if she knew not what to say, or was unable to say what she wished; Theodore still holding her hand. At last, "Ask my father's consent!" she exclaimed, and tried to get away; but before she could effect it she was clasped to the bosom of Theodore, nor released until the interchange of the first pledge of love had been forced from her bashful lips!--She did not appear, that night, in the drawing-room again.
Theodore's addresses were sanctioned by the parents of Rosalie. The wedding day was fixed; it wanted but a fortnight to it, when a malignant fever made its appearance in the town; Rosalie's parents were the first victims. She was left an orphan at eighteen, and her uncle, by her mother's side, who had been nominated her guardian in a will, made several years, having followed his brother-in-law and sister's remains to the grave, took up his residence at B----.
Rosalie's sole consolation now was such as she received from the society of Theodore; but Theodore soon wanted consolation himself. His father was attacked by the fever and died, leaving his affairs, to the astonishment of every one, in a state of the most inextricable embarrassment; for he had been looked upon as one of the wealthiest inhabitants of B----. This was a double blow to Theodore, but he was not aware of the weight of it till, after the interment of his father, he repaired, for the first time to resume his visits to his Rosalie.
He was stepping up without ceremony to the drawing-room, when the servant begged his pardon for stopping him, telling him, at the same time, that he had {25} received instructions from his master to shew Theodore into the parlor when he should call.
"Was Miss Wilford there?"
"No." Theodore was shewn into the parlor. Of all savage brutes, the human brute is the most pernicious and revolting, because he unites to the evil properties of the inferior animal the mental faculties of the superior one; and then he is at large. A vicious tempered dog you can muzzle and render innocuous; but there is no preventing the human dog that bites from fleshing his tooth; he is sure to have it in somebody. And then the infliction is so immeasurably more severe!--the quick of the mind is so much more extensive than that of the body! Besides, the savage that runs upon four legs is so inferior in performance to him that walks upon two? 'Tis he that knows how to gnaw! I have often thought it a pity and a sin that the man who plays the dog should be protected from dying the death of one. He should hang, and the other go free.
"Well, young gentleman!" was the salutation which Theodore received when he entered the parlor; "and pray what brings you here?"
Theodore was struck dumb; and no wonder.
"Your father, I understand, has died a beggar! Do you think to marry my niece?" If Theodore respired with difficulty before, his breath was utterly taken away at this. He was a young man of spirit, but who can keep up his heart, when his ship, all at once, is going down.
The human dog went on. "Young gentleman, I shall be plain with you, for I am a straightforward man; young women should mate with their matches--you are no match for my niece; so a good morning to you!" How more in place to have wished him a good halter! saying this, the straightforward savage walked out of the room, leaving the door wide open, that Theodore might have room for egress; and steadily walked up stairs.
It was several minutes before he could recover his self-recollection. When he did so he rang the bell.
"Tell your master I wish to speak to him," said Theodore to the servant who answered it. The servant went up stairs after his master, and returned.
"I am sorry, sir," said he, "to be the bearer of such an errand; but my master desires you instantly to quit the house; and has commanded me to tell you that he has given me orders not to admit you again."
"I must see Miss Wilford!" exclaimed Theodore.
"You cannot, sir!" respectfully remarked the servant, "for she is locked in her room; but you can send a message to her," added he in a whisper, "and I will be the bearer of it. There is not a servant in the house, Mr. Theodore, but is sorry for you to the soul."
This was so much in season, and was so evidently spoken from the heart, that Theodore could not help catching the honest fellow by the hand. Here the drawing-room bell was rung violently.
"I must go, sir," said the servant; "what message to my mistress?"
"Tell her to give me a meeting, and to apprize me of the time and place," said Theodore; and the next moment the hall door was shut upon him.
One may easily imagine the state of the young fellow's mind. To be driven with insult and barbarity from the house in which he had been received a thousand times with courtesy and kindness--which he looked upon as his own! Then, what was to be done? Rosalie's uncle, after all, had told him nothing but the truth. His father had died a beggar! Dear as Rosalie was to Theodore, his own pride recoiled at the idea of offering her a hand which was not the master of a shilling! Yet was not Theodore portionless. His education was finished; that term he had completed his collegiate studies. If his father had not left him a fortune, he had provided him with the means of making one himself--at all events, of commanding a competency. He had the credit of being a young man of decided genius, too. "I will not offer Rosalie a beggar's hand!" exclaimed Theodore; "I shall ask her to remain true to me for a year; and I'll go to London, and maintain myself by my pen. It may acquire me fame as well as fortune; and then I may marry Rosalie?"
This was a great deal of work to be done in a year; but if Theodore was not a man of genius, he possessed a mind of that sanguine temperament, which is usually an accompaniment of the richer gift. Before the hour of dinner all his plans were laid, and he was ready to start for London. He waited for nothing but a message from Rosalie, and as soon as the sweet girl could send it, it came to him. It appointed him to meet her in the green lane after sunset; the sun had scarcely set when he was there; and there, too, was Rosalie. He found that she was Rosalie still. Fate had stripped him of fortune; but she could not persuade Rosalie to refuse him her hand, or her lip; when, half-way down the lane, she heard a light quick step behind her, and, turning, beheld Theodore.
Theodore's wishes, as I stated before, were granted soon as communicated: and now nothing remained but to say good by--perhaps the hardest thing to two young lovers. Rosalie stood passive in the arms of Theodore, as he took the farewell kiss, which appeared as if it would join his lips to hers for ever, instead of tearing them away. She heard her name called from a short distance, and in half-suppressed voice; she started and turned towards the direction whence the pre-concerted warning came; she heard it again; she had stopped till the last moment! She had half withdrawn herself from Theodore's arms; she looked at him; flung her own around him, and burst into tears upon his neck!--In another minute there was nobody in the lane.
London is a glorious place for a man of talent to make his way in--provided he has extraordinary good luck. Nothing but merit can get on there; nothing is sterling that is not of its coinage. Our provincial towns won't believe that gold is gold unless it has been minted in London. There is no trickery there; no treating, no canvassing, no intrigue, no coalition! there, worth has only to show itself if it wishes to be killed with kindness! London tells the truth! You may swear to what it says--whatsoever may be proved to the contrary. The cause--the cause is every thing in London! Shew but your craft, and straight your brethren come crowding around you, and if they find you worthy, why you shall be brought into notice--even though they should tell a lie for it and damn you. Never trouble yourself about getting on by interest in London! Get on by yourself. Posts are filled there by merit: or if the man suits not the office, why the office is made to adapt itself to the man, and so there is unity after all! What a happy fellow was Theodore to find himself in such a place as London!
He was certainly happy in one thing: the coach in which he came set him down at a friend's whose circumstances were narrow, but whose heart was large--a curate of the Church of England. Strange that, with all the appurtenances of hospitality at its command, abundance should allow it to be said, that the kindest welcome which adversity usually meets with, is that which it receives from adversity! If Theodore found that the house was a cold one to what he had been accustomed, the warmth of the greeting made up for it. "They breakfasted at nine, dined at four, and, if he could sleep upon the sofa, why there was a bed for him!" In a day he was settled, and at his work.
And upon what did Theodore found his hopes of making a fortune, and rising to fame in London?--Upon writing a play. At an early period he had discovered, as his friends imagined, a talent for dramatic composition; and having rather sedulously cultivated that branch of literature, he thought he would now try his hand in one bold effort, the success of which should determine him as to his future course in life. The play was written, presented, and accepted; the performers were ready in their parts; the evening of representation came on, and Theodore, seated in the pit beside his friend, at last, with a throbbing heart, beheld the {26} curtain rise. The first and second acts went off smoothly, and with applause.
Two gentlemen were placed immediately in front of Theodore. "What do you think of it?" said the one to the other.
"Rather tame," was the reply.
"Will it succeed?"
"Doubtful."
The third act, however, decided the fate of the play; the interest of the audience became so intense, that, at one particular stage of the action, numbers in the second and third rows of the side boxes stood up, and the clapping of hands was universal, intermingled with cries of "bravo!" from every part of the theatre. "'Twill do," was now the remark, and Theodore breathed a little more freely than he had done some ten minutes ago. Not to be tedious, the curtain fell amidst shouts of approbation, unmingled with the slightest demonstration of displeasure, and the author had not twenty friends in the house.
If Theodore did not sleep that night, it was not from inquietude of mind--contentment was his repose. His most sanguine hopes had been surpassed; the fiat of a London audience had stamped him a dramatist; the way to fortune was open and clear, and Rosalie would be his.
Next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Theodore and his friend repaired to the coffee-room. "We must see what the critics say," remarked the latter. Theodore, with prideful confidence,--the offspring of fair success,--took up the first morning print that came to his hand. Theatre Royal met his eye. "Happy is the successful dramatist!" exclaimed Theodore to himself; "at night he is greeted by the applause of admiring thousands, and in the morning they are repeated, and echoed all over the kingdom through the medium of the press! What will Rosalie say when her eye falls upon this!"--And what, indeed, would Rosalie say when she read the utter damnation of her lover's drama, which the critic denounced from the beginning to the end, without presenting his readers with a single quotation to justify the severity of his strictures!
"'Tis very odd!" said Theodore.
"'Tis very odd, indeed!" rejoined his friend, repeating his words. "You told me this play was your own, and here I find that you have copied it from half a dozen others that have been founded upon the same story."
"Where?" inquired Theodore, reaching for the paper.
"There!" said his friend, pointing to the paragraph.
"And is this London," exclaimed Theodore. "I never read a play, nor the line of a play upon the same subject. Why does not the writer prove the plagiarism?"
"Because he does not know whether it is or is not a plagiarism," rejoined the other. "He is aware that several other authors have constructed dramas upon the same passage in history; and--to draw the most charitable inference, for you would not suspect him of telling a deliberate lie--he thinks you have seen them, and have availed yourself of them."
"Is it not the next thing to a falsehood," indignantly exclaimed Theodore, "to advance a charge, of the justness of which you have not assured yourself?"
"I know not that," rejoined his friend; "but it certainly indicates a rather superficial reverence for truth; and a disposition to censure, which excludes from all claim to ingenuousness the individual who indulges it."
"And this will go the round of the whole kingdom?"
"Yes."
"Should I not contradict it?"
"No."
"Why?"
"'Tis beneath you; besides, the stamp of malignancy is so strong upon it, that, except to the utterly ignorant, it is harmless; and even these, when they witness your play themselves, as sometime or another they will, will remember the libel, to the cost of its author and to your advantage. I see you have been almost as hardly treated by this gentleman," continued he, glancing over the paper which Theodore had taken up when he entered the room. "Are you acquainted with any of the gentlemen of the press?"
"No; and is it not therefore strange that I should have enemies among them!"
"Not at all."
"Why?"
"Because you have succeeded. Look over the rest of the journals," continued his friend; "you may find salve, perhaps, for these scratches."
Theodore did so; and in one or two instances salve, indeed, he found; but upon the whole he was in little danger of being spoiled through the praises of the press. "Why," exclaimed Theodore, "why do not letters enlarge the soul, while they expand the mind? Why do they not make men generous and honest? Why is not every literary man an illustration of Juvenal's axiom?"
"Teach a dog what you may," rejoined his friend, "can you alter his nature, so that the brute shall not predominate?"
"No," replied Theodore.
"You are answered," said his friend.
The play had what is called a run, but not a decided one. Night after night it was received with the same enthusiastic applauses; but the audiences did not increase. It was a victory without the acquisition of spoils or territory. "What can be the meaning of this?" exclaimed Theodore; "we seem to be moving, and yet do not advance an inch?"
"They should paragraph the play as they do a pantomime," remarked his friend. "But then a pantomime is an expensive thing; they will lay out a thousand pounds upon one, and they must get their money back. The same is the case with their melo-dramas; so, if you want to succeed to the height, as a play-wright, you know what to do."
"What?" inquired Theodore.
"Write melo-dramas and pantomimes!"
Six months had now elapsed, and Theodore's purse, with all his success, was rather lighter than when he first pulled it out in London. However, in a week two bills which he had taken from his publisher would fall due, and he would run down to B----, and perhaps obtain an interview with Rosalie. At the expiration of the week his bills were presented, and dishonored! He repaired to his publisher's for an explanation: the house had stopped! Poor Theodore! They were in the gazette that very day! Theodore turned into the first coffee room to look at a paper: there were, indeed, the names of the firm! "I defy fortune to serve me a scurvier trick!" exclaimed Theodore, the tears half starting into his eyes. He little knew the lady whose ingenuity he was braving.
He looked now at one side of the paper, and now at the other, thinking all the while of nothing but the bills and the bankrupt's list. Splendid Fete at B---- met his eye, and soon his thoughts were occupied with nothing but B----; for there he read that the young lord of the manor, having just come of age, had given a ball and supper, the former of which he opened with the lovely and accomplished Miss Rosalie ----. The grace of the fair couple was expatiated upon; and the editor took occasion to hint, that a pair so formed by nature for each other, might probably, before long, take hands in another, a longer, and more momentous dance. What did Theodore think of fortune now?
"O that it were but a stride to B----!" he exclaimed, as he laid down the paper, and his hand dropped nerveless at his side. He left the coffee-house, and dreamed his way back to his friend's. Gigs, carriages, carts rolled by him unheeded; the foot path was crowded, but he saw not a soul in the street. He was in the ball room at B----, and looking on while the young lord of the manor handed out Rosalie to lead her down the dance, through every figure of which Theodore followed them with his eyes with scrutinizing glance, scanning the countenance of his mistress. Then the set was over, and he saw them walking arm-in-arm {27} up and down the room, and presently they were dancing again; and now the ball was over, and he followed them to the supper room, where he saw the young lord of the manor place Rosalie beside him. Then fancy changed the scene from the supper room to the church, at the altar of which stood Rosalie with his happy rival; and he heard the questions and responses which forge the mystic chain that binds for life; and he saw the ring put on, and heard the blessing which announces that the nuptial sacrament is complete! His hands were clenched; his cheek was in a flame; a wish was rising in his throat--"Good news for you," said some one clapping him on the back: "a letter from Rosalie lies for you at home. Why are you passing the house?" 'Twas his friend.
"A letter from Rosalie!" exclaimed Theodore.--Quickly he retraced his steps, and there on his table lay, indeed, the dear missive of his Rosalie.
"Welcome, sweet comforter!" ejaculated Theodore, as he kissed the cyphers which his Rosalie's hand had traced, and the wax which bore the impress of her seal. "Welcome, O Welcome! you come in time: you bring an ample solace for disappointment, mortification, poverty--whatever my evil destiny can inflict! You have come to assure me that they cannot deprive me of my Rosalie!"
Bright was his eye, and glistening while he spoke; but when he opened the fair folds that conveyed to him thoughts of his mistress, its radiancy was gone!
"THEODORE,
"I am aware of the utter frustration of your hopes; I am convinced that at the end of a year you will not be a step nearer to fortune than you are now; why then keep my hand for you? What I say briefly, you will interpret fully. You are now the guardian of my happiness; as such I address you. Thursday, so you consent, will be my wedding day. ROSALIE."
Such was the letter, upon the address and seal of which Theodore had imprinted a score of kisses before he opened it. "Fortune is in the mood," said Theodore with a sigh, so deeply drawn, that any one who had heard it would have imagined he had breathed his spirit out along with it--"Fortune is in the mood, and let her have her humor out! I shall answer the letter; my reply to her shall convey what she desires--nothing more! she is incapable of entering into my feelings, and unworthy of being made acquainted with them; I shall not condescend even to complain!"
"ROSALIE,
"You are free! THEODORE."
Such was the answer which Theodore despatched to Rosalie. O the enviable restlessness of the mind upon the first shock of thwarted affection! How it turns every way for the solace which it feels it can no more meet with, except in the perfect extinction of consciousness. Find it an anodyne!--you cannot. A drug may close the eye for a time, but the soul will not sleep a wink: it lies broad awake, to agony distinct, palpable, immediate;--howsoever memory may be cheated to lose for the present the traces of the cause. Then for the start, the spasm, the groan which, while the body lies free, attest the presence and activity of the mental rack! Better walk than go to sleep! A heath, without a soul but yourself upon it!--an ink-black sky, pouring down torrents--wind, lightning, thunder, as though the vault above was crackling and disparting into fragments!--any thing to mount above the pitch of your own solitude, and darkness, and tempest; and overcome them, or attract and divert your contemplation from them, or threaten every moment to put an end to them and you!
Theodore's friend scarcely knew him the next morning. He glanced at him, and took no further notice. 'Twas the best way, though people there are who imagine that it rests with a man in a fever, at his own option to remain in it, or to become convalescent.
Theodore's feelings were more insupportable to him the second day than the first. He went here and there and every where; and nowhere could he remain for two minutes at a time at rest. Then he was so abstracted. Crossing a street he was nearly run over by a vehicle and four. This for a moment awakened him. He saw London and B---- upon the pannels of the coach. The box seat was empty; he asked if it was engaged. "No." He sprung up upon it and away they drove. "I'll see her once more," exclaimed Theodore, "it can but drive me mad or break my heart."
Within a mile of B---- a splendid barouch passed them. "Whose is that?" inquired Theodore.
"The young lord of the manor's," answered the driver, "Did you see the lady in it?"
"No."
"I caught a glimpse of her dress," said the driver. "I'll warrant she's a dashing one! The young squire, they say, has a capital taste!" Theodore looked after the carriage. There was nothing but the road. The vehicle drove at a rapid pace, and was soon out of sight. Theodore's heart turned sick.
The moment the coach stopped he alighted, and with a misgiving mind he stood at the door which had often admitted him to his Rosalie. It was opened by a domestic whom he had never seen before. "Was Miss Wilford within?" "No." "When would she return?" "Never. She had gone that morning to London to be married!" Theodore made no further inquiries, neither did he offer to go, but stood glaring upon the man more like a spectre than a human being.
"Any thing more?" said the man retreating into the house, and gradually closing the door, through which now only a portion of his face could be seen. "Any thing more?" Theodore made no reply: in fact he had lost all consciousness. At last, the shutting of the door, which half from panic, half from anger the man pushed violently to, aroused him. "I shall knock at you no more!" said he, and departed, pressing his heart with his hand, and moving his limbs as if he cared not how, or whither they bore him. A gate suddenly stopped his progress; 'twas the entrance to the green lane. He stepped over the stile--he was on the spot where he had parted last from Rosalie--where she had flung her arms about his neck, and wept upon it. His heart began to melt, for the first time since he had received her letter: a sense of suffocation came over him, till he felt as if he would choke. The name of Rosalie was on his tongue: twice he attempted to articulate it, but could not. At last it got vent in a convulsive sob, which was followed by a torrent of tears. He threw himself upon the ground--he wept on--he made no effort to check the flood, but let it flow till forgetfulness stopped it.
He rose with a sensation of intense cold.
'Twas morning! He had slept! "Would he had slept on!" He turned from the sun, at it rose without a cloud, upon the wedding morn of Rosalie. 'Twas Thursday. He repassed the stile; and, in a few minutes, was on his road to London, which he entered about eleven o'clock at night, and straight proceeded to his friend's. They were gone to bed.
"Give me a light," said Theodore, "I'll go to bed."
"Your bed is occupied, sir," replied his servant.
"Is it?" said Theodore; "Well, I can sleep upon the carpet." He turned into the parlor, drew a chair towards the table, upon which the servant had placed a light, and sat down. All was quiet for a time. Presently he heard a foot upon the stair; it was his friend's who was descending, and now entered the parlor.
"I thought you were abed," said Theodore.
"So I was," replied his friend, "but hearing your voice in the hall, I rose and came down to you." He drew a chair opposite to Theodore. Both were silent for a time; at length Theodore spoke.
"Rosalie is married," said he.
"I don't believe it."
"She is going to be married to the young lord of the manor."
"I don't believe it."
"She came to town with him yesterday."
{28} "I don't believe it."
Theodore pushed back his chair, and stared at his friend.
"What do you mean?" said Theodore.
"I mean that I entertain some doubts as to the accuracy of your grounds for concluding that Rosalie is inconstant to you."
"Did I not read the proof of it in the public papers?"
"The statement may have been erroneous."
"Did not her own letter assure me of it?"
"You may have misunderstood it."
"I tell you I have been at B----; I have been at her house. I inquired for her, and was told she had gone up to London to be married! Oh, my friend," continued he, covering his eyes with his handkerchief,--"'tis useless to deceive ourselves. I am a ruined man! You can see to what she has reduced me. I shall never be myself again! Myself! I tell you I existed in her being more than in my own. She was the soul of all I thought, and felt, and did; the primal vivifying principle! She has murdered me! I breathe it is true, and the blood is in my veins and circulates; but every thing else about me is death--hopes! wishes! interests! there is no pulse, no respiration there! I should not be sorry were there none any where else! Feel my hand," added he, reaching his hand across the table, without removing his handkerchief from his eyes; for the sense of his desolation had utterly unmanned him, and his tears continued to flow. "Feel my hand. Does it not burn. A hearty fever, now would be a friend," continued he, "and I think I have done my best to merit a call from such a visitor. The whole of the night before last I slept out in the open air. Guess where I took my bed. In the green lane--the spot where I parted last from Rosalie!"--He felt a tear drop upon the hand which he had extended--the tear was followed by the pressure of a lip. He uncovered his eyes, and turning them in wonderment to look upon his friend--beheld Rosalie sitting opposite to him!
For a moment or two he questioned the evidence of his senses--but soon was he convinced that it was indeed reality; for Rosalie, quitting her seat, approached him, and breathing his name with an accent that infused ecstasy into his soul, threw herself into his arms, that doubtingly opened to receive her.
* * * * *
Looking over her father's papers, Rosalie had found a more recent will, in which her union with Theodore had been fully sanctioned, and he himself constituted her guardian until it should take place. She was aware that his success in London had been doubtful; the generous girl determined that he should no longer be subjected to incertitude and disappointment; and she playfully wrote the letter which was a source of such distraction to her lover. From his answer she saw that he had totally misinterpreted her: she resolved in person to disabuse him of the error; and by offering to become his wife, at once to give him the most convincing proof of her sincerity and constancy. She arrived in London. His friend, who had known her from her infancy, received her as his daughter; and he and his wife listened with delight to the unfolding of her plans and intentions, which she freely confided to them. Late they sat up for Theodore that night, and when all hopes of his coming home were abandoned, Rosalie became the occupant of his bed. The next night, in a state of this most distressing anxiety, in consequence of his continued absence, she had just retired to her apartment, when a knock at the street door made her bound from her couch, upon which she had at that moment thrown herself, and presently she heard her lover's voice at the foot of the stair. Scarcely knowing what she did, she attired herself, descended, opened the parlor door unperceived by Theodore, and took the place of their friendly host, who, the moment he saw her, beckoned her, and resigning his chair to her, withdrew.
The next evening a select party were assembled in the curate's little drawing-room, and Theodore and Rosalie were there. The lady of the house motioned the latter to approach her, she rose and was crossing Theodore, when he caught her by the hand, and drew her upon his knee.
"Theodore!" exclaimed the fair one, coloring.
"My wife," was his reply, while he imprinted a kiss upon her lips.
They had been married that morning.
THE PATRIARCH.
"Gently on him, had gentle Nature laid The weight of years.--All passions that disturb Had passed away."--Southey.
Soon after my entrance upon clerical duties, in the state of North Carolina, I was informed of an isolated settlement, at a considerable distance from the place of my residence. Its original elements were emigrants from New England; a father, and his five sons, who, with their wives and little children, had about thirty years before become sojourners in the heart of one of the deepest Carolinian solitudes. They purchased a tract of wild, swamp-encircled land. This they subjected to cultivation, and by unremitting industry, rendered adequate to their subsistence and comfort. The sons, and the sons' sons, had in their turn become the fathers of families; so, that the population of this singular spot comprised five generations. They were described as constituting a peaceful and virtuous community, with a government purely patriarchal. Secluded from the privileges of public worship, it was said that a sense of religion, influencing the heart and conduct, had been preserved by statedly assembling on the sabbath, and reading the scriptures, with the Liturgy of the Church of England. The pious ancestor of the colony, whose years now surpassed four-score, had, at their removal to this hermitage, established his eldest son in the office of lay-reader. This simple ministration, aided by holy example, had so shared the blessing of heaven, that all the members of this miniature commonwealth held fast the faith and hope of the gospel.
I was desirous of visiting this peculiar people, and of ascertaining whether such precious fruits might derive nutriment from so simple a root. A journey into that section of the country afforded me an opportunity. I resolved to be the witness of their Sunday devotions, and with the earliest dawn of that consecrated day, I left the house of a friend, where I had lodged, and who furnished the requisite directions for my solitary and circuitous route.
The brightness and heat of summer began to glow oppressively, ere I turned from the haunts of men, and plunged into the recesses of the forest. Towering amidst shades which almost excluded the light of heaven, rose the majestic pines, the glory and the wealth of North Carolina. Some, like the palms, those princes of the East, reared a proud column of fifty feet, ere the branches shot forth their heavenward cone. With their dark verdure, mingled the pale and beautiful efflorescence of the wild poplar, like the light interlacing of sculpture, in some ancient awe-inspiring temple, while thousands of birds from those dark cool arches, poured their anthems of praise to the Divine Architect.
The sun was high in the heavens when I arrived at the morass, the bulwark thrown by Nature around this little city of the desert. Alighting, I led my horse over the rude bridges of logs, which surmounted the pools and ravines, until our footing rested upon firm earth. Soon, an expanse of arable land became visible, and wreaths of smoke came lightly curling through the trees, as if to welcome the stranger. Then, a cluster of cottages cheered the eye. They were so contiguous, that the blast of a horn, or even the call of a shrill voice, might convene all their inhabitants. To the central and the largest building, I directed my steps. Approaching the open window, I heard a distinct manly voice, pronouncing the solemn invocation,--"By thine agony, and bloody sweat,--by thy cross and {29} passion,--by thy precious death and burial,--by thy glorious resurrection and ascension,--and by the coming of the Holy Ghost." The response arose, fully and devoutly, in the deep accents of manhood, and the softer tones of the mother and her children.
Standing motionless, that I might not disturb the worshippers, I had a fair view of the lay-reader. He was a man of six feet in height, muscular and well proportioned, with a head beautifully symmetrical, from whose crown time had begun to shred the luxuriance of its raven locks. Unconscious of the presence of a stranger, he supposed that no eye regarded him, save that of his God. Kneeling around him, were his "brethren according to the flesh," a numerous and attentive congregation. At his right hand was the Patriarch--tall, somewhat emaciated, yet not bowed with years, his white hair combed smoothly over his temples, and slightly curling on his neck. Gathered near him, were his children, and his children's children. His blood was in the veins of almost every worshipper. Mingling with forms that evinced the ravages of time and toil, were the bright locks of youth, and the rosy brow of childhood, bowed low in supplication. Even the infant, with hushed lip, regarded a scene where was no wandering glance. Involuntarily, my heart said,--"Shall not this be a family in Heaven?" In the closing aspirations, "O Lamb of God! that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us!"--the voice of the Patriarch was heard, with strong and affecting emphasis. After a pause of silent devotion, all arose from their knees, and I entered the circle.
"I am a minister of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I come to bless you in the name of the Lord."
The ancient Patriarch, grasping my hand, gazed on me with intense earnestness. A welcome, such as words have never uttered, was written on his brow.
"Thirty-and-two years has my dwelling been in this forest. Hitherto, no man of God hath visited us. Praised be his name, who hath put it into thy heart, to seek out these few sheep in the wilderness. Secluded as we are, from the privilege of worshipping God in his temple, we thus assemble every Sabbath, to read his holy Book, and to pray unto him in the words of our liturgy. Thus have we been preserved from 'forgetting the Lord who bought us, and lightly esteeming the Rock of our Salvation.'"
The exercises of that day are indelibly engraven on my memory. Are they not written in the record of the Most High? Surely a blessing entered into my own soul, as I beheld the faith, and strengthened the hope of those true-hearted and devout disciples. Like him, whose slumbers at Bethel were visited by the white-winged company of heaven, I was constrained to say,--"Surely the Lord is in this place, and I knew it not."
At the request of the Patriarch, I administered the ordinance of baptism. It was received with affecting demonstrations of solemnity and gratitude. The sacred services were protracted until the setting of the sun. Still they seemed reluctant to depart. It was to them a high and rare festival. When about to separate, the venerable Patriarch introduced me to all his posterity. Each seemed anxious to press my hand; and even the children expressed, by affectionate glances, their reverence and love for him who ministered at the altar of God.
"The Almighty," said the ancient man, "hath smiled on these babes, born in the desert. I came hither with my sons and their companions, and their blessed mother, who hath gone to rest. God hath given us families as a flock. We earn our bread with toil and in patience. For the intervals of labor we have a school, where our little ones gain the rudiments of knowledge. Our only books of instruction, are the bible and prayer-book."
At a signal they rose and sang, when about departing to their separate abodes,--"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, and good will towards men." Never, by the pomp of measured melody, was my spirit so stirred within me, as when that rustic, yet tuneful choir, surrounding the white-haired father of them all, breathed out in their forest sanctuary, "Thou, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us."
The following morning, I called on every family, and was delighted with the domestic order, economy, and concord, that prevailed. Careful improvement of time, and moderated desires, seemed uniformly to produce among them, the fruits of a blameless life and conversation. They conducted me to their school. Its teacher was a grand-daughter of the lay-reader. She possessed a sweet countenance, and gentle manners, and with characteristic simplicity, employed herself at the spinning-wheel, when not absorbed in the labors of instruction. Most of her pupils read intelligibly, and replied with readiness to questions from Scripture History. Writing and arithmetic were well exemplified by the elder ones; but those works of science, with which our libraries are so lavishly supplied, had not found their way to this retreat. But among the learners was visible, what does not always distinguish better endowed seminaries; docility, subordination, and profound attention to every precept and illustration. Habits of application and a desire for knowledge were infused into all. So trained up were they in industry, that even the boys, in the intervals of their lessons, were busily engaged in the knitting of stockings for winter. To the simple monitions which I addressed to them, they reverently listened; and ere they received the parting blessing, rose, and repeated a few passages from the inspired volume, and lifted up their accordant voices, chanting, "blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he hath visited and redeemed his people."
Whatever I beheld in this singular spot, served to awaken curiosity, or to interest feeling. All my inquiries were satisfied with the utmost frankness. Evidently, there was nothing which required concealment. The heartless theories of fashion, with their subterfuges and vices, had not penetrated to this hermetically sealed abode. The Patriarch, at his entrance upon his territory, had divided it into six equal portions, reserving one for himself, and bestowing another on each of his five sons. As the children of the colony advanced to maturity, they, with scarcely an exception, contracted marriages among each other, striking root, like the branches of the banian, around their parent tree. The domicile of every family was originally a rude cabin of logs, serving simply the purpose of shelter. In front of this, a house of larger dimensions was commenced, and so constructed, that the ancient abode might become the kitchen, when the whole was completed. To the occupation of building they attended as they were able to command time and materials. "We keep it," said one of the colonists, "for handy-work, when there is no farming, or turpentine-gathering, or tar-making." Several abodes were at that time, in different stages of progress, marking the links of gradation between the rude cottage, and what they styled the "framed house." When finished, though devoid of architectural elegance, they exhibited capabilities of comfort, equal to the sober expectations of a primitive people. A field for corn, and a garden abounding with vegetables, were appendages to each habitation. Cows grazed quietly around, and sheep dotted like snow-flakes, the distant green pastures. The softer sex participated in the business of horticulture, and when necessary, in the labors of harvest, thus obtaining that vigor and muscular energy which distinguish the peasantry of Europe, from their effeminate sisters of the nobility and gentry. Each household produced or manufactured within its own domain, most of the materials which were essential to its comfort; and for such articles as their plantations could not supply, or their ingenuity construct, the pitch-pine was their medium of purchase. When the season arrived for collecting its hidden treasures, an aperture was made in its bark, and a box inserted, into which the turpentine continually oozed. Care was required to preserve this orifice free from the induration of glutinous matter. Thus, it must be frequently reopened, or carried gradually upward on the trunk of the {30} tree; sometimes, to such a height, that a small knife affixed to the extremity of a long pole, is used for that purpose. Large trees sustain several boxes at the same time, though it is required that the continuity of bark be preserved, or the tree, thus shedding its life-blood at the will of man, must perish. Though the laborers in this department are exceedingly industrious and vigilant, there will still be a considerable deposit adhering to the body of the tree. These portions, called "turpentine facings," are carefully separated, and laid in a cone-like form, until they attain the size of a formidable mound. This is covered with earth, and when the cool season commences, is ignited; and the liquid tar, flowing into a reservoir prepared for it, readily obtains a market among the dealers in naval stores.
Shall I be forgiven for such minuteness of detail? So strongly did this simple and interesting people excite my affectionate solicitude, that not even their slightest concerns seemed unworthy of attention. By merchants of the distant town, who were in habits of traffic with them, I was afterwards informed that they were distinguished for integrity and uprightness, and that the simple affirmation of these "Bible and Liturgy men," as they were styled, possessed the sacredness of an oath. The lay-reader remarked to me, that he had never known among his people, a single instance of either intemperance or profanity.
"Our young men have no temptations, and the old set an uniformly sober example. Still, I cannot but think our freedom from vice is chiefly owing to a sense of religious obligation, cherished by God's blessing upon our humble worship."
"Are there no quarrels or strifes among you?"
"For what should we contend? We have no prospect of wealth, nor motive of ambition. We are too busy to dispute about words. Are not these the sources of most of the 'wars and fightings' among mankind? Beside, we are all of one blood. Seldom does any variance arise, which the force of brotherhood may not quell. Strict obedience is early taught in families. Children who learn thoroughly the Bible-lesson to obey and honor their parents, are not apt to be contentious in society, or irreverent to their Father in Heaven. Laws so simple would be inefficient in a mixed and turbulent community. Neither could they be effectual here, without the aid of that gospel which speaketh peace, and prayer for his assistance, who 'turneth the hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just.'"
Is it surprising that I should take my leave, with an overflowing heart, of the pious Patriarch and his posterity?--that I should earnestly desire another opportunity of visiting their isolated domain?
Soon after this period, a circumstance took place, which they numbered among the most interesting eras of their history. A small chapel was erected in the village nearest to their settlement. Though at the distance of many miles, they anticipated its completion with delight. At its consecration by the late Bishop Ravenscroft, as many of the colonists as found it possible to leave home, determined to be present. Few of the younger ones had ever entered a building set apart solely for the worship of God; and the days were anxiously counted, until they should receive permission to tread his courts.
The appointed period arrived. Just before the commencement of the sacred services of dedication, a procession of singular aspect was seen to wind along amid interposing shades. It consisted of persons of both sexes, and of every age, clad in a primitive style, and advancing with solemn order. I recognized my hermit friends, and hastened onward to meet them. Scarcely could the ancient Jews, when from distant regions they made pilgrimage to their glorious hill of Zion, have testified more touching emotion, than these guileless worshippers, in passing the threshold of this humble temple to Jehovah. When the sweet tones of a small organ, mingling with the voices of a select choir, gave "glory to the Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end," the young children of the forest started from their seats in wondering joy, while the changing color, or quivering lip of the elders, evinced that the hallowed music awoke the cherished echoes of memory.
But with what breathless attention did they hang on every word of Bishop Ravenscroft, as with his own peculiar combination of zeal and tenderness, he illustrated the inspired passage which he had chosen, or with a sudden rush of strong and stormy eloquence broke up the fountains of the soul! Listening and weeping, they gathered up the manna, which an audience satiated with the bread of heaven, and prodigal of angels' food, might have suffered to perish. With the hoary Patriarch, a throng of his descendants, who had been duly prepared for that holy vow and profession, knelt around the altar, in commemoration of their crucified Redeemer.
At the close of the communion service, when about to depart to his home, the white-haired man drew near to the Bishop. Gratitude for the high privileges in which he had participated; reverence for the father in God, whom he had that day for the first time beheld; conviction that his aged eyes could but a little longer look on the things of time; consciousness that he might scarcely expect again to stand amid these his children, to "behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple," overwhelmed his spirit. Pressing the hand of the Bishop, and raising his eyes heavenward, he said,--"Lord! now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation."
Bishop Ravenscroft fixed on him one of those piercing glances which seemed to read the soul; and then tears, like large rain-drops stood upon his cheeks. Recovering from his emotion, he pronounced, with affectionate dignity, the benediction, "the Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace."
The Patriarch, bowing down a head, heavy with the snows of more than fourscore winters, breathed a thanksgiving to God, and turned homeward, followed by all his kindred. Summer had glided away ere it was in my power again to visit the "lodge in the wilderness." As I was taking in the autumn twilight my lonely walk for meditation, a boy of rustic appearance, approaching with hasty steps, accosted me.
"Our white-haired father, the father of us all, lies stretched upon his bed. He takes no bread or water, and he asks for you. Man of God, will you come to him?"
Scarcely had I signified assent, ere he vanished. With the light of the early morning, I commenced my journey. Autumn had infused chillness into the atmosphere, and somewhat of tender melancholy into the heart. Nature seems to regard with sadness the passing away of the glories of summer, and to robe herself as if for humiliation.
As the sun increased in power, more of cheerfulness overspread the landscape. The pines were busily disseminating their winged seeds. Like insects, with a floating motion, they spread around for miles. Large droves of swine made their repast upon this half ethereal food. How mindful is Nature of even her humblest pensioners!
As I approached the cluster of cottages, which now assumed the appearance of a village, the eldest son advanced to meet me. His head declined like one struggling with a grief which he would fain subdue. Taking my hand in both of his, he raised it to his lips. Neither of us spoke a word. It was written clearly on his countenance, "Come quickly, ere he die."
Together we entered the apartment of the good Patriarch. One glance convinced me that he was not long to be of our company. His posterity were gathered around him in sorrow;
"For drooping,--sickening,--dying, they began, Whom they ador'd as God, to mourn as man."
{31} He was fearfully emaciated, but as I spake of the Saviour, who "went not up to joy, until he first suffered pain," his brow again lighted with the calmness of one, whose "way to eternal joy was to suffer with Christ, whose door to eternal life gladly to die with him."
Greatly comforted by prayer, he desired that the holy communion might be once more administered to him, and his children. There was a separation around his bed. Those who had been accustomed to partake with him, drew near, and knelt around the dying. Fixing his eye on the others, he said, with an energy of tone which we thought had forsaken him,--"Will ye thus be divided, at the last day?" A burst of wailing grief was the reply.
Never will that scene be effaced from my remembrance: the expressive features, and thrilling responses of the Patriarch, into whose expiring body the soul returned with power, that it might leave this last testimony of faith and hope to those whom he loved, are among the unfading imagery of my existence. The spirit seemed to rekindle more and more, in its last lingerings around the threshold of time. In a tone, whose clearness and emphasis surprised us, the departing saint breathed forth a blessing on those who surrounded him, "in the name of that God, whose peace passeth all understanding."
There was an interval, during which he seemed to slumber. Whispers of hope were heard around his couch, that he might wake and be refreshed. At length, his eyes slowly unclosed. They were glazed and deeply sunken in their sockets. Their glance was long and kind upon those who hung over his pillow. His lips moved, but not audibly. Bowing my ear more closely, I found that he was speaking of Him who is the "resurrection and the life." A slight shuddering passed over his frame, and he was at rest, for ever.
A voice of weeping arose from among the children, who had been summoned to the bed of death. Ere I had attempted consolation, the lay-reader with an unfaltering tone pronounced, "the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord."
Deep silence ensued. It seemed as if every heart was installing him who spake, in the place of the father and the governor who had departed. It was a spontaneous acknowledgment of the right of primogeniture, which no politician could condemn. He stood among them, in the simple majesty of his birthright, a ruler and priest to guide his people in the way everlasting. It was as if the mantle of an arisen prophet had descended upon him, as if those ashen lips had broken the seal of death to utter "behold my servant whom I have chosen." Every eye fixed upon him its expression of fealty and love. Gradually the families retired to their respective habitations. Each individual paused at the pillow of the Patriarch, to take a silent farewell; and some of the little ones climbed up to kiss the marble face.
I was left alone with the lay-reader, and with the dead. The enthusiasm of the scene had fled, and the feelings of a son triumphed. Past years rushed like a tide over his memory. The distant, but undimmed impressions of infancy and childhood,--the planting of that once wild waste,--the changes of those years which had sprinkled his temples with gray hairs,--all, with their sorrows and their joys, came back, associated with the lifeless image of his beloved sire. In the bitterness of bereavement, he covered his face, and wept. That iron frame which had borne the hardening of more than half a century, shook, like the breast of an infant, when it sobbed out its sorrows. I waited until the first shock of grief had subsided. Then, passing my arm gently within his, I repeated, "I heard a voice from heaven saying,--Write, from henceforth, blessed are the dead, who die in the Lord." Instantly raising himself upright, he responded in a voice whose deep inflections sank into my soul, "Even so, saith the spirit, for they rest from their labors, and their works do follow them."
I remained to attend the funeral obsequies of the Patriarch. In the heart of their territory was a shady dell, sacred to the dead. It was surrounded by a neat enclosure, and planted with trees. The drooping branches of a willow, swept the grave of the mother of the colony. Near her, slumbered her youngest son. Several other mounds swelled around them, most of which, by their small size, told of the smitten flowers of infancy. To this goodly company, we bore him, who had been revered as the father and exemplar of all. With solemn steps, his descendants, two and two, followed the corpse. I heard a convulsive and suppressed breathing, among the more tender of the train; but when the burial service commenced, all was hushed. And never have I more fully realised its surpassing pathos and power, than when from the centre of that deep solitude, on the brink of that waiting grave, it poured forth its consolation.
"Man, that is born of woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower. He fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life, we are in death. Of whom may we seek succor but of thee, Oh Lord!--who for our sins art justly displeased? Yet, O Lord God most holy--O God most mighty,--O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death. Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts, shut not thy most merciful ears to our prayers, but spare us, O Lord most holy,--O God most mighty,--O holy and merciful Saviour,--suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death to fall from thee."
Circumstances compelled me to leave this mourning community immediately after committing the dust of their pious ancestor to the earth. They accompanied me to some distance on my journey, and our parting was with mutual tears. Turning to view them, as their forms mingled with the dark green of the forest, I heard the faint echo of a clear voice. It was the lay-reader, speaking of the hope of the resurrection: "If we believe that Christ died and rose again, even so them also, that sleep in Jesus, will God bring with him."
Full of thought, I pursued my homeward way. I inquired, is Devotion never encumbered, or impeded by the splendor that surrounds her? Amid the lofty cathedral,--the throng of rich-stoled worshippers,--the melody of the solemn organ,--does that incense never spend itself upon the earth, that should rise to heaven? On the very beauty and glory of its ordinances, may not the spirit proudly rest, and go no more forth to the work of benevolence, nor spread its wing at the call of faith?
Yet surely, there is a reality in religion, though man may foolishly cheat himself with the shadow. Here I have beheld it in simplicity, disrobed of "all pomp and circumstance," yet with power to soothe the passions into harmony, to maintain the virtues in daily and vigorous exercise, and to give victory to the soul, when death vanquishes the body. So, I took the lesson to my heart, and when it has languished or grown cold, I have warmed it by the remembrance of the ever-living faith, of those "few sheep in the wilderness."
MEMORY AND HOPE.
The following beautiful apologue, copied from the New York Mirror, is from the pen of J. K. Paulding. We hope often to enrich our pages with his productions. His style is a model of simplicity, vigor and ease, which we should like to see more generally imitated by our Literary writers.
Hope is the leading-string of youth--memory the staff of age. Yet for a long time they were at variance, and scarcely ever associated together. Memory was almost always grave, nay sad and melancholy. She delighted in silence and repose, amid rocks and waterfalls; and whenever she raised her eyes from the ground it was only to look back over her shoulder. Hope was a smiling, dancing, rosy boy, with sparkling eyes, and it was impossible to look upon him without being inspired by his gay and sprightly buoyancy. Wherever he went he diffused {32} around him gladness and joy; the eyes of the young sparkled brighter than ever at his approach; old age as it cast its dim glances at the blue vault of heaven, seemed inspired with new vigor; the flowers looked more gay, the grass more green, the birds sung more cheerily, and all nature seemed to sympathize in his gladness. Memory was of mortal birth, but Hope partook of immortality.
One day they chanced to meet, and Memory reproached Hope with being a deceiver. She charged him with deluding mankind with visionary, impracticable schemes, and exciting expectations that only led to disappointment and regret; with being the ignis fatuus of youth, and the scourge of old age. But Hope cast back upon her the charge of deceit, and maintained that the pictures of the past were as much exaggerated by Memory, as were the anticipations of Hope. He declared that she looked at objects at a great distance in the past, he in the future, and that this distance magnified every thing. "Let us make the circuit of the world," said he, "and try the experiment." Memory consented, reluctantly, and they went their way together.
The first person they met was a schoolboy, lounging lazily along, and stopping every moment to gaze around, as if unwilling to proceed on his way. By and by he sat down and burst into tears.
"Whither so fast, my good lad?" asked Hope, jeeringly.
"I am going to school," replied the lad, "to study, when I had rather a thousand times be at play; and sit on a bench with a book in my hand while I long to be sporting in the fields. But never mind, I shall be a man soon, and then I shall be free as the air." Saying this, he skipped away merrily, in the hope of soon being a man.
"It is thus you play upon the inexperience of youth," said Memory, reproachfully.
Passing onward, they met a beautiful girl, pacing slow and melancholy behind a party of gay young men and maidens, who walked arm in arm with each other, and were flirting and exchanging all those little harmless courtesies, which nature prompts on such occasions. They were all gaily dressed in silks and ribbons; but the little girl had on a simple frock, a homely apron, and clumsy thick-soled shoes.
"Why don't you join yonder group," asked Hope, "and partake in their gaiety, my pretty little girl?"
"Alas!" replied she, "they take no notice of me. They call me a child. But I shall soon be a woman, and then I shall be so happy!" Inspired by this hope, she quickened her pace, and soon was seen dancing along merrily with the rest.
In this manner they wended their way, from nation to nation, and clime to clime, until they had made the circuit of the universe. Wherever they came, they found the human race, which at this time was all young--it being not many years since the first creation of mankind--repining at the present, and looking forward to a riper age for happiness. All anticipated some future good, and Memory had scarce any thing to do but cast looks of reproach at her young companion. "Let us return home," said she, "to that delightful spot where I first drew my breath. I long to repose among its beautiful bowers; to listen to the brooks that murmured a thousand times more musically; to the birds that sung a thousand times sweeter; and to the echoes that were softer than any I have since heard. Ah! there is nothing on earth so enchanting as the scenes of my earliest youth."
Hope indulged himself in a sly, significant smile, and they proceeded on their return home. As they journeyed but slowly, many rears elapsed ere they approached the spot whence they had departed. It so happened one day they met an old man, bending under the weight of years, and walking with trembling steps, leaning on his staff. Memory at once recognized him as the youth they had seen going to school, on their first outset in the tour of the world. As they came nearer, the old man reclined on his staff, and looking at Hope, who, being immortal, was still a blithe young boy, sighed as if his heart was breaking.
"What aileth thee, old man?" asked the youth.
"What aileth me," he replied, in a feeble, faltering voice--"What should ail me, but old age. I have outlived my health and strength; I have survived all that was near and dear; I have seen all I loved, or that loved me, struck down to the earth like dead leaves in autumn, and now I stand like an old tree withering alone in the world, without roots, without branches and without verdure. I have only just enough of sensation to know that I am miserable, and the recollection of the happiness of my youthful days, when careless and full of blissful anticipation, I was a laughing, merry boy, only adds to the miseries I now endure."
"Behold!" said Memory, "the consequence of thy deceptions," and she looked reproachfully at her companion.
"Behold!" replied Hope, "the deception practised by thyself. Thou persuadest him that he was happy in his youth. Dost thou remember the boy we met when we first set out together, who was weeping on his way to school, and sighing to be a man?"
Memory cast down her eyes and was silent.
A little way onward, they came to a miserable cottage, at the door of which was an aged woman, meanly clad, and shaking with palsy. She sat all alone, her head resting on her bosom, and as the pair approached, vainly tried to raise it up to look at them.
"Good-morrow, old lady--and all happiness to you," cried Hope, gaily, and the old woman thought it was a long time since she had heard such a cheering salutation.
"Happiness!" said she, in a voice that quivered with weakness and infirmity. "Happiness! I have not known it since I was a little girl, without care or sorrow. O, I remember those delightful days, when I thought of nothing but the present moment, nor cared for the future or the past. When I laughed and played and sung, from morning till night, and envied no one, or wished to be any other than I was. But those happy times are past, never to return. O, if I could only once more return to the days of my childhood!"
The old woman sunk back on her seat, and the tears flowed from her hollow eyes.
Memory again reproached her companion, but he only asked her if she recollected the little girl they had met a long time ago, who was so miserable because she was so young? Memory knew it well enough, and said not another word.
They now approached their home, and Memory was on tiptoe with the thought of once more enjoying the unequalled beauties of those scenes from which she had been so long separated. But, some how or other, it seemed they were sadly changed. Neither the grass was so green, the flowers so sweet and lovely, nor did the brooks murmur, the echoes answer, or the birds sing half so enchantingly, as she remembered them in long time past.
"Alas!" she exclaimed, "how changed is every thing! I alone am the same."
"Every thing is the same, and thou alone art changed," answered Hope. "Thou hast deceived thyself in the past just as much as I deceive others in the future."
"What is it you are disputing about?" asked an old man, whom they had not observed before, though he was standing close by them. "I have lived almost four-score and ten years, and my experience may perhaps enable me to decide between you."
They told him the occasion of their disagreement, and related the history of their journey round the earth. The old man smiled, and for a few moments sat buried in thought. He then said to them:
"I, too, have lived to see all the hopes of my youth turn into shadows, clouds and darkness, and vanish into nothing. I, too, have survived my fortune, my friends, my children--the hilarity of youth and the blessing of health."
"And dost thou not despair?" said Memory.
"No, I have still one hope left me."
"And what is that?"
"The hope of heaven!"
Memory turned towards Hope, threw herself into his arms, which opened to receive her, and burst into tears, exclaiming--"Forgive me, I have done thee injustice. Let us never again separate from each other."
"With all my heart," said Hope, and they continued for ever after to travel together hand and hand, through the world.
The publisher has received the prospectus of the "Southern Magazine, or Journal of Literature, Arts and Sciences," to be published at Charleston, S. Carolina, and edited by James Haig. This work "will consist entirely of original matter in prose and verse, embracing all subjects of general interest, and exclusive of controversial divinity and party politics, accompanied with criticisms upon the productions of the day, and notices of the most important passing events." It is strongly recommended to public patronage by the Literary and Philosophical Society of South Carolina--and subscriptions to it will be cheerfully received at the office of the "Southern Literary Messenger." The South is awakening!
{33}
SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
VOL. I.] RICHMOND, OCTOBER 15, 1834. [NO. 2.
T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.
TO THE PUBLIC, AND ESPECIALLY THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTHERN STATES.
The favorable reception of the first number of the Messenger has been a source of no small gratification. Letters have been received by the publisher from various quarters, approving the plan of the publication, and strongly commendatory of the work. The appeal to the citizens of the south for support of a substantial kind, was not in vain. Already enough have come forward as subscribers, to defray the necessary expense of publication; and contributions to the columns of the paper have been liberally offered from different quarters. The publisher doubts not that with his present support, he will be enabled to furnish a periodical replete with matter of an acceptable kind. The useful and agreeable--the grave and gay--will be mingled in each number, so as to give it a pleasing variety, and enable every reader to find something to his taste. Thus will the paper become a source of innocent amusement, and at the same time a vehicle of valuable information.
That such a paper is to be desired in the southern states no one will controvert, and all must be sensible that an increase of public patronage will furnish the most effectual means of having what is wanted. An enlarged subscription list would put it in the power of the publisher to cater in the literary world on a more liberal scale; and the extended circulation of the paper, which would be a consequence of that subscription, would furnish a yet stronger inducement to many to make valuable contributions.
The publisher also makes his grateful acknowledgements for the friendly and liberal support received from various gentlemen residing in the states north of the Potomac. Many in that quarter, of literary and professional distinction, have kindly extended their patronage.
Already the number of contributions received, has greatly exceeded the most sanguine expectations of the publisher. Still he would earnestly invite the gifted pens of the country to repeat their favors, and unite in extending the INFLUENCE OF LITERATURE.
LETTER FROM MR. WIRT TO A LAW STUDENT.
The countrymen of WILLIAM WIRT hold his memory in respect, not more for his mental powers than for his pure morality. Every thing which comes to light in regard to him, tends to show that his character has not been too highly appreciated. The letter which occupies a portion of this number, and which is now for the first time published, exhibits him in a way strongly calculated to arrest attention. A young gentleman who is about to leave the walls of a university, and looks to the law as his profession, who is not related to or connected with Mr. Wirt, nor even acquainted with him, and knows him only as an ornament to his profession and his country, is induced by the high estimate which he has formed of his character, and the great confidence that might be reposed in any advice that he would give, to ask at his hands some instruction as to the course of study best to be pursued. Mr. Wirt, with constant occupation even at ordinary times, is, at the period when this letter is received, busily employed in preparing for the supreme court of the confederacy, then shortly to commence its session. Yet notwithstanding the extent of his engagements, he hastily prepares a long letter replete with advice, and of a nature to excite the student to reach, if possible, the very pinnacle of his profession. What can be better calculated to increase our esteem for those who have attained the highest distinction themselves, than to see them submit to personal trouble and inconvenience, for the purpose of encouraging the young to come forward and cope with them? It would seem as if there were something in the profession of the law which tends to produce such liberality of feeling. We find strong evidence of this, if we look to the course of the two men who are generally regarded as at the head of the Virginia bar. How utterly destitute are they of that close and narrow feeling which, in other pursuits of life, not unfrequently leads the successful man to depress others that his own advantages may with greater certainty be retained.
A few remarks will now be made upon the contents of the letter. The student, says Mr. Wirt, must cultivate most assiduously the habits of reading, observing, above all of thinking: must make himself a master in every branch of the science that belongs to the profession; acquire a mastery of his own language, and when he comes to the bar speak to the purpose and to the point. He is not merely to make himself a great lawyer. General science must not be overlooked. History and politics, statistics and political economy, are all to receive a share of attention.
Much of this advice may well be followed by minds of every description, but some portion of it seems better fitted for an intellect of the highest order than for the great mass of those who come to the bar. Lord Mansfield could be a statesman and a jurist, an orator of persuasive eloquence and acute reasoning, and a judge "whose opinions may be studied as models." And Sir William Jones has shown that it was possible for the same individual to be a most extensive linguist, an historian of great research, a person of information upon matters the most varied, an author in poetry as well as prose, and a writer of equal elegance upon legal and miscellaneous subjects.
But these were men whose extraordinary endowments have caused the world to admire their strength of understanding and their great attainments. Mr. Wirt seems to think it best to open a field the whole extent of which could only be reached by such minds as these, and excite others to occupy as large a portion of it as practicable, by inculcating the belief that "to unceasing diligence there is scarcely any thing impossible."
That much may be effected by labor and perseverance, no one will controvert. Mr. Butler is an example. He states, in his reminiscences, that he was enabled to accomplish what he did, by never allowing himself to be unemployed for a moment; rising early; dividing his time systematically; and abstaining in a great degree from company and other amusements. Yet while {34} the student is exhorted thus to persevere, some caution may be requisite lest his time be lost amid the variety of subjects that are laid before him in the extensive course which Mr. Wirt has prescribed.
Generally speaking, the student of law will fail to attain the highest point in his profession, unless the principal portion of his time be given to that profession. While travelling the road to professional distinction, he may, without greatly impeding his course, for the sake of variety, occasionally wander to the right or to the left, provided he will speedily return to his proper track. But if he open to himself a variety of paths, walking alternately in them, and spending in one as much time as in another, he will find that he can never travel far in any. In England the lawyer commonly devotes himself with great constancy to his profession, and suffers his attention to be diverted from it by nothing else. In our country, and especially in the southern states, more politicians than lawyers are to be found at the bar.--Hence the English lawyers are generally, as lawyers, more able and more learned than those of our country. There, as well as here, the lawyer who devotes a large portion of his life to politics, will become less fit for his peculiar vocation.
Lord Brougham is mentioned by Mr. Wirt, but he constitutes no exception to this remark. He was, it is true, at the same time an extensive practitioner at the bar, and a leading member of the House of Commons. He kept pace with the literature of the day, and contributed largely to the periodical press. The wonder was how he could do all this and go into society so much as he did; how he could do it, when so many able men found the profession of the law as much as they could master. But his fellow practitioners could, to some extent, solve the problem. The truth was, that Lord Brougham was more remarkable as an ingenious advocate than as an able lawyer, and made a much better leader of the opposition than he has since made a Lord Chancellor. There are many abler lawyers now presiding at his bar, and the decrees of his master of the rolls are more respected than his own.
In our country every one must, to some extent, be informed on the subject of politics, that he may be enabled to discharge his duty as a citizen; and history and general literature should certainly receive from all a due share of attention. But if the student of law remember what has oft been said of his profession, that the studies of even twenty years will leave much behind that is yet to be grappled with and mastered, he will perceive the necessity, if he desire to become a profound jurist, of making all general studies ancillary and subordinate to that which is his especial object. If he would know to what extent his attention may be divided, he may take Mr. Wirt himself as an example. In him extensive legal attainments were happily blended with general knowledge; powers of argument and eloquence were well combined; and in the forcible speaker was seen the accomplished gentleman. His good taste and sense of propriety would never allow him to descend to that low personality which has now become so common a fault among the debaters of the day.
A word to the gentleman who forwarded the letter. His reasons for transmitting it are not inserted, because it is believed that no relative or friend of Mr. Wirt can possibly object to the publication of such a letter.
C.
BALTIMORE, DECEMBER 20, 1833.
My dear sir:
Your letter, dated "University of ----, December 12," was received on yesterday morning--and although it finds me extremely busy in preparing for the Supreme Court of the United States, I am so much pleased with its spirit, that I cannot reconcile it to myself to let it pass unanswered. If I were ever so well qualified to advise you, to which I do not pretend, but little good could be done by a single letter, and I have not time for more. Knowing nothing of the peculiarities of your mental character, I can give no advice adapted to your peculiar case. I am persuaded that education may be so directed by a sagacious and skilful teacher, as to prune and repress those faculties of the pupil which are too prone to luxuriance, and to train and invigorate those which are disproportionately weak or slow; so as to create a just balance among the powers, and enable the mind to act with the highest effect of which it is capable. But it requires a previous acquaintance with the student, to ascertain the natural condition of his various powers, in order to know which requires the spur and which the rein. In some minds, imagination overpowers and smothers all the other faculties: in others, reason, like a sturdy oak, throws all the rest into a sickly shade. Some men have a morbid passion for the study of poetry--others, of mathematics, &c. &c. All this may be corrected by discipline, so far as it may be judicious to correct it. But the physician must understand the disease, and become acquainted with all the idiosyncracies of the patient, before he can prescribe. I have no advantage of this kind with regard to you; and to prescribe by conjecture, would require me to conjecture every possible case that may be yours, and to prescribe for each, which would call for a ponderous volume, instead of a letter. I believe that in all sound minds, the germ of all the faculties exists, and may, by skilful management, be wooed into expansion: but they exist, naturally, in different degrees of health and strength, and as this matter is generally left to the impulses of nature in each individual, the healthiest and strongest germs get the start--give impulse and direction to the efforts of each mind--stamp its character and shape its destiny. As education, therefore, now stands among us, each man must be his own preceptor in this respect, and by turning in his eyes upon himself, and descrying the comparative action of his own powers, discover which of them requires more tone--which, if any, less. We must take care, however, not to make an erroneous estimate of the relative value of the faculties, and thus commit the sad mistake of cultivating the showy at the expense of the solid. With these preliminary remarks, by way of explaining why I cannot be more particular in regard to your case, permit me, instead of chalking out a course of study by furnishing you with lists of books and the order in which they should be read, (and no list of books and course of study would be equally proper for all minds,) to close this letter with a few general remarks.
If your spirit be as stout and pure as your letter indicates, you require little advice beyond that which you will find within the walls of your University. A brave and pure spirit is more than "half the battle," not only in preparing for life, but in all its conflicts. Take {35} it for granted, that there is no excellence without great labor. No mere aspirations for eminence, however ardent, will do the business. Wishing, and sighing, and imagining, and dreaming of greatness, will never make you great. If you would get to the mountain's top on which the temple of fame stands, it will not do to stand still, looking, admiring, and wishing you were there. You must gird up your loins, and go to work with all the indomitable energy of Hannibal scaling the Alps. Laborious study, and diligent observation of the world, are both indispensable to the attainment of eminence. By the former, you must make yourself master of all that is known of science and letters; by the latter, you must know man, at large, and particularly the character and genius of your own countrymen. You must cultivate assiduously the habits of reading, thinking, and observing. Understand your own language grammatically, critically, thoroughly: learn its origin, or rather its various origins, which you may learn from Johnson's and Webster's prefaces to their large dictionaries. Learn all that is delicate and beautiful, as well as strong, in the language, and master all its stores of opulence. You will find a rich mine of instruction in the splendid language of Burke. His diction is frequently magnificent; sometimes too gorgeous, I think, for a chaste and correct taste; but he will show you all the wealth of your language. You must, by ardent study and practice, acquire for yourself a mastery of the language, and be able both to speak and to write it, promptly, easily, elegantly, and with that variety of style which different subjects, different hearers, and different readers are continually requiring. You must have such a command of it as to be able to adapt yourself, with intuitive quickness and ease, to every situation in which you may chance to be placed--and you will find no great difficulty in this, if you have the copia verborum and a correct taste. With this study of the language you must take care to unite the habits already mentioned--the diligent observation of all that is passing around you; and active, close and useful thinking. If you have access to Franklin's works, read them carefully, particularly his third volume, and you will know what I mean by the habits of observing and thinking. We cannot all be Franklins, it is true; but, by imitating his mental habits and unwearied industry, we may reach an eminence we should never otherwise attain. Nor would he have been the Franklin he was, if he had permitted himself to be discouraged by the reflection that we cannot all be Newtons. It is our business to make the most of our own talents and opportunities, and instead of discouraging ourselves by comparisons and imaginary impossibilities, to believe all things possible--as indeed almost all things are, to a spirit bravely and firmly resolved. Franklin was a fine model of a practical man as contradistinguished from a visionary theorist, as men of genius are very apt to be. He was great in that greatest of all good qualities, sound, strong, common sense. A mere book-worm is a miserable driveller; and a mere genius, a thing of gossamer fit only for the winds to sport with. Direct your intellectual efforts, principally, to the cultivation of the strong, masculine qualities of the mind. Learn (I repeat it) to think--to think deeply, comprehensibly, powerfully--and learn the simple, nervous language which is appropriate to that kind of thinking. Read the legal and political arguments of Chief Justice Marshall, and those of Alexander Hamilton, which are coming out. Read them, study them; and observe with what an omnipotent sweep of thought they range over the whole field of every subject they take in hand--and that with a scythe so ample, and so keen, that not a straw is left standing behind them. Brace yourself up to these great efforts. Strike for this giant character of mind, and leave prettiness and frivolity for triflers. There is nothing in your letter that suggests the necessity of this admonition; I make it merely with reference to that tendency to efflorescence which I have occasionally heard charged to southern genius. It is perfectly consistent with these herculean habits of thinking, to be a laborious student, and to know all that books can teach. This extensive acquisition is necessary, not only to teach you how far science has advanced in every direction, and where the terra incognita begins, into which genius is to direct its future discoveries, but to teach you also the strength and the weakness of the human intellect--how far it is permitted us to go, and where the penetration of man is forced, by its own impotence and the nature of the subject, to give up the pursuit;--and when you have mastered all the past conquests of science, you will understand what Socrates meant by saying, that he knew only enough to be sure that he knew nothing--nothing, compared with that illimitable tract that lies beyond the reach of our faculties. You must never be satisfied with the surface of things: probe them to the bottom, and let nothing go 'till you understand it as thoroughly as your powers will enable you. Seize the moment of excited curiosity on any subject to solve your doubts; for if you let it pass, the desire may never return, and you may remain in ignorance. The habits which I have been recommending are not merely for college, but for life. Franklin's habits of constant and deep excogitation clung to him to his latest hour. Form these habits now: learn all that may be learned at your University, and bring all your acquisitions and your habits to the study of the law, which you say is to be your profession;--and when you come to this study, come resolved to master it--not to play in its shallows, but to sound all its depths. There is no knowing what a mind greatly and firmly resolved, may achieve in this department of science, as well as every other. Resolve to be the first lawyer of your age, in the depth, extent, variety and accuracy of your legal learning. Master the science of pleading--master Coke upon Littleton--and Coke's and Plowden's Reports--master Fearne on Contingent Remainders and Executory Devises, 'till you can sport and play familiarly with its most subtle distinctions. Lay your foundation deep, and broad, and strong, and you will find the superstructure comparatively light work. It is not by shrinking from the difficult parts of the science, but by courting them, grappling with them, and overcoming them, that a man rises to professional greatness. There is a great deal of law learning that is dry, dark, cold, revolting--but it is an old feudal castle, in perfect preservation, which the legal architect, who aspires to the first honors of his profession, will delight to explore, and learn all the uses to which its various parts used to be put: and he will the better understand, enjoy and relish the progressive improvements of the science in modern times. {36} You must be a master in every branch of the science that belongs to your profession--the law of nature and of nations, the civil law, the law merchant, the maritime law, &c. the chart and outline of all which you will see in Blackstone's Commentaries. Thus covered with the panoply of professional learning, a master of the pleadings, practice and cases, and at the same time a great constitutional and philosophic lawyer, you must keep way, also, with the march of general science. Do you think this requiring too much? Look at Brougham, and see what man can do if well armed and well resolved. With a load of professional duties that would, of themselves, have been appalling to the most of our countrymen, he stood, nevertheless, at the head of his party in the House of Commons, and, at the same time, set in motion and superintended various primary schools and various periodical works, the most instructive and useful that ever issued from the British press, to which he furnished, with his own pen, some of the most masterly contributions, and yet found time not only to keep pace with the progress of the arts and sciences, but to keep at the head of those whose peculiar and exclusive occupations these arts and sciences were. There is a model of industry and usefulness worthy of all your emulation. You must, indeed, be a great lawyer; but it will not do to be a mere lawyer--more especially as you are very properly turning your mind, also, to the political service of your country, and to the study and practice of eloquence. You must, therefore, be a political lawyer and historian; thoroughly versed in the constitution and laws of your country, and fully acquainted with all its statistics, and the history of all the leading measures which have distinguished the several administrations. You must study the debates in congress, and observe what have been the actual effects upon the country of the various measures that have been most strenuously contested in their origin. You must be a master of the science of political economy, and especially of financiering, of which so few of our young countrymen know any thing. The habit of observing all that is passing, and thinking closely and deeply upon them, demands pre-eminently an attention to the political course of your country. But it is time to close this letter. You ask for instructions adapted to improvement in eloquence. This is a subject for a treatise, not for a letter. Cicero, however, has summed up the whole art in a few words: it is--"apte--distincte--ornate dicere"--to speak to the purpose--to speak clearly and distinctly--to speak gracefully:--to be able to speak to the purpose, you must understand your subject and all that belongs to it:--and then your thoughts and method must be clear in themselves and clearly and distinctly enunciated:--and lastly, your voice, style, delivery and gesture, must be graceful and delightfully impressive. In relation to this subject, I would strenuously advise you to two things: Compose much, and often, and carefully, with reference to this same rule of apte, distincte, ornate; and let your conversation have reference to the same objects. I do not mean that you should be elaborate and formal in your ordinary conversation. Let it be perfectly simple and natural, but always, in good time, (to speak as the musician) and well enunciated.
With regard to the style of eloquence that you shall adopt, that must depend very much on your own taste and genius. You are not disposed, I presume, to be an humble imitator of any man? If you are, you may bid farewell to the hope of eminence in this walk. None are mere imitators to whom nature has given original powers. The ape alone is content with mere imitation. If nature has bestowed such a portion of the spirit of oratory as can advance you to a high rank in this walk, your manner will be your own. In what style of eloquence you are best fitted to excel, you, yourself, if destined to excellence, are the best judge. I can only tell you that the florid and Asiatic style is not the taste of the age. The strong, and even the rugged and abrupt, are far more successful. Bold propositions, boldly and briefly expressed--pithy sentences--nervous common sense--strong phrases--the felicitè audax both in language and conception--well compacted periods--sudden and strong masses of light--an apt adage in English or Latin--a keen sarcasm--a merciless personality--a mortal thrust--these are the beauties and deformities that now make a speaker the most interesting. A gentleman and a christian will conform to the reigning taste so far only as his principles and habits of decorum will permit. The florid and Asiatic was never a good style either for a European or an American taste. We require that a man should speak to the purpose and come to the point--that he should instruct and convince. To do this, his mind must move with great strength and power: reason should be manifestly his master faculty--argument should predominate throughout; but these great points secured, wit and fancy may cast their lights around his path, provided the wit be courteous as well as brilliant, and the fancy chaste and modest. But they must be kept well in the back ground, for they are dangerous allies; and a man had better be without them, than to show them in front, or to show them too often.
But I am wearying you, my dear sir, as well as myself. If these few imperfect hints, on subjects so extended and diversified, can be of any service to you, I shall be gratified. They may, at least, convince you that your letter has interested me in your behalf, and that I shall be happy to hear of your future fame and prosperity. I offer you my respects, and tender the compliments of the season.
WM. WIRT.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MISFORTUNE AND GENIUS: A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT.
"You have seen Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears Were like a better day: Those happy smiles That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence As pearls from diamonds dropp'd."--King Lear.
In a late excursion through the western districts of Virginia, having been detained at the picturesque village of F----, I took a seat in the stage coach, intending to visit some of the neighboring springs. The usually delightful temperature and clear sky of the mountain summer, had been suddenly changed into a cold misty atmosphere; and as I stept into the coach, the curtains of which had been let down for greater comfort, I found a solitary female passenger sitting in one corner of the carriage, and apparently absorbed in deep contemplation. She was plainly but genteely {37} dressed, in a suit of mourning; and there was something in her whole appearance, which would have immediately struck the eye of the most careless observer. Her face, and such parts of her head as were unconcealed by her bonnet, seemed to me, at a single glance, to present a fine study for the disciples of Lavater and Spurzheim--or at least to furnish a model which a painter would have loved to transfer to his canvass. Her features were not what are usually termed beautiful; that is, there was not that exquisite symmetry in them, nor that brilliant contrast between the delicate white skin and raven hair, or between the coral lip and the lustrous dark eye, which with some constitute the perfection of female beauty; but there was something beyond and superior to all these:--There was a fine intellectual expression which could not be mistaken. I do not even recollect the color of her eyes: I only remember that those "windows of the soul" revealed a whole volume of thought and feeling--and that there was cast over her countenance an inexpressible veil of sadness, which instantly seized upon my sympathies. As the stage drove off, the crack of the coachman's whip, and the lumbering of the wheels, seemed to rouse her from her reverie, and I remarked a deeper tinge of melancholy pass over her features. It was to her like the sound of a funeral knell! She was about to bid adieu, perhaps forever, to the scenes of her infancy--to scenes which were endeared by the remembrance of departed joys, and even consecrated by bitter inconsolable sorrows!
After the customary salutation, I determined to engage my interesting fellow-traveller in conversation; and I at once perceived by the modest blush which suffused her cheek, and by the timid responses she made to my inquiries, that she was conscious of appearing in the somewhat embarrassing situation of an unattended and unprotected female. I studied therefore to put her mind at ease, by a delicate pledge of my protection as far as my journey extended. Words of kindness and respect seemed to fall upon her ear, as if she had been unused to them. Her countenance, which had sunk in gloom, was lighted up by a mild expression of tranquillity. I saw that I had somewhat won upon her confidence, and I determined to improve the advantage, by affording her an opportunity of narrating her story--a story which I was curious to know, and which I had already half learned in her care-worn visage, her garments of woe, and her apparently forlorn and unbefriended condition.
Such are the mysterious sympathies of our nature, that whilst the sorrowing heart experiences a transient relief in pouring its griefs into another's ear, there is a no less melancholy pleasure in listening to the tale of misfortune, and participating in the misery of its victim. My companion did not hesitate, in her own peculiar and artless manner, to relate her story. It was brief, simple and affecting.
Maria (for that was her name,) was now in her sixteenth year, and was one of several children, born not to affluence, but to comparative independence. A doating grandmother adopted her, when not two years old, with the free consent of her parents. They had other offspring to provide for; and their residence was not so remote, but that occasional visits might preserve unbroken the ties of filial and parental love. The venerable grandmother devoted her humble means to the maintenance and education of her charge. Her aged bosom rejoiced in beholding herself, as it were, perpetuated in this blooming scion from her own stock. She spared neither pains nor expense, consistent with her limited fortune, in preparing her young descendant for a life of usefulness, piety and virtue. In truth, her dutiful grandchild was so "garnered up in her heart," that she became the only worldly hope of her declining years. Maria was her earthly solace--the tie which bound her to life when all its charms had faded--the being who made it desirable to linger yet a little longer on the confines of the grave. But how fleeting and unsubstantial is human hope! Scarcely a fortnight had elapsed since this venerated lady had been called to realize another state of being. When Maria touched upon this part of her narrative, I could perceive the agony of her soul. I could see the tearful and uplifted eye as she exclaimed, "Yes, sir! it has pleased Providence to deprive me of my only earthly benefactress!"
I was troubled at the misery I had occasioned, and I hastened, if possible, to administer such consolation as seemed to me proper. "But you have parents," I replied, "who will take you to their home, and gladly receive you in their arms?" Little did I think that the wound which I thus attempted to heal, would bleed afresh at my remark. The afflicted girl appeared to be deprived, for a moment, of utterance. Her heart seemed to swell almost to bursting, with the strength and intensity of her feelings. "My friend," she at length replied, in a tone of comparative calmness, "for by that name permit me to call you, even on so short an acquaintance,--you have touched a theme upon which I would gladly have avoided explanation. The interest you have already shown, however, in my unhappy story, entitles you to still more of my confidence. You shall know the whole of my cruel fortune. Though my father and mother are both still living, they are no longer parents to me. My father might have been all which a friendless and unprotected daughter could desire; but alas! for years and years past, he has lost the 'moral image' which God originally stamped upon his nature. The DEMON OF INTEMPERANCE has long--long possessed him. His feelings and affections are no longer those of an intelligent and rational creature. He scarcely knows me as his offspring; but turns from me with sullen indifference, if not disgust. My mother!"----
At the mention of that hallowed name, the fair narrator seemed to be almost choked by the violence of her emotions. She stopped an instant as if to respire more freely.
"My mother," she continued, "cannot extend to me her arm. She is herself broken-hearted and friendless; she is wasting away under the chastening rod of Providence!"----
"Heavens!" I inwardly exclaimed, "what havoc--what torture have I not inflicted upon this innocent bosom! Why did I officiously intermeddle in things which did not concern me--things too, which I could only know by tearing open the yet unhealed wounds of an anguished heart." I was at the point of offering some atonement for the mischief I had done. I saw the whole picture of wretchedness as it was presented to Maria's mind. I even shared, or thought that I shared, in the sorrows which overwhelmed her. My imagination conjured up before me the churlish and miserable {38} wretch who was then wallowing in the stye of brutal sensuality--and in whose bosom all holy and natural affection had been drowned by the fatal Circean cup. I beheld his pale and neglected partner, writhing under that immedicable sickness of the heart--not of hope deferred, but of dark, absolute despair. I turned to the object before me. I saw how those affections which clung around her beloved protectress, as the tendrils of the vine cling around the aged tree, were in one evil hour withered forever. She, an unprotected destitute orphan--worse than an orphan--thrown upon the wide, cold and unfeeling world--perhaps seeking an asylum in the house of some half welcoming and distant relative. What a throng of perplexing--might I not say, distracting reflections, at that moment rushed upon me! I endeavored to change the subject, but at first without success. I experienced some relief, however, by being assured, that the relative to whose house she was now hastening, had offered his aid and protection, in the spirit of kindness and sincerity.
The most wonderful part of my story is yet to be told. When Maria was sufficiently composed, I resolved to divert the conversation into more agreeable channels. I was struck with the delicacy and propriety of her speech--with the simple, correct, and even elegant language which she used. Another and a quite unexpected source of admiration was yet in reserve for me. I touched upon the topic of her education--upon the books she had learned--the seminaries she had attended--and the teachers by whom she was instructed. Even here methought I might be officious and imprudent. What could be expected from a girl of sixteen--from one who had been born to humble fortune--from one who had had no one at home except an unlettered grandmother, to stir up within her the noble spirit of emulation, and to fan the divine sparks of genius and knowledge. Might she not suppose that I intended to deride the ignorance of youth, and expose the deficiency of her acquirements! Not so! At the bare mention of her books and instructers, I saw for the first time, the clouds which had gathered around her brow begin to disperse. There was evidently something like a smile which played upon her features. It looked like the rainbow of peace, which denoted that the storm of passion was passing away. Oh, how eloquently did she discourse upon the beauties and delights of learning! Next to the star of Bethlehem, which gilded her sorrowing path, and which for two years had attracted her devotional spirit,--knowledge was the luminary which she worshipped with more than Persian idolatry. The reader shall judge of my surprise and admiration, when he is informed, that this artless girl of sixteen--this youthful prodigy--had already amassed a richer intellectual treasure, than often falls to the lot of men of superior minds, even at the age of maturity. The great masters of Roman and classical antiquity she had read in their original tongue--the Georgics and Æneid of Virgil--the Commentaries of Cæsar--Selections from Horace--and the matchless orations of Tully, were as familiar to her, as household words. She was also conversant with the French, and thoroughly grounded in her own vernacular. Besides the usual elements of mathematics, she had even encountered the forbidding subtleties of algebra; and although mistress of the pleasing study of geography, there was nothing which had so filled her mind with delight as the sublime researches of astronomy. She loved to contemplate the harmony and beauty of the planetary system,--and to soar still further on the wings of thought, into that vast and illimitable firmament where each twinkling luminary is itself the centre of a similar system. She had watched too the fiery and eccentric track of the comet, "brandishing its crystal tresses in the sky;" and from all the wonderful movements and harmonious action of the heavenly bodies, she had realized the impressive sentiment of Young, that
"An undevout astronomer is mad."
From the marvellous works of creation as revealed in that most sublime of all human sciences, her soul had been transported to the Creator himself, whom she worshipped in adoring humility.
But why enumerate--why speak of her varied and almost numberless acquirements? There was scarcely a branch of learning with which she did not manifest at least some acquaintance. Even the popular and somewhat pleasing science of phrenology had not escaped her attention. In the theories and conclusions of its ardent disciples however, she was reluctant to concur. The moral and intellectual character did not, in her opinion, depend on the position of the brain, or the conformation of the skull. It squinted at the hateful doctrine of materialism; at least she thought so, and until better satisfied, she would not believe. Though closely engaged for years in her regular scholastic studies, this extraordinary female had found leisure to stray occasionally into the paths of polite and elegant literature. She had culled from the most illustrious of the British bards, some of their choicest and sweetest flowers; and the beautiful fictions of Scott were faithfully stored in her memory.
Deeply interested as I felt in this young and highly gifted girl, the hour of separation was at hand. The journey before her was comparatively long and tedious; mine would speedily terminate. When about to bid her adieu, I fancied that I saw regret painted in her countenance. Her solitude would bring back some of those gloomy reflections, which society and conversation had in some measure dissipated. I handed her a literary work which I had with me, to beguile the loneliness and misery of her journey. She accepted it with eagerness and gratitude. A new current of joy sprung up in her bosom. Commending her to the protection of heaven, I pressed her hand, and left my seat in the coach.
My sensations, when the vehicle swiftly departed, were of a mixed character. There was a strange combination of pleasure and pain. Poor Maria, I thought, we may never again meet in this world of sorrow; but if ever a pure aspiration was breathed for thy happiness, it is that which I now offer. I know that there is something within me which borders on romance; and perhaps many will suppose that my imagination has thrown over this adventure an illusive coloring. It may be so; but even after an interval of composed reflection, I have not been able to discover any thing in the foregoing sketch which does not substantially conform to truth. I have often moralized on Maria's story, and in my blind distrust of the dealings of an all wise Providence, have wished that human blessings could be sometimes more equally distributed. I have thought of {39} the hundreds and thousands of the gay, simple, fluttering insects, dignified with the name of fashionable belles,--born and reared in the lap of luxury,--reposing in moral and intellectual sloth, and quaffing the delicious but fatal poison of adulation,--how inferior, how immeasurably inferior, most, if not all of them were, to this poor, neglected, deserted orphan. I have thought how hard was that decree, by which the light, trifling and glittering things of creation should be buoyed up to the surface by their own levity--whilst modest merit and suffering virtue were doomed to sink into obscurity, and perhaps into wretchedness. On the other hand, I have loved to look at the sunny smiles which Hope, in spite of us, will sprinkle over the chequered landscape of life. It is impossible! I have exclaimed, that one so young, yet so unfortunate--so highly improved by moral and mental culture--so worthy of admiration and esteem, should live and die unknown and unregretted. She surely was not
--------"born to blush unseen, And waste her sweetness in the desert air"--
at least such is my hope, and such is doubtless the prayer of every generous reader.
H.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
EXAMPLE IS BETTER THAN PRECEPT.
I never read Jeremy Bentham's 'Book of Fallacies:' it is known to me only through the Edinburgh Review. I am uncertain whether it gibbets the above saying, or not; but no fallacy of them all better deserves to be hung up on high, for the admonition of mankind. There is none more mischievous, in the best filled pack of the largest wholesale proverb-pedler.
"Example is better than precept!"--is the constant plea, the invariable subterfuge, of those who do not want to follow good counsel. Be the counsel ever so sage--be the propriety and expediency of following it ever so manifest--if it perchance do not square to a T with the adviser's own practice, he is twitted with this sapient apothegm; and the advised party wends his way of folly as completely self-satisfied, as if he had demonstrated it to be the way of wisdom by an argument clearly pertinent, and mathematically unanswerable. Yet how is his argument more to the purpose--how is he more rational--than if he should refuse to take a road pointed out by a sign-board, because the board itself did not run along before him? May I not correctly show to others a way, which it is not convenient or agreeable for me to travel myself?
I could fill a book with the instances I have known, of people who have deluded themselves to their own hurt, by relying upon this same proverb.
For years, I have been a little given to drinking: not to excess, 'tis true--but more than is good for me. A sprightly younker, whose thirst appeared likely to become inordinate, being counselled by me to abstain altogether from strong waters, as the only sure resource of those afflicted with that propensity--told me, "example was better than precept," and refused to heed the one, because he could not have the other also. He has since died a sot. The last three years of his existence were, to his wife, years of shame, terror, and misery, from which widowhood and the poor-house were a welcome refuge. His children are schooled and maintained by the parish.
My appetite is better than ordinary. It is, in truth, too much indulged, and not a few head-aches and nightmares have been the consequence. Venturing once, on the score of my woful experience, to admonish a young friend whom I saw entering the habit in which I was confirmed, he confuted me with the accustomed logical reply--"example," and so forth. Seven years afterwards saw him tottering on the grave's brink, with an incurable dyspepsia, the fruit of gluttony, and of gluttony's usual attendant, indolence.
When a boy, I was a famous climber. Perched in a cherry tree one day, I saw a lad, clumsier than I was, going far out upon a slender branch. I cautioned him that it would break. "Didn't I see you on it just now?" said he: "and there you are now, further out on a smaller limb! Example's better"--but before he could end the saying, his bough snapped, and he fell twenty feet, breaking a leg and dislocating a shoulder by the fall.
Another time, as I and a smaller boy were hunting, he walked over a creek upon a log, which he saw was just able to bear his weight, through rottenness. "You had better not venture," said he to me. But I said, I had always heard, example was better than precept, and following him, was soused by the breaking of the log, in six feet water. Being a good swimmer, I escaped with a ducking, (it was near Christmas,) and with wetting my gun, lock, priming, and all: so that it cost me a full hour to refit for sport.
It is not, however, commonly, either immediate or bodily harm that we incur by means of this Jack-o'lantern proverb. Our faith in it is not sufficient to lead us into instant and obvious danger: it is in general the opiate with which we lull ourselves, only when the evil we are warned against is of the moral kind, or likely to occur at a remote period.
In my youth, I read novels to a pernicious excess. They enfeebled my memory; unfixed my power of attention and my habits of thought; blunted my zest for history; dimmed my perception of reasoning; gave me the most illusory ideas of human life and character; and filled my brain with fantastic visions. A passion for learning, and the timely counsels of a sensible friend, subsequently won me so far from this career of dissipation, that I surmounted in some degree its evil effects, and acquired a moderate stock of solid knowledge: but to my dying day I shall feel its cloying, unhinging, debilitating influence upon my mental constitution. Still, even latterly, I have continued to indulge myself with the best novels, as they appeared. My weakness in this respect unluckily became known to a young girl, who seemed to be exactly treading in my footsteps; and whom I earnestly warned of the dangers besetting that path. "Now, cousin L., how can you talk so, when I have seen you devouring the Antiquary, and Guy Mannering, and Patronage, and I don't know how many besides! You need not preach to me: example is better than precept." Therefore--for the reasoning seemed to her as conclusive as Euclids--therefore she went on, with undistinguishing voracity, through all the spawn of the novel press: and there is not now a sadder instance of the effects of novel-reading. After rejecting with {40} disdain three suitors every way her equals, (and in real merit her superiors,) because they were so unlike her favorite novel heroes--did not woo on their knees or in blank verse--and had 'such shocking, vulgar names'--she, at three and twenty, married a coxcomb, formed precisely after the model upon which her 'mind's eye' had so long dwelt. He was gaudy, flippant, and specious; knew a dozen of Moore's Melodies by rote; could softly discourse of the heart and its affections, as if he really possessed the one, and had actually felt the other; and, most irresistible of all, his name was EDWIN MORTIMER FITZGERALD. The result may be imagined. The society of such a being could not long please. Their conversation was a routine of insipid frivolity and angry disputes. With no definite principles of economy or of morals, he wasted his fortune and wrecked his health over the bottle and at cards--excitements, the usual resource of a weak, ill-cultivated understanding. She is now a widow, scantily endowed, at the age of twenty-seven. Her mind, too much engrossed by her darling pursuit to have learned, even in the impressive school of adversity, is nearly a blank as to all useful knowledge: imagination, paramount there over every other faculty, is prolific of innumerable fooleries; she can do no work beyond crimping a ruff or making a frill: and her nerves, shattered by tea, late hours, and sentimental emotion at fictitious scenes, threaten a disordered intellect and a premature grave.
To this impertinent adage, about example and precept, is it chiefly owing that I am at this moment a bachelor, aged fifty. I used it to parry the repeated instances made me by a friendly senior bachelor, to be "up and a doing," in the journey towards matrimony. As the proverb commonly silenced him, it appeared to me at last, as it does to most people, a satisfactory answer; it was the lullaby, with which I hushed into repose every transient qualm that his expostulations excited. My friend at length, in reasonable time, took me at my word, and added example to precept: he married, well and happily. But one obstacle or other, real or imaginary, had by this time confirmed me in my inactivity. Business occupied my time: chimerical visions of female excellence, in spite of my better reason, haunted me from the regions of romance, and made me hard to be pleased, even by merits which I was obliged to confess were superior to my own: courtship, by being long in view yet long deferred, came at length to appear clothed in embarrassment and terror: a failure, resulting (as vanity whispered,) purely from the awkwardness produced by embarrassment and terror, finally crushed all matrimonial aspirations: and, as it is now absurd to hope for a love-match, (a genuine novel-reader can brook no other) I am e'en trying to resign myself to the doom of perpetual celibacy.
'Twere needless to multiply examples. These suffice to shew, not only how absurd in reasoning, but how hurtful often in practice it is, to consider advice as at all the less good, for not being enforced by the giver's example. That proverb has done as much harm in the world as the doctrine of the Pope's infallibility, or of the divine right of kings; or as the silly saying, "stuff a cold, and starve a fever;" or, as (by its perversion) that unfortunate one, "spare the rod, and spoil the child."
Yet, after all, the maxim I have been exposing is not untrue. Example IS better than precept: DOES more effectually shew the right way. But it is fallacious, and mischievous, by being misapplied. Instead of being regarded merely as a rebuke to the adviser, it is absurdly taken by the advised as a justication to himself in persisting in error. In most cases it is not even a just rebuke to the adviser: because ten to one there is some dissimilarity of situation or of circumstances, which makes it not expedient or proper for him to do what he nevertheless properly recommends to another. While I shew you your road--and shew it with perfect correctness--my own duty or pleasure may call me another way, or may bid me remain where I am. But the adage is never an apology for the advised party's neglect of advice: and whensoever he attempts to use it as such, his plea, though abstractly true, is impertinent--is nothing to the purpose.
M.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE POWER OF FAITH.
"Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, in the "days of Herod the King, behold there came wise men from the "east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born king of the "Jews? for we have seen his star in the east and have come to "worship him."
Pleasure! thou cheat of a world's dim night, What shadows pass over thy disk of light! To follow thy flitting and quivering flame, Is to die in the depths of despair and shame; 'Tis to perish afar on a lone wild moor, Or the wreck of a ship on a hopeless shore. Come listen, ye gay! I will tell of a star Whose beaming is brighter and steadier far; It rose in the East, and the wise men came To see if its light were indeed the same Which their old books said would be seen to rest On Bethlehem's plains, in its silver vest, To point to the spot where a Saviour lay, Who would gather his flock, all gone astray; Would frighten the wolf from his helpless fold, And loosen the grasp of his demon hold; And lead them away to his pastures green, Where all is so verdant and fadeless seen, Where the river of life is a ceaseless stream, And the light of his love is the sweetest beam That ever shone out on benighted eyes, And brighter the face of those lovely skies, Than ever was seen in the softest sleep When the senses are hushed in calmness deep; And spirits are thought, with their gentle breath, To breathe on the lids of a seeming death, And whisper such things in the ear of wo, As the waking sinner must never know. Oh, what doth he ask in return for this, The light of his love, and such draughts of bliss? What doth he ask for the boon thus given?-- Faith in the blood of the Son of Heaven.
A cry was heard in Rama!--and so wild-- 'Twas Rachel weeping for her murder'd child:-- She would not be consoled--her youngest pride Was torn in terror from her sheltering side; At one dread blow her infant joy was gone To glut the rage of Herod's heart of stone; What drave the tyrant in his wrathful mood, To bathe her lovely innocents in blood? Why stoop'd the savage from his kingly throne, {41} To fill Judea with a mother's moan?-- Weak wretch! he idly sought in his alarm, To stay the purpose of Jehovah's arm; The creature, crawling on his kindred dust, Would stay the bolt, descending on his lust; The crafty counsel of his finite mind Would thwart the God, who rides upon the wind; Yea, "rides upon a Cherub," and doth fly, Scatt'ring his lightnings through the lurid sky. Vain hope! the purpose of his heart, foreknown, Ere yet the falcon swoops, the prey is flown; On Egypt's all unconscious breast is laid Another babe, like him whom erst the maid Daughter of Pharaoh on the wave espied In bark of bulrush, floating o'er the tide Where 'twas her wont her virgin limbs to lave, And snatched in pity from a watery grave; True to the chord that wakes in woman's heart, True to the pulse which bids her promptly start To shield defenceless childhood in her arms, And hush the plaining of its young alarms.
Infant adored! I dare not here essay To paint the lustre of thy glorious way:-- Let earth attend, while holy tongue recount Thy hallow'd lessons from the Olive Mount, While Heaven proclaims its messenger of love On Jordan's banks descending as a dove, While grateful multitudes in plaudits vie, And Zion shouts hosannah to the High! O'er famed Gethsemane, I must not tread. Sad o'er its memory let tears be shed; From bloody Calvary, the soul recoils From impious murderers, sharing in thy spoils; From thy dread agony, and bosom wrung, A world in awful darkness, sably hung, When earth was shook, the vail was rent in twain And yawning graves gave forth their dead again.
From theme too great, too sad, I turn away, From strain too lofty for a feeble lay-- They sought to quench in blood thy hallow'd light, To stay, the foolish ones! thy stayless flight; They did indeed thy breast of meekness wring, Which would have gathered them beneath its wing; Infuriate Jacob trampled on thy cross, Thy loved ones mourned in bitterness, thy loss, When suddenly is heard the earthquake shock, The sepulchre repels its closing rock, The grave is tenantless!--the body gone, The trembling guards in speechless terror thrown; Th' attending angel comes with lightning brow And raiment whiter than the dazzling snow, Comes to attest with his eternal breath, Our God triumphant over sin and death.
Here let me pause and fix my ardent gaze-- Faith is my star, whose ever-during rays Can guide my steps through life's surrounding gloom And cheer the paths which lie beyond the tomb; How was I lost in earth's bewildering vale When first I turned and saw that silver sail Above my dim horizon, breaking slow, When all of peace for me seem'd gone below; My world was sad and comfortless and drear Or cross'd by lights that glance and disappear; Look back, my soul, on scenes which long have passed, Think on the thousand phantoms I have chased; Count o'er the bubbles whose delusive dyes Have danced in emptiness before mine eyes; How were they followed,--won--and heedless clasp'd How fled their hues! evanished as I grasp'd!-- That last and loveliest one, whose rainbow light Will break at times on memory so bright, How did it fleet with all its fairy fires, Fanned by the breath of young and soft desires! Caught by its tinsel shine, deceptive shed, I flew, with throbbing heart and dizzied head, A giddy round, where all beneath were flowers, Where sped, with "flying feet," the laughing hours: Dissolved the charm--dispelled the brilliant dream-- Why changed to baleful shadow did it seem? What roused the madman from his trance, and left His heart a waste--of love--of joy bereft? What woke the foolish one?--unmanned his heart? Death, mid the treach'rous scene, did sudden start, And o'er my light of love his breath expires, It pales--it fades--extinguish'd are its fires!
But now, how blest the change! there is a power Can foil e'en death--can rob his only hour Of half its sting--can even deck with charms The cold embrace of his sepulchral arms: 'Tis but the transient sinful passport this, To "joys unspeakable and full of bliss;" 'Tis but a short,--convulsive,--fitful thrill,-- A momentary pang,--a sudden chill;-- When free, the disembodied spirit flies Where, incorruptible, it never dies; To scenes the Patmos prophet, glowing paints, Where near the jasper seat adore the saints, Where bow of emerald circles round a throne In glory brighter than the sardine stone! Yet hold!--nor thus as if in scorn my soul Still break from earth and spurn its dull control; Why wilt thou bound away through paths of ether, Swift as "young roes upon thy mountains, Bether?" Turn--turn to earth, the blinded vision fails,-- We must not look beyond those sapphire veils, Which mercy spreads in beauty o'er the skies, To spare the weakness of unhallow'd eyes; Oh, check the thought which soars, presumptuous man! Nor dare the heights that thou must never scan.
But though shut out from that all radiant goal While "this corruptible" enchains the soul, He whom a gracious God hath given to see Yon light which burst on darkened Galilee, Will find a charm in that clear steady ray Which sweetens life and sanctifies decay; All changed the face of this dark prison, earth, It seems to spring as from a second birth; Chaos is gone,--as first it fled the sight Of Him who spake, and sudden there was light! Sweet flowers now spring upon the pris'ners path, Where once but thorns beset the child of wrath; A balm for wounds that once could rack the frame, Such monitory thoughts the fondest wish to tame. Such hope to cheer and stay the sinking breast, A prize so noble,--and so calm a rest! {42} Such alter'd views!--new heavens!--and other skies! Some veil before was bound upon his eyes, Thus sudden loosed, as if angelic hands, Invisible, unbound his fettering bands. Where now the cold and soul revolting gloom That hung its shadows o'er the yawning tomb? Where gone the grief that with o'erwhelming load Press'd down the heart and crush'd it on its road? Lost in the hope of those prospective joys Where sorrow enters not, nor death annoys.
S.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE SWEET SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA, AND THE VALLEY WHICH CONTAINS THEM.
BY W. BYRD POWELL, M.D.
Mr. Jefferson has said, and we admit it, that a sight of the Natural Bridge is worth a trip across the Atlantic. But as this does not preclude the possibility of greater curiosities existing, we are allowed the privilege of expressing the belief, that the Sweet Springs, inclusive of the entire valley which contains them, present to a philosophical mind, a scene of incalculably greater interest. The bridge, by one mental effort, is comprehended, and speculation put at rest. Not so with this valley; but like the bridge, the first impressions produced by it create amazement, but as soon as this state of feeling is displaced by further observation, a train of thought succeeds, of unceasing interest, upon the character and variety of the causes which could have produced such a pleasing variety of effects.
In the first place, the several springs, bubbling forth immense volumes of water, highly charged with lime, carbonic acid gas, free caloric, and in some instances iron, are objects of peculiar interest to the philosopher, and so they will remain, more especially, until more facts in relation to them are discovered, and the laws of chemical affinity are better understood.
In the second place, the great fertility of the valley, even to a common observer, will be remarked as a matter of very uncommon occurrence.
In the third place, those elevations which cross the Valley, five in number, popularly known as the Beaver Dams, are marvellous matters, transcending even the Natural Bridge; and that they were constructed by beavers, cannot admit of a doubt. But then the mind is lost in amazement at the probable number of the animals that inhabited the valley, and the immensity of their labor.
The valley is bounded by high hills, perhaps mountains, and the one that terminates its lower extremity consists of slate, and is separated from the lateral ones by a stream of small magnitude above its junction with the valley branch, which is made up measurably of the mineral waters. The lateral mountains, at their lower extremity are slate; at the other, sandstone; and in the middle, limestone.
From the upper spring, or the one now in use, to the junction of its branch with the mountain stream above treated of, is three miles, and the fall in that distance was originally about one hundred and fifty feet. Then there was between these lateral hills no valley or flat land--this has been produced by the Beaver Dams which divided the original declination into five perpendicular falls, measuring each from twenty to thirty-eight feet--thus producing out of one mountain gutter, five beautiful tables of the richest soil in the world. And this too, simply by retaining the debris from the surrounding hills, as it was annually washed in, and also the lime from the mineral waters, which, since the production of the fountains has been constantly depositing. It is furthermore evident that no one of these dams was the work of one season, but of many, just as the necessity for elevation was produced by the filling up of the artificial basin.
As a description of one of those dams will serve for all, we will take the largest, and the one which bounds the lower extremity of the valley.
This dam constitutes one bank of the stream which receives the valley waters, and is about thirty-eight feet high, and half a mile in length; the elevation, however, gradually diminishes from the centre to the extremities. The mineral waters of the valley contain, as we have intimated, an immense quantity of lime, which is deposited with astonishing rapidity in the state of a simple carbonate, (especially in those places where the water has much motion,) producing those mineral forms called stalactites and stalagmites. With this knowledge it is easy to comprehend how these imperishable monuments of beaver labor and economy were produced.--For instance, these animals, according to their manner of building, felled trees across the mouth of the branch, and filled smaller interstices with brush, which would cause motion in the water and serve as nuclei for its mineral depositions. Consequently, in this dam may be seen immense incrustations of logs, brush, roots and moss. In many instances, the ligneous matter, not being able to resist the decomposing effects of time and moisture, is entirely removed, leaving petrous tubes, resembling, in the larger specimens, cannon barrels. These calcareous deposites not only cemented the timber together, but secured the entire work against the smallest percolation, prevented the escape of mountain debris, and rendered permanent a labor, which under other circumstances, would little more than have survived the duration of the timber, or the life of the industrious artificer.
The outside of the dam is stalactical in its whole length, which resulted from the beaver's keeping its summit level, and thus causing the water to flow over every point of it. This circumstance, in connexion with the stream that washes its outer base, has caused large and over hanging projections of the stalactical deposites, and cavernous excavations; attached to the roofs of which is to be seen a great variety of small and beautiful spars. At the point over which the water at present is precipitated, the dam, is a bold and interesting spectacle. Add to this a large descending column of white spray, into which the water is converted by obstacles opposing its march over the dam, and the scene is rendered truly sublime.
The soil of the several basins seems to rest on stalagmite, and the channel of the branch is worn out of it.
In many places, far above the present level of the basins or dams, may be seen large rocks of this stalagmite: thus proving incontestibly, that this water occupied a position, two hundred feet at least above what it did at the time the beavers commenced their labor, and before the deep excavation was effected between the mountains.
{43} Finally, we deem it proper to make a few more remarks upon the first topic we introduced,--namely, the waters themselves. As to the agents concerned, and the play of affinities between them, it is useless for us to hazard an opinion, more especially as we have not made ourselves analytically acquainted with them. Let it suffice to point out the several springs, and those sensible properties and qualities which will necessarily be observed by every visiter; and first of the spring now in use.
As soon as this beautiful fountain is brought within the compass of vision, attention will be arrested by the constant and copious escape of fixed air, and the boldness of the stream. As soon as it is introduced to the mouth, its sweetish taste and warmth are discovered--and then its stimulating effect upon the system will be perceived; and finally, if the visiter will walk below the spring, five or six rods, he will discover the stalagmitic rocks of limestone which have been formed by successive depositions from this water.
The next spring below, is popularly called the Red Spring. It is characterized by a red deposite, which we regard as the carbonate of iron, by a strong sweetish calybiate taste, by its warmth, by the boldness of the stream, and by the absence of any fixed air escaping.
The two springs below this, resemble the first in every respect, so far as the unaided senses can discover. We feel called upon to add, that no one should venture a free use, as a drink, of the Red Spring water, unadvised by an intelligent physician. It is a powerful water, and can never prove an indifferent agent in any constitution.
And finally, we beg leave to advise every visiter, whose soul is warmed by a scientific love of natural phenomena, not to leave the ground till he shall have seen the major part, at least, of what we have feebly attempted to describe.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
RECOLLECTIONS OF "CHOTANK."
Olim meminisse juvabit.--VIRGIL.
Blessed, yea thrice blessed, be the hills and flats, the "forests" and swamps of Old Chotank! Prosperous, yea doubly prosperous be their generous cultivators--worthy descendants of worthy sires--VIRGINIANS all over, in heart and feeling, soul and body. From the Paspatansy swells to the Neck levels, may they have peace and happiness in "all their borders."
How often do I turn over memory's volume and linger upon the page which tells of my first visits to "Chotank"--so full of almost unalloyed pleasure. The recollection steals upon the mind like soft strains of music over the senses, giving the same chastened satisfaction.
Can I ever forget the happy days and nights there spent: The ardent fox hunt with whoop and hallo and winding horn: And would even TEMPERANCE blush to look, after the fatigues of the chase, at the old family bowl of mint julep, with its tuft of green peering above the inspiring liquid--an emerald isle in a sea of amber--the dewy drops, cool and sparkling, standing out upon its sides--all, all balmy and inviting? And then, the morning over and the noon passed, the business of the day accomplished, the social board is spread, loaded with flesh and fowl and the products of the garden and the orchard! Come let us regale the now lively senses and satisfy the excited appetite! What care we for ragouts and fricassee's, and olla podrida's, and all the foreign flummery that fashion and folly have brought into use? The juicy ham, the rich surloin, the fat saddle, make the substantials of a VIRGINIA dinner, and "lily-livered" he, who would want a better. But when friends and strangers come--and welcome are they always! nature's watery store house is at hand, and windy must be the day indeed, when the Potomac cannot furnish a dish of chowder or crabs, to be added to the feast. How I have luxuriated at a Chotank dinner! Nor let pleasures of the table in this intellectual age be despised? Goddess of Hospitality forbid it! And well may I address thee in the feminine gender, thou dispenser of heartfelt mirth! 'Tis WOMAN'S smile enlivens the feast--'tis WOMAN'S handy care that has so well provided it--'tis WOMAN'S kind encouragement that adds a charm to all you see around you.
And now let us loll in the cool portico, shaded with the Lombardy poplar--the proper tree, let them say what they will, to surround a gentleman's mansion--so tall and stately, and therefore so appropriate. How delightful is the breeze on this height! See the white sails of the vessels, through the trees on the bank of the river, spread out to catch it, and how gracefully and even majestically they glide along. You can trace them up and down as far as the eye can reach, following their quiet courses. The beautiful slopes of the fields in Maryland, cultivated to the water's edge, fill up a picture surpassingly beautiful--not grand, but beautiful; for what can please more than the calm sunshine shed upon upland and lowland, with the glad waters glistening in its rays, and just enough of man's works on both "flood and field" to give life and motion to the scene! Surrounded with such a prospect as this, let the old folks discuss their crops, talk of their wheat and corn, and prognosticate the changes of the weather--or, as times now go, settle first the affairs of the county, then of the state, and lastly of the nation, while we steal away to the parlor.
DAUGHTERS OF VIRGINIA! always fair, always lovely, how much fairer and lovelier than ever, do you appear in your own homes, surrounded by your fathers, your brothers and your kinsmen. How it has delighted me to watch the overflowings of your innocent hearts, to enjoy your winning smiles--to listen to the music of your voices! I see in you no hypocrisy and deceit, the moral contagious diseases caught by intercourse with corrupt society--I find no "town-bred" arts, mocking the modesty of nature--I discover no cunning devices to attract that attention which merit alone ought to command. May this be written of you always! May the land which produces noble, generous sons, ever have for its boast and pride, THE MOST VIRTUOUS DAUGHTERS.
And now having seen the young men fairly "paired," if not matched, let us leave them with a blessing, and look after our more aged friends.
Politics have run high since we left them, but the "cool of the evening" is cooling the blood, and "a drink" settles the controversy. Friends and neighbors cannot afford to quarrel even about what concerns themselves, much less about things so far off as at Washington. With Virginia gentlemen there is always a courtesy and kindness even in heated argument which precludes the possibility of offence.
{44} Ah! did I not see a sly wink? And is there not a touch of the elbow, and then a low whisper, and by and by a buzz--and then an open proposal for a sociable game at CARDS. Presently, presently, good friends, we will have our tea and biscuit, and then for loo or whist!
Let not starched propriety look prim, nor prudery shake her head, nor jealous caution hold up her finger. Our fathers did the same before us, and "be we wiser or better than they?" Call in the "womankind," as Oldbuck of Monkbarns ungallantly styled the better part of creation, and let us have fair friends and foes to join us round the table. Trim the lights, roll from your purses just enough of silver to give an interest to our play. Avaunt! spirits of gaming and avarice from this circle--and here's at you till weariness or inclination calls us to seek
"Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep."
And thus ends a day in Chotank: A day!--yes many, many days. In these "our latter times," and this "our age of improvement," all this may be thought wrong! Perhaps it is so. I will not dispute with stern morality and strict philosophy. Their counsels are doubtless more worthy to be followed than the maxim which
"Holds it one of the wisest things To drive dull care away."
But for "my single self" I can say that after a day spent in Chotank I never had reason to exclaim, following the fashion of the Roman Emperor, "Diem Perdidi!"
But Chotank, like many other parts of the Old Dominion, is not now in its "high and palmy state." Some fifteen or twenty years ago it obtained that celebrity which makes it famous now. The ancient seats of generous hospitality are still there, but their former possessors, so free of heart, so liberal, and blessed withal with the means of being free and liberal, where are they? "And echo alone answers, where are they." Their sons can only hope to keep alive the old spirit by the exercise of more prudence and economy than their fathers possessed. Otherwise here too, as alas! in some cases is too true, the families that once and now own the soil, are destined to be rudely pushed from their places by grasping money lenders! Altered as the times are however, and changed as is the condition of many of the inhabitants, the life that I have attempted faintly to sketch, is the life yet led by the merry Chotankers. With the remembrance of the "olden time" strongly impressed on their minds, and tradition to strengthen the ideas formed by their own recollections, they will have their fun and their frolics--their barbecues and their fish frys. There are fewer "roystering blades" than there used to be, and much less drinking than formerly--but the court house now and then brings up a round dozen of "good men and true," who will not disgrace their ancestors: men who will make the "welkin ring" again with uprorarious mirth, and part as they met in all that high flow of spirits which results from good eating and drinking, and freedom, at least for the present, from care.
Let us, however, close. There is that in the place and the people of whom I am writing to induce me to continue: but enough for this "Recollection." If the eye of a Chotanker should meet this page and read what is written, he will know without looking at the signature that he has met with a FRIEND to him and 'all his neighborhood.'
Alexandria, D. C., Sept. 13, 1834. E. S.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
IMPORTANT LAW CASE IN A SISTER STATE, INVOLVING QUESTIONS OF SCIENCE.
[Communicated by P. A. Browne, Esq. of Philadelphia.]
On the Easterly side of the beautiful river Schuylkill, about seven miles north of the city of Philadelphia, stands the flourishing town of MANYUNK. Only a few years ago there was not a house to be seen there, and nothing disturbed the stillness of nature but the singing of the birds, the lowing of the herds, and the gentle ripling of the river as its waters glided towards the ocean; but now it has become the habitation of thousands of human beings, the seat of numerous manufactories, and a striking example of the rapid improvements in American industry and the arts. The whole of this change has been wrought by improving the navigation of the Schuylkill: by raising the Fairmount and other dams, sufficient water has been provided, not only for all the purposes of canaling and watering the city of Philadelphia, but the company, incorporated by law for that purpose, have found at their disposal an immense water power, which they sell and rent to the best advantage.
Among the number of enterprising citizens who availed themselves of these advantages was Mr. Mark Richards, a gentleman advantageously known and esteemed in the mercantile as well as the manufacturing world.
On the 1st of February, 1830, the Schuylkill navigation company made a deed to John Moore, in which it was recited that on the 3d day of November, 1827, Mark Richards had agreed with the company for the purchase of a lot of ground at Manyunk therein described; that on the 25th of January, 1828, he, the said Mark, had agreed to purchase of the company 100 inches of water power at flat-rock canal, at the annual rent of $6 per inch; and on the 13th of March, 1828, 200 inches of water power at the same rate, which water power was to be granted on the usual conditions, and subject to the former grants by the company of water power. That on the 4th of June, 1830, Richards and wife had granted the said lot and "the aforesaid water power of 300 inches of water" to Moore. It further recited that Richards had requested the grant of the company to be made to Moore, he Richards having paid the whole rent, amounting to $1840 per annum up to that time. Then follows the grant of the lot, together with the privilege of drawing from the canal through the forebay, at all times thereafter forever, "SO MUCH WATER AS CAN PASS through two metalic apertures, one of 50, and the other of 250 square inches, under a head of three feet." To have and to hold "the quantity of 300 SQUARE INCHES OF WATER," in manner aforesaid. Moore covenanted at his expense to erect and support the two metalic apertures, one of 50, and the other of 250 square inches, through which the said 300 inches of water, under a three feet head, "is to pass." The company reserving to themselves the right to enter upon the premises for the purpose of examining "the size of the apertures."
Mr. Moore having ascertained that by applying two plain simple metalic apertures of the given sizes, he was not able to draw the same quantity in square inches of water, but only 65 and 2/3d per cent. of the amount, he therefore applied the adjutages described by {45} Professor Venturi; and for these applications, which were alleged to be a breach of the contract, an action was instituted in the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania.
It will be perceived that this case involved not only important principles of law, but interesting inquiries in hydrodynamics, to aid in the discussion of which, large draughts were made upon the scientific attainments of the accomplished bar of Philadelphia. For the plaintiff were engaged John Sergeant and Horace Binney, Esquires; but the absence of the latter gentleman at Congress, occasioned the retaining of C. Chauncey, Esquire; for the defendants were Joseph R. Ingersol and Peter A. Browne, Esquires.
The cause occupied several days, during which time the court house was continually crowded with an intelligent audience.
The questions were, first, whether the granter was confined to the use of simple apertures of the dimensions mentioned in the deed, when it was apparent from the opinions of men of science, and from the experiments made before the jury, that through such openings it was not possible for him to draw more than 65 and 2/3d per cent. of the water contracted for, (it being a law of nature that when a fluid is drawn from a simple aperture or opening, the stream or vein is contracted so as to form the figure of a cone;) or whether the grantee was entitled, at all events, to his 300 inches of water, and had a right to affix adjutages to overcome this law of nature, and restore things to the state they were supposed to be in by the parties, if, when they contracted, they were ignorant of this principle. Second. The defendant having contracted for as much water as "can pass" through metalic apertures of given sizes, whether he was entitled, provided he did not increase the size of the openings, nor increase the head, so to adjust the adjutages as to draw more water than 300 square inches; for it was proved by another set of experiments that, by reason of the adjutages at the defendant's mill, he had contrived, not only to overcome the vena contracta or contracted vein, but to draw off more water than would have passed through a plain opening if the vena contracta did not exist.
When a vessel is filled with a homogeneous fluid, and it is in equilibrium, all the particles of the fluid are pressed equally in all directions. This law was known to Archimedes, and its knowledge enabled him to detect the fraud committed by the gold smith upon Hiero, King of Syracuse. The first regular work upon Hisdrodynamics was written by Sextus Julius Frentinus, inspector of the public fountains at Rome under the Emperors Nerva and Trajan. He laid down the law, that water which flows in a given time, from a given orifice, does not depend merely upon the magnitude of the orifice, but upon the head or height of the fluid in the vessel. From that period until the 17th century none of the principles upon which this cause depends, were much studied, nor the doctrine of fluids much known. At length Gallileo the astronomer, by his discovery of the uniform acceleration of gravity, paved the way for a rapid improvement in hydrodynamics. Gallileo was acquainted with the fact that water could not be made to rise more than a certain height in a common pump; but he was entirely unacquainted with the reason. His pupil, Torricelli, and his friend, Viviani, discovered that it was owing to the pressure of the external air, and thus the problem was solved. Mariotte, who introduced experimental philosophy into France, was the first who announced that fluids suffer a retardation from the friction of their particles against the sides of tubes; and he shewed that this was the case even though the tubes were made of the smoothest glass. From his works, which were published after his death, in 1684, it appears that though he was thus acquainted with the principle upon which it is explained, he was unacquainted with the vena contracta. About that time this subject began to be much more studied in Italy. Dominic Guglielmini, a celebrated engineer, in 1697, published a very learned work upon the friction and resistance of fluids; and from that period to this the learned of all nations have admitted, that this resistance and retardation of fluids, owing to their friction, did take place in a moving fluid. This work, as connected with the motion of rivers and water in open canals, is one of deep interest in natural philosophy; and it is one, which in this age of improvements, should not be neglected in this country. Sir Isaac Newton, whose capacious mind grasped at every kind of knowledge, struggled hard to detect the reason of this resistance. In his 2nd book of his "Principia," propositions 51, 52 and 53, he lays down certain hypotheses, from which it results, that the filaments (as he calls them,) of a fluid, in a pipe, will be kept back by their adhesion to the sides of the tube, and that the next filaments will be kept back, though in a less degree, by their adhesion to the first filaments, and so on, until the velocity of the fluid will be greatest at the centre. Now if we apply this principle to the discharge of a fluid through a plain aperture, we will perceive that the parts of the water next to the sides of the opening, being liable to the greatest friction, will be the most retarded; and that those in the centre, being liable to the least friction, will be most in advance; and that the friction decreasing gradually from the extremities to the centre, the water will be always flowing in the form of a cone, with the smallest end in advance. This is the exact form of the vena contracta or contracted vein!
When the pipes are very small, this attraction of the sides of the pipes to the fluid operates so as to suspend the whole mass, when it is called capillary attraction. This appears to be the extent to which Newton was acquainted with the laws that govern the vena contracta, at the time he published the first edition of his Principia; but in his second edition, published in 1714, he discloses the doctrine of the contracted vein with his usual intelligence.
Every body is acquainted with the splendid experiments of the Abbe Bossut, which were published successively in 1771, 1786 and 1796, and any one desirous of examining this interesting subject will consult them at large.
Poleni first discovered, that by applying an additional cylindrical pipe to the orifice, of the same diameter, the expenditure of the fluid was increased. This discovery was followed up, first, by Mr. Vince; secondly, by Doctor Matthew Young; and lastly, by Venturi. This last named gentleman published his work on hydraulics in 1798; it was immediately translated and published in Nicholson's Journal of Natural Philosophy, where all the different adjutages, including the one used by the defendant in this action, are accurately {46} drawn and described. They are also noticed, though not in as ample a manner, in Gregory's Mechanics, pages 438, 445 and 447.
From all which it was contended, that every one making a contract, must be presumed to be acquainted with the principles of the vena contracta, and of the methods used to overcome it, and that this party had a right to use these adjutages without incurring the risk of a suit.
[We understand that the suit, the foregoing interesting sketch of which has been obligingly furnished by one of the counsel, is still, in the language of the lawyers, sub judice; the jury having found a verdict subject to the opinion of the court. We are promised a full report of the trial and decision, for a subsequent number.]--ED.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MR. WHITE,--The following sketch was given me by one of those mail stage story-tellers, who abound on our roads, and enliven the drowsy passengers by their narratives. It is founded on fact, and may not be unacceptable to such of your readers as are fond of the delineation of human character in all its variety of phases.
NUGATOR.
SALLY SINGLETON.
Who thundering comes on blackest steed, With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed?--Byron.
A horseman passed us at full speed, whose wild and haggard look arrested the attention of my friend. In the name of all that is singular, said he, who can that be, and whither is he posting with such rapidity? His garb seems of the last century, and his grizzled locks stream on the wind like those of some ancient bard.
That man, replied I, is a lover, and is hurrying away to pay his devoirs to his mistress, who married another, and has been dead for many years.
Indeed! you surprize me, he rejoined. He has, it is true, the "lean look" of Shakspeare's lover; the "blue eye and sunken;" the "unquestionable spirit," and "every thing about him demonstrates a careless desolation"--yet I should have imagined, that the snows of so many winters had extinguished all the fires of that frosty carcase; but tell me who he is, and what is his story.
His name is Wilson; and that of the lady whom he loved, was Sally Singleton. I would that I had the graphic power of Scott to sketch a tale of so much interest. If Sir Walter has immortalized an old man, mounted on his white pony, and going in quest of the tombstomes, how much is it to be regretted that the same master hand cannot be employed to perpetuate the memory of yonder eccentric being, whose love lives on, after the lapse of twenty years, in spite of the marriage and death of his mistress--in spite of the evidence of his own senses, and notwithstanding every human effort to dispel his delusion. Regularly every morning, for the last twenty years, no matter what the state of the weather, (alike to him the hail, the rain, and the sunshine,) has he mounted his horse, and travelled a distance of ten miles, to see his beloved Sally Singleton. His custom is, to ride directly up to the window of her former apartment, and in a courteous manner, to bow to his mistress in token of his continued attachment. Having performed this act of gallantry, he waves with his hand a fond adieu, and immediately gallops back with a triumphant air, as if perfectly satisfied with having set his enemies at defiance. "The course of true love never did run smooth," and in this case, whether "misgrafted in respect of years," or "different in blood," or "standing on the choice of friends," is not exactly known; but the lady was wedded to another, and died soon after. Her lover would never believe in her marriage or her death. His mind unhinged by the severity of his disappointment, seems to have retained nothing but the single image of her he loved, shut up in that apartment; and he resolved to brave every difficulty, to testify his unchanging devotion. Obstacles were purposely built across his path--the bridges were broken down--the idle boys would gather around him, and assail him in their cruel folly--guns even, were fired at him,--all in vain! The elements could not quench the fervor of his love--obstacles were overleaped--he swam the rivers--the boys were disregarded--balls could not harm him. He held a charmed life; like young Lochinvar,
"He staid not for brake, And he stop'd not for stone;"
but dashed onward to his beloved window, and then, contented with this public attestation of his unalterable love, returned with a look of triumphant satisfaction, to his joyless home. As a last effort to remove the veil from his eyes, a suit was instituted, in which he was made a party, and proof of the lady's marriage and death was purposely introduced to undeceive him. He listened with cold incredulity to the witnesses; smiled derisively at that part of their testimony which regarded her marriage and death; and the next morning was seen mounted as usual, and bowing beneath the window of his adored Sally Singleton.
From the Petersburg Intelligencer.
EXTRACT FROM A NOVEL
THAT NEVER WILL BE PUBLISHED.
We had all assembled round the cheerful fire, that cracked and blazed in the wide old-fashioned hearth. The labor of the day was over. My father, snugly placed in his great easy chair, with his spectacles on his nose, had been for some time studying the last long winded and very patriotic speech of our representative in Congress, until his senses, gradually yielding to its soothing eloquence, had sunk into a calm slumber.--My mother sat in the corner knitting with all her might, and every now and then expressing her wonder (for she always wondered) how Patsy Woods could marry such a lazy, poor, good-for-nothing fellow as Henry Pate. Sister was leaning with both elbows on the table, devouring, as she termed it, the last most exquisite romance. Puss was squatted on Mother's cricket, licking her paws with indefatigable industry; and old Carlo, the pointer, lay grunting on the hearth rug, sadly incommoded by the heat of the fire, but much too lazy to remove from before it. And where was I? Oh! there was another corner to the fire place. In its extremest nook sat cousin Caroline, and next to her,--always next to her when I could get there, was I. Now this was what I call a right comfortable family party; and not the least comfortable of that party was myself. {47} Cousin Caroline; dear, dear cousin! Many a year has rolled over me since the scene I describe; many a cold blast of the world's breath has blown on my heart and chilled, one by one, the spring flowers of hope that grew there; but the blossoms of love thy image nurtured, were gathered into a garland to hang on thy tomb, and the tears of memory have preserved its freshness. Cousin Caroline!--she was the loveliest creature on whom beauty ever set its seal. Reader, my feeling towards her was not what is called love; at least, not what I have since felt for another. My judgment of her excellence was not biassed by passion. She was most beautiful. I cannot describe her.
"Who has not proved how feebly words essay, To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray."
It were vain to talk of her "hyacinthine curls," her "ruby lips," her "pearly teeth," her "gazelle eye." These, and all the etceteras of description, define not beauty. It belongs to the pencil and not to the pen, to give us a faint idea of its living richness. But had your eyes glanced round a crowded room, crowded with beauty too, they would have rested in amazement there; amazement, that one so lovely should be on earth, and breathe among the creatures of common clay. Alas! it could not be so long. No, I did not love her in manhood's sense of love; for, at the time I speak of, I was but fourteen, and Caroline was in her eighteenth year; but I loved her as all created things that could love, loved her; from the highest to the lowest, she was the darling of the household. The servants, indoor and outdoor, young and old, and the crossest of the old, loved her. None so crabbed her smile would not soften; none so stern her mildness would not subdue. Oh, what a creature she was. I never saw Caroline angry, though I have seen her repel, with dignity, intrusion or impertinence. I never saw her cross. But this theme will lead me too far; and, perhaps the reader thinks I might sum up my estimate of her qualities in one word--perfection. Not so; but as near to it as the Creator ever suffered his creature to attain. Well, we were sitting round the fire in the manner I have described. Caroline was amusing me with a description of the pleasures of the town, for she had just returned from a visit to a relation residing in the city of ----, when the sound was heard of a carriage coming up the avenue. What a bustle! Father bounced up, dropping the paper and his spectacles; Mother stopped wondering about Patsy Woods, to wonder still more who this could be. Pussy remained quiet, but Carlo prevailed upon himself to stretch and yawn, and totter to the door, to satisfy his curiosity. Sister looked up. Caroline looked down; and then sister looked at her very archly, though I could not tell why, and said, "go brother Harry, ask the gentleman in."
"Why do you know who it is, my dear, that is coming to see us at this late hour?" said my father. It was but eight o'clock; but remember we were in the country. I went out of the room, and did not hear the answer. I was met at the hall door by a gentleman, whom I ushered in. My father accosted him, and was very proud and very happy to see Col. H----d. He was then introduced to the members of the family; "and this lady I think you are already acquainted with," continued my father, as he presented cousin Caroline, who had hung back. The Colonel smiled,--Caroline blushed, but she smiled too. What is all this about, thought I. "Come, sir, be seated," quoth my father. The Colonel bowed, thanked him, and placed himself forthwith in my chair, right beside Caroline. Now it is true Caroline had two sides, and her left side was as dear to me as her right; but then that side was next to the wall, and she sat so near to it that there was no edging a chair in without incommoding her. So I was fain to look out for other quarters, and found them next to my mother, whence I looked the colonel right in the face. He was not a handsome man, but a very noble looking one. He was rather above the common height, somewhat thin, but his carriage very erect. His complexion was dark, but ruddy dark, the hue of health and manliness; his forehead broad; so much so as to make the lower part of his visage appear contracted, and rather long. The expression of his features when at rest, was stern, and even haughty; perhaps from the habit of command, for his had been a soldier's life, and his title was won on the battle field; but when in conversation, there was an air of great good nature over his whole countenance, and his smile was very winning. Cousin Caroline thought it so.
"The road to your farm is rather intricate, my good sir," said the colonel, as he took his seat, "and though I had a pretty good chart of the country, (here he looked at Caroline and smiled one of those winning smiles, but Caroline did not, or would not see him,) I was so stupid as to miss the way, for when I reached the cross roads, instead of taking the right I directed the servant to the left, and moved on some time in the wrong direction without meeting a human being of whom to make inquiry. At length I had the good fortune to encounter a gentleman on horseback, who corrected my error, adding the satisfactory assurance, that I had gone at least four miles in the opposite direction to that which I desired to go; so that, though I set out betimes, it was thus late before I reached here."
"Well, I wonder!" cried my mother.
"Then colonel you must be sadly in want of refreshment," said my father. "My dear"--
"Not at all so, my dear sir. I beg you will give yourselves no trouble on my account. I assure you"--
"Sit still, colonel, I beg of you," interrupted my father, as the former rose to urge his remonstrance.--"Sit still, sir; trouble indeed; we'll have supper directly, and I don't care if I nibble a little myself."
So the colonel gave up the contest, but when he reseated himself, he perceived Caroline was gone; she had slipped out of the room with my mother. The colonel had a very nice supper that night, and he did it justice. Who prepared it, think you? my mother? No, for she returned to the room in two minutes after she left it. I knew who prepared it, and so did the colonel, or he made a shrewd guess; for, when Caroline returned, he gave her a look that spoke volumes of thankfulness, and of such exquisite fondness that it made the blood mount to her very forehead.
A week passed away, and colonel H----d remained a constant guest at my father's; and though I could not but like and admire him, his conduct was a source of great annoyance to me, for no sooner did Caroline make her appearance in the breakfast room in the morning {48} than he posted himself next to her; and then they took such long walks together, and would spend so many hours in riding about the country, and they never asked me to accompany them, so that Caroline had as well have been in town again, for the opportunity I had of conversing with her. The result of all this is, of course, plain to the reader; and it was soon formally announced that on the third day of the succeeding month Caroline was to become the bride of the wealthy and gallant Colonel H----d, and accompany him forthwith to his distant home, for his residence was in the state of Georgia. I wept bitter tears, and sobbed as if my heart would break as I laid all lonely in my bed that night on which this latter piece of intelligence had been communicated by my father, until sleep, the comforter of the wretched, extended to me the bliss of oblivion. "Blessings on the man who invented sleep," says friend Sancho--blessings, aye blessings indeed, on all bountiful nature who, while she gives rest to the wearied body bestows consolation on the grieving heart, lulls into gentle calm the storm of the passions, plucks from power its ability and even its wish to oppress, and hushes in poverty the sense of its weakness and its degradation. My fate has not been more adverse than that of the generality of men, but "take it all in all," the happiest portion of my existence has been spent in sleep. Why did I weep? The being whom I loved best on earth was about to be wedded to the worthy object of her choice,--a choice that affection sanctioned and reason might well approve; and even to my young observation it was apparent that while she gave, she was enjoying happiness. There was pleasure in the beaming of her sparkling eyes, there was joy in the dimples of her rosy smile. The very earth on which she trod seemed springing to her step, and the air she breathed to be pure and balmy. Could she be happy and I feel miserable? and that misery growing too, out of the very source of her happiness. Yes; even so unmixed, so absorbing was my selfishness. My selfishness! the selfishness of humanity; for even as the rest of my fellow men so was, and so am I. I thought of the many hours of delight I had enjoyed in her presence, of the thousand daily kindnesses I had experienced at her hand. She alone was wont to partake of my youthful joys, to sympathize with my boyish griefs; it was her praise that urged me to exertion, the fear of her censure that restrained me from mischief. And all this was to pass away, and to pass with her presence too. Never more was my heart to drink in the sweet light of her eyes; never more would her soft voice breathe its music in my ear. I felt that I dwelt no longer in her thoughts; I believed my very image would soon perish from her memory. Such were the bitter thoughts that weighed down my mind.
I go on spinning out this portion of my tale, no doubt very tediously, and my readers will perhaps despair of my ever arriving at the end; but patience, I shall get there by and by. "Bear with me yet a little while." It is that I shrink from what I have undertaken to narrate, that I wander into digression; for whatever effect it may have on others, whose only interest in it will arise from momentary excitement, on me the fearful casualty I shall describe, has imposed "the grief of years." Many a pang has my heart experienced in my pilgrimage through this weary world, and some grievous enough to sustain; time and occupation, however, have afforded their accustomed remedy, and scars only are left to mark where the wounds have been. But this, though inflicted in boyhood's springy days, is festering now; aye now, when the very autumn of manhood is passed, and the winter of age is congealing the sources of feeling and of life.
The wedding day was drawing nigh. One little week remained of the appointed time; and a joyous man, no doubt, was colonel H----d, as hour after hour winged its flight, and each diminished the space that lay betwixt him and his assured felicity. Poor weak creatures that we are, whose brief history is but a record of hope and disappointment, ever deceived by the mirage of happiness that glitters afar in the desert of life, and recedes from before us as we pursue, till outworn, we sink into death with our thirst unslaked, our desires ungratified. One little week remained. What matters the brevity of time when a moment is fraught with power to destroy. Behold the gallant ship with tightened cordage and outspread sails, dashing from her prow the glittering spray as she dances on the leaping wave to the music of the breeze; cheerful faces crowd her deck, for she is homeward bound from a distant land; and now her port is almost reached, a hidden rock has pierced her side, the eternal sea rolls over the sunken wreck. The warrior has charged and broken the foe; the shout of victory rings in his ears, and fancy twines the laurel round his brow; but treachery lurks in his armed array, and the clarion of conquest sounds the note of defeat. The mighty city with its thousand domes, its marble palaces, and its crowded marts, over which ages have urged their onward flight, and still it grew in wealth and strength, has felt the earthquake's shock. Black mouldering ruins and a sullen sulphurous lake are left to mark the spot where once its "splendors shone." And the heart, the human heart, with its high aspirations, and its treacherous whisperings of unmixed joys, its blindness of trust in coming events, its strange forgetfulness of the hours gone by, its sunny morning of boundless hope, its stormy night of dark despair.
My father's house was situated on an elevated spot, commanding an extensive view of the broad Potomac; from its front to the bank of the river, a distance of some hundred yards, the ground descended in a gentle slope terminating in a sheer precipice, and down, down "a fearful depth below," rolled on the rapid waters. The bank was composed of vast masses of rock, between the crevices of which pushed forth gnarled and jagged trees of various kinds, shooting their moss-covered branches in every direction, and hugged in strict and stifling embrace by huge vines, that looked like the monster boas, of a preadamate world. The summit was lined with a dense growth of underwood, that hid from the passer by the awful chasm upon whose very margin he might be unconciously standing. As the main road (which ran parallel to the course of the river) laid upwards of a mile from the rear of the dwelling house, and was, besides being generally in very bad order, very uninteresting in its character, we were in the habit of using for the purpose of visiting some of our neighbors, a path that ran along and was dangerously near to the verge of the precipice, but which had been travelled so long and so often without accident, that we {49} had ceased to think of even the possibility of any occurring. It was a bright sunshiny morning, the blue sky studded with those massy rolling clouds whose purple shades give such strong relief to the fleecy white, and cheat the fancy into portraying a thousand resemblances; ancient castles with frowning battlements, mighty ships resting beneath their crowded canvass, bright fairy isles, where a poet's soul would delight to wander, dark yawning caverns, in whose undreamt of depths the pent up spirits of the damned might be "imagined howling." Pardon, pardon! but sea and sky have always set me raving. It was at the breakfast table that I informed my father I would ride over to aunt Diana's and see if they were all well.--"The weather is so fine, and I have not seen our good aunt for some time. I will ride with you; that is, if you'll let me, cousin Harry," said Caroline, as if it were not a delight to me to have her company. The colonel, too, proposed to join us, and we went to get ourselves in readiness. We were soon on the road, and away we cantered, full of health and youth and spirits. The breeze came fresh and soft from the surface of the waters, and played among Caroline's curls and revelled on her cheek, as if to gather the odors of the rose, where its beauteous hue was so richly spread. We paid our visit, partook of aunt Diana's good things, and set off on our return, amid her protestations against our hurry. Caroline was riding on a nice little mare that had been bred on the farm, and had always been the pet of the family; as gentle and as playful as a lamb, but at the same time full of spirit. We had arrived at a part of the road where the precipice (now on our right hand) was highest. I was in front, Caroline next to and behind me; a hare crossed my path: "take care my boy," cried Colonel H----d, "that, you know, is said to be a bad omen." Scarcely had he spoken when my horse started, and wheeled short round; the mare partook of his fright, swerved half to the left, and reared bolt upright. "Slack your rein and seize the mane, Caroline," I screamed in agony. It was too late; the mare struggled, and fell backwards. Oh, God! A shriek, a rushing sound
* * * * *
I entered the chamber where innocence and beauty had been wont to repose; around me were the trappings of the grave; the cold white curtains with their black crape knots, the shrouded mirror, the scattered herbs--and stretched upon the bed motionless, lay a form--the form of her whose living excellence was unsurpassed. My father came in; he took my hand, led me to the bed, and gently removed the sheet from the marble face. Oh, death, thou art indeed a conqueror!
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SONNET,
WRITTEN ON THE BLUE RIDGE IN VIRGINIA.
Gigantic sov'reign of this mountain-chain, Proud Otter Peak! as gazing on thee now I mark the sun its parting splendor throw Athwart thy summit hoar--I sigh with pain To think thus soon I needs must turn again And seek man's bustling haunts! What if my brow No longer wear the signs of sorrow's plough, Doth not my heart its traces still retain, And I still hate the crowd?--Yes! it is so, And scenes alone such as surround me here-- These deep'ning shades--thy torrents loud and clear-- Yon half-hid cot--the cattle's plaintive low-- The raven's cry, and the soft whispering breeze, Have now the pow'r this aching breast to please.
* * *
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
STANZAS,
WRITTEN AT THE WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA.
With spirits like the slacken'd strings Of some neglected instrument-- Or rather like the wearied wings Of a lone bird by travel spent; Ah! how should I expect to find Midst scenes of constant revelry, A solace for a troubled mind, A cure for my despondency?--
There was a time when mirth's glad tone And pleasure's smile had charms for me-- But disappointment had not strown My pathway then with misery: Health then was mine--and friends sincere-- Requited love--and prospects bright-- Nor dreamt I that a day so clear Could ever set in such a night!
* * *
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO ---- ---- OF THE U. S. NAVY.
Tell me--for thou hast stood on classic ground, If there the waters flow more bright and clear, And if the trees with thicker foliage crowned, Are lovelier far than those which blossom here?
Say is it true, in green unfading bowers, That there the wild bird sings her sweetest lay? And that a light, more beautiful than ours, Lends richer glories to expiring day?
Wooed by Italian airs, does woman's cheek With purer color glow, than in our land? Or does her eye more eloquently speak, Or with a softer grace her form expand?
Does music there, with power to us unknown, Breathe o'er the heart a far diviner spell? And with a sweeter, more entrancing tone, The thrilling strains of love and glory swell?
Tell me if thou in thought didst dearer prize Thy home, than all that Italy could give? Didst thou regret that her resplendent skies Should smile on men as slaves content to live?
Didst thou, when straying in her cities fair, Or in her groves of bloom, regret that here No perfumes mingle with the passing air? And was thine own, thy native land, less dear?
Or didst thou turn where proudly in the breeze America's star-spangled flag was flying? The flag that o'er thee waved on the high seas; With conscious heart exultingly replying,
"No slothful land of dreaming ease is ours, Her soil is only trodden by the free-- Less rich in music, poetry, and flowers, Still, still she is the land of all for me!"
E. A. S.
Lombardy, Va.
{50}
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MUSINGS II--By the Author of Vyvyan.
The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets Ebbing and flowing.--------Rogers.
I loved her from my boyhood--she to me Was as a fairy city of the heart, Rising like water columns from the sea. Childe Harold, Canto IV. Stanza xviii.
There is, far in a foreign clime, Alas! no longer free-- A city famed in olden time As queen of all the sea; Still fair but fallen from her prime-- For such is destiny.
There motley masque and princely ball Make gay the merry carnival, And all the night some serenade Steals sweetly from the calm Lagune, While many a dark eyed loving maid Is wooed in secret neath the moon.
And swiftly o'er the noiseless tide Gondolas dark, like spectres, glide Neath archways deep and bridges fair, Temples and marble palaces, Adorned with jutting balconies, And dim arcades of beauty rare.
There's naught that meets the wondering eye, From the wave that kisses the landing stair To the sculptured range in the azure sky,[1] But wears a wild unearthly air, And every voice that echoes among Those phantomlike halls, breathes the spell of song.
The rudest Barcarolli's cry, Heard faint and far o'er Adria's waves, Might cheat the listener of a sigh-- So sad the farewell which it leaves, When sinking on the ear it dies Along the borders of the skies.
Oh! Venice! Venice! couldst thou be Still wond'rous fair and even as free! How peerless were thy regal halls!-- How glorious were thy seagirt walls!-- But foreign banners flaunt thy tide, And chains have tamed thy lion's pride.
Thy flag is furled upon the sea, Thy sceptre shivered on the land, And many a spirit mourns for thee Beyond the Lido's barren strand: Better thy towers were sunk below The level of Old Ocean's flow.
Fair city of the fairest clime, Sad change hath come o'er thee-- The spirit voice of olden time Is wailing o'er thy sea; And matin bell and vesper chime Seem knelling for the free Who reared thy standard o'er the wave And spurned the chains that now enslave.
[Footnote 1: The tops of many of the buildings are ornamented with a range of statues.]
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE GENIUS OF COLUMBIA TO HER NATIVE MUSE.
A parent's eye, sweet mountain maid, Hath seen thee rise in Sylvan shade; And patient, lent attentive ear Thy first, wild minstrelsy to hear: And thou hast breathed some artless lays, That well deserve the meed of praise; For, nursed by spirits bold and free, Thy notes should breathe of Liberty. Yet some who scan thy numbers wild, Inquire if thou art Fancy's child, Or some impostor, duly taught To weave with skill the borrow'd thought. Then list, my child! Experience sage May well direct thy guileless age.
Breathe not thy notes with spirit tame, Nor pilfer, from an honor'd name, The praise that crowns the sons of fame. Be not by imitation taught, To blend with thine, the vagrant thought, From Britain's polish'd minstrels caught. Full oft my mountain echoes tell, How Byron's genius fram'd a spell, Which reason vainly seeks to quell: Did not his spirit cast a gloom On all who shared his adverse doom, E'en from the cradle to the tomb? With intellectual treasures bless'd, With misanthropic thoughts possess'd, Their sway alternate fired his breast. He pour'd the lava stream alone, In torrents from that burning zone, Which girt his bosom's fiery throne. Enough! on his untimely bier Affection shed no hallow'd tear-- He claim'd no love--he own'd no fear.
And she,[1] whose light poetic tread Scarce sways the dewdrop newly shed Upon the rose-bud's infant head; Most meet to be the tender nurse Of virtue, wounded by the curse Of passion's fierce and lawless verse, Whose dulcet strain, with soothing pow'r, Can calm the soul in sorrow's hour, And scatter many a thornless flow'r: The thoughts that breathe in each soft line, Seem spirits from a purer shrine Than earth can in her realms confine. Yet mayst thou not, in mimic lay, Such lofty arts of verse essay? 'Twere but a vain and weak display. Be Freedom's bold, unfetter'd child, And roam thy native forests wild, Where, on thy birth, all nature smil'd; Dwell on the mountain's sylvan crest, Where fair Hygeia roams confest, Bright Fancy's ever honor'd guest: Mark the proud streams that onward sweep, And to old Ocean's bosom leap-- Majestic offspring of the deep. Their inspiration shall be thine, And nature, from that mighty shrine, {51} Shall prompt thee with a voice divine! When thy free spirit is reveal'd, The spells within its depths conceal'd Will soon a golden tribute yield. In numbers free, by nature taught, Breathe forth the wild poetic thought, And let thy strains be Fancy fraught.
Enough! my child! a parent's voice Would fain direct thy youthful choice To themes, majestic and sublime, The fruits of Freedom's favor'd clime. Enough! For thee has nature thrown O'er the wild stream a curb of stone, Whose pendant arch in verdure dress'd, Binds the tall mountain's cloven crest.[2] For thee the volum'd waters sweep Through riven mountains to the deep.[3] For thee the mighty cataract pours In thunder, through opposing shores; And rushing with delirious leap, Bursts the full fountains of the deep; A billowy phlegethon--whose waves Rend the strong walls of Ocean's caves.
C.
[Footnote 1: Mrs. Hemans.]
[Footnote 2: The Natural Bridge.]
[Footnote 3: Harper's Ferry.]
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
DEATH AMONG THE TREES.
Death walketh in the forest. The tall Pines Do woo the lightning-flash,--and thro' their veins The fire-cup darting, leaves their blacken'd trunks A tablet, where Ambition's sons may read Their destiny. The Oak that centuries spar'd, Grows grey at last, and like some time-scath'd man Stretching out palsied arms, doth feebly cope With the destroyer, while its gnarled roots Betray their trust. The towering Elm turns pale, And faintly strews the sere and yellow leaf, While from its dead arms falls the wedded vine. The Sycamore uplifts a beacon-brow, Denuded of its honors,--while the blast That sways the wither'd Willow, rudely asks For its lost grace, and for its tissued leaf Of silvery hue.
I knew that blight might check The sapling, ere kind nature's hand could weave Its first spring-coronal, and that the worm Coiling itself amid our garden-plants Did make their unborn buds its sepulchre. And well I knew, how wild and wrecking winds May take the forest-monarchs by the crown, And lay them with the lowliest vassal-herb; And that the axe, with its sharp ministry, Might in one hour, such revolution work, That all earth's boasted power could never hope To reinstate. And I had seen the flame Go crackling up, amid yon verdant boughs, And with a tyrant's insolence dissolve Their interlacing,--and I felt that man For sordid gain, would make the forest's pomp Its heaven-rear'd arch, and living tracery A funeral pyre. But yet I did not deem That pale disease amid those shades would steal As to a sickly maiden's cheek, and waste The plenitude of those majestic ranks, Which in their peerage and nobility, Unrivall'd and unchronicled, had reign'd. And then I said, if in this world of knells, And open graves, there lingereth one, whose dream Is of aught permanent below the skies, Even let him come, and muse among the trees, For they shall be his teachers,--they shall bow To their meek lessons his forgetful ear, And by the whispering of their faded leaves, Soften to his sad heart, the thought of death.
L. H. S.
Hartford, Con. Sept. 10, 1834.
ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.
AMIR KHAN, AND OTHER POEMS: the remains of Lucretia Maria Davidson, who died at Plattsburg, N. Y. August 27, 1825, aged 16 years and 11 months. With a Biographical Sketch, by Samuel F. B. Morse, A. M. New York: G. & C. & H. Carvill--1829.
We believe that this little volume, although published several years since, has but recently found its way to this side of the Potomac. Our attention has been attracted towards it by some notice of its contents in the Richmond Enquirer, whose principal editor we will do him the justice to say, has always manifested a lively interest in the productions of American genius. Mr. Ritchie is entitled to the more praise for his efforts in behalf of domestic literature, not only on account of his active and absorbing labors as a political writer, but because, also, we are sorry to add, the subject is one in which southern taste and intelligence have, for the most part, evinced but little concern. It is but too common for our leading men, professional as well as others, to affect something like a sneer at every native attempt in the walks of polite literature. Their example, we fear, has imparted a tone to the reading circles generally, and has served to beget that inordinate appetite for every thing foreign which has either obtained a fashionable currency abroad--or occasioned some excitement in that busy, noisy, gossipping class of society, whose merit is so vastly disproportioned to its influence. We have often known the sentimental trash and profane ribaldry of some popular Englishman eagerly sought after, and as eagerly devoured, whilst the pure and genuine productions of native genius have remained neglected on the bookseller's shelf, and quietly surrendered to oblivion. That this does, in some measure, proceed from an unenlightened and uncultivated public taste, we do not doubt; but it is much more the fruit of a slavish and inglorious dependence upon accidental circumstances,--a spiritless, and we might add, a cowardly apprehension of appearing singular--that is, of not chiming in with the shallow, vain and heartless tittle-tattle of the self-styled beau monde and corps elite of society. It is not the fault of the bookseller. The undertaker, who prepares the coffin and shroud, has as little participation in the death of the person for whom they are intended. The bookseller is but the caterer of the public palate; and if that palate is diseased, he is no more answerable for it, than the milliners and mantuamakers who are busily occupied in deforming the fairest part of creation, are censurable for the false taste of their customers.
We did not intend by the foregoing observations, to bespeak any extraordinary share of public favor {52} towards the poems of Miss Davidson. What we have said in relation to the neglect of American talent, was designed to have a general and not particular application. Notwithstanding we hear that the poems before us have been extravagantly praised beyond the Atlantic, we are not so intoxicated by a little foreign flattery as to believe that they are destined to immortality. Some may console themselves, if they please, for the whole ocean of obloquy and contempt cast upon us from the British press, by regarding with favorable eyes this little rivulet of praise bestowed upon the juvenile efforts of a lovely and interesting girl. We are not of that number; we shall endeavor to decide upon the work before us, unbiassed by trans-atlantic opinion--and we shall render precisely that judgment which we would have done if that opinion had been pronounced in the usual tone of British arrogance and contumely.
Regarding the volume before us as a literary production merely, and supposing it to have been the offspring of a matured mind, we do not think that it possesses any considerable merit. Estimating its contents, however, as the first lispings of a child of genius,--as furnishing proofs of the existence of that ethereal spark which, under favorable circumstances, might have been kindled into a brilliant flame, we do consider it as altogether extraordinary. We do not say that these poems are equal to the early productions of Chatterton, Henry Kirke White, or Dermody, those prodigies of precocious talent,--but we entertain not a shadow of doubt if Miss Davidson had lived, that she would have ranked among the highest of her own sex in poetical excellence. In forming a correct judgment upon the offspring of her muse, her youth is not alone to be considered. She had also to contend with those remorseless enemies of mental effort,--poverty, sorrow, and ill health; and it is, perhaps, a circumstance in her history not unworthy of notice, that possessing a high degree of personal beauty, and being on that account the object of much admiration and attention, she did not suffer herself to be withdrawn from the purer sources of intellectual enjoyment. Love indeed, seems to have found no permanent lodgment in her heart. It might have stolen to the threshold and infused some of its gentle influences, but she seems to have been resolved to cast off the silken cord before it was too firmly bound around her. Thus in the piece which bears the title of Cupid's Bower, written in her fifteenth year.
"Am I in fairy land?--or tell me, pray, To what love-lighted bower I've found my way? Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild.
And is this Cupid's realm?--if so, good by! Cupid, and Cupid's votaries, I fly; No offering to his altar do I bring, No bleeding heart--or hymeneal ring."
The longest, most elaborate, and perhaps best of her poems, is that which gives the principal title to the volume. Amir Khan is a simple oriental tale, written in her sixteenth year, and is worked up with surprising power of imagery for one so young. The most fastidious and critical reader could not fail to be struck with its resemblance to the gorgeous magnificence of Lalla Rookh; a resemblance, to be sure, which no more implies equality of merit than does the brilliancy of the mock diamond establish its value with that of the real gem. We give the opening passage from the poem as a fair specimen of the rest, and from which the reader may form a correct opinion of the style and composition.
"Brightly o'er spire, and dome, and tower, The pale moon shone at midnight hour, While all beneath her smile of light Was resting there in calm delight; Evening with robe of stars appears, Bright as repentant Peri's tears, And o'er her turban's fleecy fold Night's crescent streamed its rays of gold, While every chrystal cloud of heaven, Bowed as it passed the queen of even. Beneath--calm Cashmere's lovely vale Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale; The amaranth and tuberose, Convolvulus in deep repose, Bent to each breeze which swept their bed, Or scarcely kissed the dew and fled; The bulbul, with his lay of love; Sang mid the stillness of the grove; The gulnare blushed a deeper hue, And trembling shed a shower of dew, Which perfumed e'er it kiss'd the ground, Each zephyr's pinion hovering round. The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow Glitter'd beneath the moon's pale glow; And wide the plantain's arms were spread, The guardian of its native bed."
We venture to assert that if Thomas Moore had written Amir Khan at the age of sixteen, there are thousands by whom it would be read and admired who would hardly condescend to open Miss Davidson's volume; and that too, without being able to assign any other or better reason than that Moore is a distinguished and popular British bard, whereas the other was an obscure country girl, who lived and died in the state of New York.
The lines to the memory of Henry Kirk White, which were composed at thirteen, are much superior to many elegiac stanzas written by poets of some reputation at twenty-five or thirty. Of all her minor pieces however, those which were written at fifteen seem to us to possess the greatest merit, if we except the Coquette, a very spirited production in imitation of the Scottish dialect, composed in her fourteenth year. The following are the two first stanzas:
"I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest, My Ellen's lost for aye; My heart is sair and much distressed, I surely soon must die.
I canna think o' wark at a', My eyes still wander far, _I see her neck like driven snaw, I see her flaxen hair._"
The image of the snowy neck and flaxen hair of the beautiful but unkind fair one, presented so strongly to the rejected lover, as to prevent his performing his daily work, strikes us as highly poetical and true to nature, as we doubt not all genuine lovers will testify. Burns wrote many, very many verses, which were much superior, but Burns wrote some also, which were not so good. Ruth's answer to Naomi, must be allowed, we think, to be a good paraphrase of that most affecting passage of scripture. We must give the whole to the reader.
"Entreat me not, I must not hear, Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear; Thy answer's written deeply now On this warm cheek and clouded brow; {53} 'Tis gleaming o'er this eye of sadness Which only near thee sparkles gladness.
The hearts most dear to us are gone, And thou and I are left alone; Where'er thou wanderest, I will go, I'll follow thee through joy or wo; Shouldst thou to other countries fly, Where'er thou lodgest, there will I.
Thy people shall my people be, And to thy God, I'll bend the knee; Whither thou fliest, will I fly, And where thou diest, I will die; And the same sod which pillows thee Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me."[1]
[Footnote 1: We subjoin the passage of scripture paraphrased by Miss Davidson, and also another paraphrase which has been ascribed to the Hon. R. H. Wilde of Georgia. Our readers can compare and decide between them.
"And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go: and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried."
Nay, do not ask!--entreat not--no! O no! I will not leave thy side, Whither thou goest--I will go-- Where thou abidest--I'll abide.
Through life--in death--my soul to thine Shall cleave as fond, as first it clave-- Thy home--thy people--shall be mine-- Thy God my God--thy grave my grave.]
We present an extract from a piece called "Woman's Love," as a specimen of Miss Davidson's management of blank verse, a form of poetic diction which Montgomery thinks the most unmanageable of any. The fair authoress might not herself have experienced that holy passion, but she certainly knew how deep and imperishable it is when once planted in the female bosom.
"Love is A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart, When felt, as only woman love can feel! Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower Sinks on spring-flowers; deep, as a cave-locked fountain; And changeless as the cypress' green leaves; And like them, sad!--She nourished Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed A passion unconfessed, till he she loved Was wedded to another. Then she grew Moody and melancholy; one alone Had power to soothe her in her wanderings, Her gentle sister;--but that sister died, And the unhappy girl was left alone, A maniac. She would wander far, and shunned Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt Was that dead sister's grave: and that to her Was as a home."
We have italicised such of the lines as we think breathe the air and spirit of genuine poetry. The snow flake has often been used as the emblem of purity; but the snow flake reposing on beds of vernal blossoms, is to us original as well as highly poetical. The "cave-locked fountain" too, with its lone, deep, and quiet waters, seems to us to express with force that profound and melancholy sentiment which the writer intended to illustrate.
We shall conclude our selections with the one addressed to a lady whose singing resembled that of an absent sister.
"Oh! touch the chord yet once again, Nor chide me, though I weep the while; Believe me, that deep, seraph strain Bore with it memory's moonlight smile.
It murmured of an absent friend; The voice, the air, 'twas all her own; And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.
And days and months have darkly passed, Since last I listened to her lay; And sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast, Since then, across my weary way.
Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear, Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathing; Hush, busy memory,--sorrow's tear Will blight the garland thou art wreathing.
'Tis sweet, though sad--yes, I will stay, I cannot tear myself away. I thank thee, lady, for the strain, The tempest of my soul is still; Then touch the chord yet once again, For thou canst calm the storm at will."
We beg the reader to bear it in mind that these are the productions of a young, inexperienced, and almost uneducated girl, and that they are not to be tried by the tests which are usually applied to more matured efforts. In conclusion, we will say in the language of Dr. Morse, her biographer, "that her defects will be perceived to be those of youth and inexperience, while in invention, and in that mysterious power of exciting deep interest, of enchaining the attention, and keeping it alive to the end of the story; in that adaptation of the measure to the sentiment, and in the sudden change of measure to suit a sudden change of sentiment, in wild and romantic description, and in the congruity of the accompaniments to her characters, all conceived with great purity and delicacy, she will be allowed to have discovered uncommon maturity of mind; and her friends to have been warranted in forming very high expectations of her future distinction."
We are pleased to learn that it is in contemplation by Miss Davidson's friends, to publish a new and improved edition of her works, with various additions from her unpublished manuscripts.
THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE; by the author of Pelham, Eugene Aram, &c. New York: Published by Harper & Brothers--1834.
Mr. Bulwer's novels have acquired no inconsiderable degree of popularity in the circles of fashionable literature. Whether they are destined to survive the temporary admiration bestowed on them, is at this time a subject of speculation; but in the next generation, will become matter of fact. We are among those who think that they will quietly glide into that oblivious ocean, which is destined to receive a large proportion of the ever multiplying productions of this prolific age. We do not say this either, in disparagement of many of those labors of the mind which even intrinsic excellence cannot save from perishing. Great and valuable as some of them undoubtedly are, such is the onward march of intellect, and such the endless creations which fancy and genius are continually rearing for man's gratification and improvement,--to say nothing of the almost illimitable progress of science, that posterity will find no room for the thousandth part of our present stock of literature. We do not anticipate that {54} Mr. Bulwer's writings will be among the select few which will outlive the general wreck; because, unless we are much mistaken, he is one of those authors who write more for present than permanent fame. This is emphatically the age of great moral and mental excitability. It is a period of incessant restlessness and activity; and he who would expect to command much attention, must seek to gratify the appetite for novelty and variety, even at the expense of good sense, sound morality and correct taste. We incline to the opinion that Mr. Bulwer has forgotten, that society in the aggregate, frequently resembles the individual man; and that whilst it often experiences paroxysms of unnatural excitement, there are long lucid intervals of returning reason and sober simplicity. The volume before us is not calculated, we think, to leave any lasting impression, either of good or evil. Whilst it certainly abounds in felicitous language, and contains passages of fine sentiment, it is grossly defective both in plot and machinery; and if it were worth while to descend to minute criticism, it would be easy to point out many examples of false morality as well as false taste. Mr. Bulwer seems to have been aware, in his preface, that he was making a bold experiment upon popular favor, and accordingly he claims the reader's "indulgence for the superstitions he has incorporated with his tale--for the floridity of his style, and the redundance of his descriptions." As if somewhat apprehensive, however, that that indulgence might not possibly be granted, he assures the public that "various reasons have conspired to make this the work, above all others that he has written, which has given him the most delight (though not unmixed with melancholy,) in producing, and in which his mind, for the time, has been the most completely absorbed." A popular writer, thus bespeaking the public approbation in advance, by stamping his last production with his own decided preference, could not expect to be treated uncourteously by his readers. In the first sentence of the second chapter too, the author declares as follows: "I wish only for such readers as give themselves heart and soul up to me: if they begin to cavil, I have done with them; their fancy should put itself entirely under my management." Now whether it proceeded from a spirit of perverseness or not, we cannot tell; but we resolved when we read this passage, neither to surrender our heart, fancy or judgment to Mr. Bulwer's guidance. On the contrary, we determined to read the book and decide on its merits, in the spirit of perfect impartiality and entire independence. The story upon which the work is founded--at least that part of it which treats of mortal affairs, consists of the simplest materials. Trevylyan, a gentleman of "a wild, resolute and active nature, who had been thrown upon the world at the age of sixteen, and had passed his youth in alternate pleasure, travel and solitary study," falls in love with Gertrude Vane, a young girl, described as "the loveliest person that ever dawned upon a poet's vision." A fatal disease, "consumption in its most beautiful shape," had set its seal upon her, and yet Trevylyan loved with an irresistible passion. With the consent, rather than by the advice of the faculty and her friends, the young and interesting invalid, attended by her father and lover, goes upon a pilgrimage up the beautiful and romantic Rhine. From that pilgrimage she never returned; but in one of those wild and legendary spots which impart such interest to that celebrated stream--a spot selected by herself as her last grassy couch, she breathed out her gentle spirit, and quietly sunk to her lasting repose. Such is the simple thread upon which Mr. Bulwer has contrived to weave a variety of German legends and fairy fictions, having no necessary connection with the main story, except that the principal episodes were suggested by some remarkable scenery or some castellated ruin on the banks of the Rhine. The underplot, if it may be so called, or the adventures of Nymphalin, queen of the fairies, and her Elfin court, is altogether unworthy of Mr. Bulwer's genius. It is rather a bungling attempt to revive the exploded machinery of supernatural agency; and we moreover do not perceive any possible connection or sympathy between these imaginary beings and the principal personages of the tale. Apart from other considerations, the actions and conversations of these roving elves are destitute of all interest and attraction; and nothing in our eyes appears more preposterous than the introduction of the Lord Treasurer into Queen Nymphalin's train. We always thought that the fairies were mischievous spirits--sometimes a little wicked, and often very benevolent; but never before did we suspect that this ideal population of the world of fancy, manifested any concern in the dry subject of finance, or in the unfairy-like establishment of a regular exchequer. The story of "The Wooing of Master Fox," related for the amusement of Queen Nymphalin, making every allowance for the author's design in introducing it, is to our taste unutterably disgusting and ridiculous.
We have no objection to the occasional use of the fairy superstition in tales of fancy; no more than we have to the frequent classical allusions to heathen mythology which distinguish the best writers. They are pleasing and beautiful illustrations, when happily introduced. But we do protest against lifting the veil from the world of imagination, and investing its shadowy beings with the common place attributes, the vulgar actions and frivolous dialogue of mere mortals. It is in truth dispelling the illusion in which the spirit of poetry delights to indulge. It takes away the most powerful charm from the cool and sequestered grotto, the shady grove or moonlit bower. It vulgarises the world of romance, and reduces the region of mind to a level with brute sense, or even coarser matter.
Condemning as we do, in perfect good faith, these exceptionable portions of Mr. Bulwer's volume, we take pleasure in awarding due praise to some of the legends and stories introduced into the work, and which are for the most part related by Trevylyan for the amusement of Gertrude. Of these, we give the decided preference to "The Brothers" and "The Maid of Malines." The latter indeed, strikes us as so finished an illustration of some of the noble qualities of woman kind, that we have determined to present it entire for the benefit of our readers.
THE MAID OF MALINES.
It was noonday in the town of Malines, or Mechlin, as the English usually term it: the Sabbath bell had summoned the inhabitants to divine worship; and the crowd that had loitered round the Church of St. Rembauld, had gradually emptied itself within the spacious aisles of the sacred edifice.
{55} A young man was standing in the street, with his eyes bent on the ground, and apparently listening for some sound; for, without raising his looks from the rude pavement, he turned to every corner of it with an intent and anxious expression of countenance; he held in one hand a staff, in the other a long slender cord, the end of which trailed on the ground; every now and then he called, with a plaintive voice, "Fido, Fido, come back! Why hast thou deserted me?" Fido returned not: the dog, wearied of confinement, had slipped from the string, and was at play with his kind in a distant quarter of the town, leaving the blind man to seek his way as he might to his solitary inn.
By and by a light step passed through the street, and the young stranger's face brightened--
"Pardon me," said he, turning to the spot where his quick ear had caught the sound, "and direct me, if you are not by chance much pressed for a few moment's time, to the hotel Mortier d'or."
It was a young woman, whose dress betokened that she belonged to the middling class of life, whom he thus addressed. "It is some distance hence, sir," said she, "but if you continue your way straight on for about a hundred yards, and then take the second turn to your right hand--"
"Alas!" interrupted the stranger, with a melancholy smile, "your direction will avail me little; my dog has deserted me, and I am blind!"
There was something in these words, and in the stranger's voice, which went irresistibly to the heart of the young woman. "Pray forgive me," she said, almost with tears in her eyes, "I did not perceive your--" misfortune, she was about to say, but she checked herself with an instinctive delicacy. "Lean upon me, I will conduct you to the door; nay, sir," observing that he hesitated, "I have time enough to spare, I assure you."
The stranger placed his hand on the young woman's arm, and though Lucille was naturally so bashful that even her mother would laughingly reproach her for the excess of a maiden virtue, she felt not the least pang of shame, as she found herself thus suddenly walking through the streets of Malines, alone with a young stranger, whose dress and air betokened him of a rank superior to her own.
"Your voice is very gentle," said he, after a pause, "and that," he added, with a slight sigh, "is the criterion by which I only know the young and the beautiful." Lucille now blushed, and with a slight mixture of pain in the blush, for she knew well that to beauty she had no pretension. "Are you a native of this town?" continued he. "Yes, sir; my father holds a small office in the customs, and my mother and I eke out his salary by making lace. We are called poor, but we do not feel it, sir."
"You are fortunate: there is no wealth like the heart's wealth, content," answered the blind man mournfully.
"And Monsieur," said Lucille, feeling angry with herself that she had awakened a natural envy in the stranger's mind, and anxious to change the subject--"and Monsieur, has he been long at Malines?"
"But yesterday. I am passing through the Low Countries on a tour; perhaps you smile at the tour of a blind man--but it is wearisome even to the blind to rest always in the same place. I thought during church time, when the streets were empty, that I might, by the help of my dog, enjoy safely, at least the air, if not the sight of the town; but there are some persons, methinks, who cannot even have a dog for a friend."
The blind man spoke bitterly,--the desertion of his dog had touched him to the core. Lucille wiped her eyes. "And does Monsieur travel then alone?" said she; and looking at his face more attentively than she had yet ventured to do, she saw that he was scarcely above two-and-twenty. "His father, his mother," she added, with an emphasis on the last word, "are they not with him?"
"I am an orphan," answered the stranger; "and I have neither brother nor sister."
The desolate condition of the blind man quite melted Lucille; never had she been so strongly affected. She felt a strange flutter at the heart--a secret and earnest sympathy, that attracted her at once towards him. She wished that heaven had suffered her to be his sister.
The contrast between the youth and the form of the stranger, and the affliction which took hope from the one, and activity from the other, increased the compassion he excited. His features were remarkably regular, and had a certain nobleness in their outline; and his frame was gracefully and firmly knit, though he moved cautiously and with no cheerful step.
They had now passed into a narrow street leading towards the hotel, when they heard behind them the clatter of hoofs; and Lucille, looking hastily back, saw that a troop of the Belgian horse was passing thro' town.
She drew her charge close by the wall, and trembling with fear for him, she stationed herself by his side. The troop passed at a full trot through the street; and at the sound of their clanging arms, and the ringing hoofs of their heavy chargers, Lucille might have seen, had she looked at the blind man's face, that its sad features kindled with enthusiasm, and his head was raised proudly from its wonted and melancholy bend. "Thank heaven," she said, as the troop had nearly passed them, "the danger is over!" Not so. One of the last two soldiers who rode abreast, was unfortunately mounted on a young and unmanageable horse. The rider's oaths and digging spur only increased the fire and impatience of the charger; he plunged from side to side of the narrow street.
"Gardez vous," cried the horseman, as he was borne on to the place where Lucille and the stranger stood against the wall; "are ye mad--why do you not run?"
"For heaven's sake, for mercy sake, he is blind!" cried Lucille, clinging to the stranger's side.
"Save yourself, my kind guide!" said the stranger. But Lucille dreamt not of such desertion. The trooper wrested the horse's head from the spot where they stood; with a snort, as he felt the spur, the enraged animal lashed out with its hind legs; and Lucille, unable to save both, threw herself before the blind man, and received the shock directed against him; her slight and delicate arm fell shattered by her side--the horseman was borne onward. "Thank God, you are saved!" was poor Lucille's exclamation; and she fell, overcome with pain and terror, into the arms which the stranger mechanically opened to receive her.
"My guide, my friend!" cried he, "you are hurt, you--"
"No, sir," interrupted Lucille, faintly, "I am better, I am well. This arm, if you please--we are not far from your hotel now."
But the stranger's ear, tutored to every inflection of voice, told him at once of the pain she suffered; he drew from her by degrees the confession of the injury she had sustained; but the generous girl did not tell him it had been incurred solely in his protection. He now insisted on reversing their duties, and accompanying her to her home; and Lucille, almost fainting with pain, and hardly able to move, was forced to consent. But a few steps down the next turning stood the humble mansion of her father--they reached it--and Lucille scarcely crossed the threshold, before she sank down, and for some minutes was insensible to pain. It was left to the stranger to explain, and to beseech them immediately to send for a surgeon, "the most skilful--the most practised in town," said he. "See, I am rich, and this is the least I can do to atone to your generous daughter for not forsaking even a stranger in peril."
He held out his purse as he spoke, but the father refused the offer; and it saved the blind man some shame that he could not see the blush of honest resentment with which so poor a species of remuneration was put aside.
The young man staid till the surgeon arrived, till the arm was set; nor did he depart until he had obtained a promise from the mother, that he should learn the next morning how the sufferer had passed the night.
The next morning, indeed, he had intended to quit a {56} town that offers but little temptation to the traveller; but he tarried day after day, until Lucille herself accompanied her mother to assure him of her recovery.
You know, or at least I do, dearest Gertrude, that there is such a thing as love at the first meeting--a secret and unaccountable affinity between persons (strangers before,) which draws them irresistibly together. If there were truth in Plato's beautiful phantasy, that our souls were a portion of the stars, it might be, that spirits thus attracted to each other, have drawn their original light from the same orb; and they thus but yearn for a renewal of their former union. Yet, without recurring to such ideal solutions of a daily mystery, it was but natural that one in the forlorn and desolate condition of Eugene St. Amand, should have felt a certain tenderness for a person who had so generously suffered for his sake.
The darkness to which he was condemned did not shut from his mind's eye the haunting images of ideal beauty; rather, on the contrary, in his perpetual and unoccupied solitude, he fed the reveries of an imagination naturally warm, and a heart eager for sympathy.
He had said rightly that his only test of beauty was in the melody of voice; and never had a softer or a more thrilling tone than that of the young maiden touched upon his ear. Her exclamation, so beautifully denying self, so devoted in its charity, "Thank God, you are saved!" uttered too, in the moment of her own suffering, rang constantly upon his soul, and he yielded, without precisely defining their nature, to vague and delicious sentiments, that his youth had never awakened to till then. And Lucille--the very accident that had happened to her on his behalf, only deepened the interest she had already conceived for one who, in the first flush of youth, was thus cut off from the glad objects of life, and led to a night of years, desolate and alone. There is, to your beautiful and kindly sex, a perpetual and gushing lovingness to protect. This makes them the angels of sickness, the comforters of age, the fosterers of childhood; and this feeling, in Lucille peculiarly developed, had already inexpressibly linked her compassionate nature to the lot of the unfortunate traveller. With ardent affections, and with thoughts beyond her station and her years, she was not without that modest vanity which made her painfully susceptible to her own deficiencies in beauty. Instinctively conscious of how deeply she herself could love, she believed it impossible that she could ever be so loved in return. This stranger, so superior in her eyes to all she had yet seen, was the first out of her own household who had ever addressed her in that voice, which by tones, not words, speaks that admiration most dear to a woman's heart. To him she was beautiful, and her lovely mind spoke out undimmed by the imperfections of her face. Not, indeed, that Lucille was wholly without personal attraction; her light step and graceful form were elastic with the freshness of youth, and her mouth and smile had so gentle and tender an expression, that there were moments when it would not have been the blind only who would have mistaken her to be beautiful. Her early childhood had indeed given the promise of attractions, which the small-pox, that then fearful malady, had inexorably marred. It had not only seared the smooth skin and the brilliant hues, but utterly changed even the character of the features. It so happened that Lucille's family were celebrated for beauty, and vain of that celebrity; and so bitterly had her parents deplored the effects of the cruel malady, that poor Lucille had been early taught to consider them far more grievous than they really were, and to exaggerate the advantages of that beauty, the loss of which was considered by her parents so heavy a misfortune. Lucille too, had a cousin named Julie, who was the wonder of all Malines for her personal perfections; and as the cousins were much together, the contrast was too striking not to occasion frequent mortification to Lucille. But every misfortune has something of a counterpoise; and the consciousness of personal inferiority, had meekened, without souring, her temper--had given gentleness to a spirit that otherwise might have been too high, and humility to a mind that was naturally strong, impassioned, and energetic.
And yet Lucille had long conquered the one disadvantage she most dreaded in the want of beauty. Lucille was never known but to be loved. Wherever came her presence, her bright and soft mind diffused a certain inexpressible charm; and where she was not, a something was missing from the scene which not even Julie's beauty could replace.
"I propose," said St. Amand to Madame le Tisseur, Lucille's mother, as he sat in her little salon,--for he had already contracted that acquaintance with the family which permitted him to be led to their house, to return the visits Madame le Tisseur had made him, and his dog, once more returned a penitent to his master, always conducted his steps to the humble abode, and stopped instinctively at the door,--"I propose," said St. Amand, after a pause, and with some embarrassment, "to stay a little while longer at Malines; the air agrees with me, and I like the quiet of the place; but you are aware, Madame, that at a hotel among strangers, I feel my situation somewhat cheerless. I have been thinking"--St. Amand paused again--"I have been thinking that if I could persuade some agreeable family to receive me as a lodger, I would fix myself here for some weeks. I am easily pleased."
"Doubtless there are many in Malines who would be too happy to receive such a lodger."
"Will you receive me?" said St. Amand, abruptly. "It was of your family I thought."
"Of us? Monsieur is too flattering, but we have scarcely a room good enough for you."
"What difference between one room and another can there be to me? That is the best apartment to my choice in which the human voice sounds most kindly."
The arrangement was made, and St. Amand came now to reside beneath the same roof as Lucille. And was she not happy that he wanted so constant an attendance? was she not happy that she was ever of use? St. Amand was passionately fond of music: he played himself with a skill that was only surpassed by the exquisite melody of his voice; and was not Lucille happy when she sat mute and listening to such sounds as at Malines were never heard before? Was she not happy in gazing on a face to whose melancholy aspect her voice instantly summoned the smile? Was she not happy when the music ceased, and St. Amand called "Lucille?" Did not her own name uttered by that voice, seem to her even sweeter than the music? Was she not happy when they walked out in the still evenings of summer, and her arm thrilled beneath the light touch of one to whom she was so necessary? Was she not proud in her happiness, and was there not something like worship in the gratitude she felt to him, for raising her humble spirit to the luxury of feeling herself loved?
St. Amand's parents were French; they had resided in the neighborhood of Amiens, where they had inherited a competent property, to which he had succeeded about two years previous to the date of my story.
He had been blind from the age of three years. "I know not," said he, as he related these particulars to Lucille one evening when they were alone; "I know not what the earth may be like, or the heaven, or the rivers whose voice at least I can hear, for I have no recollection beyond that of a confused, but delicious blending of a thousand glorious colors--a bright and quick sense of joy--A VISIBLE MUSIC. But it is only since my childhood closed that I have mourned, as I now unceasingly mourn, for the light of day. My boyhood passed in a quiet cheerfulness; the least trifle then could please and occupy the vacancies of my mind; but it was as I took delight in being read to,--as I listened to the vivid descriptions of poetry,--as I glowed at the recital of great deeds,--as I was made acquainted by books, with the energy, the action, the heat, the fervor, the {57} pomp, the enthusiasm of life, that I gradually opened to the sense of all I was forever denied. I felt that I existed, not lived; and that, in the midst of the Universal Liberty, I was sentenced to a prison, from whose blank walls there was no escape. Still, however, while my parents lived, I had something of consolation; at least I was not alone. They died, and a sudden and dread solitude--a vast and empty dreariness settled upon my dungeon. One old servant only, who had nursed me from my childhood, who had known me in my short privilege of light, by whose recollections my mind could grope back its way through the dark and narrow passages of memory, to faint glimpses of the sun, was all that remained to me of human sympathies. It did not suffice, however, to content me with a home where my father and my mother's kind voice were not. A restless impatience, an anxiety to move, possessed me; and I set out from my home, journeying whither I cared not, so that at least I could change an air that weighed upon me like a palpable burthen. I took only this old attendant as my companion; he too died three months since at Bruxelles, worn out with years. Alas! I had forgotten that he was old, for I saw not his progress to decay; and now, save my faithless dog, I was utterly alone, till I came hither and found thee."
Lucille stooped down to caress the dog; she blest the desertion that had led to a friend who never could desert.
But however much and however gratefully St. Amand loved Lucille, her power availed not to chase the melancholy from his brow, and to reconcile him to his forlorn condition.
"Ah, would that I could see thee! Would that I could look upon a face that my heart vainly endeavors to delineate."
"If thou couldst," sighed Lucille, "thou wouldst cease to love me."
"Impossible!" cried St. Amand, passionately; "however the world may find thee, thou wouldst become my standard of beauty, and I should judge not of thee by others, but of others by thee."
He loved to hear Lucille read to him; and mostly he loved the descriptions of war, of travel, of wild adventure, and yet they occasioned him the most pain. Often she paused from the page as she heard him sigh, and felt that she would even have renounced the bliss of being loved by him, if she could have restored to him that blessing, the desire for which haunted him as a spectre.
Lucille's family were Catholic, and, like most in their station, they possessed the superstitions, as well as the devotion of the faith. Sometimes they amused themselves of an evening by the various legends and imaginary miracles of their calendar: and once, as they were thus conversing with two or three of their neighbors, "The Tomb of the Three Kings of Cologne" became the main topic of their wandering recitals. However strong was the sense of Lucille, she was, as you will readily conceive, naturally influenced by the belief of those with whom she had been brought up from her cradle, and she listened to tale after tale of the miracles wrought at the consecrated tomb, as earnestly and undoubtingly as the rest.
And the Kings of the East were no ordinary saints; to the relics of the Three Magi, who followed the Star of Bethlehem, and were the first potentates of the earth who adored its Saviour, well might the pious Catholic suppose that a peculiar power and a healing sanctity would belong. Each of the circle (St. Amand, who had been more than usually silent, and even gloomy during the day, had retired to his apartment, for there were some moments, when in the sadness of his thoughts, he sought that solitude which he so impatiently fled from at others)--each of the circle had some story to relate equally veracious and indisputable, of an infirmity cured, or a prayer accorded, or a sin atoned for at the foot of the holy tomb. One story peculiarly affected Lucille; the narrator, a venerable old man with gray locks, solemnly declared himself a witness of its truth.
A woman at Anvers had given birth to a son, the offspring of an illicit connexion, who came into the world deaf and dumb. The unfortunate mother believed the calamity a punishment for her own sin. "Ah, would," said she, "that the affliction had fallen only upon me! Wretch that I am, my innocent child is punished for my offence!" This idea haunted her night and day: she pined and could not be comforted. As the child grew up, and wound himself more and more round her heart, its caresses added new pangs to her remorse; and at length (continued the narrator) hearing perpetually of the holy fame of the Tomb of Cologne, she resolved upon a pilgrimage barefoot to the shrine. "God is merciful," said she, "and he who called Magdaline his sister, may take the mother's curse from the child." She then went to Cologne; she poured her tears, her penitence, and her prayers, at the sacred tomb. When she returned to her native town, what was her dismay as she approached her cottage to behold it a heap of ruins!--its blackened rafters and yawning casements betokened the ravages of fire. The poor woman sunk upon the ground utterly overpowered. Had her son perished? At that moment she heard the cry of a child's voice, and, lo! her child rushed to her arms, and called her "mother!"
He had been saved from the fire which had broken out seven days before; but in the terror he had suffered, the string that tied his tongue had been loosened; he had uttered articulate sounds of distress; the curse was removed, and one word at least the kind neighbors had already taught him, to welcome his mother's return. What cared she now that her substance was gone, that her roof was ashes; she bowed in grateful submission to so mild a stroke; her prayer had been heard, and the sin of the mother was visited no longer on the child.
I have said, dear Gertrude, that this story made a deep impression upon Lucille. A misfortune so nearly akin to that of St. Amand, removed by the prayer of another, filled her with devoted thoughts, and a beautiful hope. "Is not the tomb still standing?" thought she; "is not God still in heaven? He who heard the guilty, may he not hear the guiltless? Is he not the God of love? Are not the affections the offerings that please him best? and what though the child's mediator was his mother, can even a mother love her child more tenderly than I love Eugene? But if, Lucille, thy prayer be granted, if he recover his sight, thy charm is gone, he will love thee no longer. No matter! be it so; I shall at least have made him happy!"
Such were the thoughts that filled the mind of Lucille; she cherished them till they settled into resolution, and she secretly vowed to perform her pilgrimage of love. She told neither St. Amand nor her parents of her intention; she knew the obstacles such an annunciation would create. Fortunately, she had an aunt settled at Bruxelles, to whom she had been accustomed, once in every year, to pay a month's visit, and at that time she generally took with her the work of a twelve-month's industry, which found a readier sale at Bruxelles than Malines. Lucille and St. Amand were already betrothed; their wedding was shortly to take place; and the custom of the country leading parents, however poor, to nourish the honorable ambition of giving some dowry with their daughters, Lucille found it easy to hide the object of her departure, under the pretence of taking the lace to Bruxelles, which had been the year's labor of her mother and herself; it would sell for sufficient at least to defray the preparations for the wedding.
"Thou art ever right, child," said Madame Le Tisseur; "the richer St. Amand is, why the less oughtest thou to go a beggar to his house."
In fact, the honest ambition of the good people was excited; their pride had been hurt by the envy of the town and the current congratulations on so advantageous a marriage; and they employed themselves in counting up the fortune they should be able to give to their only child, and flattering their pardonable vanity with the notion that there would be no such great {58} disproportion in the connexion after all. They were right, but not in their own view of the estimate; the wealth that Lucille brought was what fate could not lessen,--reverse could not reach,--the ungracious seasons could not blight its sweet harvest,--imprudence could not dissipate,--fraud could not steal one grain from its abundant coffers! Like the purse in the fairy tale, its use was hourly, its treasure inexhaustible!
St. Amand alone was not to be won to her departure; he chafed at the notion of a dowry: he was not appeased even by Lucille's representation, that it was only to gratify and not to impoverish her parents. "And thou, too, canst leave me!" he said, in that plaintive voice which had made his first charm to Lucille's heart. "It is a second blindness."
"But for a few days; a fortnight at most, dearest Eugene!"
"A fortnight! you do not reckon time as the blind do," said St. Amand, bitterly.
"But listen, listen, dear Eugene," said Lucille, weeping. The sound of her sobs restored him to a sense of his ingratitude. Alas, he knew not how much he had to be grateful for. He held out his arms to her; "Forgive me," said he. "Those who can see nature know not how terrible it is to be alone."
"But my mother will not leave you."
"She is not you!"
"And Julie," said Lucille, hesitatingly.
"What is Julie to me?"
"Ah, you are the only one, save my parents, who could think of me in her presence."
"And why, Lucille?"
"Why! She is more beautiful than a dream."
"Say not so. Would I could see, that I might prove to the world how much more beautiful thou art. There is no music in her voice."
The evening before Lucille departed, she sat up late with St. Amand and her mother. They conversed on the future; they made plans; in the wide sterility of the world, they laid out the garden of household love, and filled it with flowers, forgetful of the wind that scatters and the frost that kills. And when, leaning on Lucille's arm, St. Amand sought his chamber, and they parted at his door, which closed upon her, she fell down on her knees at the threshold, and poured out the fulness of her heart in a prayer for his safety, and the fulfilment of her timid hope.
At daybreak she was consigned to the conveyance that performed the short journey from Malines to Bruxelles. When she entered the town, instead of seeking her aunt, she rested at an auberge in the suburbs, and confiding her little basket of lace to the care of its hostess, she set out alone, and on foot, upon the errand of her heart's lovely superstition. And erring though it was, her faith redeemed its weakness--her affection made it even sacred. And well may we believe, that the eye which reads all secrets scarce looked reprovingly on that fanaticism, whose only infirmity was love.
So fearful was she, lest, by rendering the task too easy, she might impair the effect, that she scarcely allowed herself rest or food. Sometimes, in the heat of noon, she wandered a little from the road-side, and under the spreading lime-tree surrendered her mind to its sweet and bitter thoughts; but ever the restlessness of her enterprise urged her on, and faint, weary, and with bleeding feet, she started up and continued her way. At length she reached the ancient city, where a holier age has scarce worn from the habits and aspects of men the Roman trace. She prostrated herself at the tomb of the Magi: she proffered her ardent but humble prayer to Him before whose son those fleshless heads (yet to faith at least preserved) had, nearly eighteen centuries ago, bowed in adoration. Twice every day, for a whole week, she sought the same spot, and poured forth the same prayer. The last day an old priest, who, hovering in the church, had observed her constantly at devotion, with that fatherly interest which the better ministers of the Catholic sect (that sect which has covered the earth with the mansions of charity) feel for the unhappy, approached her as she was retiring with moist and downcast eyes, and saluting her, assumed the privilege of his order, to inquire if there was aught in which his advice or aid could serve. There was something in the venerable air of the old man which encouraged Lucille; she opened her heart to him; she told him all. The good priest was much moved by her simplicity and earnestness. He questioned her minutely as to the peculiar species of blindness with which St. Amand was afflicted; and after musing a little while, he said, "Daughter, God is great and merciful, we must trust in his power, but we must not forget that he mostly works by mortal agents. As you pass through Louvain in your way home, fail not to see there a certain physician, named Le Kain. He is celebrated through Flanders for the cures he has wrought among the blind, and his advice is sought by all classes from far and near. He lives hard by the Hotel de Ville, but any one will inform you of his residence. Stay, my child, you shall take him a note from me; he is a benevolent and kindly man, and you shall tell him exactly the same story (and with the same voice) you have told to me."
So saying the priest made Lucille accompany him to his home, and forcing her to refresh herself less sparingly than she had yet done since she had left Malines, he gave her his blessing, and a letter to Le Kain, which he rightly judged would insure her a patient hearing from the physician. Well known among all men of science was the name of the priest, and a word of recommendation from him went farther, where virtue and wisdom were honored, than the longest letter from the haughtiest Sieur in Flanders.
With a patient and hopeful spirit, the young pilgrim turned her back on the Roman Cologne, and now about to rejoin St. Amand, she felt neither the heat of the sun nor the weariness of the road. It was one day at noon that she again passed through LOUVAIN, and she soon found herself by the noble edifice of the HOTEL DE VILLE. Proud rose its Gothic spires against the sky, and the sun shone bright on its rich tracery and Gothic casements; the broad open street was crowded with persons of all classes, and it was with some modest alarm that Lucille lowered her veil and mingled with the throng. It was easy, as the priest had said, to find the house of Le Kain; she bade the servant take the priest's letter to his master, and she was not long kept waiting before she was admitted to the physician's presence. He was a spare, tall man, with a bald front, and a calm and friendly countenance. He was not less touched than the priest had been by the manner in which she narrated her story, described the affliction of her betrothed, and the hope that had inspired the pilgrimage she had just made.
"Well," said he, encouragingly, "we must see our patient. You can bring him hither to me."
"Ah, sir, I had hoped--" Lucille stopped suddenly.
"What, my young friend?"
"That I might have had the triumph of bringing you to Malines. I know, sir, what you are about to say; and I know, sir, your time must be very valuable; but I am not so poor as I seem, and Eugene, that is Monsieur St. Amand, is very rich, and--and I have at Bruxelles what I am sure is a large sum; it was to have provided for the wedding, but it is most heartily at your service, sir."
Le Kain smiled; he was one of those men who love to read the human heart when its leaves are fair and undefiled; and, in the benevolence of science, he would have gone a longer journey than from Louvain to Malines to give sight to the blind, even had St. Amand been a beggar.
"Well, well," said he, "but you forget that Monsieur St. Amand is not the only one in the world who wants me. I must look at my note-book, and see if I can be spared for a day or two."
So saying he glanced at his memoranda; every thing {59} smiled on Lucille: he had no engagements that his partner could not fulfil, for some days; he consented to accompany Lucille to Malines.
Meanwhile cheerless and dull had passed the time to St. Amand; he was perpetually asking Madame Le Tisseur what hour it was; it was almost his only question. There seemed to him no sun in the heavens, no freshness in the air, and he even forbore his favorite music; the instrument had lost its sweetness since Lucille was not by to listen.
It was natural that the gossips of Malines should feel some envy at the marriage Lucille was about to make with one whose competence report had exaggerated into prodigal wealth, whose birth had been elevated from the respectable to the noble, and whose handsome person was clothed, by the interest excited by his misfortune, with the beauty of Antinous. Even that misfortune, which ought to have levelled all distinctions, was not sufficient to check the general envy; perhaps to some of the dames of Malines blindness in a husband was indeed not the least agreeable of all qualifications! But there was one in whom this envy rankled with a peculiar sting; it was the beautiful, the all-conquering Julie. That the humble, the neglected Lucille should be preferred to her; that Lucille, whose existence was well-nigh forgot beside Julie's, should become thus suddenly of importance; that there should be one person in the world, and that person young, rich, handsome, to whom she was less than nothing, when weighed in the balance with Lucille, mortified to the quick a vanity that had never till then received a wound. "It is well," she would say, with a bitter jest, "that Lucille's lover is blind. To be the one it is necessary to be the other!"
During Lucille's absence she had been constantly in Madame Le Tisseur's house--indeed Lucille had prayed her to be so. She had sought, with an industry that astonished herself, to supply Lucille's place, and among the strange contradictions of human nature, she had learned, during her efforts to please, to love the object of those efforts,--as much at least as she was capable of loving.
She conceived a positive hatred to Lucille; she persisted in imagining that nothing but the accident of first acquaintance had deprived her of a conquest with which she persuaded herself her happiness had become connected. Had St. Amand never loved Lucille, and proposed to Julie, his misfortune would have made her reject him, despite his wealth and his youth; but to be Lucille's lover, and a conquest to be won from Lucille, raised him instantly to an importance not his own. Safe, however, in his affliction, the arts and beauty of Julie fell harmless on the fidelity of St. Amand. Nay, he liked her less than ever, for it seemed an impertinence in any one to counterfeit the anxiety and watchfulness of Lucille.
"It is time, surely it is time, Madame Le Tisseur, that Lucille should return. She might have sold all the lace in Malines by this time," said St. Amand one day, peevishly.
"Patience, my dear friend; patience, perhaps she may return to-morrow."
"To-morrow! let me see, it is only six o'clock, only six, you are sure?"
"Just five, dear Eugene shall I read to you? this is a new book from Paris, it has made a great noise," said Julie.
"You are very kind, but I will not trouble you."
"It is any thing but trouble."
"In a word, then, I would rather not."
"Oh! that he could see," thought Julie; "would I not punish him for this!"
"I hear carriage-wheels; who can be passing this way? Surely it is the voiturier from Bruxelles," said St. Amand, starting up, "it is his day, his hour, too. No, no, it is a lighter vehicle," and he sank down listlessly on his seat.
Nearer and nearer rolled the wheels; they turned the corner; they stopped at the lowly door; and--overcome,--overjoyed, Lucille was clasped to the bosom of St. Amand.
"Stay," said she, blushing, as she recovered her self-possession, and turned to Le Kain, "pray pardon me, sir. Dear Eugene, I have brought with me one who, by God's blessing, may yet restore you to sight."
"We must not be sanguine, my child," said Le Kain; "any thing is better than disappointment."
To close this part of my story, dear Gertrude, Le Kain examined St. Amand, and the result of the examination was a confident belief in the probability of a cure. St. Amand gladly consented to the experiment of an operation; it succeeded--the blind man saw! Oh! what were Lucille's feelings, what her emotion, what her joy, when she found the object of her pilgrimage--of her prayers--fulfilled! That joy was so intense, that in the eternal alterations of human life she might have foretold from its excess how bitter the sorrows fated to ensue.
As soon as by degrees the patient's new sense became reconciled to the light, his first, his only demand was for Lucille. "No, let me not see her alone, let me see her in the midst of you all, that I may convince you that the heart never is mistaken in its instincts." With a fearful, a sinking presentiment, Lucille yielded to the request to which the impetuous St. Amand would hear indeed no denial. The father, the mother, Julie, Lucille, Julie's younger sisters assembled in the little parlor; the door opened, and St. Amand stood hesitating on the threshold. One look around sufficed to him; his face brightened, he uttered a cry of joy. "Lucille! Lucille!" he exclaimed, "It is you, I know it, you only!" He sprang forward, and fell at the feet of Julie!
Flushed, elated, triumphant, Julie bent upon him her sparkling eyes; she did not undeceive him.
"You are wrong, you mistake," said Madame Le Tisseur, in confusion; "that is her cousin Julie, this is your Lucille."
St. Amand rose, turned, saw Lucille, and at that moment she wished herself in her grave. Surprise, mortification, disappointment, almost dismay, were depicted in his gaze. He had been haunting his prison-house with dreams, and, now set free, he felt how unlike they were to the truth. Too new to observation to read the wo, the despair, the lapse and shrinking of the whole frame, that his look occasioned Lucille, he yet felt, when the first shock of his surprise was over, that it was not thus he should thank her who had restored him to sight. He hastened to redeem his error; ah! how could it be redeemed?
From that hour all Lucille's happiness was at an end; her fairy palace was shattered in the dust; the magician's wand was broken up; the Ariel was given to the winds; and the bright enchantment no longer distinguished the land she lived in from the rest of the barren world. It was true that St. Amand's words were kind; it is true that he remembered with the deepest gratitude all she had done in his behalf; it is true that he forced himself again and again to say, "She is my betrothed--my benefactress!" and he cursed himself to think that the feelings he had entertained for her were fled. Where was the passion of his words? where the ardor of his tone? where that play and light of countenance which her step, her voice could formerly call forth? When they were alone he was embarrassed and constrained, and almost cold; his hand no longer sought hers; his soul no longer missed her if she was absent a moment from his side. When in their household circle, he seemed visibly more at ease; but did his eyes fasten upon her who had opened them to the day? did they not wander at every interval with a too eloquent admiration to the blushing and radiant face of the exulting Julie? This was not, you will believe, suddenly perceptible in one day or one week, but every day it was perceptible more and more. Yet still--bewitched, ensnared as St. Amand was--he never perhaps would have been guilty of an infidelity that he strove with the keenest remorse to wrestle against, had it not been for the fatal contrast, at the first moment of his gushing enthusiasm, {60} which Julie had presented to Lucille; but for that he would have formed no previous idea of real and living beauty to aid the disappointment of his imaginings and his dreams. He would have seen Lucille young and graceful, and with eyes beaming affection, contrasted only by the wrinkled countenance and bended frame of her parents, and she would have completed her conquest over him before he had discovered that she was less beautiful than others; nay more--that infidelity never could have lasted above the first few days, if the vain and heartless object of it had not exerted every art, all the power and witchery of her beauty, to cement and continue it. The unfortunate Lucille--so susceptible to the slightest change in those she loved, so diffident of herself, so proud too in that diffidence--no longer necessary, no longer missed, no longer loved--could not bear to endure the galling comparison of the past and present. She fled uncomplainingly to her chamber to indulge her tears, and thus, unhappily, absent as her father generally was during the day, and busied as her mother was either at work or in household matters, she left Julie a thousand opportunities to complete the power she had begun to wield over--no, not the heart!--the senses of St. Amand! Yet, still not suspecting, in the open generosity of her mind, the whole extent of her affliction, poor Lucille buoyed herself at times with the hope that when once married, when once in that intimacy of friendship, the unspeakable love she felt for him could disclose itself with less restraint than at present,--she should perhaps regain a heart which had been so devotedly hers, that she could not think that without a fault it was irrevocably gone: on that hope she anchored all the little happiness that remained to her. And still St. Amand pressed their marriage, but in what different tones! In fact, he wished to preclude from himself the possibility of a deeper ingratitude than that which he had incurred already. He vainly thought that the broken reed of love might be bound up and strengthened by the ties of duty; and at least he was anxious that his hand, his fortune, his esteem, his gratitude, should give to Lucille the only recompense it was now in his power to bestow. Meanwhile, left alone so often with Julie, and Julie bent on achieving the last triumph over his heart, St. Amand was gradually preparing a far different reward, a far different return for her to whom he owed so incalculable a debt.
There was a garden behind the house, in which there was a small arbor, where often in the summer evenings Eugene and Lucille had sat together--hours never to return! One day she heard from her own chamber, where she sat mourning, the sound of St. Amand's flute swelling gently from that beloved and consecrated bower. She wept as she heard it, and the memories that the music bore softening and endearing his image, she began to reproach herself that she had yielded so often to the impulse of her wounded feelings; that, chilled by his coldness, she had left him so often to himself, and had not sufficiently dared to tell him of that affection which, in her modest self-depreciation, constituted her only pretension to his love. "Perhaps he is alone now," she thought; "the tune too is one which he knew that I loved:" and with her heart on her step, she stole from the house and sought the arbor. She had scarce turned from her chamber when the flute ceased; as she neared the arbor she heard voices--Julie's voice in grief, St. Amand's in consolation. A dread foreboding seized her; her feet clung rooted to the earth.
"Yes, marry her--forget me," said Julie; "in a few days you will be another's and I, I--forgive me, Eugene, forgive me that I have disturbed your happiness. I am punished sufficiently--my heart will break, but it will break loving you"--sobs choked Julie's voice.
"Oh, speak not thus," said St. Amand. "I, I only am to blame; I, false to both, to both ungrateful. Oh, from the hour that these eyes opened upon you I drank in a new life; the sun itself to me was less wonderful than your beauty. But--but--let me forget that hour. What do I not owe to Lucille? I shall be wretched--I shall deserve to be so; for shall I not think, Julie, that I have imbittered our life with your ill-fated love? But all that I can give--my hand--my home--my plighted faith--must be hers. Nay, Julie, nay--why that look? could I act otherwise? can I dream otherwise? Whatever the sacrifice, must I not render it? Ah, what do I owe to Lucille, were it only for the thought that but for her I might never have seen thee."
Lucille staid to hear no more; with the same soft step as that which had borne her within hearing of these fatal words, she turned back once more to her desolate chamber.
That evening, as St. Amand was sitting alone in his apartment, he heard a gentle knock at the door. "Come in," he said, and Lucille entered. He started in some confusion, and would have taken her hand, but she gently repulsed him. She took a seat opposite to him, and looking down, thus addressed him:--
"My dear Eugene, that is, Monsieur St. Amand, I have something on my mind that I think it better to speak at once; and if I do not exactly express what I would wish to say, you must not be offended at Lucille; it is not an easy matter to put into words what one feels deeply." Coloring, and suspecting something of the truth, St. Amand would have broken in upon her here; but she, with a gentle impatience, waved him to be silent, and continued:--
"You know that when you once loved me, I used to tell you, that you would cease to do so, could you see how undeserving I was of your attachment? I did not deceive myself, Eugene; I always felt assured that such would be the case, that your love for me necessarily rested on your affliction: but, for all that, I never at least had a dream, or a desire, but for your happiness; and God knows, that if again, by walking bare-footed, not to Cologne, but to Rome--to the end of the world, I could save you from a much less misfortune than that of blindness, I would cheerfully do it; yes, even though I might foretel all the while that, on my return, you would speak to me coldly, think of me lightly, and that the penalty to me would--would be--what it has been!" Here Lucille wiped a few natural tears from her eyes; St. Amand, struck to the heart, covered his face with his hands, without the courage to interrupt her. Lucille continued:--
"That which I foresaw has come to pass: I am no longer to you what I once was, when you could clothe this poor form and this homely face with a beauty they did not possess; you would wed me still, it is true; but I am proud, Eugene, and cannot stoop to gratitude where I once had love. I am not so unjust as to blame you; the change was natural, was inevitable. I should have steeled myself more against it; but I am now resigned; we must part; you love Julie--that too is natural--and she loves you; ah! what also more probable in the course of events? Julie loves you, not yet, perhaps, so much as I did, but then she has not known you as I have, and she, whose whole life has been triumph, cannot feel the gratitude I felt at fancying myself loved; but this will come; God grant it! Farewell, then, for ever, dear Eugene; I leave you when you no longer want me; you are now independent of Lucille; wherever you go, a thousand hereafter can supply my place;--farewell!"
She rose, as she said this, to leave the room; but St. Amand seizing her hand, which she in vain endeavored to withdraw from his clasp, poured forth incoherently, passionately, his reproaches on himself, his eloquent persuasions against her resolution.
"I confess," said he, "that I have been allured for a moment; I confess that Julie's beauty made me less sensible to your stronger, your holier, oh! far, far holier title to my love! But forgive me, dearest Lucille; already I return to you, to all I once felt for you; make me not curse the blessing of sight that I owe to you. You must not leave me; never can we two part; try me, only try me, and if ever, hereafter, my heart {61} wander from you, then, Lucille, leave me to my remorse!"
Even at that moment Lucille did not yield; she felt that his prayer was but the enthusiasm of the hour; she felt that there was a virtue in her pride; that to leave him was a duty to herself. In vain he pleaded; in vain were his embraces, his prayers; in vain he reminded her of their plighted troth, of her aged parents, whose happiness had become wrapped in her union with him; "How, even were it as you wrongly believe, how in honor to them can I desert you, can I wed another?"
"Trust that, trust all to me," answered Lucille; "your honor shall be my care, none shall blame you; only do not let your marriage with Julie be celebrated here before their eyes; that is all I ask, all they can expect. God bless you! do not fancy I shall be unhappy, for whatever happiness the world gives you, shall I not have contributed to bestow it?--and with that thought, I am above compassion."
She glided from his arms, and left him to a solitude more bitter even than that of blindness; that very night Lucille sought her mother; to her she confided all. I pass over the reasons she urged, the arguments she overcame; she conquered rather than convinced, and leaving to Madame Le Tisseur the painful task of breaking to her father her unalterable resolution, she quitted Malines the next morning, and with a heart too honest to be utterly without comfort, paid that visit to her aunt which had been so long deferred.
The pride of Lucille's parents prevented them from reproaching St. Amand. He did not bear, however, their cold and altered looks; he left their house; and though for several days he would not even see Julie, yet her beauty and her art gradually resumed their empire over him. They were married at Courtroi, and, to the joy of the vain Julie, departed to the gay metropolis of France. But before their departure, before his marriage, St. Amand endeavored to appease his conscience, by purchasing for Monsieur Le Tisseur, a much more lucrative and honorable office than that he now held. Rightly judging that Malines could no longer be a pleasant residence for them, and much less for Lucille, the duties of the post were to be fulfilled in another town; and knowing that Monsieur Le Tisseur's delicacy would revolt at receiving such a favor from his hands, he kept the nature of his negociation a close secret, and suffered the honest citizen to believe that his own merits alone had entitled him to so unexpected a promotion.
Time went on. This quiet and simple history of humble affections took its date in a stormy epoch of the world--the dawning Revolution of France. The family of Lucille had been little more than a year settled in their new residence, when Dumouriez led his army into the Netherlands. But how meanwhile had that year passed for Lucille? I have said that her spirit was naturally high; that, though so tender, she was not weak; her very pilgrimage to Cologne alone, and at the timid age of seventeen, proved that there was a strength in her nature no less than a devotion in her love. The sacrifice she had made brought its own reward. She believed St. Amand was happy, and she would not give way to the selfishness of grief; she had still duties to perform; she could still comfort her parents, and cheer their age; she could still be all the world to them; she felt this, and was consoled. Only once during the year had she heard of Julie; she had been seen by a mutual friend at Paris, gay, brilliant, courted, and admired; of St. Amand she heard nothing.
My tale, dear Gertrude, does not lead me through the harsh scenes of war. I do not tell you of the slaughter and the siege, and the blood that inundated those fair lands, the great battle-field of Europe. The people of the Netherlands in general were with the cause of Dumouriez, but the town in which Le Tisseur dwelt offered some faint resistance to his arms. Le Tisseur himself, despite his age, girded on his sword; the town was carried, and the fierce and licentious troops of the conqueror poured, flushed with their easy victory, through its streets. Le Tisseur's house was filled with drunken and rude troopers; Lucille herself trembled in the fierce gripe of one of those dissolute soldiers, more bandit than soldier, whom the subtle Dumouriez had united to his army, and by whose blood he so often saved that of his nobler band; her shrieks, her cries were vain, when suddenly the reeking troopers gave way; "the Captain! brave Captain!" was shouted forth; the insolent soldier, felled by a powerful arm, sank senseless at the feet of Lucille; and a glorious form, towering above its fellows, even through its glittering garb, even in that dreadful hour remembered at a glance by Lucille, stood at her side; her protector, her guardian! thus once more she beheld St. Amand!
The house was cleared in an instant, the door barred. Shouts, groans, wild snatches of exulting song, the clang of arms, the tramp of horses, the hurrying footsteps, the deep music, sounded loud, and blended terribly without; Lucille heard them not; she was on that breast which never should have deserted her.
Effectually to protect his friends, St. Amand took up his quarters at their house; and for two days he was once more under the same roof as Lucille. He never recurred voluntarily to Julie; he answered Lucille's timid inquiry after her health briefly, and with coldness, but he spoke with all the enthusiasm of a long pent and ardent spirit of the new profession he had embraced. Glory seemed now to be his only mistress, and the vivid delusion of the first bright dreams of the revolution filled his mind, broke from his tongue, and lighted up those dark eyes which Lucille had redeemed to day.
She saw him depart at the head of his troop; she saw his proud crest glancing in the sun; she saw that his last glance reverted to her, where she stood at the door; and as he waved his adieu, she fancied that there was on his face that look of deep and grateful tenderness which reminded her of the one bright epoch of her life.
She was right; St. Amand had long since in bitterness repented of a transient infatuation, had long since discovered the true Florimel from the false, and felt that, in Julie, Lucille's wrongs were avenged. But in the hurry and heat of war he plunged that regret--the keenest of all--which imbodies the bitter words, "TOO LATE!"
Years passed away, and in the resumed tranquillity of Lucille's life the brilliant apparition of St. Amand appeared as something dreamt of, not seen. The star of Napoleon had risen above the horizon; the romance of his early career had commenced; and the campaign of Egypt had been the herald of those brilliant and meteoric successes which flashed forth from the gloom of the Revolution of France.
You are aware, dear Gertrude, how many in the French as well as the English troops returned home from Egypt, blinded with the ophthalmia of that arid soil. Some of the young men in Lucille's town, who had joined Napoleon's army, came back, darkened by that fearful affliction, and Lucille's alms, and Lucille's aid, and Lucille's sweet voice were ever at hand for those poor sufferers, whose common misfortune touched so thrilling a cord of her heart.
Her father was now dead, and she had only her mother to cheer amid the ills of age. As one evening they sat at work together, Madame Le Tisseur said, after a pause--
"I wish, dear Lucille, thou couldst be persuaded to marry Justin; he loves thee well, and now that thou art yet young, and hast many years before thee, thou shouldst remember that when I die thou wilt be alone."
"Ah cease, dearest mother, I never can marry now, and as for love--once taught in the bitter school in which I have learned the knowledge of myself--I cannot be deceived again."
"My Lucille, you do not know yourself; never was {62} woman loved, if Justin does not love you; and never did lover feel with more real warmth how worthily he loved."
And this was true; and not of Justin alone, for Lucille's modest virtues, her kindly temper, and a certain undulating and feminine grace, which accompanied all her movements, had secured her as many conquests as if she had been beautiful. She had rejected all offers of marriage with a shudder; without even the throb of a flattered vanity. One memory, sadder, was also dearer to her than all things; and something sacred in its recollections made her deem it even a crime to think of effacing the past by a new affection.
"I believe," continued Madame Le Tisseur, angrily, "that thou still thinkest fondly of him from whom only in the world thou couldst have experienced ingratitude."
"Nay mother," said Lucille, with a blush and a slight sigh, "Eugene is married to another."
While thus conversing, they heard a gentle and timid knock at the door--the latch was lifted. "This" said the rough voice of a commissaire of the town--"this, monsieur, is the house of Madame Le Tisseur, and--voila mademoiselle!" A tall figure, with a shade over his eyes, and wrapped in a long military cloak, stood in the room. A thrill shot across Lucille's heart. He stretched out his arms; "Lucille," said that melancholy voice, which had made the music of her first youth--"where art thou, Lucille; alas! she does not recognize St. Amand."
Thus was it, indeed. By a singular fatality, the burning suns and the sharp dust of the plains of Egypt had smitten the young soldier, in the flush of his career, with a second--and this time, with an irremediable--blindness! He had returned to France to find his hearth lonely; Julie was no more--a sudden fever had cut her off in the midst of youth; and he had sought his way to Lucille's house, to see if one hope yet remained to him in the world!
And when, days afterward, humbly and sadly he re-urged a former suit, did Lucille shut her heart to its prayer? Did her pride remember its wound--did she revert to his desertion--did she say to the whisper of her yearning love--"thou hast been before forsaken?" That voice and those darkened eyes pleaded to her with a pathos not to be resisted; "I am once more necessary to him," was all her thought--"if I reject him, who will tend him?" In that thought was the motive of her conduct; in that thought gushed back upon her soul all the springs of checked, but unconquered, unconquerable love! In that thought she stood beside him at the altar, and pledged, with a yet holier devotion than she might have felt of yore, the vow of her imperishable truth.
And Lucille found, in the future, a reward which the common world could never comprehend. With his blindness returned all the feelings she had first awakened in St. Amand's solitary heart; again he yearned for her step--again he missed even a moment's absence from his side--again her voice chased the shadow from his brow--and in her presence was a sense of shelter and of sunshine. He no longer sighed for the blessing he had lost; he reconciled himself to fate, and entered into that serenity of mood which mostly characterizes the blind. Perhaps, after we have seen the actual world, and experienced its hollow pleasures, we can resign ourselves the better to its exclusion; and as the cloister which repels the ardor of our hope is sweet to our remembrance, so the darkness loses its terror when experience has wearied us with the glare and travail of the day. It was something, too, as they advanced in life, to feel the chains that bound him to Lucille strengthening daily, and to cherish in his overflowing heart the sweetness of increasing gratitude; it was something that he could not see years wrinkle that open brow, or dim the tenderness of that touching smile; it was something that to him she was beyond the reach of time, and preserved to the verge of a grave (which received them both within a few days of each other,) in all the bloom of her unwithering affection--in all the freshness of a heart that never could grow old!
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SONG--By the Author of Vyvyan.
On the brow of the mountain The grey mists darkle-- On the wave of the fountain Star images sparkle-- Wild lights o'er the meadow Are fitfully gleaming-- In the hill's dark shadow A spirit is dreaming. The birds and the flowers With closed eyes are sleeping, All hushed are the bowers Where glow-worms are creeping-- There's quiet in heaven, There's peace to the billow-- A blessing seems given To all--save my pillow. Alas! do I wonder I too cannot sleep, Like the calm waves yonder, And dream all as deep?-- There's beauty beside me, A love-heaving breast-- Ah! my very joys chide me, And rob me of rest.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
LINES ON FINDING A BILLET FROM AN EARLY FRIEND AMONG SOME OLD PAPERS.
I gaze on this discolored sheet Which time has tinged with many a stain, And sigh to think his course should bring To nought, that friendship nursed in vain. Here in your well known hand I see My name, with terms endearing traced, And vows of firm fidelity, Which other objects soon effaced. Strange does it seem, that in these words A dead affection I should find, As if some early buried friend Resumed his place among his kind. Yes--after many a chilling year Of coldness and of alter'd feeling, This tatter'd messenger is here, Worlds of forgotten thought revealing. As once my faith was purely thine, For thee my blood I would have pour'd As freely as the rich red wine We pledged around the jovial board. It seem'd that thou wert thus to me, Loyal and true as thou didst swear: I knew not then, as now I know, That oaths are but impassion'd air. And even now, a doubt that they Were falsehoods all, will cross my brain: That thought alone I seek to quell, That thought alone could give me pain. To be forgotten has no sting-- For friendships every day grow cold; But 'tis a wounding thought, that I Have purchased dross, and paid in gold. Tho' thou hast changed, as worldlings change Amid the haunts of sordid men, I cannot bid my feelings range-- But cling to what I deem'd thee then.
S.
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For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE CEMETERY.--From the Russian.
FIRST VOICE.
How sad, how frightful the abode, How dread the silence of the tomb! There all surrounding objects speak The haunt of terror and of gloom-- And nought but tempests' horrid howl we hear, And bones together rattling on the bier!
SECOND VOICE.
How peaceful, tranquil is the tomb! How calm, how deep is its repose! There flow'rets wild more sweetly bloom, There zephyr's breath more softly flows; And there the nightingale and turtle-dove Their notes pour forth of happiness and love.
FIRST VOICE.
Against that dark sepulchral mound, Funereal crows their pinions beat; There dens of ravenous wolves are found, And there the vulture's foul retreat; The earth around with greedy claws they tear, Whilst serpents hiss and poison all the air.
SECOND VOICE.
There, when the shades of evening fall, The sportive hares their gambols keep; Or, fearless of the huntsman's call, Upon the verdant herbage sleep; While midst the foliage of the o'erhanging boughs The feathered tribe in slumbers soft repose.
FIRST VOICE.
Around that dank and humid spot A noisome vapor ever clings, Exhaled from heaps which there to rot Death with untiring labor brings; Devoid of leaves the trees their branches spread, And every plant seems withering, or dead.
SECOND VOICE.
In what soft accents whispers there The evening breeze about the tomb, Diffusing through the balmy air Of countless flowers the rich perfume, And speaking of a place of peace and rest, Where e'er mid breathing fragrance dwell the blessed!
FIRST VOICE.
When to this dismal vale of tears, The pilgrim comes with weary pace, O'erpowered by appalling fears, In vain his steps he would retrace; Urged onwards by a hand unseen, unknown, He's headlong in the wreck-strewed torrent thrown.
SECOND VOICE.
Worn out by life's sad pilgrimage, Man here at length his staff lays down-- Here feels no more the tempest's rage, Nor dreads the heav'ns impending frown-- Reposes from his toil in slumbers deep, And sleeps of ages the eternal sleep!
EDITORIAL REMARKS.
We flatter ourselves that our patrons will not be displeased with the feast which we have set before them in the present number of the Messenger. We have not commenced with the egg and ended with the apple, (ab ovo usque ad malum,) according to the ancient custom; nor placed the substantials before the dessert, as in modern entertainments; but have rather chosen to mingle them without order or arrangement,--that our guests may partake as their respective tastes and inclinations may dictate. The scientific reader will be attracted by the communications of Dr. POWELL, and PETER A. BROWNE, Esq. of Philadelphia. By the former gentleman, who is now actively engaged in geological and antiquarian researches in the western country, we are kindly promised occasional aid; and, to the latter distinguished individual, we owe our thanks for the warm interest he has evinced in our infant enterprize.
Of Mr. WIRT'S letter, it would be superfluous to speak, more especially as it is accompanied by some excellent remarks by a highly intelligent friend,--himself destined to become an ornament to the profession of which he speaks.
The general reader cannot fail to be pleased with many, if not all the communications which are inserted. In the article headed "Example is better than Precept," he will recognize an elegant and vigorous pen;--and, in the "Recollections of Chotank," it will not be difficult to perceive that the hand employed in describing the generous customs and proverbial hospitality of that ancient portion of our state,--is one of uncommon skill in the art and beauty of composition. The article from the Petersburg Intelligencer, entitled an "Extract from a Novel that never will be published," (but which we hope will be published)--though not expressly written for the "Messenger," will be new to most of our readers. If we mistake not, the writer has furnished strong evidence of talent in a particular department of literature, which needs only to be cultivated in order to attain a high degree of success.
The poetical contributions, which are entirely original in the present number, whilst they do not need our eulogy, we cannot permit to pass without some special notice at our hands. The "Power of Faith" will not fail to attract the lover of genuine poetry, especially if his heart be warmed with christian zeal. It is written by a gentleman whose modesty is as great as his merit; and whose writings, both in prose and verse, will do honor to his native state. The sprightly effusion among the prose articles which is headed "Sally Singleton," is from the same hand. Of "Death among the Trees," it would be unnecessary to speak, as it will be readily recognized and admired, as the production of a distinguished female writer already known to fame. We take pleasure in placing in the same company two other charming effusions, by writers of the same gentle sex, whose assistance in our literary labors we shall always be proud to receive. We allude to the "Address of the Genius of Columbia to her Native Muse," and the "Lines to an Officer of the United States Navy, by E. A. S." The "Sonnet, written on the Blue Ridge," and the "Stanzas, composed at the White Sulphur Springs of Virginia," are both the productions of the same superior mind. There is not only decided power, but a most attractive pathos and bewitching melancholy in the two {64} productions referred to. We hope that the author will continue to adorn our columns with the offspring of his gifted muse. The author of "Lines on a Billet from an Early Friend," will always be a welcome guest at our literary table. We know him as a gentleman of fine taste and varied endowments. The "Cemetery" is from the pen of a young Philadelphian of fine talents. He need not at any time apprehend exclusion from our columns.
If we have chosen to speak last of the author of "Musings," it is not because he is least in our estimation. On the contrary, we sincerely esteem him as among the favored few, to whom it is given,---if they themselves will it,--to reach the highest honors, and the most enduring rewards, in the empire of poesy. The beautiful and graceful picture of Venice, presented in our present number,--of Venice despoiled of her ancient glory--yet still glorious in ruin,--will command, if we mistake not, general admiration. Successful as the author always is, in his light and fugitive pieces, he gives evidence of a power to grasp the highest themes, and to sport with familiar ease in the least accessible regions of fancy. Why does he not seize the lyre at once, and pour forth a song which shall add to his country's honor, and insure for himself a chaplet of renown? Why does he not at once take rank with the HALLECKS, the BRYANTS and PERCIVALS, of a colder clime? He is every way qualified to do it.
To our numerous correspondents and contributors, whose favors have not yet appeared in print,--we owe our acknowledgments, and in some instances an apology. Our space is exceedingly disproportioned to the quantity of matter which we have on hand; and, of course, we are driven to the painful, and rather invidious task of selection. We have many articles actually in type, which we are necessarily obliged to exclude from the present number. Among them may be enumerated "A Scene in Genoa, by an American Tourist," the "Grave Seekers," and other fine specimens of poetry. The "Reporter's Story, or the Importance of a Syllable," "The Cottage in the Glen,"--the poems from Louisa and Pittsylvania, and from various other quarters, shall all receive the earliest possible attention. The high claims of our correspondents in Mobile and Tuscaloosa in the state of Alabama, shall also be attended to; and, we hope that others in distant states, will not deem themselves slighted if not now particularly enumerated.
The "Eulogy on Lafayette," transmitted from France, and handed over to us by a friend, shall appear in the next number.
We have read with pleasure, the love tale composed by an accomplished young lady in one of the upper counties; and, whilst we do not hesitate to render a just tribute to the delicacy of sentiment and glowing fancy which distinguish her pages, candor compels us to urge one objection, which we fear is insurmountable. The story is wrought up with materials derived from English character and manners; and, we have too many thousands of similar fictions issuing from the British press, to authorize the belief that another of the same class will be interesting to an American reader. We should like to see our own writers confine their efforts to native subjects--to throw aside the trammels of foreign reading, and to select their themes from the copious materials which every where abound in our own magnificent country.
For a similar reason, our friend from Caroline must excuse us for declining to insert his sketches. We have no "dilapidated castles," nor any "last heirs of Ardendale," in our plain republican land.
Neither can we insert in our pages (though we should like to oblige our Essex correspondent,) any thing which bears the slightest resemblance to a fairy tale. We prefer treading upon earthly ground, and dealing with mortal personages.
To our highly respected correspondent, who addressed a letter to the publisher in June last, from Prince Edward, we take this opportunity to say, that our columns shall be freely open to discussions in behalf of the interests of education. We conceive that the cause of literature is intimately connected with it; and we have it in contemplation to present ere long, to the public, some candid views, in regard to the policy heretofore pursued in the Councils of our State, on this interesting subject. We are enemies to every system founded upon favoritism and monopoly; and we are advocates for the equal application of those pecuniary resources which the bounty of the state has dedicated to the cause of education. We have no idea that the Literary Fund, the common property of us all, ought to be so managed as to defeat the purposes of its founders; in other words, that it should be so wrested from the original design of its creation, as to benefit only two classes of society--the highest and the lowest,--the extremes of wealth and indigence,--whilst the great mass of the community are excluded from all advantages to be derived from it. This system may suit particular individuals, and may subserve particular ends; but it is at war with the best interests of the state, and ought to be exposed, so far as the honorable weapons of truth and justice shall be able to expose it.
The suggestions of our highly intelligent friend from South Carolina, who we presume is a temporary resident in one of the northern states, are entitled to much respect and consideration. We quote the following just sentiments from his letter:
"American literature, although increasing, is still at an immense distance in rear of that of England, and Germany and France. And why? It is owing entirely to the divided attention of our literary characters. However profound and capacious their minds--and however great their powers of thought, and brilliant and forcible those of expression, it is impossible for them to succeed, at the same time, in every department of knowledge. No man can distinguish himself in any one pursuit, when his mind is applied to a dozen. Let him bend his faculties upon a single object; and with industry and perseverance, he will assuredly secure its attainment. Among us, we have no professed students, whose lives are devoted to the acquisition and development of learning. All men of talents rush early into the absorbing pursuits of politics; and together with providing the means of support, continue in them for life. So long as this is the case, it cannot be expected of us to present eminent men, in any way calculated to compete with those of the Old World.
"It would be a useful and an ennobling task for some one, well qualified to examine the subject in all its bearings, to offer an expose of the various causes for the low ebb at which our national literature now stands, and the means by which they might be subverted."
We should be much gratified if some one of our many intelligent subscribers would furnish us an essay upon this interesting subject. None would be more likely to present it, in some of its strongest lights, than the writer of the letter from which we have quoted.
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SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
VOL. I.] RICHMOND, NOVEMBER 1834. [NO. 3.
T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.
The Publisher and Proprietor, has made such arrangements for the management of the Editorial Department, as he hopes will be satisfactory to his patrons. If the circulation of the "Messenger" continues to increase, he has it in contemplation not only to secure regular able contributions, but also to embellish some of his monthly numbers with handsome lithographic drawings and engravings; but the cost cannot be prudently incurred without an enlargement of his list. He therefore hopes that such of his friends as feel an interest in the successful prosecution of this first serious attempt to establish a literary periodical south of the Potomac, will aid him in extending its circulation--as the best means of ensuring its continuance and utility. If each of his subscribers would only procure an additional one, the work would not only be firmly established but greatly increased in value. The Publisher avails himself of this opportunity to inform the correspondent of the Portland Advertiser that the latter is mistaken in respect to the place of his nativity. The Publisher did once reside in the city of Boston, and can freely bear testimony to the high character, the generous feelings and the noble accomplishments of its citizens--but he was only a sojourner among them; having been born, and for the most part reared in the Ancient Dominion. If he were not a full blooded Tuckahoe Virginian, he would like to be a Bostonian.
All communications of every kind must be addressed to T. W. White, Publisher and Proprietor.
The issuing of the present number has been delayed in consequence of the change to a monthly instead of a semi-monthly publication. The Publisher hopes that the change will be agreeable to his patrons. He is firmly persuaded of its expediency in various respects.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY
And Present Condition of Tripoli, with some accounts of the other Barbary States.
No. I.
Washington City, November, 1834.
Agreeably to my promise, I send you the sheets containing Sketches of the History and present condition of Tripoli, with some account of the other States of Barbary which may perhaps be found worthy of insertion in the "SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER." They are the fruits of researches made for my amusement, into the history of those countries, and to which I was led by information accidentally obtained respecting the present condition of affairs in Tripoli.
The north of Africa has so long remained in comparative obscurity, exercising little or no influence in the grand game of national contests, which forms the subject of our most interesting modern histories, that works relating to it are few in number, and generally bear unequivocal marks of the ignorance or prejudice of the writers. For this reason, it is difficult to obtain a correct statement of facts, and almost always impossible to arrive at motives; persons therefore who estimate the propriety of labor, by calculating the value of its produce, would easily be diverted from such researches, although they might not object to profit by their results.
I have endeavored to arrange into a regular series, the facts thus collected, passing lightly over those which are the most generally known, and introducing occasionally a few observations, which will not I hope be considered obtrusive. Yet I fear that I shall not succeed in communicating any interest to the pages of your periodical; the details of selfish intrigue, murder and treachery, never relieved by incidents springing from generous motives, which constitute the history of the north African nations, are, I must confess, more likely to excite disgust than pleasurable emotions; still they exhibit man as he is, without the light of civilization, or the restraints of moral duty; and may serve to attach us still more strongly to those social and political institutions, without which a similar state of things might exist among ourselves.
I am, sir, &c. R. G.
The countries lying on the southern shore of the Mediterranean, and usually denominated the Barbary States, have for many ages been almost forgotten by the christian world, or only remembered as the abode of pirates and ruffians. The maritime powers of Europe seem however at length to have recollected, that at a short distance from them, are territories of great extent and fertility, capable of producing most of the articles now obtained, by means of long and dangerous voyages, from the East and West Indies, and offering every facility for commercial intercourse, with the countless nations inhabiting the vast continent of Africa. These territories are, it is true, already inhabited by people living under acknowledged governments; but a continued course of misconduct, which experience has shewn to be incorrigible, has caused them to be regarded as completely out of the pale of civilization; and if they retain their independence much longer, it will be rather from jealousy among their powerful neighbors than from any respect for their claims to nationality.
The French have already set the example, by the conquest of the principal places on the coast of Algiers, and although they have as yet penetrated but a short distance into the interior, there can be no doubt that steady and well directed efforts, such as they are now pursuing, must eventually secure to them the possession of a large and valuable tract. The British have indeed protested strongly against the retention of these conquests, but never, that we have heard, on the grounds of injustice to the vanquished party.
Tunis, the next in power as in situation to Algiers, would be even a more important acquisition in a political or commercial point of view, than Algiers; but it would not probably be reduced without an immense expenditure of blood and treasure; for its resources are comparatively great, and its government efficient and well organised. Besides which, it has not of late afforded any cause for dissatisfaction, having yielded with a good grace to the necessity of abandoning piracy, and evinced a disposition to seek for wealth, by the surer means of industry and commerce.
Tripoli, the other and least important of the States of Barbary, had, until lately, pursued a course similar to that of Tunis, and its condition was highly prosperous; it was in fact the first to desist from piratical cruises, for which the world is indebted in a great measure to the efforts of the United States, during the years 1803 and 4. But dissensions in the family of the sovereign have at length produced a civil war, in which the foreign residents suffer as well as the natives; and thus have motives, at least specious, for foreign interference, been given to the two powers which divide between them the empire of the Mediterranean. The French, as usual, took the lead, by sending a squadron to Tripoli, which in 1828 dictated the terms of the redress to be made to their citizens; and they have since that period, by the aid given indirectly to one of the contending parties, obtained a degree of ascendancy which has excited the jealousy of Great Britain.
These circumstances induced inquiries into the present condition of Tripoli, which naturally led to others respecting its past history and that of the neighboring states; and the results being considered interesting, have been thrown together in the following form.
* * * * *
The north-western part of the African continent is traversed by a lofty and extensive mountain range, which is known to us by its classic name of ATLAS. On the northern and western sides, these ridges extend to the sea, forming by their projections numerous capes and promontories, which have been the dread of navigators in every age. On the south, they in many places disappear as abruptly in the great ocean of sand called Zahara, or the Desert, which stretches across the continent, from the Atlantic to the valley of the Nile, and the shores of the Mediterranean; the descent is, however, generally gradual, leaving tracts of productive soil between the steeps and the desert; these tracts, though not adapted for the growth of grain, are so highly favorable to the Palm, that they are known by the name of Bilad-oul-jerrid, or the Country of Dates.
The mountains are highest and most continuous in the west; towards the east they become gradually lower, and there are many breaks in the chain, through which the sand makes its way from the desert; at length they disappear entirely beyond the great bend which the coast of the Mediterranean makes to the southward near Tripoli; and the sand having no barrier to check its advances, is rolled by the prevailing southerly winds to the shores of the sea.
Thus bounded and cut off from other habitable countries by sea and by sand, the region of the Atlas may be considered as one vast island; and these circumstances of its situation should ever be borne in mind, in moral or political speculations concerning it. Hence it was, that civilization did not gradually overspread it from the east, and that it could only be colonized by maritime powers; that neither the Egyptians, the Persians, nor the Macedonians effected its conquest, as they neither possessed adequate fleets, nor troops accustomed to the peculiar difficulties and dangers of the desert; and that the Arabs alone, a people bred among trackless wastes of sand, ventured to invade it without assistance from the sea. Indeed the little that is known of the geology of northern Africa, encourages the supposition that at some past period this country was encircled by water; and ingenious attempts have been made to prove that it was in reality the famed island of Atlantis, which was vainly sought by the ancient navigators in the ocean beyond the Pillars of Hercules.
The climate and soil of these countries are various, as may be suspected from their situation and the inequalities of their surface. Of the interior we know but little, and deductions from facts must supply the place of observation. On some of the mountains the snow remains during nearly the whole year, while the valleys and plains have yielded sugar, coffee and other productions, which require regular and intense heat. Grain is raised abundantly in the west, and the olives, grapes and figs of Barbary have been celebrated at all times. Of its general fertility, the immense population which it formerly supported is a sufficient evidence, while the athletic forms of the inhabitants prove its salubrity. But few rivers flow from the interior into the sea, and the largest streams are said to proceed from the southern sides of the mountains, whence they are discharged into lakes or dispersed in the sand.
The coasts, as already observed, are precipitous and dangerous, particularly in autumn, during the prevalence of northerly winds; they are however free from shoals and other hidden difficulties, and have many ports which are safe and easy of access, while others might be rendered so by art. It is likewise certain, that many of the existing obstacles to the navigation would disappear, if a proper survey were made, and lighthouses were established where requisite; for the charts now in use are very defective, and no provisions whatever are made by the governments of the country; this, however, there is reason to believe, will ere long be corrected.
The superficial extent of Barbary cannot be as yet calculated; we know that it has coasts of five or six hundred miles on the Atlantic, and of about fifteen hundred on the Mediterranean; but the breadth between the sea and the desert varies considerably, and is no where correctly laid down. It is probably greatest in the vicinity of the Atlantic and in Tunis, where it may be one hundred and fifty miles; in Algiers, Shaler considers it generally to be about sixty miles; but Tripoli is merely a narrow strip of soil, on the Mediterranean, in many places traversed by rocky spurs from the mountains, and tracts of sand from the desert.
The materials for the early history of this country are very imperfect; we possess no works of ancient native writers, and the accounts from which all our information must be drawn, appear in the form of episode, in those of Greek and Roman historians. It seems to have been originally inhabited by fierce and intractable tribes, of which those most advanced in civilization, had only reached the pastoral state. Herodotus gives us the names of many of these tribes, which it is now useless to enumerate; those of the eastern part were comprehended by the Greeks under the general name of Nomades, or wanderers, which, unknown among themselves, was afterwards converted by the Romans into Numidians, and became their distinctive national {67} appellation; the Mauri occupied the western part, and this term, (in English, Moors,) is now applied by Europeans to all the natives of Barbary.
The enterprising Greeks and Phoenicians did not allow the advantages offered by northern Africa to be neglected, and they established colonies on its coast, which attained a high degree of prosperity. The Greeks made their settlements on the sterile shore now forming the eastern part of Tripoli, and lying immediately south of Peloponnesus, where the Mediterranean forms a gulf anciently called the Great Syrtis. As the surrounding country is by no means productive, these colonies could only have been supported by trade with the interior of Africa; and were probably the resort of caravans bringing gold, gums, spices, ivory and other precious articles, to be exchanged for the manufactures of Greece and Asia. Such a traffic, we know from the accounts of late travellers, is still carried on from Tripoli; and the part of the desert lying south of it is better adapted than any other for that purpose, on account of the many oases, or islands of cultivable soil, which are scattered through it, offering rest, and a supply of food and water to the caravans while on their march. By these means, the Greek cities acquired great wealth, and became the seats of luxury, refinement and science; and stupendous ruins, the haunt of the jackal and hyæna, still remain to attest the former splendor of Cyrene and Apollonia.
The more adventurous Phoenicians made their settlements farther westward, in the fertile region now composing the states of Algiers, Tunis and a small part of Tripoli; they flourished even more than those of the Greeks, and became the principal seats of commerce in the western Mediterranean. Of many of these colonies, history has preserved to us the names, and nothing more; one of them, however, far outshone the rest, and its struggle for supremacy with Rome, forms the subject of one of the most interesting portions of ancient history. Of Carthage, perhaps it might be as Sallust conceived, "melius silere quam parum dicere," better to say nothing, than only a little; yet a few remarks on its political system and the results of that system, will serve to illustrate the condition of northern Africa during this early period.
The situation of this celebrated city near the narrow streight which separates Sicily from Africa, was admirably adapted for commerce with either division of the Mediterranean; its rivals, Agrigentum and Syracuse, possessed indeed the same advantages of site; but Carthage, besides a soil equally fertile, had the superiority in her intercourse with the central parts of the continent. Of her constitution we know too little to be able to judge what share her government may have had in her advancement; there is every probability, however, that wealth had great influence in her councils, and that its acquisition was at first the great end of individual and national enterprise. The first object of her statesmen seems to have been, to extend her dominion over the territory at home; this was attempted by means of colonies judiciously placed, which by amalgamation with the native tribes, and by the example of the advantages to be derived from fixed habits, and a respect for rights to landed property, were gradually subduing and civilizing the rude aboriginals; these could not from their habits be easily extirpated, as they might retire to the mountains, or if there pressed, find a safe retreat in the land of dates behind; they were moreover valuable as soldiers, and as carriers across the desert. The other Phoenician colonies, though many of them were never subject to Carthage, yet all acknowledged her as the head of their league, and she relied upon their support, in case of invasion from abroad. But they too were to be reduced, and gradually incorporated into the Carthaginian empire; things were rapidly advancing towards this consummation when Carthage fell.
The other grand object of their policy was the subjection of the whole country surrounding the western half of the Mediterranean, which was to be carried on by the quiet and sure means of trading colonies, established at convenient places on the coast. Thus, was the African shore to the streights of Gibraltar, that of Spain, the south of Gaul and the neighboring islands, dotted with colonies from Carthage, each of which had a territory behind, constantly increasing in extent. To support these establishments fleets were necessary, which could be easily manned by a nation having so extensive a trade by sea, while the native tribes of the interior furnished the hardiest soldiers.
Yet with all this apparent strength, the feet of the Carthaginian colossus were of clay; the wealth which enabled her to carry on this system made offices venal, narrowed the minds of her citizens and debased their character, while it excited the cupidity of her neighbors. Mercenary troops she could hire, and was sure of their fidelity while she paid them punctually; and with such, a general who should succeed in gaining their confidence, might effect immense results; but a succession of generals capable of doing this was not to be expected; and a single defeat was likely to be attended by depression and disorganization. She had, comparatively speaking, but few citizens in her armies; but few persons who could be urged by patriotism or interest in the public glory; and without such a class, no nation can long sustain itself against extraordinary difficulties. These defects would have ceased in time, when her possessions at home had been consolidated, and the other cities had been reduced under her government; but she was not destined to arrive at this point.
The prosperity of the north African nations, did not fail to excite the jealousy and cupidity of surrounding powers, and accordingly we find that all the great conquerors of the East formed plans for their subjection. The Persians after conquering Egypt sent an army which took and plundered Cyrene, but retired without proceeding farther. But another project was formed against their independence by a conqueror the most sagacious and successful who has ever yet appeared. Among the commentaries left by Alexander of Macedon, as recorded by Diodorus Siculus, (Book xviii. Chap. 1.) was found a project for the "invasion and subjection of the Carthaginians, and others dwelling on the coasts of Africa, Spain and the adjacent islands; for which a thousand ships were to be built, in the ports of Phoenicia, Syria, Cilicia and Cyprus, larger than those of three tiers of oars; with directions for carrying a straight and easy road along the shore of the Mediterranean, from Egypt to the Pillars of Hercules." With such an armament, and such a leader, it is highly probable that the project could have been carried into effect; the Grecian colonies already acknowledged his power, he was {68} therefore secure of finding friends in the most difficult part of the country, either for naval or land operations; and the efficiency of his political arrangements in all other cases, does not permit us to doubt, that he would have founded in north Africa, a permanent and substantial empire. But this was not to be; Alexander died in the early summer of life, and of those who shared his dominions, no one was alone able to carry such a project into effect, and each was too much engaged in securing his own part, for any operation to have been conducted in concert.
While the designs of Carthage were advancing towards fulfilment, she was gradually becoming a military state. Her fleets covered the sea, often transporting a hundred and fifty thousand combatants, and her armies of mercenary troops, led on by one of the most persevering and ingenious leaders of whom we have any account, overran an immense extent of territory, surmounting natural obstacles of the most appalling character, and overthrowing enemies celebrated for their skill and courage. But her commerce suffered, and the expenses of the war exhausted her treasury. Of the other African cities, many had declared and acted in favor of her enemies, while others were ready to desert her when a favorable opportunity should offer. The native tribes had acquired civilization sufficient to unite them, and to make them aware of their own importance; their chieftains had become ambitious, and Rome made offers to them which Carthage could never have advanced.
In this conjuncture, her long absent and long victorious army was recalled, to meet the enemy on her own shore; but Hannibal had grown old, and was routed at Zama; during his absence a generation had arisen which knew him not, and banishment succeeded his defeat. The once proud republic had lost all, and consented to a treaty, the ruinous terms of which she was forced to receive as a boon, and did not dare infringe. Her navy being destroyed, Spain and her other conquests soon fell into the hands of the Romans, and at length the decree went forth "Carthago delenda est." The fate of this renowned city is well known. Within a century from the day on which Hannibal sent home the spoils taken at Cannæ, the banished Roman Marius sought refuge among the desolate ruins of Carthage.
The other Phoenician as well as the Greek colonies, submitted to the conquerors on favorable terms; the chieftains of the wandering tribes who had adhered to Rome, were rewarded by the titles of kings; and enjoying the semblance of sovereignty over territories named by a majority of the Roman Senate, served to keep each other, and the cities, in check. In process of time, even this last shew of independence disappeared, and the region of the Atlas finally became one Roman province, under the appellation of Africa.
As a part of the Roman dominions, Africa reached its highest state of civilization; the cultivation of the land was carried to so great an extent, that it was considered the granary of the Mediterranean, and the cities on its coast were the depots of a most extensive trade with the interior of the continent. Carthage arose with additional splendor from her ruins, and for more than eight hundred years continued to be the capital of the province. The inhabitants retained their former characters; those of the coast were ingenious and industrious; fond of luxury and not celebrated for their good faith or moral character; the mountaineers kept up their reputation for courage, and we read of few battles gained by the Roman arms without the assistance of Numidian archers, or Mauritanian cavalry. Nor were the Africans excluded from office, for we find three of them successively filling the Imperial throne. They embraced christianity with the rest of the empire under Constantine, and churches innumerable marked the fervor of their devotion. Their religious zeal was farther shown in the bloody controversy between the orthodox and the Donatists, which desolated the country during the fifth and sixth centuries of our æra, and nearly extinguished the light of civilization. The invasion of the Vandals soon after inflicted another blow upon its prosperity; these barbarians were however soon reduced to submission by Belisarius, and Africa continued under the government of the emperors of Constantinople, until the commencement of the eighth century. At this period the followers of Mahomet every where successful in the East, turned their arms towards the setting sun, and traversing the Desert which separated the Roman province from Egypt, appeared before the frontier cities, presenting to their astounded inhabitants the alternative of the Koran or the sword.
Tripoli was the first country in the African province invaded by the Saracens,[1] and in order that its subsequent history may be better understood, it will be necessary to make a few observations on its ancient condition, which could not well have been introduced before.
[Footnote 1: It should here be noticed that the followers of Mahomet were at first merely termed Arabians, but when their conquests extended over Syria, Egypt, Mesopotamia, and other adjacent countries, they were known by the more general name of Saracens, or people of the East, from the Arabic and Sharak--meaning East. Africa was and still is called by Asiatics, El Magrab, or the West; though in Barbary the term is strictly confined to the Empire of Morocco. When Africa had been overrun, and the same conquerors had passed into Spain, they were termed Moors by Europeans, as coming from the ancient country of the Mauri, although the generals, and probably the greater part of the troops, were natives of Arabia.]
In the narrow tract between the Mediterranean and the desert, westward of the celebrated gulf called the Great Syrtis, and adjoining the proper territory of their republic, the Carthaginians had at an early period established several colonies, of which three, Leptis, Oea and Sabrata acquired great importance as commercial stations under the Romans, and the district containing them was called Tripolis, or the Three Cities. Of these Leptis was the most eastern; and extensive ruins still remain as evidences of its former greatness, in the little town of Lebda, about seventy miles from Tripoli. Sabrata was at the western extremity of the district, on the spot now occupied by a village called Old Tripoli.
Oea was situated between these two, on the western side of a small bay, formed by the projection of a rocky point of land into the sea. A triumphal arch dedicated to the emperors Marcus Aurelius, and Lucius Verus, and considered the finest monument of that kind remaining, with several other ancient relics, give reason to suppose that it may have been a splendid city; and it is mentioned as such by Pliny, Strabo, and some other writers of the latter days of the Roman empire. We however learn nothing from them respecting its history; and in the year 647 of the Christian æra, when {69} the Saracens invaded Africa, Leptis and Sabrata had sunk into comparative insignificance, while Oea had appropriated to itself the name of the whole district, and was a large, wealthy and strong city. The seat of government of the Roman, or rather Greek dominions in Africa, continued to be Carthage, where resided the emperor's Prefect or lieutenant; Utica, Hippo, and other ancient places were still flourishing, and several had grown up to importance, whose names do not appear in the pages of Roman history; of these the principal were Sufetala, Bugia, and Tingi or Tangiers.
The Saracens appeared before Tripoli in number forty thousand, under Abdallah, governor of Egypt, and Zobeir a distinguished soldier; but the strength of its walls baffled the attempts of enemies totally unacquainted with the art of besieging, and enabled its inhabitants to remain secure, until an immense army had been collected by the Prefect for its relief. It at length appeared, and actions daily took place, in which nothing was decided in favor of either party. Gregory the Prefect fought with gallantry, attended in the field by his daughter; yet this example was not sufficient to encourage his troops, although they far outnumbered their enemies; and as a last effort, he proclaimed that his daughter's hand with a hundred thousand pieces of gold, should be the reward for the head of the Saracen general. Thus excited, the African youths took courage, and Abdallah considering his own person as too important to be exposed to such dangers, remained during the ensuing action in his tent; but he was soon shamed from this retreat by the fiery Zobeir, who insisted upon his replying to Gregory's proclamation, by promising the lady and a similar reward for the head of the Prefect.
This promise restored to the Saracens their former courage and vigor, and in another action Gregory was slain by Zobeir, in his daughter's presence, and she herself became a prisoner. Thus far we have materials for the commencement of a romance, but the sequel throws a doubt over the charms of the lady, or the gallantry of the hero; for Zobeir received her and her dowry with ascetic coldness, declaring that "he labored for a recompense far above the charms of beauty or the riches of this transitory life." The Africans dispirited by these losses, at length gladly purchased a precarious peace and the retreat of the Arabs, at the price of a sum equal to about six millions of dollars.
This act of submission on their part, brought upon them the ire of their despotic masters at Constantinople, who instead of assisting them to repair their forces in anticipation of another attack, loaded them with taxes, as a penalty for their pusillanimity. By such treatment they were reduced to despair; and when in 668 the Arabs again crossed the Desert under Bashar, they were hailed as deliverers; and the great mass of the inhabitants threw off not only the government, but the religion of their Greek oppressors, and submitted to those of the Caliph of Damascus. Africa had suffered severely in the religious wars occasioned by the schism of Donatus; and since those sectarians had been put down, or rather extirpated, the utmost tyranny had been exercised in affairs of religion by the haughty and unrelenting hierarchy. From this circumstance perhaps, their creed hung but lightly on the lower orders, being associated in their minds with stripes and fines; otherwise it is difficult to account for so sudden and extensive a change, of which history no where else offers an example. Thus favored, the march of the Saracens was a continued triumph: a reinforcement arrived, and under the command of the energetic Akbah, nearly the whole country was subdued. Carthage was besieged, they having by this time learnt the use of engines and the art of mining; Tripoli, Utica, Sufetala, Bugia and the wealthy Tangiers were stormed and plundered; and the fierce conqueror rushed into the Atlantic, crying, "This sea alone arrests my progress."
The christian powers of Europe beheld the conquests of the Mahometans with dread, and a combination was formed among them for the recovery of Africa. Expeditions were sent from Constantinople, Sicily and Spain, which united under the command of John the Patrician, a renowned Captain, proceeded to the relief of Carthage. Before they arrived, that city had fallen; they however recovered it, and instantly gave battle to the enemy, under the walls of Utica. The christians were totally defeated, and the small remains of their army took refuge in the ships, and abandoned the country. The Roman power was every where overthrown; Carthage, retaken by the Arabs, was razed to the ground; and fifty miles south of it was founded a new city, called Kairuan, which was long the capital of Africa, the seat of Mahometan splendor and learning in that quarter.
But the invaders received a new check from a direction whence it was least to be expected. The sea coast as we have observed, although much reduced in point of wealth and refinement, by the excesses of the Vandals and the religious wars, was still a cultivated region, supporting a numerous population, the descendants of the Greeks, Phoenicians and Romans. But the mountains and the country behind them remained in possession of the aboriginal race, who under the name of Berbers, retained their old pastoral and predatory habits, and were a constant source of trouble to the foreign rulers of the province. Among these people appeared a female named Cahina, of extraordinary courage and address, who persuaded them that she was inspired, and that an opportunity was offered for regaining possession of the country. An immense multitude were thus speedily assembled under her banner, equally daring and enthusiastic with the Saracens, who were attacked with an impetuosity never before displayed against them in Africa. Success encouraged the mountaineers, and in an incredibly short space of time the invaders were driven into Egypt. This being effected, the prophetess proposed to take away all inducement for their return, by laying waste the country. Her proposal was readily assented to by persons who had no property but their tents, flocks and horses; and dreadful were the consequences of this determination. The fertile territory was made desolate, and the splendor of civilization, already much dimmed by the fury of Vandals and religionists, was entirely obscured. The unfortunate inhabitants of the coast, thus pressed on all sides, in their despair, invited the Saracens to return, and aided by them, made head against their savage destroyers. In the first battle the Berbers were totally routed, and their queen slain; this bond of union being destroyed, they were soon dispersed, or reduced to slavery.
{70} The Arab power was now undisputed; in a very short period there were no more christians to be taxed. The few remaining churches became mosques; all traces of former manners and institutions disappeared; and a torrent of Asiatics overflowed the country, establishing in every part their own customs and language. Of the Arabs many betook themselves to the Desert, where their descendants still wander, scarcely distinguishable from their brethren of the Arabian sands. The others gradually amalgamated with the natives, and at the present day, the fixed inhabitants of Barbary form one race, differing but little among themselves in appearance, habits or language, and known to Europeans by the general name of Moors. The mountains and the borders of the Desert are still possessed by tribes speaking a language totally distinct from all others known--nominally professing the Mahometan religion, but regardless of its precepts--dwelling in tents, and wandering from pasture to pasture with their flocks and herds--displaying the same fierce and indomitable character which distinguished the aboriginals, from whom they are in all probability descended. The most powerful of these tribes are the Kabyles, who principally inhabit the territory of Algiers, where by their impetuous inroads, they present the greatest bar to the establishment of the French.
Africa was scarcely possessed by the Saracens, ere those restless conquerors passed over to Spain. Their character seems however to have been already softened; for we no longer find among the Moorish invaders of the peninsula, the fierce barbarism of the early followers of Mahomet; and the kingdoms which they founded in that delightful land, were celebrated for the industry, ingenuity and cultivation of their inhabitants. The Moors of Spain soon threw off their allegiance to the Caliphs in the East; and two independent kingdoms were also founded in Atlantic Barbary. In 790, Edris-ben Abdallah, governor of Almagrab, or the West, which name was applied to the ancient Mauritania, assumed the title of Sultan of Fez, from his capital city; his successors ruled supreme over Western Africa, until the middle of the eleventh century, when the Almoravides, a fanatic sect, obtained possession of the southern part, and established the kingdom of Maraksh, or Morocco. These two principalities now form the empire of Morocco. Eastern Barbary in the gradual dismemberment of the Arabian dominions, first became one kingdom under a family of sovereigns called the Aglabites, who for some time reigned with great splendor at Kairuan, they were overthrown in 909, by an expedition from Sicily, then a Saracen province, and the country was for nearly six hundred years after, ruled or ravaged by various dynasties.
At length, towards the commencement of the sixteenth century, the Moorish kingdoms in Spain were overthrown, and a rage for conquests in Africa pervaded the Peninsula. Eastward of Morocco and Fez, Barbary was at that time divided into a number of small principalities, each consisting of a strong town with as much of the surrounding country as it could keep in subjection; the principal of them were Algiers, Bugia, Oran, Tunis, Telemsen and Tripoli. Against these places numerous expeditions were sent out from Spain which generally proved fruitless; however, some places on the coast were taken, among which was Tripoli, or Trablis, as it was then called. It fell into the hands of Ferdinand, the Catholic, in 1510; but his more politic successor, the emperor Charles the Fifth, probably not knowing what else to do with places so inconvenient, surrendered it twelve years afterwards, with the adjacent island of Malta, to the knights of St. John, who had just then been expelled from Rhodes by the mighty Sultan Solyman. Malta was a barren rock, and Tripoli had sunk from its former greatness, little remaining but its walls, its castle and its port. Both places were however capable of being strongly fortified, and the knights required nothing else; they therefore accepted the assignments, and applied all their energies to render their new habitations capable of resisting the shocks to which they would soon inevitably be exposed.
The Turkish power was at this period in the zenith of its prosperity, and Europe again trembled as in the days of the immediate successors of Mahomet. The Mediterranean was swept by innumerable cruisers under its flag, commanded by daring and ferocious captains, who completely destroyed the commerce of christians in that sea, and made frequent descents on the coasts of Italy, Spain and the islands, which they plundered, carrying off the inhabitants for the purpose of extorting a ransom. Of these the most famous were Urudsch or Horuc, and his brother Chaireddin, successively dreaded in their day by the appellation of Barbarossa, or the red beard.
Urudsch being anxious to have some port in the Western Mediterranean, to which he could at intervals retire with his booty and prisoners, offered his assistance to the prince of Algiers, who was endeavoring to regain his possessions from the Spaniards; and no sooner had he effected this, than he seized upon the city, murdered his confiding ally, and declared the country subject to the Porte. On his death, which soon after happened, his brother Chaireddin assumed the command and succeeded in expelling the Spaniards from a small island, close to the city called Algesr or the island which they had for some time held; he then connected it with the main land by a causeway, and thus formed the present port of Algiers, which takes its name from the island. He was afterwards regularly invested by the Porte, with the title and powers of a Pasha, or viceroy; and obtaining large additions to his army, composed entirely of foreigners, he reduced the country to subjection.
This being effected Chaireddin turned his attention to the neighboring state of Tunis, against which he prepared a powerful armament, nominally for the purpose of reinstating its exiled prince Alraschid; under this pretence, he easily gained the capital, which he instantly declared to form a part of the Turkish empire. Alraschid died a prisoner in Constantinople; but Muley Hascem, whom Barbarossa had driven out, applied for assistance to Charles the fifth, which was readily granted, and that emperor himself commanded the expedition against Tunis. It appeared before the city on the 19th of July, 1535, consisting of five hundred vessels, bearing thirty thousand veteran troops. Barbarossa was not taken unawares, and the conflict was terrible; the celebrated fortress of the Goletta, which commands the entrance into the bay of Tunis, was defended with great bravery, by Sinan a renegade Jew, but it soon fell before the artillery of the fleet, and Tunis lay {71} exposed. Chaireddin assembled his forces, and gave battle to the invaders; but he was totally defeated, and the outbreak of ten thousand christian captives from the prisons of the city, increased the confusion; the Turkish army fled to Bona, and Tunis was instantly stormed by the imperial troops. Muley Hascem was restored to his throne, on terms most favorable to the christians; but in a few years more, we find the Turkish power again established, and this country continued to be governed by Pashas, from Constantinople, until 1684, when a certain Hassan-ben-Ali obtained sovereign possession, and his family have ever since held the crown under the title of Bey, paying however a tribute to the Sultan.
Charles the fifth was so much elated by his success at Tunis, that he led another expedition in 1541, against Algiers, which was governed by Hascen Aga, Barbarossa having been elevated to the office of Capoudan Pasha, or High Admiral. The imperial troops landed at a short distance east of the city; but immediately after there arose one of those terrific storms of wind and rain, to which that coast is subject in the autumn; the troops unprovided as yet with tents, were drenched in rain, their ammunition was spoiled, and they were thrown into confusion at the first onset of the Turks. The ships were many of them lost, others dismasted or driven on shore, and the Emperor, after great personal hardships, made his escape with a small remnant of his gallant force.
The unfortunate issue of this attack probably contributed more than any other circumstance to the long impunity enjoyed by Algiers, which continued until within a few years past to insult the rest of the world by its piracies, and had come to be considered as absolutely impregnable. It was governed at first by a Pasha, appointed from Constantinople in the same manner with other parts of the empire; but in time, the garrison were permitted to elect their own chief, subject however to the confirmation of the Porte, which was never refused as the request was always accompanied by a present. The garrison and all the officers of the government were foreigners; no native even though the son of Turkish parents, being eligible to any; and no where else probably in the world would have been found such a collection of abandoned miscreants. The chief was in reality a Pasha of three tails, or viceroy of almost unlimited powers--his peculiar appellation being derived from his enjoying the right of having three horse-tails borne before him in public. In the christian world he was usually known by the appellation of Dey, which word however means uncle in Moorish, and was perhaps originally a nickname; it was never applied in Algiers. No prince or officer ever held his place by a more precarious tenure; seldom has one died a natural death, and it is certain that the ex-Dey, Hussein, who surrendered the city to the French, is the only one who could have said "I was once Pasha of Algiers."
Tripoli remained in possession of the knights of St. John until 1551, when they were attacked by a Turkish army under the command of the same Sinan, who had defended the Goletta against Charles the fifth, aided by the squadron of Dragut a noted captain, in character similar to the Barbarossas. The besieged conducted their defence with great gallantry, but the town being burnt, they were forced to take refuge in the castle, which they continued to hold out in hopes of relief from Europe. But none came; the Seigneur d'Aramont, while on his way as ambassador to Constantinople from Henry the second of France, stopped at Tripoli and endeavored to obtain a suspension of the siege, until some arrangement could be made with the Porte; but this proposition was rejected by Sinan, who was sure of his prey; and all, that the ambassador succeeded in procuring, was a capitulation on more favorable terms, which being accepted, the governor John de Vallier surrendered the castle, on the 16th of August, 1651, and retired to Malta. Dragut took possession of the place which he rebuilt and strengthened; and having been declared Pasha, established a system of government, similar to that of Algiers; it was however more dependant on the Porte, the chief being always appointed from Constantinople.
The states of Barbary thus became reduced in number to four, viz: the independent empire of Morocco in the west, and the regencies, as they are termed, of Algiers, Tunis and Tripoli, under the suzerainty of the Sultan. Several places were taken and held at different periods by Spain; for instance Oran, which was surrendered to Algiers in 1792, after having been held since its capture in 1510 by the famous cardinal Ximenes; and Ceuta a strong place nearly opposite Gibraltar, which is still subject to Spain, and serves chiefly as a place of imprisonment for political delinquents.--These states occasionally carried on some commerce among themselves, or with Europe and Asia; but their principal support was derived from piracy. Their cruisers were generally small vessels, crowded with desperate ruffians, who succeeded chiefly by boarding, either directly from the decks, or by the aid of boats; thus their prizes were but little injured, and were sold profitably in Barbary, whilst the crews were retained in slavery, unless redeemed at a high ransom. To preserve their citizens from this horrible fate, many commercial nations were obliged to pay enormous sums as presents to the governments of these countries, which regarded no treaties while this was neglected. It is, however, to the honor of the United States, that our government opposed these demands, as soon as it was in a condition to render resistance effectual; and it was while successfully employed in humbling these audacious pirates, that our cannon were first heard in the Mediterranean.
The length of this article renders its entire insertion in this number impossible,--it will however be concluded in our next.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE DYSPEPTIC MAN.
MR. WHITE,--I am so unfortunate as to be the wife of a dyspeptic man, and shall find some relief if you will permit me to spread my complaints upon the pages of your Messenger. Men are "April when they woo, December when they wed," as I have found to my cost. My husband was once as tender and affectionate as I could wish, but poor man he is now totally changed; I suppose it is owing to his having the dyspepsia. He is so peevish and fretful I hardly dare speak to him;
"He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin;"
{72} and it is impossible to keep pace with the endless variety of his aliments. If I happen to make a mistake and inquire after the wrong pain, he flies into a violent passion and reproaches me for a want of sympathy in his sufferings. It was but yesterday I happened to say, my dear how is the pain in your back? [I had forgotten it was his side.] This was enough; he cursed matrimony and swore it was the vilest of all institutions; that a wife was nothing more than a legalized tormentor; that if he were single, he would not marry any woman under the sun--no, not if she had a bulse of diamonds torn from a Begum's ear, and much more in the same strain; and at last cooling down, he asked me if I did not remember that his last pain was a pain in the side, and then entered into such a history of his malady, that I sorely regretted I had opened my lips upon the subject. What right have we to worry other people thus with our maladies? I never tell mine to any but the doctor, because I know that nobody else listens, and I doubt very much whether he does half his time. If any one gives my husband the common salutation of how d'ye do? oh dear, he begins at the beginning of his disease, [like an old gentleman of my acquaintance who always begins at the Revolution,] and traces it down through all its variations for the last five years--tells all the remedies he has used and their effects, until you may see a half suppressed smile lurking about the lips of the interrogator, which increases at length to so broad a grin, that I am in agony for the consequences. He has tried in turn every remedy of every quack upon earth, and has gone so far as to punch himself almost to death with his own fists, by the advice of one Halsted. At first he is always pleased with the medicine, but at the end of two or three days he protests that he is worse, much worse; and vents his spleen upon the physic, the inventor, and upon me for permitting him to use such vile trash. Sometimes he comes to me and tells me exultingly that he has at last found out the panacea--the grand catholicon for all his sufferings. "My dear B----," he will say, "let me explain to you the philosophy of this matter. When food is taken into the human stomach, if it cannot undergo a proper digestion it goes through the putrefactive process; just such a process as would take place in animal or other substances, if exposed to the action of heat and moisture in the open air: a quantity of carbonic acid gas is disengaged, and this gas filling the stomach acts by mechanical pressure, and thus produces the pain I feel. Now I have discovered that in consequence of my habit of eating fast, my food is not sufficiently triturated, and of course the gastric juice [heaven help me!] cannot act upon it; and I am exactly in the situation of the sheep or any other ruminating animal, who swallows the herbage whole, and then regurgitates, that it may undergo a better mastication. Well what then is the remedy? I will tell you; I will make John pound my food in a mortar, which will supply the necessary trituration, and thus I shall be a well man." He sent off immediately to a druggist and purchased a nice little wedge-wood mortar, and there stood John every day behind his chair, pounding his meat, bread and vegetables, into a revolting mass, until my poor ears were well nigh deafened with the shrill din of the pestle against the sides of the mortar. Was ever woman so beset? At the end of a week, finding himself no better, he threw the mortar, pestle and all at John's head, and would certainly have pounded him to death but for a fortunate dodge, which permitted the mortar to come in contact with my china press, where it made sad havoc among my most valuable ware. He was very glad he said, because I had no business to let the press stand there. It was on the tip of my tongue to say, "bray a fool in a mortar," &c., but I checked the impulse, and mildly said, I was very sorry indeed that he could get no relief. This somewhat mollified him, and the next day he came to me and apologized for what he had done, and promised to repair the damage by making me a handsome present; but this calm was of short duration, for he soon relapsed into gloom--and as he sat by the fire smoking his pipe, he all at once declared that it must have been the cursed tobacco which had poisoned his existence; that during the combustion of the tobacco an oil was disengaged, which mixing with the saliva, was taken up by absorption into his lungs, and had eaten them to a honeycomb. John was immediately called: "Here," said he, "John, take this pipe, and d'ye hear sir, hide it--hide it where I never can find it again." John accordingly took the pipe, but struggled in vain to choke his laughter. Before he could escape from the room, he burst out into such a loud, distinct, irrepressible ha! ha! that there was no mistaking the thing, and he was soundly caned for his involuntary breach of decorum. About three days after this, in the evening after tea, my husband's favorite time for smoking, I observed him very restless indeed; he rose, walked about the room, sat down, whistled, hummed a tune, and rose again. At last he began to rummage about the wainscoat and mantlepiece, and behind the book case, and suddenly turning round he called John in a softened voice; "John, my good fellow, where is my pipe? I must have left it in the study; do go and look for it." John hesitated and grinned.--"What the devil is the fellow laughing at? Begone sir, and bring my pipe immediately." John speedily vanished. Turning to me, you see, said my husband, my unhappy condition; my very servants turn me into ridicule, and you do not reprove them for it. I could not reply, but felt anxious to point out to him that he could never hope to be well, because he would not adhere for a space of time sufficiently long to any plan whatever. His scheme now is to eat nothing but cold bread. It must be set away in a pure place to ripen, as he calls it. Hot bread just from the oven he says is giving out carbon continually, and has not imbibed a sufficiency of oxygen to make it wholesome. Can you forbear smiling my friend? Now I know that there is nothing of literature in all this, unless the chemical disquisitions of my wretched husband may be so considered; but nevertheless I flatter myself you will give me a place in your Messenger, because many a victim of dyspepsia may look in this mirror and see himself.
BELINDA.
BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT FROM LACON.
Posthumous fame is a plant of tardy growth, for our body must be the seed of it; or we may liken it to a torch, which nothing but the last spark of life can light up; or we may compare it to the trumpet of the archangel, for it is blown over the dead: but unlike that awful blast, it is of earth, not of heaven, and can neither rouse nor raise us.
{73}
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE REPORTER'S STORY,
OR THE IMPORTANCE OF A SINGLE SYLLABLE.
How much may depend on a single syllable! What direful consequences may be produced by the suppression of even the smallest component part of a word!--Gentle reader, be as patient as you are gentle, and the perusal of the following true story will convince you of the correctness of these exclamatory positions.
Late in the autumn of 1826, I left the city of New York in a steamboat for Philadelphia, on my way to Washington, where I was to perform the arduous, if not very dignified duty, of reporter of debates in the Senate of the United States, for the leading journal of that metropolis. My wife accompanied me, and on stepping on board the Swan, (so was our steamboat justly called,) we found ourselves elbowed and jostled by a throng of travellers from various parts of the Union, wending their way, in most instances, to the capitol.
When the steamer had left the wharf, and the haste and bustle of the moment had ceased, I had time to inspect the countenances of the crowd, and recognized with much pleasure, the single familiar face of an officer of the treasury department, with whom I had formed a partial intimacy during a former visit at Washington. We met with much cordiality, and soon became engaged in recalling our recollections of past events.
My friend, it appeared, was personally and officially known to several individuals of our company; and without the formality of introduction, I soon found myself on easy travelling terms with four or five genteel looking men. Among these, the only persons necessary to mention, were a member of the House of Representatives from Massachusetts, whom I choose to designate as Mr. C.; another from a neighboring state, who will be sufficiently known to the reader as Mr. D.; and a young naval officer, whose name, if he had one, I have forgotten.
A free and easy, gossiping conversation was kept up with considerable vivacity by this group of strangers, the topics of which were various. Politics and theatricals predominated--New York was then, as she is now, the focus of both. The election of De Witt Clinton for the last time, as governor of the state, over a young and popular candidate, supported by the fragments of several exploded parties--the rising importance of the anti-masonic party--the Italian Opera, and Signorina Garcia, then in great vogue--the last appearance of Edmund Kean, after his fatal frolic in Canada, and the first appearance of Macready, who had just then made his debut on the American stage, to surprise and puzzle the people by a style as new as it was polished and severe. Such subjects beguiled the hours--and as I had long been almost as conversant with the green room as the editor's closet, I was enabled to contribute my full share to the gossip of our little coterie.
My Massachusetts acquaintance was a stout, well built, middle-aged man, with a bold and open countenance, which expressed good humor, and not a little self complacency. It seemed as if one could read on that face the conviction of its owner, that he was born to be a member of congress, a great man, and a clever fellow. A travelling cap, worn carelessly, or rather with a careful affectation of negligence, on one side of his head, and a slight rattan, which he twirled with a practised hand, evinced a determination on his part to appear to the very best advantage. Without these, and other affectations, which I observed in Mr. C., no one could have mistaken him for other than a well bred gentleman. His attempts to enforce the acknowledgment of the character by aping the airs of fashionable folly, might cause a momentary doubt, whether the whole was not affected. We often perceive similar mistakes in ambitious men brought up in seclusion--but in the present instance, a stranger was soon undeceived by the conversation of Mr. C., which gave assurance of a cultivated mind, and the habit of associating with the learned and the intellectual.
The characteristics of the other lawgiver to whom I have alluded, were less complicated. His was a face as black as night. His beard, whiskers, hair and eyes were coal black--the latter small and piercing. No other feature was worth noticing, and the whole taken together, formed, if not an ugly countenance, one which came very nearly up to that epithet. His dress was a pepper-and-salt frock, vest and trowsers, and his hat had evidently passed its prime. In manners he was the opposite of Mr. C. There was a bluntness in his remarks, and a sharpness and brevity in his replies, entirely unaffected, but not altogether pleasing. On a partial acquaintance, you had such doubts of him as you would entertain of a partly tamed bruin.
The young naval officer was like all young naval officers, with a dash of spirit which he seemed solicitous to display--a stiffness of deportment which evinced that the thoughts of discipline could not easily be shaken off, and an apparent consciousness of the admiration to which his profession and his dress entitled him from people of every degree. Nevertheless, he was agreeable, and condescended, most benevolently, to mingle in the conversation with those around him.
Passing the time between these companions, and an occasional peep into the ladies' cabin to see that nothing was wanting to the comfort of my wife, (who was deterred by the chilliness of the atmosphere, from joining me on deck) the journey was uncommonly agreeable, until we reached Philadelphia. At that city my treasury friend left us, not so much regretted as he deserved to be, because his place was supplied by the new companions to whom I have alluded.
We were shortly transferred to another steamboat, in which, after about two hours' delay, we proceeded to New Castle. A change of considerable extent had taken place in our company. We had lost many faces to which we had been familiar during the morning--and we had gained many others which wore the first gloss of newness. I have already said that I had not been formally introduced to the gentlemen whose acquaintance had been pressed upon me--yet we had learned each other's names, and used them with freedom. Probably I was the only incognito among them--the only man whose profession was unknown, and therefore the only one liable to doubt or misconception. But of such a chance I did not then dream.
Among the new passengers were two ladies, one quite young, although the mother of two or three children. She was pretty, and, as I afterwards found, very talkative. The other was a matron more advanced in years, and with a still larger number of children. Her dress was half mourning, her manner grave and lady-like. {74} With these ladies I perceived that my wife had entered into conversation on their first arrival on board, and my occasional visits to the cabin shewed me that their gossip, was kept up with much spirit. Returning from one of these calls, a strange gentleman addressed me, and asked if my name was S----; I replied in the affirmative, and after a very civil preface, he requested, (as I was the only gentleman with a lady on board,) that I would give my protection to a female acquaintance of his and her family, who were on their way to Washington. He observed that he should go no farther than Baltimore, and from that place he would be obliged to me to take charge of them. I readily assented: we went to the ladies' cabin, where I was introduced with all due form, to Mrs. M., the elder and graver of the two ladies already mentioned. She had made herself acquainted with my wife, and all parties seemed pleased with the arrangement.
On going above, I found my friends, the two members of congress and the naval officer, laying plans for a game of whist on board the Trenton steamboat, which was to take us from Frenchtown. I was asked to make one of the party, and assented. A few hours brought us to New Castle, where stages were in readiness to transport us across the isthmus, to Frenchtown--for it must be remembered, that there was then neither canal or rail road between the two points.
As the oldest passengers, I presume, my wife and I were seated in stage No. 1, with a motley group of persons. Not one of our newly formed acquaintances were with us, and in our carriage there was not an individual with whom five minutes conversation could be sustained. I made repeated efforts to arouse our fellow passengers, but after receiving each time a monosyllabic rebuff,--a crusty yes or no, as the case might be,--I relinquished the attempt, and confined my endeavors to make myself agreeable to my good woman, who gave me an amusing detail of a conversation while on board the steamboat, between herself and the younger of the two ladies to whom I have already referred. Mrs. R., as my wife informed me, had favored her with a detailed history of her family, her husband, children and herself, with all things thereunto appertaining, even down to the fashion of her last new bonnet. Having thus exhausted herself by this unsolicited confession, or as the Scotch say, having "made a clean breast," she remained silent, apparently expecting a similar display of frankness from her auditress. But my wife did not readily recognize the principle of reciprocity in such cases--and accordingly gave the conversation a different turn. This, however, failed to meet the views of the communicative lady. Nothing short of mutual confidence seemed to tally with her notions of politeness to strangers. And finding that my wife still hung back, she proceeded to cross-examine her upon her domestic affairs, family connexions, and most closely on my objects and pursuits in life, and purpose in visiting the capitol at this season. To all these questions my wife answered briefly, but truly, although with reluctance.
I was much diverted at this novel specimen of female curiosity, and the tactics observed in its gratification. It appeared to me uncommonly equitable--for what could evince greater fairness than to prelude an investigation of the private affairs of your neighbor, by a voluntary detail of your own.
About eight in the evening, we reached Frenchtown, where our supper was waiting on board the Trenton. Having despatched the meal with a good appetite, and the ladies having withdrawn for the evening, the engagement for a game of whist occurred to me. I had not, up to that time, observed any one of our party, and I set out to collect them together for our match.
I first encountered Mr. C. pacing up and down the cabin with great gravity. Walking up to him, I reminded him of the game of whist, proposing that we should collect our party. To my great surprise, the manner of the man towards me was entirely changed. He gave me a glance which looked exceedingly like contempt--replied to my question with a rude and hasty negative, and turned upon his heel.
I was astonished, as well I might be, at receiving a cut direct from a man, who but a few hours before had lavished upon me so large a share of familiarity and attention. I was chagrined at his contemptuous manner, and I was puzzled to divine its cause. Indeed, my perplexity was far greater than my chagrin.
While I was pondering the matter, I caught a glimpse of my other congressional friend Mr. D., at some distance from me. I went to meet him, and put to him the same question I had addressed to Mr. C. As I spoke, he wheeled partly round, fixed his small black eye upon me for a moment, with a scrutinizing glance, and without vouchsafing one word in reply, wheeled back into his former position, and walked from me with a stateliness and decision of step, which precluded any farther conference. There could be no mistake in this. It was the ne plus ultra of cutting. It was more than the cut direct--it was the cut irrevocable, immutable, eternal!
Good heavens, said I internally--what can this mean?
Is it the moon ---- That comes more near to us than she was wont, And makes men mad?
If, thought I, the young "Middie" plays me the same game, it will be evident that they act in concert. It is worth testing--and apropos to the thought, he just then passed quite near me. I assumed as much ease as the circumstances of the case would permit, (for it will not be thought remarkable that I had been considerably disconcerted)--and reminded him of our contemplated game of whist. He looked at me with cool indifference, as though he had never seen me before in his life, observed that a party could not be made up, and, waiting no further question, passed me, whistling some naval air, and looking in another direction.
This last rebuff completed my indignation and perplexity. But it was an evil which must be borne,--for however annoying I might find such treatment--the caprice of strangers in being at one moment as familiar as old friends, and withdrawing their familiarity at the next, was not good argument for a quarrel. I could have no claim for satisfaction or explanation, on an individual to whom I had not been formally introduced, and with whom my intimacy was of less than twelve hours standing, for choosing
-------- "to face me out of his acquaintance, And grow a twenty years removed thing While one could wink."
I had schooled myself to patience under these undeserved inflictions, and was preparing to retire, when I was called to the door of the ladies' cabin by the {75} waiting maid--and met there my wife, who seemed in a state of tribulation not inferior to my own. She said that since our arrival on board the steamboat, the two ladies who had been previously so kind and social, had scarcely noticed her, and had repelled every attempt at a renewal of former civilities; in truth, that she had been treated by her companions in much the same manner as I had been by mine. This was an additional mystery. How could it happen that contumely and disrespect were cast upon us from parties who were strangers, having no connexion with each other? The mystery seemed unfathomable, and after wearying myself with vain endeavors to conceive some adequate cause for the altered conduct of our fellow travellers, I fell asleep, and dreamed of myriads of self-important members of congress, and self-admiring naval officers.
We found ourselves at the wharf at Baltimore in the morning, and in the scramble to disengage our baggage from the mass heaped upon deck, (to which every traveller is premonished by the oft-repeated advertisement that "baggage is at the risk of the owner")--I met my whilom friends, but without the slightest token of recognition on either side. The talkative lady looked grave when I approached her, and was silent, ("an excellent thing in woman")--the older matron, to whom I was to act as protector for the remainder of her journey, shrunk from me as I advanced with the salutation of the morning; and when all was prepared for our departure from the steamboat, she declined my proffered arm, as I conducted her to the carriage. To my wife she was equally distant,--nor did a sumptuous breakfast at Barnum's, break the ice of her reserve, or rather, her aversion. Certainly, thus far, our society did not promise to be agreeable on either side. The lady kept as far aloof from us as circumstances would allow, avoiding every opportunity of conversation--and we were soon as silent as she, from a mingled feeling of pride and resentment. We embarked in a stage about mid-day--the roads was infamous, the weather chilly and obscure. We had the carriage to ourselves, and the ride was therefore the more gloomy, as among a promiscuous party we might have found some one willing to cheer the way by conversation: but as we were situated with our taciturn companion, excepting in an occasional colloquy with the driver, our organs of speech were unemployed, and during the greater part of our journey, we might have been taken for a party of mutes. As we drew near to Washington, this reserve wore away in a measure. Whether the lady's tongue became impatient of so long a period of inaction, or whether her assumed dignity gave way under a requisition upon it too great for its power--I know not. Certain it is, that she occasionally deigned a remark, and sometimes condescended to put interrogatories to me, relative to the distance to the city, and similar grave matters.
It was dark when we arrived. I had ordered the coachman to set me down at Brown's--but I was informed that there was not a vacant room in the house, and also that every other hotel in the city was full. This overflow of company as I afterwards ascertained was caused by the assemblage at Washington of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal Convention, adding some hundreds to the ordinary visiters of the period. To add to the discomfort of wanting lodgings, it was raining with great violence, and I dreaded a drive through the interminable streets of the federal metropolis. Our lady companion had observed that she was to be dropped at the residence of some relative, and moreover stated that it was a boarding house. But she avoided proposing that we should quarter with her; and not until I had seen her safely within the house, and was returning to the stage, did she mention our plight to her relative. The latter was immediately urgent that we should remain at her house, declaring that she had several unoccupied rooms, which were entirely at our disposal.
This new position of affairs was highly gratifying, and we anticipated all the comforts of a good supper, and comfortable lodgings, with a satisfaction which can best be conceived by those to whom those commodities have, at times, been wanting. My wife was safely seated in the well warmed dining room, the baggage deposited in the hall,--and I took the opportunity afforded by a delay in the appearance of supper, to step across the street, and inform the gentlemen with whom I was engaged, of my arrival, which was a day or two later than they had anticipated. On my return to the boarding house, to my utter astonishment, I saw my wife standing at the street door, in her bonnet and cloak, while my trunks were piled upon the steps.
Hey dey, said I, what does all this mean--why are you not warming yourself at the fire, instead of standing here muffled up, as if your journey was now to commence instead of being ended?
We cannot remain, said she, in a tone of chagrin.
Cannot! What is the reason? Are the people mad here, as well as on the road?
It would seem so. I had scarcely been five minutes in the house, when the landlady, who was at first so eager that we should lodge with her, changed her mind, and informed me that she could not accommodate us.
But she will not turn us out supperless, I hope, such a night as this?
I am not so certain of that. She appears to be infected with the same disease under which all our travelling companions have labored. People seem actually to avoid us as though we carried the plague about in our garments. She bowed me out of the dining room with as little ceremony as she would have shewn to a mendicant.
Well, well, said I, come in out of the air, and I will reason with her. So saying I led the way to the principal apartment in the house, which served as parlor, drawing room, and dining room--where the landlady soon made her appearance. She was a small, thin-faced woman, her form wiry and attenuated; her motions rapid and nervous; countenance much wrinkled, and of most forbidding expression, and a voice from which no art could have extracted a sound bearing the remotest relationship to harmony. Her dress was evidently suited to the season, when members of congress are seeking quarters for the winter, and when those who have them at disposal, are interested in putting the best possible face on every thing appertaining to their establishments. Her costume was, a silk frock, stretched upon her bony frame, and a yellow gauze turban, of monstrous size, decked with crimson ribbons, perched upon the top of her head, which thus seemed enveloped in "fire and brimstone:"--These awkwardly worn habiliments betrayed the fact that the lady had passed the day in attending the calls of the law-givers of the land, {76} with the laudable design of enhancing the value of her accommodations, in the eyes of some rustic Solon, but newly caught, by the genteel appearance of their mistress.
I addressed this formidable figure, with an inquiry whether we could not remain with her for the night, referring to the state of the weather as rendering it almost impossible to make search for lodgings that evening.
The lady eyed me with great scrutiny, and there was an elevation of her nasal organ, while looking at me, which distorted to a more hideous expression than was natural, her weather-beaten visage.
"Indeed," said she, "you can't stay, and that's all about it. Three members have just sent down to say that they would take the rooms what they look'd at this morning, and that they must be fix'd up this very night. So you see you can't stay. It a'nt my fault--and so I can't say no more about it."
"Then we must look for other lodgings. But you can give us supper. The members of Congress have not bespoken that also, I presume."
"Well--no. You can eat your suppers here I spose."
"And this lady can remain here until I can obtain other quarters."
"Well, I've no particular objection to her sitting here awhile."
Just then supper was served, and we partook of it. Our travelling companion was at the table, but scarcely recognized us, and the landlady was barely civil. When the meal was over, I requested the latter to allow a servant to accompany me in my search, as I was ignorant of the location of the principal boarding houses. Her son, a pert lad of about thirteen, volunteered to pilot me, and without delay we sallied out.
It occurred to me as we passed up Pennsylvania avenue, that I had forgotten to deliver a message of some importance to my employers, when I called to announce my arrival, and I turned a little out of my way to the office of the N---- I----, where, while I was closeted for a few moments with one of the editors, my juvenile guide remained in the clerk's office.
On leaving the office, I was surprised at the altered tone of the lad.
"You had better go back," said the manakin: "it is too late to get lodgings to-night. My mother can keep you as well as not."
"But she has refused to do so, and insists that it is out of her power."
"Never mind that. Go back with me--I'll work the old woman over. See if I don't tell you the truth."
"You are a promising lad," said I, "but a little too forward. Let us go on."
Finding me determined to prosecute the search, he yielded, and we called at several houses; but all were full. Against my will, I was forced to return, with the resolution of making good my quarters for the night, at any rate, with or without the consent of the lady of the house. My guide assured me that he could "manage the old woman," and told me to give myself no uneasiness on the subject.
After a dreary walk, we reached the house. There sat my wife with her bonnet still on, for no one had asked her to remove it--and there sat the lady in the brimstone turban, and fiery ribbons, in whose ugly visage the words "turn out" seemed written, in characters not to be mistaken. As we entered, the boy motioned his mother, who joined him at the door, where they held a whispering colloquy for a few moments. While they were thus engaged, I learned from my wife that there had been no change in the sentence of exclusion, altho' no new lodgers had made their appearance.
The whispering ceased, and the landlady approached me. What was my astonishment at perceiving that the gorgon face, before so hideous with frowns, was puckered into the queerest attempt at a smile that was ever before witnessed on the human countenance.
But this was not all. Not only did her face exhibit these convulsive efforts, but the form approached us, curtseying with a most unhappy imitation of grace.
The devil is in the hag--said I internally. What new trick is to be played now? I was not long in suspense. The boy had kept his promise it seemed, for he or some one else, actually had "worked the old woman over." She affirmed that she had just received messages from the three members, stating that they were not in haste for the rooms--and she assured us they were entirely at our service.
We knew that this was a fiction; but we were fatigued, and disposed to take the good the Gods provided for us, without much question. We were shewn to our apartments and slept soundly, forgetting all the vexations of the day.
The next morning, after having exhausted ourselves in wonderment at the freaks which had been played off upon us, I left my wife, to make some calls in the city. I had not been long absent, when she received a visit from Mrs. M., our travelling companion, who, after the usual salutations had passed, seemed struggling to suppress a disposition to laugh, which my wife took to be another mad freak, to be classed with those she had previously witnessed.
The propensity at length overcame her, and she burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, which lasted for many minutes.
Indignant as my wife was disposed to be, at such an unexpected explosion of mirth, from a lady who had for two days treated her with haughty reserve, if not absolute contempt, she bore it with patience, and awaited in silence the conclusion of her visiter's merry humor, and such explanation of its cause as she might choose to give.
Every thing must have an end--and the lady at length ceased her laughter, from absolute exhaustion.
"My dear madam,--she gasped out--my dear madam--this is very rude--very rude indeed. You must be surprised at such conduct, and I beg your pardon but"----
"It would be an unnecessary dissimulation, to say I am not surprised; but I presume I shall soon learn to be surprised at nothing."
"You really then, think you have been associated for the last few days, with persons little better than bedlamites."
"I have certainly been exposed to strange conduct."
"Well, I have come to explain the whole mystery. Do not be offended at my mirth. I could not resist it. The laugh was more against myself than you--and the whole affair is so ridiculous, that you will laugh too, when you know the truth."
"I own that I have a strong curiosity to be acquainted {77} with the cause of the strange treatment we have met with. I presume it arose out of some mistake."
"Entirely, entirely--and then a blunder so ridiculous--so uncommon! Excuse me, but really I must laugh--ha, ha, ha. But I will keep you in suspense no longer; besides, I wish you to laugh with me, and therefore I will tell you my story. Listen. You remember that at Newcastle, you and your husband took one of the first stages. Myself and children were seated in another, in company with Mrs. R., (the pretty, talkative woman with light hair,) two members of Congress, and a young naval officer. We had scarcely started, when Mrs. R. commenced with her usual volubility, running over the various persons who had fallen under her observation in the steamboat. At last your turn came to be criticised: 'Did you observe Mrs. S.,' said she, 'the lady with black hair and blue eyes--rather pretty, and at first I took her to be quite a genteel personage.' Yes, I replied, I had been introduced to you, and was to place myself under the protection of your husband, from Baltimore to Washington."
"'Did you ascertain any thing of their standing and character,' said Mrs. R."
"Not a word said I. My friend Mr. H. told me they were genteel people, and their appearance warrants his opinion."
"'Well, really,' said Mrs. R., 'how easy it is to be deceived by people that one knows nothing about. You would not believe it--I am sure I would not, if Mrs. S. had not told me with her own lips--I say, otherwise, I would not have believed that Mr. S. was going to Washington in such a menial capacity.'"
"What!" said I.
"'Menial capacity?' said one member of Congress."
"'Menial capacity?' echoed the other member."
"'I took him for a gentleman,' said the naval officer--'Confound the fellow's impudence.'"
"But, said I, you must be mistaken, I'm sure. I am to go to Washington with him."
"'There must be some mistake,' said the two members of Congress, and the young naval officer, all in a breath."
"'Why we have engaged to make up a game of whist with him this evening,' said the latter."
"'Certainly!' said one member of Congress."
"'Certainly!' said the other member of Congress. 'Oh, there must be some mistake, my good madam. Menial capacity! Impossible!'"
"'No mistake at all,' retorted Mrs. R., with some asperity. 'I tell you I had it from Mrs. S's own mouth, and she owned it after a good deal of hesitation and reluctance. I put twenty questions to her before I could get an answer.'"
"Well, said I, if you are so well satisfied that you are right, we are interested to know who and what these people are. I do not choose to travel under the protection of a man of menial capacity."
"'Yes, yes,' said the naval officer, 'what the deuse is the fellow. I should not wonder if he were a pick-pocket, or a black-leg, to judge by his easy impudence.'"
"'Very likely,' said one member of Congress."
"'I have not a doubt of it,' said the other member. 'But let us know, if you please madam, what he is.'"
"'As I said before, I would not have believed it if Mrs. S. had not told me herself,' said Mrs. R., hesitating."
"'Oh, no doubt you are right,' said the naval officer: 'but please let us know who it is we have been so familiar with.'"
"'Well,' said Mrs. R. 'Mrs. S. told me that her husband was going to Washington to be Porter to the Senate.'"
Here my wife interrupted Mrs. M. with a fit of laughter almost equal to that with which Mrs. M. had indulged herself in the outset.
"So," said the former, "Mrs. R. mistook the word _Re_porter, for that of Porter,--an important omission."
"So it would seem," rejoined Mrs. M. "But let me go on."
"'Porter to the Senate!' exclaimed every voice."
"'A fellow who runs errands for the Senators, fetches and carries bundles, &c., I suppose,' said the naval officer."
"'I can't conceive what station he is to fill,' said one of the members of Congress, 'unless it is that of old Tobias, the black man, who kindles fires, and carries messages.'"
"'That is it I dare say,' said the other member."
"'We must cut him,' said the naval officer."
"'To be sure.'" "'To be sure.'"
"So it was settled by all present that you were to be cut without benefit of clergy."
"I should not have consented to place myself under your protection, continued Mrs. M., but that I had no choice. Knowing no other person with whom I could travel, I reluctantly accompanied you; and I trust," said she, laughing, "that on the road, I shewed a very laudable aversion to the contaminating society of a Porter and his wife."
"No one can deny you that merit," said my wife.
"Well, I cannot ask your pardon for it. There was no malice in the mistake, and I am almost as much annoyed at it as you can be. After you arrived here last night, the landlady insisted on knowing what business brought your husband to Washington; and I reluctantly told her what I had heard. At the bare idea of lodging a Porter, her feathers bristled up like those of a Barbary hen. Her yellow turban looked blue at the idea of such an indignity. She protested that she would have no Porters in her house, nor no such rapscallions as had the impudence to go about dressed like decent people, to take in the flats. And so, my dear madam, you were turned out without much ceremony, and might have spent the night in the street, but for the information obtained by the boy at the office of the N---- I----, which, by giving another syllable to the profession of your husband, shewed beyond a doubt that you were entitled to christian treatment. You know the rest, and I trust we shall all of us when we remember these blunders, acknowledge the IMPORTANCE OF A SINGLE SYLLABLE."
S.
Extracted from a Virginia Newspaper, Printed in 1775.
ON SLEEP.
O sleep! what though of death thou art To be an image said, I wish thee still with all my heart, The partner of my bed.
Thy company, soft sleep, then give, While in thy arms I lie; How sweet! thus, without life, to live! Thus, without death, to die!
{78}
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE COTTAGE IN THE GLEN.
In traversing that region of country in the wilds of Maine, that borders one of her finest rivers, if you look carefully on your right hand as you pass through the town of ----, by the post-road, you may observe a cart-path leading directly into a thick wood, where the trees tower in majesty and beauty to the very clouds, and look as if they had thus stood ever since the day when "the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them." Were it not for this same cart-path, with its three ridges of bright greensward, and its four lines of dusky brown, you might doubt whether the silent grandeur of the forest had ever echoed to the voice or the footstep of man.
There is something truly grand and impressive in forest scenery. The lofty trees stretching high toward heaven; the graceful and majestic waving of the branches, breathing nature's own soft music, which scarcely removes the impression of profound silence--or which, to parody the words of Milton, "just makes silence audible;" the deep, and seemingly "boundless contiguity of shade," and the awful solitude, make man shrink into himself, and feel that he is in the presence of the Eternal. The weak spirit of a creature frail as man, is soon overpowered, if it give itself up to the impressions naturally produced by contemplating, in solitude, the grandeur of creation. The first feeling is delight,--next admiration,--then wonder,--then awe,--and then oppression;--and when it arrives at this point, the sight of such a little cart-path as I have mentioned, is a great relief to the feelings: for it shows that a being having passions, and feelings, and sympathies like his own--as short lived, as dependant, as insignificant as himself, is, or has been near. The deep shade has been penetrated; the solitude has been interrupted; and an unbroken and eternal silence has not forever reigned in the forest.
If the reader wishes, we will follow this path, and see whither it will conduct us. Its course is a little devious, probably to avoid the trunks of the trees, for not one appears to have been felled to shorten the distance, which is about three fourths of a mile, under the unbroken shade of the same noble woodland. Now the path begins to descend a little, and by almost imperceptible degrees, you arrive in a valley lying between two lofty ridges, that become more and more abrupt as you advance; and when you have proceeded about the fourth of a mile, they seem nearly perpendicular on either side. And their summits being crowned by the lofty trees of the same far stretching forest, adds much to the apparent depth of the valley, and you feel as if verging towards the centre of the earth. That little ripling stream in the valley, beside which we have been walking, now begins to widen, and presently expands itself into a mimic lake, restrained on the one hand and on the other by the mountain side, leaving just room enough on the left for the unbroken cart-path. Your ear is now assailed by the sound of rushing waters, and a roof appears beyond the lake--so that a habitation of man is near. No, it is a mill; the dwelling house is sixty rods below: there it lies, on a beautiful swell in the narrow valley, made, it would seem, on purpose for its site--and the again diminished stream is softly murmuring by its side. That is the Cottage in the Glen. If you please, we will descend, and take our station in front of it. Before we turned that angle to attain this spot, you were about to exclaim, "This is the very home of solitude, shut out from the rest of creation." But look straight down the valley, and far--far off, see the picturesque and busy village of ----, and the sparkling waters of the river. The valley is so straight and narrow, and widens so gradually towards its mouth, and the banks on either side are so precipitous, that it produces the same effect on the scene beyond, that a tube does in viewing a picture. Is it not beautiful! Now if you will climb with me to the foot of that tree that stands part way up the bank, we will be seated in the shade, and I will give you a sketch of the inhabitants of the cottage.
* * * * *
Mr. Kirkwood, a native of Massachusetts, and head of the family, is now upwards of seventy-five years of age; and until verging towards sixty, was decidedly a man of the world. He was educated at Harvard University, and at the age of twenty-eight, when he married, was a good scholar, a finished gentleman, and a successful lawyer.
"There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune."
Mr. Kirkwood seized the favorable moment, and his wealth rapidly increased. He wished to be rich; not to hoard his wealth--but that he might be enabled to procure all the indulgencies and elegancies of life, and move at the head of society. His wish was gratified. He became rich; lived in splendid style; and his house was the favorite resort of the wealthy, the elegant, and the fashionable. His wife was a model of good housewifery, propriety and politeness; and his only child, a son, was all that the heart of a man of the world could wish. Highly gifted by nature, and favored with every advantage for the cultivation of his talents, young Kirkwood was ushered into society, elegant in person, elegant in mind, and correct in morals. It was generally conceded that whoever obtained him, would gain a first rate prize in the matrimonial lottery. Of course, there was no little competition among mothers who had daughters to dispose of; and young ladies who wished to dispose of themselves. But the lovely, well educated, and retiring Mary Bust, engaged his affections without seeking them; and in winning her heart, and securing her hand, he insured his own earthly felicity. Gentle by nature, polished and enlightened by education, unblemished in reputation, and thoroughly well principled, through the assiduous care and unwearied instructions of wise and pious parents,--she was all a man could wish for as a wife, companion and friend; all he could wish for as the mother of his children. The son's choice gave perfect satisfaction to his parents; and when in the course of a few years, the young wife gave successively to the arms of her husband, three sons and a daughter,--there seemed to be around this family, a confluence of all that constitutes the felicity of earth.
But, alas, in the tide of men's affairs, there is an ebb as well as flood; and this the Kirkwood family now began to experience. The elder Kirkwood had just begun to discover that his affairs were in some confusion, when his wife was suddenly snatched away by death. It was a heavy blow, and he felt it as such. But men seldom {79} die of grief! Millions have buried the wife of their youth, and been very comfortably supported under the bereavement; and so was Mr. Kirkwood. Indeed he had little time to spend in unavailing sorrow, or in brooding over the memory of the departed one; for the clouds of adversity became more and more dense about him, and he soon found that the combined energies of himself and son, could not avert the storm. Poverty seemed coming upon them "like an armed man." In the meantime, two of the blooming grandsons were in quick succession conveyed to the tomb; and just as the storm burst upon them in all its fury, the younger Kirkwood followed his mother and his two children to the world of spirits. After this tempest of adversity, Mr. Kirkwood stood like an oak, scathed by the lightning,--its verdure blasted, and its branches scattered abroad. He sunk, overwhelmed, and gave way to the most hopeless despondency.
There is a spirit in woman that will sustain her under circumstances which will drive man to despair. And when that spirit is moulded, guided, and strengthened by religion, it is invincible. Soft as the harp-tones of the "sweet singer of Israel," did Mary's voice now breathe on the ear of her disconsolate father.
"'Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil,' my father? Let us endeavor to say, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, and blessed be his name!' Arise, my father, and call upon our God. He 'hears the young ravens when they cry,' and will he not give his children food? He clothes the lilies of the field, and will he not clothe us? He binds up the broken heart; will he not then console ours?"
"Alas, my daughter," cried the old man, "He is thy God, but not mine. In the hour of prosperity I forgat him; in the hour of adversity I dare not approach him. May he, indeed, feed, and clothe, and console thee, and thy remaining little ones. For me--his vengeance alone will pursue me. Would I could hide me from his avenging hand, and lay my head in the grave!"
The despondency of her father added not a little to the load of sorrow that pressed on Mary's heart; but she had no time for idle lamentation. She had duties to perform; duties to him, herself, and her children; and laying herself low before the throne of mercy, she spread her sorrows and her wants before her Father in Heaven, and taking fast hold of Almighty strength, she went forward.
"My father," said Mary, "'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth;' and, 'like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'"
"But I have not feared him, Mary,--therefore he does not pity me. And his chastening is the chastening of an offended judge--in vengeance--not the chastening of a father."
Mary despaired not, though her father thus repelled all consolation; and when he sat absorbed in melancholy, and she scarcely dared intrude upon his thoughts, she would move about the room, just breathing the lines,
"Come ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, Come, at the shrine of God, fervently kneel; Here bring your wounded hearts; here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal;"
and at the same time raise a fervent prayer, that his sorrow might not ultimately prove to be that "sorrow of the world that worketh death," but the "sorrow that worketh repentance unto salvation." Her prayer was heard; her efforts were successful. It was not long ere with heartfelt gratitude, she heard him say, "'It is good for me that I have been afflicted.' 'The Lord gave,' but I have abused his gifts; and he 'hath taken away,' and blessed be his name for thus bringing an erring son near to himself." When this happy change first took place in the feelings of her father, Mary felt as though she had scarcely a care or a sorrow left. A future world, uncorroded by cares, unstained by tears, unblemished by sin, and unvisited by sorrow, opened on the eye of faith,--and all was peace within. But their pilgrimage was not yet accomplished; this home was not yet attained; and in the meantime, something must be done. Scarcely a wreck of their fortune remained; and Mr. Kirkwood, verging towards sixty, with the energies of his mind crushed by misfortune, felt it impossible to begin again his career as a lawyer. The remaining pride of his heart, rendered it extremely painful to remain amidst his former associates, with whom he could no longer, on equal terms, hold intercourse; and where every scene called back the visions of former splendors, and buried friends, with a sickening influence.
"Let us fly far from hence, my daughter," said he; "elsewhere I may recover something of my energy, and be capable of making some effort; here I can do nothing. Let us fly from the world, and hide ourselves in seclusion. My soul needs repose. A withering blast has swept over it, to tear away its idols. The work is done--but the wounds are still bleeding: and though, I trust, the great physician is at work, there needs time to perfect a cure. Let us fly from hence, and in some new and humble occupation, strive to support ourselves for the remainder of life's journey, and rear these little ones for immortality."
So that she could be with her father, and her children, to receive the blessing of the one, and the caresses of the others, it mattered little to Mary what spot on earth she called home. She was a "widow indeed." The long, bright vista, through which she had looked on years of future happiness, with the husband of her love, was closed by death; and what mattered it, where she fulfilled the remaining duties of life, so they were but faithfully discharged?
Through the agency of a friend, the Cottage in the Glen, with the mill that appertained to it, and a few acres of ground, were purchased. Mary collected together the few articles that remained of former abundance; and with the feelings of a woman of cultivated mind and literary taste, and with all the providence of a mother, foreseeing the future wants of her children, did she most carefully gather up all the books that remained of the once large and well selected library. All things finally arranged, they removed hither.
A complete revolution had taken place in Mr. Kirkwood's views. He felt that nothing is really degrading that is not sinful; and he resolved, as far as practicable, to do his own labor with his own hands. But, until he could learn the art himself, he was constrained to hire an assistant, to take charge of his little mill; once familiar with the business, it was his own employment. {80} The family were very comfortable, and soon became very happy. Though the furniture of the cottage was scanty, it was arranged with so much taste, and kept in such perfect order, that it wore the air of gentility; and a profusion of wild flowers in the summer, and a blazing fire in the winter, gave an additional cheerfulness to its appearance. The mill supplied them with bread, and many other comforts of life, beside paying a poor man for a day's labor now and then on their little enclosure of potatoes. They procured an honest and faithful maid servant, who milked their two cows, prepared the butter and cheese, and spun the wool of their half a dozen sheep, beside doing all the more laborious work of the family. No human eye was upon them that had seen them in former days, and they were fast forgetting a world, by which they were already nearly forgotten. No real want of nature remained unsatisfied, and their Heavenly Father was as near them here, as in any other place. Glorious and consoling idea! that his children can be carried to no spot in creation, where he will not be present to sustain and comfort them! How glorious the idea of an Omnipotent God!
Nothing, under the power of religion, served so much to console the heart of Mr. Kirkwood, as the presence and the happiness of his grandchildren. Frederic was eight, and Clara three years old; and they were as happy at the Cottage in the Glen, as they would have been in the palace of the Thuileries. From his heart, he could adopt the language of Paley: "I seem to see the benevolence of the Deity more clearly in the pleasures of young children, than in any thing else in the world. The pleasures of grown persons may be reckoned partly of their own procuring; but the pleasures of a healthy child are so manifestly provided for by another, and the benevolence of the provision is so unquestionable, that every child I see at its sport, affords to my mind a kind of sensible evidence of the finger of God."
"These children are happy, Mary," he would say; "they feel no regrets for the past--no fears for the future, but enjoy the present with zest. Our wants are scarcely greater than theirs. Let us, then, not regret the past; let us not be anxious for the future; but in performing present duty, and being grateful for present good, let us trust our heavenly father, without fear or misgiving."
Neither Mr. Kirkwood nor his daughter found any leisure for idle repinings. The indispensable labors of each day, with the care and instruction of the children, occupied them fully. Frederic was sent to the district school, there to acquire what he could of education; but he was an intellectual and thinking boy, and soon began to call on his grandfather to assist him through the difficulties he encountered, as his mind rapidly developed. The education of Clara, Mrs. Kirkwood considered her own peculiar business. And when the little girl was old enough to go to school, she still preferred pursuing the task herself, as she dreaded lest her daughter should breathe other than a pure moral atmosphere.
Next to religion, the abundant means of education is undoubtedly the glory and bulwark of New England. And the district school, where the son of the town pauper may obtain the foundation of an education that will render him intelligent and useful, is an incalculable blessing. But wherever human nature is, there is depravity; and where human beings mingle together, this depravity is called into exercise. Even young children are not the innocent creatures some persons appear to suppose; but in almost every school may be found the germ of almost every vice. So thought Mrs. Kirkwood; and it led her to educate her daughter entirely at home.
Time rolled on; and the children at the cottage increased in wisdom and stature: the parent and grandparent in meetness for the kingdom of heaven. Industry and economy, both of time and goods, was the order of the house; and the children cheerfully followed the example set them by their superiors. Frederic was always diligently employed, when not engaged with his books; and the healthful and joyous little Clara was the assistant of each one, as circumstances required, from her grandfather in the mill, to the servant girl at the washing tub. Permission to play in the open air, was a holiday to her heart; and she was light and joyous in spirit as the warblers of the grove. Content and peace reigned in the family. With each returning sun, their orisons were duly offered on the family altar; and when the shades of evening closed around, their thanksgivings and praises ascended to the throne of the Eternal.
"A holy incense--sweeter, richer far Than that upon the golden altar shed In Judah's sacred fane."
No change of any moment took place in their circumstances, and nothing in futurity was looked forward to with peculiar interest, until Frederic attained his fifteenth year. Then, one evening, after having been unusually thoughtful and silent, he suddenly looked up, and said,
"I want to be a minister of the gospel, and I want to go to college, grandfather."
Both the grandfather and the mother looked up in some astonishment; but they listened patiently to his plans, and heard him declare what efforts he was willing to make--what deprivations to endure.
"Dear grandfather--dear mother," said the eager boy, in conclusion, "do listen to me kindly. It will do me no harm to make the attempt. You, grandfather, and our good pastor, will help fit me for college; and I doubt not, that by my own industry, and what you can conveniently do for me, I shall some how or other get through. I feel that I can do nothing without an education."
"We will think on the subject, my son," said his grandfather, "and in due time let you know the result of our deliberations. Meantime, attend to your present duties, and 'take no anxious thought for the morrow.'"
The important subject was not mentioned again for the evening; but it engrossed Mrs. Kirkwood's mind, and kept her waking many hours of the night. From her son's birth, she had consecrated him to the service of her Heavenly Father, though she knew not in what way that service might be demanded. Now she hoped he had consecrated himself; and that what seemed so aspiring in a youth in his situation in life, was an impulse from above, rather than the natural workings of an ambitious mind. But she was helpless in herself, and could only ask to be directed by Him who is {81} perfect in wisdom; to be provided for by Him who is infinite in riches. What needed she more!
The next day Mr. Kirkwood and his daughter held a consultation on the subject; and when, toward evening, Frederic saw his mother searching over a chest of old books, his eyes sparkled, and his heart throbbed with feverish impatience to ascertain if his conjectures were accurate. His joy was complete, when he saw the necessary books and grammars come forth; some in a mutilated state, it is true,--but no matter, so the important parts were but entire. He went about his task like one in earnest; his progress was rapid; and in due time he was admitted at college.
The years of his collegiate life passed rapidly away. The vacations of spring and autumn he spent in the bosom of his family, giving delight to the hearts of all by his improvement; assisting in their labors,--and superintending with deep interest, and assiduous tenderness, the education of his sister. But the long winter vacation was devoted to school-keeping,--the most lucrative employment to which he could, for such limited periods, devote himself. Once he was so highly favored as to get a school in the neighborhood of the Glen; and then his labor was a delight, rather than a task, as he could be with his beloved friends, and direct his sister in her studies. The family at the Glen, it is true, had to practice more than wonted frugality, to help in defraying his unavoidable expenses; but no self-denial was hard, when one so dear was to be benefitted--no sacrifice painful that was made for so important an object. Clara was by no means the least efficient in her endeavors to aid her darling brother. As soon as she completed her thirteenth year, at her earnest and reiterated entreaties, the servant girl was dismissed, and she cheerfully took her labors on herself, that Frederic might have the considerable sum thus saved to the family.
Meanwhile, Clara's own education progressed, notwithstanding her situation seemed so unfavorable for study. But she was a rigid economist of time; and when that is the case with any one, great things may be accomplished. Although her hands were busily employed a large portion of the time, a mind, thirsting for knowledge, surmounted all difficulties. She could not, indeed, touch the keys of a piano, or the strings of a harp; the spinning wheel and other domestic machines demanded too large a portion of her time, to have permitted the acquisition of skill on these instruments, even had she possessed them. But she knew who Dugald Stewart was, and what he thought of the "active and moral powers of man;" with Smellie she was intimately acquainted; and Rollin, Hume, Gillies and Gibbon were her daily companions. The works of Pascal and Massillon she could read in the language in which they were written; and with Virgil she could converse in his native tongue. Above all, she had studied the volume of inspiration, and had learned the way of eternal life.
Never had the family at the Glen been happier than when Frederic returned home, bearing his parchment roll, duly adorned with the riband, and the imposing seal; and, after some preamble, running thus:
Notum esto, quod nos, consentiendibus honorandis admodum ac reverendis collegii antedicti Inspectoribus, anno Christi MDCCC--admisimum Fredericus Kirkwood ejusdem alumnum, ad gradum Baccalaurealem in Artibus; &c. But when he joined the domestic circle, authorized to preach the everlasting gospel, their joy was of a deeper, holier character. Would I could show you a picture of the group, as they encircled the blazing hearth on that happy evening. I will even make the attempt. There sits the venerable grandfather, in his large arm-chair, his white hairs smoothly parted from off his ample forehead, with every feature speaking of passions subdued, and a heart full of gratitude, content and love. Next the mother, with something like the bloom of youth stealing over her matron cheek,--while her eye moves in a tear that rises from that deep fountain of mingled feeling, known only to a pious mother's heart, as she looks on the son of her love, and that son a believer! Between these two sits Frederic, comely in manly strength, his whole countenance expressing heart-felt benevolence to all mankind--and peculiar love, gratitude and veneration for those by whom he is encircled. Last, and the darling of all, is Clara, seated on her brother's knee, with one arm around his neck, while her other hand is sometimes clasped in his,--sometimes straying amid his dark luxuriant hair. She is not exactly beautiful, but she is lovely. Her stature is rather below than above the medium size; and fresh air and healthy exercise have given elasticity to her limbs, and a bloom to her cheek, that rivals the richness of the peach. If her features are not regular, they defy criticism; for her whole face has such a glow of love and happiness, that the delighted beholder cannot seek for defects. Thus they all sat, enjoying the full tide of domestic happiness; and each might have said to the other, with Galatee,
"Tu me demandais ton bonheur, Et c'etait moi que tu rendais heureuse."
Even the knowledge that Frederic was soon to leave them, to enter on the duties of his vocation, could scarcely moderate their joy.
He has now entered on his holy calling; and though far removed from those who loved him so tenderly, nurtured him so carefully, governed him so wisely, and made such personal sacrifices to fit him for usefulness, they are happy still. Far from selfishly regretting that at the moment he was fitted for action, and capable of making some return for all their kindness, they are obliged to resign him altogether,--in the benevolence of their hearts they rejoice that they have been used as instruments to prepare him for a life of usefulness in the world; and their most fervent prayer for him is, that he may "turn many to righteousness," and then "shine as a star forever."
Yes, the family at the Glen are happy still. The aged grandfather is "waiting patiently his appointed time till his change come," with a "hope full of immortality." The mother, patient, gentle, subdued, serene, in fulfilling her quiet and unostentatious duties, is carefully laying up treasure, where "neither moth nor rust corrupt nor destroy." And the lovely Clara is the sunshine in the path of both. She hushes the sighs,--wipes the tears,--soothes the pains, and lightens the cares of each. Her voice is music to their ears; her presence brings gladness to their hearts; and they both pronounce her blessed.
But you inquire,--is she who breathes such fragrance around, forever to be immured in this sequestered {82} valley? No--she will move in a wider sphere; yet it is doubtful whether she elsewhere tastes such pure and peaceful happiness as she has tasted here. She may find more luxuriant roses, but then she must encounter the thorns; and what she may gain in untried sources of happiness, will be counterbalanced by unknown cares and sorrows. Yet she will, by and by, run the hazard: for her brother's dearest college friend once begged an invitation to spend a vacation at the Cottage; and when he left it, he left his heart behind him. Clara could do no less than give her's in exchange; and so she has promised, at some future day, to become his wife.
And now, as I have finished my sketch, we will leave the valley.
Do you further inquire what is the secret of their happiness? and whether she who has been so eagerly sought through the wide world, has chosen this for her favorite residence? I will give you the answer Mr. Kirkwood gave to Clara, when she asked him a question of similar import.
"Happiness, my daughter, has, on earth, no local habitation. She may dwell in the palace or in the cottage; with the rich, or with the poor; with the learned, or with the ignorant. Her seat is in the soul,--and its security does not depend on external circumstances. A peaceful conscience, and a humble, contented heart, grateful for blessings bestowed, and feeling no craving desire for those that are withheld, are the pillars of her throne. But there are two classes of persons that she will never deign to visit, be their rank or station what it may. Neither the idle nor the vicious are ever happy."
S. H.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
PICTURE OF OLD VIRGINIA.
Look here upon this picture--and on this, The counterfeit presentment.--Hamlet.
Virginia had been beautiful And owned a lovely land; Her sons, who were so dutiful, Went with her heart and hand; They raised her to the highest seat, By talents and by worth, And sent her name in accents sweet, Far ringing through the earth.
But lately she had fallen off; Her beauty was impair'd; Her younger sons were heard to scoff-- They might at least have spared. 'Twas said that she was growing blind, Was lazy and supine, And that she weakly lagged behind Her sisters, grown divine.
That all her days were spent, forsooth, In one eternal chime About her deeds of early youth-- "Resolves" of former time. Naught could be said and nothing told But she more devils spied; "More devils than vast hell could hold--" Or all the world beside.
And strangers[1] did her land deride-- With wagging tongue, reviled; Wild beasts, they said, had multiplied In that most barren wild; Her houses were untenanted-- The fox[2] had manned her walls; And "rank grass" waved around his head, As in old Ossian's halls!
Her moral strength and physical,[3] Aye, both of them were gone, And every man seem'd phthisical, Or like to tumble down; Her talents all were buried deep, Or in some napkin hid, Or with the mighty dead, did sleep Beneath the coffin lid.
But far! oh far beyond all these, She had displeased her God; Inter dolosos cineres, She on volcano trod; She could not get o' nights her rest; At midnight bell for fire, She hugged her infants to her breast, Prepared for fun'ral pyre.
Virginia roused herself one day And took her picture down; And as she gazed, was heard to say-- Am I thus hideous grown? And am I stupid--lazy--blind-- A monomaniac too! Relaxed in body and in mind? Oh no! it is not true.
There lies outstretched my glorious land, With her capacious bay; My rivers rush on every hand, With sail and pennon gay; My mountains, like a girdle blue, Adorn her lovely waist, "And lend enchantment to the view," As in "the distance" traced.
I'll hie me straight to Richmond town, And call my liege men there; And they shall write these libels down, Or fill me with despair. I have a friend, who'll make some stir, And take my work in hand; I'll send him forth my "MESSENGER"-- To "spy out all the land."[4]
That Messenger went gaily forth Throughout her old domain, And there found many men of worth Would snatch their pens again; {83} And since their mothers' blood was up-- To cast her odium by, Would shed--of ink--their latest drop T' inscribe her name on high.
The land which he went out to sift, No milk and honey floods-- It takes not two her grapes to lift--[5] But grapes festoon her woods. No want of food, for beast or man, There met his eager gaze; Find better bacon!--greens!--who can? Or finer fields of maize![6]
Her Tuckahoes 'tis true, are slim, And of a bilious hue; But then he found the Anakim Beyond the mountains blue: Some men he found in safety chains-- All crossed upon the breast-- They seem'd indeed to have no brains: But these all lands infest.
The women look'd so passing fair, How shall their charms be told? By their Iachimo's[7] they were Like brilliants set in gold. Of such pure water was each maid; So sparkling unto view-- No wonder that it should be said They never could turn blue.
No foxes here, peep'd windows through; But oft at early morn They're seen to brush the glittering dew, Pursued by hounds and horn: Her "hounds are of the Spartan breed"-- "So sanded and so flew'd,"-- All "dewlap'd" they, and all "crook-kneed"-- As Cadmus e'er halloo'd.
In short, all zealots are run mad T' abuse this pleasing sod; Where people sleep as sound, egad, As in the land of Nod: What! colonize old coachman Dick! My foster brother Nat! My more than mother, when I'm sick! "Come, Hal, no more of that."
NUGATOR.
[Footnote 1: See Col. Benton's description of Virginia, done into verse, beginning thus:
"As Benton jogg'd along the road, 'Twas in the Old Dominion, His thoughts were bent-on finding food, For preconceiv'd opinion," &c.]
[Footnote 2: "The fox peeped out of the window, and the rank grass waved around his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina--Silence is in the house of her fathers."--Ossian.]
[Footnote 3: Man's strength is gone, his courage--zooks! And liberty's fine motions, &c.--Benton.]
[Footnote 4: And Moses sent them to spy out the land of Canaan.]
[Footnote 5: And they came unto the brook of Eshcol and cut down from thence a branch with one cluster of grapes, and they bare it between two upon a staff, ... and they told him, and said we came unto the land whither thou sentest us and surely it floweth with milk and honey, and this is the fruit of it.]
[Footnote 6: In old Virginia stint of food Diseases have engender'd-- The mind is gone--to want of blood Good morals have surrender'd.
Houses are fallen--fences down-- And men are now much scarcer-- Wild beasts in multitudes are known, That every day get fiercer.
Flee gravel--grit--and heartless clay-- Nor corn nor oats will grow there-- To westward hie--away--away! No heartless Clay you'll know there.--Benton.]
[Footnote 7: The yellow iachimo.--Shakspeare. [Cymbeline.]]
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
A LEAF FROM THE JOURNAL OF A YOUNG AMERICAN TOURIST IN ITALY.
The "sable goddess" had been seated for some time upon her "ebon throne," when we passed through the ponderous gate and rattled along the principal street of Genoa the Proud. It was a beautiful night. The firmament was studded with sparkling gems, and the silver queen rode steadily in the heavens, diffusing that pure and hallowed illumination which prompted the ancients to worship her as the goddess of chastity, and uninterrupted by any of those envious clouds whose intervention between her face and the earth furnishes poets with so favorite a figure to express the idea of virtue obscured and oppressed with misfortune. It was not, however, a night in which "creation sleeps,"--or, to use the pompous phrase of Racine, in which "tout dort, et les vents et Neptune,"--for the wind was tempestuously high, and the waves evinced all their usual restlessness at being roughly visited by the subjects of old Æolus. As we whirled along, nothing like an animated being was to be seen; not even a mouse was stirring; and the rush and whistling of the wind through the street, seemed to bring out the solemn stillness which otherwise prevailed, into the strongest relief. How we strained our eyes to catch glimpses of the glorious palaces which have so filled the trump of fame, and to which the city is indebted for her magnificent title! And how impressive, how imposing was their appearance in the partial development and mellowed effect of their splendor, afforded by the beams of the moon! The whole street was one consecutive, uninterrupted row of princely buildings,--and exquisite indeed was the effect of light and shade there exhibited--"leaving that lovely which was so, and making that which was not."
We had given directions to be taken to the Hotel of the Cross of Malta--L'Albergo della Croce di Malta, and when the carriage stopped, we got out with the expectation of being at our destined domicil. No sign, however, of a hotel was visible, and one of our party began to make an accompaniment to the noise of the wind by storming a little at the postillions for not obeying his orders,--when the courier informed us that we were as near as the vehicle could get to the house, as it was located in a street hard by, too narrow for any but pedestrians. This position of one of the principal hotels of a city denominated la superba, appeared singular enough, and with our ideas of its superbness somewhat diminished, we followed the man a short distance up a lane in which two persons could scarcely walk abreast, until we reached the door of the establishment, whose aspect was not particularly inviting, in despite of its towering altitude. Our fears, however, as to the manner in which we might be accommodated, or rather unaccommodated, were soon put to rest, when we mounted the spacious stairway, and were ushered into a suite of apartments which to the simplicity of an American, republican eye, wore an air of absolute magnificence.
What a difference there was between the first aspect of things in this our Hotel of the Cross of Malta, and that which is presented in the places of entertainment for man and horse in the United States. Instead of being ushered into a bar-room filled with the fumes of whiskey and tobacco, crowded with boots to be blackened, decorated with "tintanabulent appendages" innumerable, {84} and affording palpable evidence in every way that the establishment is as much entitled to the motto, "e pluribus unum," as the government of the country itself, we were received at the portal by a single domestic and conducted to our rooms without seeing or hearing the slightest indication that any other "mortal mixture of earth's mould" besides ourselves, was in the house. And then the difference in the appearance of the apartments! The recollection of the closets or pigeon holes, styled chambers by the courtesy of our mother tongue, so limited in their dimensions, that like the cell of the poor Hibernian, in which he "did nothing but walk up and down," you cannot "stand in them at all," furnished with a bed, a wash-stand, two chairs, and a looking glass, in which you may see one moiety of your face at a time, if you exert yourself with sufficient industry, did not certainly excite any very lively regrets, as we gazed on the spacious apartments glittering with mirrors, the walls and ceiling frescoed and gilded ad unguem, mantles supported by sculptured goddesses, chairs and lounges covered with damask, and beds so richly curtained and attired, that it seemed as if one could scarcely sleep in them, for thinking of the luxury in which he was reposing. The hotel was formerly a palace, whose glories, in part, it still retains. Yet, to tell the truth and shame a certain nameless gentleman, before my head had been long laid upon the pillow, I would willingly have exchanged the grandeur and the spaciousness of the room in which I was courting the sweet restorer of tired nature, for the plainness and contractedness of any of the closets to which I have alluded. Verily I paid for my magnificence. Never did I suffer from cold as on that night--the very exercise which I took in shaking and shivering ought to have induced perspiration, but in spite of a respectable quantity of bed-clothes, with the addition of all my habiliments piled on top of them, I could not make myself warm enough to allow the god of sleep to exercise his balmy influence upon my eyes for an instant. Italian dwellings, unfortunately, as I thought then, are constructed much more in reference to the weather of the torrid than of the frigid zone. Every method is devised of letting in as much of the coolness of the external atmosphere as possible, and of adapting the materials of the apartments to the nullification of all caloric; and the one in which I was quaking, was in no way an exception to the prevalent custom. The marble floors and unpapered walls, notwithstanding the warmth of the colors with which the latter were filled, created a resistless disposition to chilliness in themselves; the wind came pouring through several windows, reaching almost from the ceilings to the floor, whose looseness provided it with abundant facility for ingress; no fire-place offered its aid for combating the power of the blusterer; and the bed in which I lay, curled up into a heap, to prevent the "genial current" from entirely freezing, was of amplitude commensurate with the dimensions of the chamber. Napoleon, with his whole staff, might have been accommodated in it, when he visited Genoa. Whenever I attempted to make a change of position, I might as well have fallen into an ice-house. What joy when the morning's light dawned upon my eyes! Never did I observe the maxim with regard to early rising with so much good-will, as when I left the inhospitable couch, determined not to entrust myself to it again. By the time I had dressed I was as near congelation as I well could be; the only thing that kept my blood in circulation was the prospect of an exhilirating fire in the sitting-room, and there I steered with all possible speed; but alas, for human expectations! On opening the door my optics were immediately filled with smoke, and as they are not of that "nice" character which are requisite "to see what is not to be seen," I could discern nothing like a blaze. The badly constructed hearth manifested the most invincible repugnance to permit the wood to ignite, but kindly enabled us to obtain all the warmth we could from fumigation. I confess I became somewhat dispirited. One of my motives in coming to Italy was to escape the cold of the winter at home, and here on my very entrance into its mild and genial atmosphere, as it is always called, had I suffered more chattering of the teeth than I ever did before for the same length of time. This may be an escape thought I, but if it is, it is one amazingly like that of Lieutenant O'Shangnessy, who escaped from the field of battle into the ranks of the enemy.
W.
NEW ENGLAND.
The place from which the following letter is indited, can be forgotten by no one that has ever seen it. A fine view of Northampton may be had from the top of the Mansion House, where the visiter commonly abides; but whoever ascends Mount Holyoke, is rewarded for his pains, with a prospect of surpassing beauty. In Virginia, we may have from our summits, a view of mountains on the one hand, and on the other a country comparatively level, with occasional spots of cultivation; but there is seldom any greater variety. Nothing else is afforded by the Peaks of Otter. Mount Holyoke, furnishes a combination of beauties. The spectator beholds mountains and lowland; a country wild and rugged in one direction and in the highest state of cultivation in another. He has before him the lovely village of Northampton, with others not far distant. And the Connecticut, is seen winding its way, amongst its fertile meadows, in so circuitous and yet so regular a manner, as to make the country on its banks resemble a beautiful parterre. The water prospect gives to the scene its chief source of interest. Mount Holyoke, rises not so high as Catskill; nor is the Connecticut so distant from it, as the Hudson from the latter. And it is owing to this, that the water view, is finer from its summit, than from the Pine Orchard. The distance is sufficient to "lend enchantment to the view"--not so great as to prevent a spectator from seeing any beautiful object that a nearer view would embrace, with all the distinctness that is desirable. A Virginian, who has high authority for supposing that a visit to Harper's Ferry is worth a trip across the Atlantic, may ask if Mount Holyoke surpasses this famous Virginia scene. State pride must yield to candor, and acknowledge that it does. The prospect from what is called the Eagle Rock, two miles distant from Harper's Ferry on the Loudoun side, is certainly very fine, and calculated to remove in some degree that disappointment, which one who has read Mr. Jefferson's description is apt to feel, when the scene from the Jefferson Rock is first beheld by him. But the view of the streams at Harper's Ferry, beheld from any point, cannot compare in beauty with the Connecticut at Northampton. And, in other respects, Harper's Ferry must {85} yield to Mount Holyoke. It will not do to put the workshops of the former against the beautiful villages seen from the latter. Harper's Ferry cannot in any way obtain pre-eminence, until the spectator becomes conscious of the justness of Mr. Jefferson's opinion as to the mode in which the water first passed through the Blue Ridge. And, to be able to acknowledge the correctness of that opinion, must be a work of some difficulty after looking at the Potomac and Shenandoah, and seeing how small a power is produced by the two streams combined.
The author of the letter, in speaking of the ladies of New England, repudiates what he terms a leading argument for slavery. The individual who is led by a perusal of the letter to make the following remarks, is certainly not an advocate of slavery; but his own observation, has brought him to some conclusions, from which he inclines to think, the intelligent gentleman by whom that letter was written, will scarcely dissent. Whoever has travelled in a stage or steamboat in Virginia, and travelled also in stages and steamboats in the non-slave-holding states, must have perceived that more deference and respect are shown towards female travellers with us, than in the northern and eastern states. In a southern steamboat, men will not be seen scrambling for seats at table, before the ladies are provided with places; and, in a southern stage, a female traveller will always be offered that seat which it is supposed she would prefer. If more consideration be shown for female travellers, in the slave-holding than in the non-slave-holding states,--the next inquiry is, whether slavery be the cause of the difference. It may be admitted, that in the southern states, the men who travel are for the most part gentlemen; while to the north, a large proportion of those who are perpetually moving about, are persons who have never been accustomed to any good society, and have very little idea of good breeding. Again--it may be admitted, that our steamboats are generally less crowded, and there is consequently less inducement to be guilty of that indelicacy, which is so often seen in a northern boat. Do these facts explain the cause of the difference above alluded to? They do not. For we find to the south, that a theatre, or a place for the delivery of a public speech, may be filled by citizens, without any distinction of persons; and yet respectable females coming to a place thus crowded, would be treated with more consideration than would be shown towards them at the north under similar circumstances. There must be some other cause for the difference; and slavery is in a great degree that cause. To the north, in consequence of the absence of slavery, many females, even in respected ranks of life, perform duties which here would devolve upon our slaves. Nor do the duties which they perform consist merely of unseen employments within doors. A very large proportion of the sex engage in the business of buying and selling, and travel about unattended. Thus embarking in what with us would be regarded as the proper offices of men, the consequence is that they are treated with not more respect than is shown towards men. This remark is applicable, as before stated, to a large proportion--to so large a proportion, that the general rule of deference towards the sex, which prevails to the south--can scarcely be said to prevail, in the northern states; but those by whom, and to whom that deference is there shown, are rather to be regarded as exceptions. A gentleman to the north, will treat one whom he knows to be a lady, with courtesy and respect. To the south, this previous information, is not so indispensable. We act upon a general presumption in favor of the sex. A female with us, is treated with courtesy and respect, unless something be known as to her character, or be apparent in her conduct, which justifies the conclusion that she is not entitled to be so treated.
C.
From the Fredericksburg Arena.
LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.--NO. 1.
BY A VIRGINIAN.
Northampton, Mass. July 24, 1834.
And you will positively "excommunicate" me if I do not send you "some first impressions" of Yankee-land? Have at you then; though, really, my time has been so filled with seeing and hearing, that hardly a scrap remains to write down a hundredth part of the curious or striking things that meet my eyes and ears.