The southern literary messenger, Volume I., 1834-35 (part 5 of 11)

The southern literary messenger, Volume I., 1834-35 (part 5 of 11)

When he had brought himself into good business, he almost totally neglected it; which I believe was owing to a desire of dipping into all kinds of knowledge, wherein he had a great deal of vanity, and prevented his digesting what he had so well as he would have done otherwise. He had many good qualities in his practice; was moderate in his fees; ingenious and honest; never disputed plain points, but was a candid, fair arguer. Yet he had a failing, which brought him to a quarrel with me. It was an odd sort of pride, that would not suffer him to keep an equilibrium in his own conceits. He could not see himself admired, without thinking it an injury to him to stand upon a level with any other; and therefore, though I was always his friend, had done him many kindnesses, and he himself thought himself obliged to me, he came into so ill a temper, as not to allow me either learning or honesty; which broke our acquaintance--and after that I thought I discovered some seeds of malice in him. He died in the flower of his age, and may be justly reckoned a loss to this poor country, which is not like to abound (at present at least) in great genius's.

* * * * *

Norfolk, January 16th, 1835.

SIR: I herewith transmit you (with a request that if you shall deem it proper, it may be presented to the next meeting of the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society,) a copy of an ancient Record of the Actings and Doings of certain inhabitants of the Borough and County of Norfolk, associated under the name of "Sons of Liberty." This record has lain (tradition relates) in the office of the clerk of this Borough from its date; unknown to the world at large, and unnoticed even by many of the inhabitants themselves. The moment my attention was called to it, it appeared to me entitled by its antiquity and the generous spirit of patriotism and self-devotion which it so strongly breathes, to a place in the records of a society whose laudable purpose is to rescue from oblivion (into which already too many of the works of talent and deeds of patriotism of the state have fallen,) the remaining monuments of the colonial and revolutionary history of Virginia.

The letter of Richard Bland, (attached to the original, and which is obviously autographic,) seemed to me particularly interesting, and to deserve a place among the transactions of your society. That letter characterizes the resolutions as "noble," and declares that "they will remain lasting monuments of the public spirit of the Sons of Liberty, and of their love to their country." To this end I very respectfully tender them to your society, whose institution, allow me to say, I hail as the dawn of a new era in the literature and science of the commonwealth.

Be pleased to accept for your society, and yourself individually, assurances of my high respect,

OTWAY B. BARRAUD.

To the President of the Historical and Philosophical Society of Virginia.

PROCEEDINGS

Of the Sons of Liberty at Norfolk, 1766.

Preserved as a monument of their public spirit and love to their country.

At a meeting of a considerable number of inhabitants of the town and county of Norfolk, and others, Sons of Liberty, at the court-house of said county, in the Colony of Virginia, on Monday, the 31st of March, 1766--

Having taken into consideration the evil tendency of that oppressive and unconstitutional act of Parliament, called the stamp act, and being desirous that our sentiments should be known to posterity, and recollecting that we are a part of that colony who first, in general assembly, openly expressed their detestation to the said act, (which is pregnant with ruin, and productive of the most pernicious consequences,) and unwilling to rivet the shackles of slavery and oppression on ourselves and millions yet unborn, have unanimously come to the following resolutions--

1. Resolved, That we acknowledge our sovereign lord King George the Third to be our rightful and lawful king; and that we will at all times, to the utmost of our power and ability, support and defend his most sacred person, crown and dignity, and shall be always ready, when constitutionally called upon, to assist his said majesty with our lives and fortunes, and to defend all his just rights and prerogatives.

2. Resolved, That we will, by all lawful ways and means which Divine Providence has put into our hands, defend ourselves in the full enjoyment of, and preserve inviolate to posterity, those inestimable privileges of all free-born British subjects, of being taxed only by representatives of their own choosing, and of being tryed by none but a jury of their peers: and that if we quietly submit to the execution of the said stamp act, all our claims to civil liberty will be lost, and we and our posterity become absolute slaves; for by that act, British subjects in America are deprived of the invaluable privileges aforementioned.

3. Resolved, That a committee be appointed, who shall, in such manner as they think most proper, go upon necessary business, and make public the above resolutions; and that they correspond, as they shall see occasion, with the associated Sons of, and Friends to Liberty, in the other British colonies in America.

James Holt; Henry Tucker; Robert Tucker; Robert Tucker, Jr.; John Hutchings; Thomas Davis; Manuel Calvert; James Parker; Lewis Hansford.

Signed to the foregoing--

John Hutchings, Jr.; Paul Loyall; William Roscow Curle; Anthony Lawson; Joseph Hutchings; Thomas Newton, Sr.; John Phripp, Jr.; John Ramsay; John Gilchrist; Matthew Godfrey; Matthew Phripp; Thomas Newton, Jr.; Samuel Boush; Richard Knight; James Campbell; John Lawrence; Joshua Nicholson; Nicholas Wonycott; Matthew Rothery; Jacob Elligood; Cornelius Calvert; Edward Archer; Edward Voss; Francis Peart; Samuel Calvert; James Gibson; Nicholas Winterton; Griffin Peart; John {355} Wilfery; William Skinker; Thomas Butt; William Gray; Hudson Brown; John Taylor; Alexander Moseley; John Taylor, Jr.; William Calvert; William Atchison; Edward Hach Moseley, Jr.; William Hancock; Robert Brett; Stephen Tankard; Thomas Willoughby; James Dunn; John Crammond; Alexander Kincaid; George Muter; Christopher Calvert.

On a motion made that a Moderator be chosen for the better transacting business, the Reverend Thomas Davis was recommended, and unanimously chosen.

On a motion made that a Secretary be appointed to this general meeting--

Resolved, That James Holt and William Roscow Curle be Secretaries.

Resolved, That the Committee of Correspondence do consist of the following persons, to wit:

Manuel Calvert, Esq.; Mr. Paul Loyall; Mr. James Parker; Mr. Joseph Hutchings; Doctor John Ramsay; Mr. Anthony Lawson; Mr. Samuel Boush; Mr. John Phripp, Jr.; Mr. John Gilchrist; Mr. Lewis Hansford; Mr. John Lawrence; Mr. John Hutchings, Jr.; Mr. Thomas Newton, Jr.; Mr. Matthew Phripp.

And that they or any five of them do make public the resolutions aforesaid; and take into consideration all matters necessary to be laid before this society, and make report of their proceedings to the next general meeting.

Resolved, That this general meeting adjourn till to-morrow nine o'clock.

* * * * *

At a meeting of the Sons of Liberty, continued and held at the court-house in the town and county of Norfolk, in the colony of Virginia, on Tuesday, April 1st, 1766--

Resolved, That we will, on any future occasion, sacrifice our lives and fortunes, in concurrence with the other Sons of Liberty in the neighboring provinces, to defend and preserve our invaluable blessings transmitted to us by our ancestors.

Resolved, That whoever is concerned, directly or indirectly, in using or causing to be used, in any way or manner whatsoever, within this colony, (unless authorised by the general assembly thereof,) that detestable paper called the stamps, shall be deemed to all intents and purposes, an enemy to his country, and treated by the Sons of Liberty accordingly.

Resolved, That the thanks of this society be given to Colonel Richard Bland, for the deep investigation and connective chain of reasoning set forth in his treatise, justly opposing the rights and liberties of this colony to the non-existing stamp act.

Resolved, That a committee be appointed to present the thanks of the Sons of Liberty to Colonel Richard Bland, for his treatise, entitled "An Enquiry into the Rights of the British Colonies;" and that Mr. Loyall, Mr. Boush, and Mr. Parker be appointed to draw an address for that purpose.

Resolved, That this society be adjourned till Friday, the 11th day of this instant, April.

T. D.

J. H. Secretary. W. R. C. Secretary.

* * * * *

At a Committee of Correspondence of the Sons of Liberty, held at the court-house in Norfolk, in Virginia, on Wednesday, the 2d April, 1766--

Present, Mr. Manuel Calvert; Mr. Paul Loyall; Mr. John Ramsay; Mr. John Phripp, Jr.; Mr. Lewis Hansford; Mr. John Gilchrist; Mr. John Lawrence; Mr. John Hutchings, Jr.; Mr. Thomas Newton, Jr.

A copy of the resolves of the Sons of Liberty having been fairly transcribed, the same was delivered to Mr. John Hutchings, Jr., who undertook to deliver the same to the printer of the Virginia Gazette, and request him to insert the same in his next paper, and make report to this committee.

J. H. Secretary. W. R. C. Secretary.

The copy delivered is as follows:

At a meeting of a considerable number of inhabitants of the town and county of Norfolk, and others, Sons of Liberty, at the court-house of the said county, in the colony of Virginia, on Monday, the 31st of March, 1766--

Having taken into consideration the evil tendency of that oppressive and unconstitutional act of Parliament, commonly called the stamp act; and being desirous that our sentiments should be known to posterity, and recollecting that we are a part of that colony who first in general assembly, openly expressed their detestation to the said act, (which is pregnant with ruin, and productive of the most pernicious consequences,) and unwilling to rivet the shackles of slavery and oppression on ourselves and millions yet unborn, have unanimously come to the following resolutions--

1. Resolved, That we acknowledge our sovereign lord and king George the Third to be our rightful and lawful king, and that we will at all times, to the utmost of our power and ability, support and defend his most sacred person, crown and dignity; and will be always ready, when constitutionally called upon, to assist his majesty with our lives and fortunes, and defend all his just rights and prerogatives.

2. Resolved, That we will, by all lawful ways and means which Divine Providence hath put into our hands, defend ourselves in the full enjoyment of, and preserve inviolate to posterity, those inestimable privileges of all free born British subjects, of being taxed by none but representatives of their own choosing, and of being tried only by a jury of their peers; for if we quietly submit to the execution of the said stamp act, all our claims to civil liberty will be lost, and we and our posterity become absolute slaves.

3. Resolved, That we will, on any future occasion, sacrifice our lives and fortunes, in concurrence with the other Sons of Liberty in the American provinces, to defend and preserve those invaluable blessings transmitted us by our ancestors.

4. Resolved, That whoever is concerned, directly or indirectly, in using or causing to be used, in any way or manner whatsoever, within this colony, unless authorised by the general assembly thereof, those detestable papers called stamps, shall be deemed to all intents and purposes, an enemy to his country, and by the Sons of Liberty treated accordingly.

5. Resolved, That a committee be appointed to present the thanks of the Sons of Liberty to Colonel Richard Bland, for his treatise, entitled "An Enquiry into the Rights of the British Colonies."

6. Resolved, That a committee be appointed, who shall make public the above resolutions, and {356} correspond, as they shall see occasion, with the associated Sons of, and Friends to Liberty, in the British colonies in America.

Copy--Test,

J. H. Secretary.

[Here ends the record of the proceedings of the Sons of Liberty.]

[The following is a copy of the original letter in the hand-writing of Richard Bland, and attached to the above record, in answer to the letter of thanks written him in obedience to one of the resolves, but which no where appears on the minutes.]

Gentlemen!

The approbation of my Enquiry into the rights of the British Colonies, by the Norfolk Sons of Liberty, which you have been pleased to transmit to me in the politest terms, does me a very singular and unexpected honor, and demands my most sincere acknowledgements, which I beg leave to return to them with feelings of the warmest gratitude.

The glorious cause they have united to defend, merits of every true friend of the colonies the highest sentiments of their virtue. And though we have the strongest assurance that the violent attacks made upon our rights and liberties by a late arbitrary and oppressive minister will soon be removed; yet the noble resolutions entered into by the Norfolk Sons of Liberty, against the detestable stamp act, will remain lasting monuments of their patriotic spirit and love to their country. I am, with particular regard to yourselves, and the deepest respect to all the members of your association, gentlemen, your much obliged and very

RICHARD BLAND.

Jordan's May 8th, 1766.

To Paul Loyall, Lewis Hansford, and Thomas Newton, Jr. Esqrs. in Norfolk.

* * * * *

Virginia, Borough of Norfolk, to wit:

I hereby certify that the foregoing is a true copy of an old record in the clerk's office of the Borough aforesaid, endorsed "Proceedings of the Sons of Liberty at Norfolk, 1766, preserved as a monument of their patriotic spirit and love to their country."

I further certify that the said record was found in the said office in the year 1831, when I became clerk of the Borough court, and tradition relates that it was deposited there at the date of the transactions recorded.

In testimony whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and seal, this 16th day of January, in the year 1835.

JOHN WILLIAMS, C. C.

* * * * *

ATTACK ON WHEELING FORT IN THE YEAR 1777.

We are indebted to Mr. Abraham Rogers, a distinguished actor in the scene, and now a resident of this county, for the following particulars of the attack, by the Indians, in the year 1777, on Wheeling fort, and the successful defence of that place by twelve men.

As an interesting incident connected with the early settlement of the country, and as a tribute of respect and gratitude to the early and adventurous Pioneers of the west, for their valor, perseverance and long suffering, it is due to their memory that it should be recorded, and find a place in the history of our country.

The fort was situated on the higher bank or bluff, not far from the place, where the mansion house of the late Noah Zane, Esq., was subsequently erected. It covered between one half and three quarters of an acre of ground, and was enclosed with pickets 8 feet high. The garrison, at the time of the attack, including all who were able to bear arms, did not exceed 15 in number, and of these several were between the ages of 12 and 18. The number of women and children is not known.

The first intimation the commandant of the fort, (Col. David Shepard) had of the approach of an enemy, was received the evening before the attack, from Capt. Ogle, who with Abraham Rodgers, Joseph Biggs, Robert Lemons and two others, had just arrived from Beech bottom fort, on the Ohio, about 12 miles from Wheeling. Capt. Ogle, on his approach to Wheeling, had observed below that place, the appearance of large volumes of smoke in the atmosphere, which he rightly conjectured was caused by the burning of Grave creek fort by hostile Indians, and upon his arrival immediately communicated his suspicions to Col. Shepard, but it was too late in the evening to reconnoitre. At a very early hour the next morning, (1st day of September,) the commander of the fort sent two of his men in a canoe, down the river, to ascertain the cause of the smoke, and whether any Indians were in the neighborhood. These two men were massacred by the Indians, (on their return as it was supposed) at the mouth of Wheeling creek, a few hundred yards below the fort. In the mean time, an Irish servant and a negro man had also been sent out to reconnoitre in the immediate vicinity. The Irishman was decoyed, seized, and killed by the Indians, but the negro was permitted to escape, who, on his return, gave the first alarm of the actual approach of the Indians. Capt. Ogle, on the receipt of this intelligence, accompanied by 15 or 16 of the garrison, leaving but 12 or 13 in the fort, immediately proceeded towards the mouth of the creek, in pursuit of the savages. The Indians were lying in ambush, and permitted the captain and his devoted followers to advance almost to the creek, when a brisk and most deadly fire was opened upon them; they fought bravely--desperately; but overpowered by the number of the enemy, were, all except the captain and two others, killed and scalped.

Upon hearing the firing at the creek, Rodgers, Biggs and Lemons, left the fort to join their comrades, but the work of death was over, their comrades slaughtered, and the triumphant enemy with a horrid yell, were rapidly advancing upon the fort. The three were fired upon and compelled {357} to return. On their arrival at the gate of the fort, so near were the savages, that it was not without the most imminent danger that it was opened for their admission. A general attack was then immediately made on the fort by the whole body of the Indians, consisting of about 500 men, commanded by the infamous Simon Girty. The grand assault was from the east side, under cover of a paled garden, and a few half faced cabins within 40 or 50 yards of the fort, of which they took possession, and from whence a brisk fire was kept up until a late hour at night. During the engagement, the Indians sustained great injury from the bursting of a maple log, which they had bored like a cannon, and charged to fire upon the fort.

The little garrison of twelve sustained this protracted siege, from about 7 o'clock in the morning until 10 or 11 o'clock at night, when the savages were finally repulsed and obliged to retreat, without having killed or wounded a single individual in the fort. The loss on the part of the Indians was variously estimated from twenty to one hundred, but their dead were principally carried off or concealed, and a conjecture of the number of the killed, could only be formed from the great appearance of blood, which was observable for many days after the battle. The day was fair, and the most of the garrison were called "sharp shooters," all of whom had a great number of "fair shots:" it is therefore not improbable that some 30 or 40 of the enemy were killed, and perhaps many more; for there was a continued firing during the whole time of the engagement. Every man did his duty, and all were entitled to an equal meed of praise and thanks from the commander. But our informant particularly distinguished one person, who, he said, contributed more to the successful termination of the issue than any other. This was Mrs. Zane, wife of Ebenezer, and mother of the late Noah Zane, Esq., who rendered much actual service to the men, by running bullets, cutting patches, making cartridges, and hurrying from post to post, cheering and encouraging by her presence, exhortations and assistance, the sometimes almost exhausted efforts of the brave defenders of the fort. By her example, zeal and presence of mind, much assistance was also afforded, by a number of the other "blessed women" in the fort, (as our informant termed them.) A rapid fire was continued from the fort, from the commencement of the assault, until the Indians retired. Their rifles were used until they become too much heated to handle, when they were obliged to exchange them for muskets, which were fortunately found in the magazine. This more than Spartan band of patriots, had no time to take any sustenance from Sunday, the last day of August, until the 2d September, after the retreat of the Indians.

When it is considered that the Indians were led to the attack by the noted Simon Girty, a man who had much experience in the art of savage warfare, that he mustered more than 500 veteran warriors, and that the fort was defended by 12, and those chiefly old men and boys; the successful and glorious defence of the fort, by that little band of western pioneers; their names will richly merit a place in the page of history, with the most renowned heroes of the "olden time."

We much regret, that from a want of acquaintance with the localities of the place, as well as from other circumstances, we have been unable to do full justice to this subject; but we are not without a hope, that some more experienced pen will take a hint from these crude remarks, and redeem from oblivion this memorable event.

The Editor of the New York Evening Star is so well known and so highly estimated as a political writer, that we believe there is no party which does not feel the stronger for his friendship--or does not experience some dread from his opposition. His genius, however, does not exclusively delight in the carte and tierce of political strife. He has an infinite fund of strong common sense and racy humor, and withal an uncommon power of description, which he employs with great effect in hitting off the manners of the age, and rebuking those pernicious innovations which are making such sad havoc with our antient simplicity. In the following article, he depicts with admirable force the evil consequences which, in our large cities especially, are likely to flow from an unrestrained indulgence in the follies and extravagancies of fashion.

FASHIONABLE PARTIES AND LATE HOURS.

BY M. M. NOAH.

We are killing ourselves in this country by inches, and that for a tall man or an amazonian woman, is a dreadful reflection. In sooth, our late hours break in terribly on real comfort, sound health, and that refreshing sleep which "seals up the eyelids" in calm and soft repose, and ministers to our real enjoyments. We marvel why fashion, instead of being represented in bewitching and attractive colors, is not drawn with a Medusa's head, fiery eyes and snaky crest--or, under the silken cowl and wreaths of roses, a skeleton head peeping out as a warning--a caution in time--a memento mori. In this country we eat and dance ourselves to death with much more rapidity than they do at the Sandwich Islands.

I met a friend on the pave last week, who said, "Will you come to our party to-morrow night?" "A party? How? Comfortable dish of tea, game of whist, glass of whiskey-punch, and a sandwich, eh." "Oh, no--a real tearer--a regular turnout--been preparing a fortnight. I must give a couple every year for the sake of the world you know." "The world, ha! Well, I'll come, and if I don't, you won't miss me in the squeeze. Tell {358} me, for old acquaintance sake, how much will the party cost?" "Why, about fifteen hundred dollars." "Fifteen hundred dollars! Prodigious! How many charming tertulias in Spain, converzaziones in Italy, and soirees in France, would fifteen hundred dollars procure?--and all this sum swallowed up in one dancing frolic!"

I determined to go, and a friend promised to call for me in his carriage. I was ready at seven, and sat quietly until nine--half past nine--ten; when, just as I was ringing for my slippers, and preparing, as Monsieur Morbleu says, for my night-caps, rat-tat-tat goes the coachman, and in walked my friend--pumps and tight pants on--white gloves and perfumed handkerchief. "So, sir, a pretty time you have called for me; why I have been ready since seven o'clock." "Seven o'clock! why bless you, the company only begin to assemble at ten; and even now we are rather early." "Early, do you call it? Go out to spend the evening at half past ten o'clock! Well, well, I suppose we must not be out of the fashion--so come along."

Our carriage rattled up one of the principal streets, and a glare of light was showered in all directions from the house. We fell in behind a range of coaches, and had to wait until our turn, and found, on alighting, a retinue of yellow servants to usher us in the mansion; to take our coats, hats, and canes, and prepare us in form for the entree. Every thing was elegant--gayety, fashion, and pleasure reigned triumphant; beauty, in resplendent beams, shed its halo over the scene; plenty, from its golden horn, was poured forth in all directions; music, and the giddy dance, were kept up with unabated vigor, until the russet morn had nearly flickered the east. I got home; tossed and tumbled for two or three hours in bed, and then rose for the duties of the day.

Having occasion to call on an old gentleman about twelve o'clock, I found him in his parlor, with the breakfast table before him. "What, not breakfasted yet?" "O yes, long ago--this is for my daughters, who came from the party about three o'clock, and are not yet up." In a few minutes the young ladies entered; but oh, how altered!--where were the bounding step and elastic gait--the brilliant eye, the jocund smile--the silken attire--the well-dressed hair, and jewelled form of last night's entertainment? They were pallid and exhausted--their eye, their hair, their dress, all en dishabille--both with a hectic cough--both looking as wo-begone and spiritless as if they had just escaped from the siege of Troy.--"Have you slept well, girls?" said the anxious parent. "Not a wink, father--we tossed and tumbled and worried for several hours, but not a wink of sleep--oh, my head, my head--and oh, my bones, my bones." "Probably your restlessness arose from eating too heartily at supper."--"No such thing, father--why, I only ate a little chicken salad, a wing of turkey, some jelly, a few macaronies and mottoes, a dozen pickled oysters, and drank a few glasses of champaign, that's all--excepting a sponge cake or two, and a glass of lemonade, during dancing, and a little ginger sweetmeats. There's Lizzy ate twice as much as I did." "No I didn't, but I was more select, father; a few slices of cold tongue--a piece of a-la-mode beef--three pickles--a few olives, some blanc mange--two plates of ice-cream--a little floating island--some truffles and bons bons--and oranges, plum-cake, and custard during the evening. I'm sure I don't care much for solids." "And did you dance after supper?" "To be sure we did; one cotillion, one contra dance, the mazourka and a gallopade." The murder's out! no wonder at head-aches, and bone-aches, and heart-aches, and sleepless hours, after so much eating; and then dancing on so much eating--churning these singular masses of food and contradictory condiments in a delicate female stomach, with scarcely sufficient gastric juice to digest the wing of a pheasant.--That's the way our girls kill themselves prematurely; that's the cause of our heavy weekly lists of interments; of the many cases of consumption, uncharitably carried to the credit of our climate. Alas! how many charming women are hurried to the grave by carelessness; by the bewitching attractions of fashion; by keeping late hours; by thin clothing, and by eating too much! The observation made by strangers is, "how pale and thin your ladies are!" Why will they not have resolution enough to discard these seducing and destructive allurements; why not enjoy life soberly, discreetly, prudently?

What can be more agonizing to true affection than to see the girl nourished with tenderness in infancy; amiable, intelligent, and accomplished, gradually sinking into the grave ere she reaches the age of womanhood? The pride and delight of fond parents and numerous friends, the rose which early bloomed, daily fading in the brilliancy of its colors, and drooping like the lily of the vale? To see the eye, once so brilliant, sunken, heavy, and dull; and the lips, once so ruby, now thin and pallid? To witness the being so beloved, so cherished, the victim of slow, but unerring disease, not constitutional, but brought on by neglect, by fashion? To see the vision recede from the sight, step by step, until evening frowns upon its setting glory, and the tomb closes upon it forever!

PRIDE, ENVY, AND HATE.

If you want enemies, excel others; if you want friends, let others excel you. There is a diabolical trio, existing in the natural man, implacable, inextinguishable, co-operative, and consentaneous, Pride, Envy, and Hate. Pride, that makes us fancy we deserve all the goods that others possess; Envy, that some should be admired, while we are overlooked; and Hate, because all that is bestowed on others, diminishes the sum that we think due to ourselves.--[Lacon.

{359}

We extract the following eloquent and pathetic narrative from the pages of the "Western Monthly Magazine," published at Cincinnati, Ohio; and we invite our readers, especially those of the "softer sex," to give it a perusal.

THE VILLAGE PASTOR'S WIFE.

What impels me to take up my pen, compose myself to the act of writing, and begin the record of feelings and events which will inevitably throw a shadow over the character which too partial and misjudging affection once beheld shining with reflected lustre? I know not--but it seems to me, as if a divine voice whispered from the boughs that wave by my window, occasionally intercepting the sun's rays that now fall obliquely on my paper, saying, that if I live for memory, I must not live in vain--and that, perchance, when I, too, lie beneath the willow that hangs over his grave, unconscious of its melancholy waving, a deep moral may be found in these pages, short and simple as they may be. Then be it so. It is humiliating to dwell on past errors--but I should rather welcome the humiliation, if it can be any expiation for my blindness, my folly--no! such expressions are too weak--I should say, my madness, my sin, my hard-hearted guilt.

It is unnecessary to dwell on my juvenile years. Though dependent on the bounty of an uncle, who had a large family of his own to support, every wish which vanity could suggest, was indulged as soon as expressed. I never knew a kinder, more hospitable, uncalculating being, than my uncle. If his unsparing generosity had not experienced a counteracting influence in the vigilant economy of my aunt, he would long since have been a bankrupt. She was never unkind to me; for I believe she was conscientious, and she had loved my mother tenderly. I was the orphan legacy of that mother, and consequently a sacred trust. I was fed and clothed like my wealthier cousins; educated at the same schools; ushered into the same fashionable society; where I learned that awkwardness was considered the only unpardonable offence, and that almost any thing might be said and done, provided it was said and done gracefully. From the time of our first introduction into what is called the world, I gradually lost ground in the affections of my aunt, for I unfortunately eclipsed my elder cousins in those outer gifts of nature and those acquired graces of manner, which, however valueless, when unaccompanied by inward worth, have always exercised a prevailing, an irresistible influence in society. I never exactly knew why, but I was the favorite of my uncle, who seemed to love me better than even his own daughters, and he rejoiced at the admiration I excited, though often purchased at their expense. Perhaps the secret was this. They were of a cold temperament; mine was ardent, and whatever I loved, I loved without reserve, and expressed my affection with characteristic warmth and enthusiasm. I loved my indulgent uncle with all the fervor of which such a nature, made vain and selfish by education, is capable. Often, after returning from an evening party, my heart throbbing high with the delight of gratified vanity, when he would draw me towards him and tell me--with most injudicious fondness, it is true--that I was a thousand times prettier than the flowers I wore, more sparkling than the jewels, and that I ought to marry a prince or a nabob, I exulted more in his praise, than in the flatteries that were still tingling in my ears. Even my aunt's coolness was a grateful tribute to my self-love--for was it not occasioned by my transcendency over her less gifted daughters?

But why do I linger on the threshold of events, which, simple in themselves, stamped my destiny--for time, yea, and for eternity.

It was during a homeward journey, with my uncle, I first met him, who afterwards became my husband. My whole head becomes sick and my whole heart faint, as I think what I might have been, and what I am. But I must forbear. If I am compelled at times to lay aside my pen, overcome with agony and remorse, let me pause till I can go on, with a steady hand, and a calmer brain.

Our carriage broke down--it was a common accident--a young gentleman on horseback, who seemed like ourselves a traveller, came up to our assistance. He dismounted, proffered every assistance in his power, and accompanied us to the inn, which fortunately was not far distant, for my uncle was severely injured, and walked with difficulty, though supported by the stranger's arm and my own. I cannot define the feeling, but from the moment I beheld him, my spirit was troubled within me. I saw, at once, that he was of a different order of beings from those I had been accustomed to associate with; and there was something in the heavenly composure of his countenance and gentle dignity of manner, that rebuked my restless desire for admiration and love of display. I never heard any earthly sound so sweet as his voice. Invisible communion with angels could alone give such tones to the human voice. At first, I felt a strange awe in his presence, and forgot those artificial graces, for which I had been too much admired. Without meaning to play the part of a hypocrite, my real disposition was completely concealed. During the three days we were detained, he remained with us; and aloof from all temptation to folly, the best traits of my character were called into exercise. On the morning of our departure, as my uncle was expressing his gratitude for his kindness, and his hope of meeting him in town, he answered--and it was not without emotion--'I fear our paths diverge too much, to allow that hope. Mine is a lowly one, but I trust I shall find it blest.' I {360} then, for the first time learned that he was a minister--the humble pastor of a country village. My heart died within me. That this graceful and uncommonly interesting young man should be nothing more than an obscure village preacher--it was too mortifying. All my bright visions of conquest faded away. 'We can never be any thing to each other,' thought I. Yet as I again turned towards him, and saw his usually calm eye fixed on me with an expression of deep anxiety, I felt a conviction that I might be all the world to him. He was watching the effect of his communication, and the glow of excited vanity that suffused my cheek was supposed to have its origin from a purer source. I was determined to enjoy the full glory of my conquest. When my uncle warmly urged him to accompany us home, and sojourn with us a few days, I backed the invitation with all the eloquence my countenance was capable of expressing. Vain and selfish being that I was--I might have known that we differed from each other as much as the rays of the morning star from the artificial glare of the skyrocket. He drew his light from the fountain of living glory, I from the decaying fires of earth.

The invitation was accepted--and before that short visit was concluded, so great was the influence he acquired over me, while I was only seeking to gain the ascendancy over his affections, that I felt willing to give up the luxury and fashion that surrounded me, for the sweet and quiet hermitage he described, provided the sacrifice were required. I never once thought of the duties that would devolve upon me, the solemn responsibilities of my new situation. It is one of the mysteries of Providence, how such a being as myself could ever have won a heart like his. He saw the sunbeam playing on the surface, and thought that all was fair beneath. I did love him; but my love was a passion, not a principle. I was captivated by the heavenly graces of his manner, but was incapable of comprehending the source whence those graces were derived.

My uncle would gladly have seen me established in a style more congenial to my prevailing taste, but gave his consent, as he said, on the score of his surpassing merit. My aunt was evidently more than willing to have me married, while my cousins rallied me, for falling in love with a country parson.

We were married. I accompanied him to the beautiful village of ----. I became mistress of the parsonage. Never shall I forget the moment when I first entered this avenue, shaded by majestic elms; beheld these low, white walls, festooned with redolent vines; and heard the voice, which was then the music of my life, welcome me here, as Heaven's best and loveliest gift. How happy--how blest I might have been! and I was happy for awhile. His benign glance and approving smile were, for a short time, an equivalent for the gaze of admiration and strains of flattery to which I had been accustomed. I even tried, in some measure, to conform to his habits and tastes, and to cultivate the good will of the plebians and rustics who constituted a great portion of his parish. But the mind, unsupported by principle, is incapable of any steady exertion. Mine gradually wearied of the effort of assuming virtues, to which it had no legitimate claim. The fervor of feeling which had given a bluer tint to the sky and a fairer hue to the flower, insensibly faded. I began to perceive defects in every object, and to wonder at the blindness which formerly overlooked them. I still loved my husband; but the longer I lived with him, the more his character soared above the reach of mine. I could not comprehend, how one could be endowed with such brilliant talents and winning graces, and not wish for the admiration of the world. I was vexed with him for his meekness and humility, and would gladly have mingled, if I could, the base alloy of earthly ambition with his holy aspirations after heaven. I was even jealous--I almost tremble while I write it--of the God he worshipped. I could not bear the thought, that I held a second place in his affections--though second only to the great and glorious Creator. Continually called from my side to the chamber of the sick, the couch of the dying, the dwelling of the poor and ignorant, I in vain sought to fill up the widening vacuum left, by becoming interested in the duties of my station. I could not do it. They became every day more irksome to me. The discontent I was cherishing, became more and more visible, till the mild and anxious eye of my husband vainly looked for the joyous smile that used to welcome his return.

It is true, there were many things I was obliged to tolerate, which must inevitably be distasteful to one, educated with such false refinement as I have been. But I never reflected they must be as opposed to my husband's tastes as my own, and that christian principle alone led him to the endurance of them. Instead of appreciating his angelic patience and forbearance, I blamed him for not lavishing more sympathy on me for trials which, though sometimes ludicrous in themselves, are painful from the strength of association.

The former minister of the village left a maiden sister as a kind of legacy to his congregation. My husband had been a protegee and pupil of the good man, who, on his death-bed, bequeathed his people to the charge of this son of his adoption, and him, with equal tenderness and solemnity, to the care of his venerable sister. She became a fixture in the parsonage, and to me a perpetual and increasing torment. The first month of our marriage, she was absent, visiting some of her seventh cousins in a neighboring town. I do not wish to {361} exculpate myself from blame; but, if ever there was a thorn in human flesh, I believe I had found it in this inquisitive, gratuitously advising woman. I, who had always lived among roses, without thinking of briars, was doomed to feel this thorn, daily, hourly, goading me; and was constrained to conceal as much as possible the irritation she caused, because my husband treated her with as much respect as if she were an empress. I thought Mr. L---- was wrong in this. Owing to the deep placidity of his own disposition, he could not realize what a trial such a companion was to a mercurial, indulged, self-willed being as myself. Nature has gifted me with an exquisite ear for music, and a discord always 'wakes the nerve where agony is born.' Poor aunt Debby had a perfect mania for singing, and she would sit and sing for hours together, old fashioned ballads and hymns of surprising length--scarcely pausing to take breath. I have heard aged people sing the songs of Zion, when there was most touching melody in their tones; and some of the warmest feelings of devotion I ever experienced, were awakened by these solemn, trembling notes. But aunt Debby's voice was full of indescribable ramifications, each a separate discord--a sharp sour voice, indicative of the natural temper of the owner. One Sunday morning, after she had been screeching one of Dr. Watts' hymns, of about a hundred verses, she left me to prepare for church. When we met, after finishing our separate toilettes, she began her animadversions on my dress, as being too gay for a minister's wife. I denied the charge; for though made in the redundance of fashion, it was of unadorned white. 'But what,' said she, disfiguring the muslin folds with her awkward fingers, 'what is the use of all these fandangles of lace? They are nothing but Satan's devices to lead astray silly women, whose minds are running after finery.' All this I might have borne with silent contempt, for it came from aunt Debby; but when she brought the authority of a Mrs. Deacon and a Mrs. Doelan of the parish to prove that she was not the only one who found fault with the fashion of my attire, the indignant spirit broke its bounds; deference for age was forgotten in the excitement of the moment, and the concentrated irritation of weeks burst forth. I called her an impertinent, morose old maid, and declared that one or the other of us should leave the parsonage. In the midst of the paroxysm, my husband entered--the calm of heaven on his brow. He had just left his closet, where he had been to seek the divine manna for the pilgrims it was his task to guide through the wilderness of life. He looked from one to the other, in grief and amazement. Aunt Debby had seated herself on his entrance, and began to rock herself backward and forward, and to sigh and groan--saying it was a hard thing to be called such hard names at her time of life, &c. I stood, my cheeks glowing with anger, and my heart violently palpitating with the sudden effort at self-control. He approached me, took my hand, and said, 'My dear Mary!' There was affection in his tone, but there was upbraiding, also; and drawing away my hand, I wept in bitterness of spirit. As soon as I could summon sufficient steadiness of voice, I told him the cause of my resentment, and declared, that I would never again enter a place, where I was exposed to ridicule and censure, and from those, too, so immeasurably my inferiors in birth and education. 'Dearest Mary!' exclaimed he, turning pale from agitation, 'you cannot mean what you say. Let not such trifles as these, mar the peace of this holy day. I grieve that your feelings should have been wounded; but what matters it what the world says of our outward apparel, if our souls are clothed with those robes of holiness, which make us lovely in our Maker's eyes? Let us go together to the temple of Him, whose last legacy to man was peace.' Though the bell was ringing its last notes, and though I saw him so painfully disturbed, I still resisted the appeal, and repeated my rash asseveration. The bell had pealed its latest summons, and was no longer heard. 'Mary, must I go alone?' His hand was on the latch--there was a burning flush on his cheek, such as I had never seen before. My pride would have yielded--my conscience convicted me of wrong--I would have acknowledged my rashness, had not aunt Debby, whom I thought born to be my evil spirit, risen with a long-drawn sigh, and taken his arm, preparatory to accompany him. 'No,' said I, 'you will not be alone. You need not wait for me. In aunt Debby's company, you cannot regret mine.'

Surely my heart must have been steeled, like Pharaoh's, for some divine purpose, or I never could have resisted the mute anguish of his glance, as he closed the door on this cold and unmerited taunt. What hours of wretchedness I passed in the solitude of my chamber. I magnified my sufferings into those of martyrdom, and accused Mr. L---- of not preparing me for the trials of my new situation. Yet, even while I reproached him in my heart, I was conscious of my injustice, and felt that I did not suffer alone. It was the first time any other than words of love and kindness had passed between us, and it seemed to me, that a barrier was beginning to rise, that would separate us forever. When we again met, I tried to retain the same cold manner and averted countenance, but he came unaccompanied by my tormenter, and looked so dejected and pale, my petulance and pride yielded to the reign of better feelings. I had even the grace to make concessions, which were received with such gratitude and feeling, I was melted into goodness, transient, but sincere. Had aunt Debby remained from us, all {362} might yet have been well; but after having visited awhile among the parish, she returned; and her presence choked the blossoms of my good resolutions. I thought she never forgave the offending epithet I had given her in the moment of passion. It is far from my intention, in delineating peculiarities like hers, to throw any opprobrium on that class of females, who from their isolated and often unprotected situation, are peculiarly susceptible to the shafts of unkindness or ridicule. I have known those, whose influence seemed as diffusive as the sunshine and gentle as the dew; at whose approach the ringlets of childhood would be tossed gaily back, and the wan cheek of the aged lighted up with joy; who had devoted the glow of their youth, and the strength of their prime, to acts of filial piety and love, watching the waning fires of life, as the vestal virgins the flame of the altar. Round such beings as these, the beatitudes cluster; and yet the ban of unfeeling levity is passed upon the maiden sisterhood. But I wander from my path. It is not her history I am writing, so much as my own; which, however deficient in incident, is not without its moral power.

I experienced one source of mortification, which I have not yet mentioned; it may even seem too insignificant to be noticed, and yet it was terribly grating to my aristocratic feelings. Some of our good parishioners were in the habit of lavishing attentions, so repugnant to me, that I did not hesitate to refuse them; which I afterwards learned, gave great mortification and displeasure. I would willingly accept a basket of fragrant strawberries, or any of the elegant bounties of nature; but, when they offered such plebeian gifts as a shoulder of pork or mutton, a sack of grain or potatoes, I invariably returned my cold thanks and declined the honor. Is it strange, that I should become to them an object of aversion, and that they should draw comparisons, humbling to me, between their idolized minister and his haughty bride?

My uncle and cousins made me a visit, not long after my rupture with aunt Debby, which only served to render me more unhappy. My uncle complained so much of my altered appearance, my faded bloom and languid spirits, I saw that it gave exquisite pain to Mr. L----, while my cousins, now in their day of power, amused themselves continually with the old fashioned walls of the house, the obsolete style of the furniture, and my humdrum mode of existence. Had I possessed one spark of heavenly fire, I should have resented all this as an insult to him whom I had solemnly vowed to love and honor. These old fashioned walls should have been sacred in my eyes. They were twice hallowed--hallowed by the recollections of departed excellence and the presence of living holiness. Every leaf of the magnificent elms that overshadowed them, should have been held sacred, for the breath of morning and evening prayer had been daily wafted over them, up to the mercy-seat of heaven.

I returned with my uncle to the metropolis. It is true, he protested that he would not, could not leave me behind--and that change of scene was absolutely necessary to the restoration of my bloom, and Mr. L---- gave his assent with apparent cheerfulness and composure. But I knew--I felt that his heart bled at my willingness, my wish to be absent from him, so soon after our marriage. He told me to consult my own happiness, in the length of my visit, and that he would endeavor to find a joy in solitude, in thinking of mine. 'Oh!' said one of my cousins, with a loud laugh, 'you can never feel solitary, when aunt Debby is'--

Behold me once more 'mid the scenes congenial to my soul--a gay flower, sporting over the waves of fashion, thoughtless of the caverns of death beneath. Again the voice of flattery fell meltingly on my ear; and while listening to the siren, I forgot those mild, admonishing accents, which were always breathing of heaven--or if I remembered them at all, they came to my memory like the grave rebuke of Milton's cherub--severe in their beauty. Yes, I did remember them when I was alone; and there are hours when the gayest will feel desolately alone. I thought of him in his neglected home; him, from whom I was gradually alienating myself for his very perfections, and accusing conscience avenged his rights. Oh! how miserable, how poor we are, when unsupported by our own esteem! when we fear to commune with our own hearts, and doubly tremble to bear them to the all-seeing eye of our Maker! My husband often wrote me most affectionately. He did not urge my return, but said, whenever I felt willing to exchange the pleasures of the metropolis for the seclusion of the hermitage, his arms and his heart were open to receive me. At length I received a letter, which touched those chords, that yet vibrated to the tones of nature and feeling. He seldom spoke of himself--but in this, he mentioned having been very ill, though then convalescent. 'Your presence, my Mary,' said he, 'would bring healing on its wings. I fear, greatly fear, I have doomed you to unhappiness, by rashly yielding to the influence of your beauty and winning manners, taking advantage of your simplicity and inexperience, without reflecting how unfitted you were, from natural disposition and early habits, to be a fellow-laborer in so humble a portion of our Master's vineyard. Think not, my beloved wife, I say this in reproach. No! 'tis in sorrow, in repentance, in humiliation of spirit. I have been too selfish. I have not shown sufficient sympathy for the trials and vexations to which, for me, you have been exposed. I have asked to receive too much. I have given back too little. Return then, my Mary; you were created for nobler purposes than the beings who surround you. Let us begin {363} life anew. Let us take each other by the hand as companions for time--but pilgrims for eternity. Be it mine to guard, guide, and sustain--yours, to console, to gild and comfort.' In a postscript, he added:

'I am better now--a journey will restore me. I will soon be with you, when I trust we will not again be parted.'

My heart was not of rock. It was moved--melted. I should have been less than human, to have been untouched by a letter like this. All my romantic love, but so recently chilled, returned; and I thought of his image as that of an angel's. Ever impulsive, ever actuated by the passion of the moment, I made the most fervent resolutions of amendment, and panted for the hour when we should start for, together, this immortal goal! Alas! how wavering were my purposes--how ineffective my holy resolutions.

* * * * *

There was a numerous congregation gathered on the Sabbath morn, not in the simple village church, but the vaulted walls of a city dome. A stranger ascended the pulpit. Every eye was turned on him and none wandered. He was pallid, as from recent indisposition; but there was a flitting glow on his cheek, the herald of coming inspiration. There was a divine simplicity, a sublime fervor, an abandonment of self, a lifting up of the soul to heaven, an indescribable and spiritual charm, pervading his manner, that was acknowledged by the breathless attention of a crowded audience, composed of the wealth and fashion of the metropolis. And I was there, the proudest, the happiest of the throng. That gifted being was my husband. I was indemnified for all past mortifications, and looked forward to bright years of felicity, not in the narrow path we had heretofore travelled, but a wider, more brilliant sphere. My imagination placed him at the head of that admiring congregation; and I saw the lowly flock he had been lately feeding, weeping, unpitied, between the porch and the altar.

Before we bade farewell to my uncle, I had abundant reason to believe my vision would soon be realized. The church was then without a pastor. No candidate had as yet appeared in whom their opinions or affections were united. They were enthusiastic in their admiration of Mr. L----, and protested against the obscurity of his location. With such hopes gilding the future, I left the metropolis with a cheerfulness and elasticity of spirits, which my husband hailed as a surety for long years of domestic felicity. I would gladly linger here awhile. I fear to go on. You have followed me so far with a kind of complaisant interest, as a poor, vain, weak young creature, whose native defects have been enhanced by education, and who has unfortunately been placed in a sphere she is incapable of adorning. The atmosphere is too pure, too rarified. Removed at once from the valley of sin to the mount of holiness, I breathe with difficulty the celestial air, and pant for more congenial regions. Must I proceed? Your compassion will turn to detestation: yet I cannot withdraw from the task I have imposed on myself. It is an expiatory one; and oh, may it be received as such!

It was scarcely more than a week after our return. All had been peace and sunshine: so resolved was I to be all that was lovely and amiable, I even listened with apparent patience to aunt Debby's interminable hymns, and heard some of her long stories, the seventy-seventh time, without any manifest symptom of vexation. It was about sunset. We sat together in the study, my husband and myself, watching the clouds as they softly rolled towards the sinking sun, to dip their edges in his golden beams. The boughs of the elms waved across the window, giving us glimpses of the beautiful vale beyond, bounded by the blue outline of the distant hills. Whether it was the warm light reflected on his face, or the glow of the heart suffusing it, I know not, but I never saw his usually pale features more radiantly lighted up than at that moment. A letter was brought to him. I leaned over his shoulder while he opened it. From the first line I understood its import: it was the realization of my hopes. The offer was there made--more splendid, more liberal than I had dared to anticipate. I did not speak: but with cheeks burning and hands trembling with eagerness and joy, I waited till he had perused it. He still continued silent. Almost indignant at his calmness, I ejaculated his name in an impatient tone; when he raised his eyes from the paper and fixed them on me. I read there the death-blow of my hopes. They emitted no glance of triumph: there was sorrow, regret, humility, and love--but I looked in vain for more. 'I am sorry for this,' said he, 'for your sake, my dear Mary. It may excite wishes, which can never be realized. No! let us be happy in the lowlier sphere, in which an All-wise Being has marked my course. I cannot deviate from it.' 'Cannot!' repeated I: 'say, rather, you will not.' I could not articulate more. The possibility of a refusal on his part had never occurred to me. I was thunderstruck. He saw my emotion--and, losing all his composure, rose and crushed the letter in his hand. 'I could not, if I would, accept this,' he cried; 'and, were my own wishes to be alone consulted, I would not, were I free to act. But it is not so. I am bound to this place, by a solemn promise, which cannot be broken. Here, in this very house it was made, by the dying bed of the righteous, who bequeathed the people he loved to my charge--me, the orphan he had protected and reared. "Never leave them, my son," said the expiring saint--"never leave the lambs of my flock to be scattered on the mountains." {364} I pledged my word, surrounded by the solemnities of death: yea, even while his soul was taking its upward flight. It is recorded, and cannot be recalled.'

Did I feel the sacredness of the obligation he revealed? Did I venerate the sanctity of his motives, and admit their authority? No! Totally unprepared for such a bitter disappointment, when I seemed touching the summit of all my wishes, I was maddened--reckless. I upbraided him for having more regard to a dead guardian, who could no longer be affected by his decision, than for a living wife. I threatened to leave him to the obscurity in which he was born, and return to the friends who loved me so much better than himself. Seeing him turn deadly pale at this, and suddenly put his hand on his heart, I thought I had discovered the spring to move his resolution, and determined that I would not let it go. I moved towards the door, thinking it best to leave him a short time to his own reflections, assured that love must be victorious over conscience. He made a motion as if to detain me, as I passed--then again pressed his hand on his heart. That silent motion--never, never, can I forget it! 'Are you resolved on this?' asked he, in a low, very hoarse tone of voice. 'Yes, if you persist in your refusal. I leave you to decide.' I went into the next room. I heard him walk a few moments, as if agitated and irresolute--then suddenly stop. I then heard a low, suppressed cough, but to this he was always subject, when excited, and it caused no emotion. Yet, after remaining alone for some time, I began to be alarmed at the perfect stillness. A strange feeling of horror came over me. I remembered the deadly paleness of his countenance, and the cold dew gathered fast and thick on my brow. I recollected, too, that he had told me of once having bled at the lungs, and of being admonished to shun every predisposing cause to such a malady. Strange, that after such an entire oblivion of every thing but self, these reflections should have pressed upon me, with such power, at that moment. I seemed suddenly gifted with second sight, and feared to move, lest I should see the vision of my conscience embodied. At length, aunt Debby opened the door, and for the first time, rejoicing in her sight, I entreated her to go into the library, with an earnestness that appalled her. She did go--and her first sharp scream drew me to her side. There, reclined upon the sofa, motionless, lifeless--his face, white as a snow-drift, lay my husband; his neck-cloth and vest, saturated with the blood that still flowed from his lips. Yes, he lay there--lifeless, dead, dead! The wild shriek of agony and remorse pierced not his unconscious ear. He was dead, and I was his murderer. The physician who was summoned, pronounced my doom. From violent agitation of mind, a blood vessel had been broken, and instant death had ensued. Weeks of frenzy, months of despair, succeeded--of black despair. Nothing but an almighty arm thrown around my naked soul, held me back from the brink of suicide. Could I have believed in annihilation--and I wrestled with the powers of reason to convince myself that in the grave, at least, I should find rest. I prayed but for rest--I prayed for oblivion. Night and day the image of that bleeding corse was before me. Night and day a voice was ringing in my ears, 'Thou hast murdered him!' My sufferings were so fearful to witness, the at first compassionate neighbors deserted my pillow, justifying themselves by the conviction that I merited all that I endured.

My uncle and aunt came when they first heard the awful tidings, but unable to support my raving distress, left me--after providing every thing for my comfort--with the injunction that as soon as I should be able to be removed, to be carried to their household. And whose kind, unwearied hand smoothed my lonely pillow, and held my aching brow? Who, when wounded reason resumed her empire, applied the balm of Gilead and the oil of tenderness; led me to the feet of the divine Physician, prayed with me and for me, wept with me and over me, nor rested till she saw me clinging to the cross, in lowliness of spirit, with the seal of the children of God in my forehead, and the joy of salvation in my soul? It was aunt Debby. The harsh condemner of the fashions of this world, the stern reprover of vanity and pride, the uncompromising defender of godliness and truth; she who in my day of prosperity was the cloud, in the night of sorrow was my light and consolation. The rough bark was penetrated and the finer wood beneath gave forth its fragrance. Oh! how often, as I have heard her, seated by my bedside, explaining in a voice softened by kindness, the mysteries of holiness, and repeating the promises of mercy, have I wondered, that I, who had turned a deaf ear to the same truths, when urged upon me with all an angel's eloquence, should listen with reverence to accents from which I had heretofore turned in disgust. Yet, at times, there seemed a dignity in her tones; her harsh features would light up with an expression of devout ecstacy, and I marvelled at the transforming power of christianity. Well may I marvel! I would not now, for the diadem of the east, exchange this sequestered hermitage for the halls of fashion--these hallowed shades for the canopies of wealth--or the society of the once despised and hated aunt Debby, for the companionship of flatterers. I see nothing but thorns where once roses blushed. The voice of the charmer has lost its power, though 'it charm never so wisely.' My heart lies buried in the tomb on which the sunlight now solemnly glimmers--my hopes are fixed on those regions from whence those rays depart. {365} Had he only lived to forgive me--to know my penitence and agony--but the last words that ever fell on his ear from my lips, were those of passion and rebellion--the last glance I ever cast on him, was proud and upbraiding.

The sketch is finished--memory overpowers me.

C. L. H.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THOUGHTS ON AFFECTATION.

For the benefit of all whom they may concern.

Affectation, as defined by Johnson, is "an artificial show, an elaborate appearance, a false pretence,"--"affected, studied with overmuch care, or with hypocritical appearance." The terms of this definition are so revolting, that the justice of its ascription to any individual, however felt, can scarcely be expected to be acknowledged by such, because it too deeply wounds self-love, its natural parent. Studiously disguised from ourselves, it is vainly believed to be so from others. Let us compare the utmost advantages to be derived from its adoption, with its peril and its loss. Do we really hope to improve by it, those qualities, moral, intellectual or physical, with which the bounty of nature has distinctively gifted us? Or do we hope by "an artificial show, an elaborate appearance, a false pretence," to obtain credit with others for attributes which do not belong to us? and with the deceitful appearance of which, (provided it deceive,) we shall be basely content; thus falsely laboring for the attainment of a vain shadow, when the same labor honestly bestowed, would give us the real substance of all we ought to desire, viz: that solid improvement of the heart and mind, around which ever play, as their natural consequences, the most captivating of all graces--simplicity and truth. Viewed simply as matter of taste, can any thing short of its vilest corruption, its lowest degradation, induce a preference for a clumsy counterfeit, a hand-maiden, who impudently usurping the place of her mistress, presumes to play high life below stairs, over her noble mistress, arrayed in her simple majesty? What monstrous perversion can prompt us to turn the latter out of doors, and hug to our bosoms so vile an intruder? With what bribes does she corrupt the loyalty of her fair advocates? With what store of "quips and quirks, and wreathed smiles?" with what rich caskets of bright gems, counterfeit or stolen; with what rare graces, unmatched by those even of her injured and abused mistress, which she boldly pronounces fade and obsolete? Alas! how often do such meretricious lures prove resistless to the infatuated fair one! Behold her arrayed in all the paraphernalia of the despicable traitress,--henceforth sole promptress of the drama in which she proposes to act a conspicuous part, and which she vainly flatters herself to act with that last degree of art which conceals it. Not reflecting that the whole history of dramatic art affords few such adepts, she aspires at her very first debut, to surpass even a Siddons. Discarding nature, and not sufficiently wedded to art,--what becomes of her witchery? Her smiles are grimaces--her laughter discord--her movements ridiculous antics. Her tones speak to any thing but the heart;--all is foreign to nature,--whose modesty she outrages and oversteps. She is mocked and hissed by all the world with whom she would cordially unite, were the actress other than her own dear self, whom alone self-love has blinded to herself. Hers is the delusion of the silly ostrich, which in the concealment of his head, thinks to elude pursuit. But granting her the utmost success of long and carefully practised art--and that her airs and graces, her soft languishments, killing glances, heavenly smiles, and soul thrilling laughter, have all the witchery that such art can give, and have called forth the applause of the crowd of vulgar admirers,--will it compensate for the obvious disgust of those who have learned to detect and to despise their empty and heartless display? Will it compensate for the lowering of that proud self-esteem, which is the bright reward of truth, and the best security of virtue? Would she flourish in the empire of the heart, that bright dominion of her sex? Would she, by her look, manner and words, inspire respect, confidence and love? And shall each betray that they have been practised but to deceive? Shall she hope to speak to the heart in tones which come not from the heart? Shall she hope to engage interest for the subject of her conversation, when full not of it but of herself? For what is it that she would challenge the affections? For a being pure, single hearted, and identical,--or for one whose very identity is almost lost amidst the perpetually varying aspects and phases, under which, in her inflated vanity, she pleases to exhibit herself. How shall our love continue to pursue, and cling to that, of whose very form and essence we have no abiding assurance? In the disruption of feeling produced by such changes, we cannot but feel that we have almost lost the beloved object, and exclaim in bitterness,--alas! she is no longer what I have loved.

"Why affectation,--why this mock grimace? Go silly thing, and hide that simp'ring face; Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait-- All thy false mimic fooleries I hate: For thou art Folly's counterfeit--and she, Altho' right foolish, hath the better plea;-- Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee.

"Why that soft languish,--why that drawling tone? Art sick? art sleepy? Get thee hence; begone-- I laugh at all thy pretty baby tears, Those flutterings, faintings, and unreal fears.

"Can they deceive us? Can such mum'ries move? Touch us with pity, or inspire with love? No! affectation--vain is all thy art; Those eyes may wander over every part, They'll never find their passage to the heart."

Of all the diseases of the mind or the heart, affectation is the fittest subject of ridicule,--since we are ridiculous not for what we are, but for what we pretend to be. One of the arguments of the apologists for this mean and pitiful vice is,--that the ordinary conventional forms of politeness necessarily involve its commission, and that all the tutored and refined graces of polished life, are but its varying forms. Of the former, benevolence should be, if it be not always, the genuine and captivating source; and if we have it not, the assumption of a virtue which inculcates a sacrifice to the feelings of others of our own, may find a sufficient apology, perhaps, for a semblance to which society has learned to affix its value. With regard to the latter, la belle nature is loveliest when embellished, not prostituted, by art, in its most vulgar form, viz: affectation. {366} Neither wealth nor fashion can divest it of its character of vulgarity. One should, indeed, be too proud to be vain, when vanity leads to affectation,--which in its milder form, is the meanness of asking credit for what we do not possess--and in its deeper die, impels us to obtain it by dissimulation, hypocrisy and fraud. In its approaches, few vices are more insidious. Having its germ in the indiscriminate love of imitation natural to youth, vanity prompts an eager exchange of our native attributes, for what we deem attractive in others--and artifice is speedily resorted to, to give the acquisition the semblance of an original possession. One cherished appropriation is added to another, until the product becomes a complete bundle of fancied charms and perfections, entailing, however, all that anxiety of concealment, whose only tendency is to betray the theft. If the original effects of affectation have been correctly assigned, the mode and importance of prevention will sufficiently suggest themselves. Let parents beware how they suffer their children to be exposed to the contagion of this vile leprosy. Let them carefully remove from them, as from a pestilence, those infected subjects, whose resemblance they would shudder to see them. The garment of affectation once put on, like that of the fated Nessus, grows to the wearer. Should her complacency ever be so far alarmed as to make her attempt to doff it, may vainly fancy she has succeeded, by simply pulling it around, and exhibiting it under a different aspect. Should she be so fortunate as to have the most invaluable, because the rarest of friends,--one who will neither flatter, nor shrink from the task of the faithful anatomy of her heart, and the development of the fatal poison which lurks at its core, and be brought sincerely to desire its removal,--let her, while she earnestly applies to it her own rigid examinations, fervently invoke the aid of a mightier physician, who cleansing her heart, will restore her to a place a little less than the angels, of whom I am an

ADORER.

Our readers are apprised that the poet Willis has for some time past, been employed in making the grand tour of Europe--a kind of literary reconnoissance, not only for his own benefit and gratification, but also for the purpose, we suppose, of enriching the columns of the New York Mirror (of which periodical he is one of the Editors,) with the various results of his observation. With many of his letters, or "first impressions" as they are called, we acknowledge ourselves to have been much delighted. His sketches of character and scenery are generally very impressive, and whilst on the one hand he avoids the too common fault of American writers,--a wearisome profusion of words--he does not, on the other, disdain the graces of ornament, or the beauties of amplification. It appears that he is at last peeping into the concerns of our venerable ancestor, John Bull. We hope that he will give a fair and candid account of the old gentleman's virtues, as well as his faults and peculiarities, "nothing extenuating, nor setting down aught in malice."--The following letter is very interesting.

WILLIS'S IMPRESSIONS OF LONDON.

From the top of Shooter's Hill we got our first view of London--an indistinct, architectural mass, extending all round to the horizon, and half enveloped in a dim and lurid smoke. "That is St. Paul's!--there is Westminster Abbey!--there is the Tower of London!" What directions were these to follow for the first time with the eye!

From Blackheath, (seven or eight miles from the centre of London,) the beautiful hedges disappeared, and it was one continued mass of buildings. The houses were amazingly small, a kind of thing that would do for an object in an imitation perspective park, but the soul of neatness pervaded them. Trellises were nailed between the little windows, roses quite overshadowed the low doors, a painted fence enclosed the hand's breadth of grass-plot, and very, oh, very sweet faces bent over lapfuls of work beneath the snowy and looped-up curtains. It was all home-like and amiable. There was an affectionateness in the mere outside of every one of them.

After crossing Waterloo bridge, it was busy work for the eyes. The brilliant shops, the dense crowds of people, the absorbed air of every passenger, the lovely women, the cries, the flying vehicles of every description, passing with the most dangerous speed--accustomed as I am to large cities, it quite made me giddy. We got into a "jarvey" at the coach-office, and in half an hour I was in comfortable quarters, with windows looking down St. James'-street, and the most interesting leaf of my life to turn over. "Great emotions interfere little with the mechanical operations of life," however, and I dressed and dined, though it was my first hour in London.

I was sitting in the little parlor alone, over a fried sole and a mutton cutlet, when the waiter came in, and pleading the crowded state of the hotel, asked my permission to spread the other side of the table for a clergyman. I have a kindly preference for the cloth, and made not the slightest objection. Enter a fat man, with top-boots and a hunting whip, rosy as Bacchus, and excessively out of breath with mounting one flight of stairs. Beefsteak and potatoes, a pot of porter and a bottle of sherry followed close on his heels. With a single apology for the intrusion, the reverend gentleman fell to, and we ate and drank for a while in true English silence.

"From Oxford, sir, I presume," he said at last, pushing back his plate, with an air of satisfaction.

"No, I had never the pleasure of seeing Oxford."

"R-e-ally! may I take a glass of wine with you, sir?"

We got on swimmingly. He would not believe I had never been in England till the day before, but his cordiality was no colder for that. We exchanged port and sherry, and a most amicable understanding found its way down with the wine. Our table was near the window, and a great crowd began to collect at the corner of St. James'-street. It was the king's birth-day, and the people were thronging to see the nobility come in state from the royal levee. The show was less splendid than the same thing in Rome or Vienna, but it excited far more of my admiration. Gaudiness and tinsel were exchanged for plain richness and perfect fitness in the carriages and harness, while the horses were incomparably finer. My friend pointed out to me the different liveries as they turned the corner into Piccadilly, the duke of Wellington's among others. I looked hard to see his grace; but the two pale and beautiful faces on the {367} back seat, carried nothing like the military nose on the handles of the umbrellas.

The annual procession of mail coaches followed, and it was hardly less brilliant. The drivers and guard in their bright red and gold uniforms, the admirable horses driven so beautifully, the neat harness, the exactness with which the room of each horse was calculated, and the small space in which he worked, and the compactness and contrivance of the coaches, formed altogether one of the most interesting spectacles I have ever seen. My friend, the clergyman, with whom I had walked out to see them pass, criticised the different teams con amore, but in language which I did not always understand. I asked him once for an explanation; but he looked rather grave, and said something about "gammon," evidently quite sure that my ignorance of London was a mere quiz.

We walked down Piccadilly, and turned into, beyond all comparison, the most handsome street I ever saw. The Toledo of Naples, the Corso of Rome, the Kohlmarket of Vienna, the Rue de la Paix and Boulevards of Paris, have each impressed me strongly with their magnificence, but they are really nothing to Regent-street. I had merely time to get a glance at it before dark; but for breadth and convenience, for the elegance and variety of the buildings, though all of the same scale and material, and for the brilliancy and expensiveness of the shops, it seemed to me quite absurd to compare it with any thing between New York and Constantinople--Broadway and the Hippodrome included.

It is the custom for the king's tradesmen to illuminate their shops on his majesty's birth-night, and the principal streets on our return were in a blaze of light. The crowd was immense. None but the lower order seemed abroad, and I cannot describe to you the effect on my feelings on hearing my own language spoken by every man, woman and child about me. It seemed a completely foreign country in every other respect, different from what I had imagined, different from my own and all that I had seen, and coming to it last, it seemed to me the farthest off and strangest country of all--and yet the little sweep, who went laughing through the crowd, spoke a language that I had heard attempted in vain by thousands of educated people, and that I had grown to consider next to unattainable by others, and almost useless to myself. Still, it did not make me feel at home. Every thing else about me was too new. It was like some mysterious change in my own ears--a sudden power of comprehension, such as a man might feel who was cured suddenly of deafness. You can scarcely enter into my feelings till you have had the changes of French, Italian, German, Greek, Turkish, Illyrian, and the mixtures and dialects of each, rung upon your hearing almost exclusively, as I have for years. I wandered about as if I were exercising some supernatural faculty in a dream.

A friend in Italy had kindly given me a letter to lady Blessington, and with a strong curiosity to see this celebrated lady, I called on her the second day after my arrival in London. It was "deep i' the afternoon," but I had not yet learned the full meaning of "town hours."--"Her ladyship had not come down to breakfast." I gave the letter and my address to the powdered footman, and had scarce reached home when a note arrived inviting me to call the same evening at ten.

In a long library lined alternately with splendidly-bound books and mirrors, and with a deep window of the breadth of the room, opening upon Hyde Park, I found lady Blessington alone. The picture to my eye, as the door opened, was a very lovely one. A woman of remarkable beauty half buried in a fauteuil of yellow satin, reading by a magnificent lamp, suspended from the centre of the arched ceiling; sofas, couches, ottomans and busts arranged in rather a crowded sumptuousness through the room; enamel tables, covered with expensive and elegant trifles in every corner, and a delicate white hand relieved on the back of a book, to which the eye was attracted by the blaze of its diamond rings. As the servant mentioned my name, she rose and gave me her hand very cordially, and a gentleman entering immediately after, she presented me to her son-in-law, Count D'Orsay, the well-known Pelham of London, and certainly the most splendid specimen of a man and a well-dressed one that I had ever seen. Tea was brought in immediately, and conversation went swimmingly on.

Her ladyship's inquiries were principally about America, of which, from long absence, I knew very little.--She was extremely curious to know the degrees of reputation the present popular authors of England enjoy among us, particularly Bulwer, Galt, and D'Israeli, (the author of Vivian Grey.) "If you will come to-morrow night," she said, "you will see Bulwer. I am delighted that he is popular in America. He is envied and abused by all the literary men of London, for nothing, I believe, except that he gets five hundred pounds for his books and they fifty, and knowing this, he chooses to assume a pride, (some people call it puppyism,) which is only the armor of a sensitive mind, afraid of a wound. He is to his friends the most frank and gay creature in the world, and open to boyishness with those who he thinks understand and value him. He has a brother, Henry, who is as clever as himself in a different vein, and is just now publishing a book on the present state of France. Bulwer's wife, you know, is one of the most beautiful women in London, and his house is the resort of both fashion and talent. He is just now hard at work on a new book, the subject of which is the last days of Pompeii. The hero is a Roman dandy, who wastes himself in luxury, till this great catastrophe rouses him and developes a character of the noblest capabilities.--Is Galt much liked?"

I answered to the best of my knowledge that he was not. His life of Byron was a stab at the dead body of the noble poet, which, for one, I never could forgive, and his books were clever, but vulgar. He was evidently not a gentleman in his mind. This was the opinion I had formed in America, and I had never heard another.

"I am sorry for it," said Lady B., "for he is the dearest and best old man in the world. I know him well.--He is just on the verge of the grave, but comes to see me now and then, and if you had known how shockingly Byron treated him, you would only wonder at his sparing his memory so much."

"Nil mortuis nisi bonum," I thought, would have been a better course. If he had reason to dislike him, he had better not have written since he was dead.

"Perhaps--perhaps. But Galt has been all his life miserably poor, and lived by his books. That must be his apology. Do you know the D'Israeli in America?"

I assured her ladyship that the "Curiosities of {368} Literature," by the father, and "Vivian Grey and Contarini Fleming," by the son, were universally known.

"I am pleased at that, too, for I like them both. D'Israeli the elder came here with his son the other night.--It would have delighted you to see the old man's pride in him. He is very fond of him, and as he was going away, he patted him on the head, and said to me 'take care of him, lady Blessington, for my sake. He is a clever lad, but he wants ballast. I am glad he has the honor to know you, for you will check him sometimes when I am away!' D'Israeli, the elder, lives in the country about twenty miles from town, and seldom comes up to London. He is a very plain old man in his manners, as plain as his son is the reverse. D'Israeli, the younger, is quite his own character of Vivian Grey, crowded with talent, but very soigne of his curls, and a bit of a coxcomb. There is no reserve about him, however, and he is the only joyous dandy I ever saw."

I asked if the account I had seen in some American paper of a literary celebration at Canandaigua, and the engraving of her ladyship's name with some others upon a rock, was not a quiz.

"Oh, by no means. I was equally flattered and amused by the whole affair. I have a great idea of taking a trip to America to see it. Then the letter, commencing 'Most charming countess--for charming you must be since you have written the conversations of Lord Byron'--oh, it was quite delightful. I have shown it to every body. By the way, I receive a great many letters from America, from people I never heard of, written in the most extraordinary style of compliment, apparently in perfectly good faith. I hardly know what to make of them."

I accounted for it by the perfect seclusion in which great numbers of cultivated people live in our country, who, having neither intrigue, nor fashion, nor twenty other things to occupy their minds as in England, depend entirely upon books, and consider an author who has given them pleasure as a friend. America, I said, has probably more literary enthusiasts than any country in the world; and there are thousands of romantic minds in the interior of New England, who know perfectly every writer this side the water, and hold them all in affectionate veneration, scarcely conceivable by a sophisticated European. If it were not for such readers, literature would be the most thankless of vocations. I, for one, would never write another line.

"And do you think these are the people who write to me? If I could think so, I should be exceedingly happy. People in England are refined down to such heartlessness--criticism, private and public, is so interested and so cold, that it is really delightful to know there is a more generous tribunal. Indeed I think all our authors now are beginning to write for America. We think already a great deal of your praise or censure."

I asked if her ladyship had known many Americans.

"Not in London, but a great many abroad. I was with Lord Blessington in his yacht at Naples, when the American fleet was lying there, eight or ten years ago, and we were constantly on board your ships. I knew Commodore Creighton and Captain Deacon extremely well, and liked them particularly. They were with us, either on board the yacht or the frigate every evening, and I remember very well the bands playing always 'God save the King,' as we went up the side. Count D'Orsay here, who spoke very little English at that time, had a great passion for Yankee Doodle, and it was always played at his request."

The count, who still speaks the language with a very slight accent, but with a choice of words that shows him to be a man of uncommon tact and elegance of mind, inquired after several of the officers, whom I have not the pleasure of knowing. He seemed to remember his visits to the frigate with great pleasure. The conversation, after running upon a variety of topics, which I could not with propriety put into a letter for the public eye, turned very naturally upon Byron. I had frequently seen the Countess Guiccioli on the continent, and I asked lady Blessington if she knew her.

"No. We were at Pisa when they were living together, but though Lord Blessington had the greatest curiosity to see her, Byron would never permit it. 'She has a red head of her own,' said he, 'and don't like to show it.' Byron treated the poor creature dreadfully ill. She feared more than she loved him."

She had told me the same thing herself in Italy.

It would be impossible, of course, to make a full and fair record of a conversation of some hours. I have only noted one or two topics which I thought most likely to interest an American reader. During all this long visit, however, my eyes were very busy in finishing for memory a portrait of the celebrated and beautiful woman before me.

The portrait of lady Blessington in the Book of Beauties is not unlike her, but it is still an unfavorable likeness. A picture by Sir Thomas Lawrence hung opposite me, taken, perhaps, at the age of eighteen, which is more like her, and as captivating a representation of a just matured woman, full of loveliness and love, the kind of creature with whose divine sweetness the gazer's heart aches, as ever was drawn in the painter's most inspired hour. The original is now (she confessed it very frankly) forty. She looks something on the sunny side of thirty. Her person is full, but preserves all the fineness of an admirable shape; her foot is not crowded in a satin slipper, for which a Cinderella might long be looked for in vain, and her complexion, (an unusually fair skin, with very dark hair and eyebrows,) is of even a girlish delicacy and freshness. Her dress of blue satin, (if I am describing her like a milliner, it is because I have here and there a reader of the mirror in my eye who will be amused by it,) was cut low and folded across her bosom, in a way to show to advantage the round and sculpture-like curve and whiteness of a pair of exquisite shoulders, while her hair dressed close to her head, and parted simply on her forehead with a rich ferronier of turquoise, enveloped in clear outline a head with which it would be difficult to find a fault.--Her features are regular, and her mouth, the most expressive of them, has a ripe fulness and freedom of play, peculiar to the Irish physiognomy, and expressive of the most unsuspicious good humour. Add to all this a voice merry and sad by turns, but always musical, and manners of the most unpretending elegance, yet even more remarkable for their winning kindness, and you have the prominent traits of one of the most lovely and fascinating women I have ever seen. Remembering her talents and her rank, and the unenvying admiration she receives from the world of fashion and genius, it {369} would be difficult to reconcile her lot to the "doctrine of compensation."

There is one remark I may as well make here, with regard to the personal descriptions and anecdotes with which my letters from England will of course be filled. It is quite a different thing from publishing such letters in London. America is much farther off from England than England from America. You in New York read the periodicals of this country, and know every thing that is done or written here, as if you lived within the sound of Bow-bell. The English, however, just know of our existence, and if they get a general idea twice a year of our progress in politics, they are comparatively well informed. Our periodical literature is never even heard of. Of course, there can be no offence to the individuals themselves in any thing which a visiter could write, calculated to convey an idea of the person or manners of distinguished people to the American public. I mention it lest, at first thought, I might seem to have abused the hospitality or frankness of those on whom letters of introduction have given me claims for civility.

N. P. W.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MISS C----, ON HER COQUETRY.

"Go to," and quit thy idle ways Thou winning little creature; A mind of nobler import plays, Around thy every feature.

Why waste those powers, by heav'n design'd To win true hearts and wear them? To wreck the peace of half mankind, Who let thy arts ensnare them?

In thy pursuit 'tis all the same, The simple, wise, or learned, Alike are fuel for thy flame-- Are on thy altar burned.

Nay, say not "no!"--within that hall, Hallowed by deeds of ages, I've seen thy look around thee call Virginia's proudest sages.

I've seen thee, 'midst the festive scene, With fools and fops in waiting, Essay to conquer things too mean, For pity, love, or hating.

Go, quit it all--'tis weak--'tis vain-- 'Tis wicked--nay, 'tis cruel; Thy native truth alone can gain For thee, the brightest jewel.

B.

Richmond, Feb. 1835.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WRITTEN FOR MISS M---- T----'S ALBUM.

Mary, thou wert a lovely child! A sweeter cherub never smiled! Tho' since we have not often met, Those days I well remember yet; When, in thy sportiveness and glee, Thou wert a favorite with me; And told me, in thy frolic mood, The story of Red-riding-hood-- In words I ne'er could understand-- They seemed sweet sounds from fairy land.

Time's changes numberless had passed O'er thee when I beheld thee last, Yet still I thought that I could trace The same expression in thy face; Only that then it was refined By the bright impress of the mind-- For years had failed to steal away The artlessness of childhood's day. In nature's richest tints arrayed, Thy cheek the bloom of health displayed; And in its varying flush, I read All that thy lips had left unsaid.

Mary, I thought thee lovely then-- Oh! may'st thou long thy charms retain, And ne'er thine eyes their witness bear To any but compassion's tear! May life's fast flowing stream, for thee Roll smoothly bright, and buoyantly-- Bearing thee calmly on thy way, To realms of ever-shining day; To regions of eternal peace, Where joys live on and sorrows cease.

E. A. S.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written on the Pillar erecting by Mrs. Barlow, to the memory of her husband, Minister of the United States at Paris.

Where o'er the Polish desarts trackless way, Relentless Winter rules with savage sway, Where the shrill polar storms, as wild they blow, Seem to repeat some plaint of mortal woe; Far o'er the cheerless space, the traveller's eye Shall this recording pillar long descry, And give the sod a tear where Barlow lies, He who was simply great and nobly wise; Here led by Patriot zeal, he met his doom, And found amid the frozen wastes a tomb-- Far from his native soil the Poet fell, Far from that Western World he sung so well. Nor she, so long beloved, nor she was nigh, To catch the dying look--the parting sigh! She, who, the hopeless anguish to beguile, In fond memorial rears the funeral pile; Whose widowed bosom, on Columbia's shore, Shall mourn the moments that return no more-- While bending o'er the broad Atlantic wave, Sad fancy hovers on the distant grave.

H. M. WILLIAMS.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND ME.

Memory! within thy deepest cell A recollection glows; A burning thought--whose magic spell Can charm away my woes: It gushes o'er my troubled soul In lava streams of joy, Its talismanic power can roll The darkness from my sky; {370} It thrills my heart with ecstacy, That ever present thought! And, oh! it were too sweet to die With mind so richly fraught: And who is she for whom my heart, My feelings, harmonize? And who is she that has the art To chain my sympathies?

Thine is the brightness of the eye, Which tide nor time can dim; Thy voice is softer than the sigh Of love, or angel's hymn; The rose is thine--but not the hue That fadeth with the morn-- Thy color's deeper when the dew Away from flower is gone-- When all beside is bleak and drear Thy genial blushes rise, Like flow'rets of the northern year, That bloom amid the ice; But more than all, thy beauty brings In her imperial train; And more than all, thy magic flings To dim the dizzened brain. Yes! more than these--than rosy cheek-- Is thy pure lofty mind; Thy nature calm, and soft and meek, With warmth of heart conjoined. These are the charms that deck thee most, With radiance deep and pure,-- These are the flow'rs that thou may'st boast, When beauty's hour is o'er: Thy world may fade--its glory past,-- But in the sky afar, Thy mind will shine undimmed at last, A high and holy star! Go to the East--it is thy home-- In nature like to thee; And while o'er beds of flowers you roam, No breeze, no bird so free-- And while you breathe the Attar-Gul Of fragrant memory, Your heart with thrilling joy so full, It throbs like summer sea; Oh! then should thought of times gone by, With dew-drop dim thine ee, May, mid the breeze that dances nigh, A sigh be heard for me.

----.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM.

There is a form before me now, A spirit with a peerless brow, And locks of gold that lightly lie, Like clouds on the air of a sunset sky, And a glittering eye, whose beauty blends With more than mortal tenderness, As bright a ray as Heaven sends To light those orbs, where the pure and blest Are taking their eternal rest. Sweet Spirit! thou hast stolen afar From thy home in yonder crystal Star, That I might look on thee, and bless Thy kindness and thy loveliness.

How oft against these prison bars I have leaned my head, and gazed for hours Upon the wonder-telling stars; Thinking, if in their sinless bowers The memory of this planet dim E'er mingles with thy blissful dream. And when low winds were stealing by, I have sometimes closed my weary eye; And fancied the sigh that was silently stealing Through my damp hair, was thine own breathing: Then would I lay me down upon This carpetless cold flinty stone, And pray--how long! how fervently! To look on thee once more and die.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MOONLIGHT.

The half-orbed Moon hangs out her silvery lamp, A liquid lustre pouring o'er the scene; While silk-winged zephyrs bathed in dewy damp Scarce move the pensile leaves, or break the calm serene.

Radiant she rests upon the brow of night, The lucid diadem that crowns the sky; So softly beautiful, so mildly bright, She sways the ravished heart, and feeds the insatiate eye.

In jocund boyhood erst her magic face Impressed no feeling but a gentle joy; For moonlit memory knew not then to trace The saddened scenes of youth that later hopes alloy.

When dawning manhood, fired by fancy's ray, Enrobed all nature in her rainbow hues, Then fond affection loved at eve to stray And, gazing on the Moon, with thrilling heart to muse.

But when advancing years have broke the ties Formed at the altar of the Moonlit Heaven, The thoughts of buried joys in sadness rise, And tear-drops glisten in the silent light of even.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO HOPE.

O! ever skilled to wear the form we love! To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart, Come gentle Hope! with one soft smile remove The wasting sadness of an aching heart.

Thy voice benign, enchantress let me hear; Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom; That Fancy's radiance. Friendship's precious tear Shall brighten or shall soothe misfortune's gloom.

But come not glowing with the dazzling ray, Which once, with dear illusions charmed my eye! O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way, The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die. Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, That asks not Happiness, but longs for rest.

{371}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO THE BIBLE.

Go, Holy Book! Tell those whom many woes assail On thee to look; They'll find how weak it is to wail Though every earthly comfort fail.

The Orphan's tear Go wipe away, and bid his heart To be of cheer; Heal thou his bosom's sorest smart, And gild with Hope misfortune's dart.

Say thou to those, Shut out from every good on earth, Lost to repose, Baptized in sorrow at their birth, That worldly joy's of little worth.

The poor soul tell, The poor, lone, wretched, friendless man, Though his heart swell, The ways of God, he must not scan-- But trust the Universal plan.

Tell poor disease, Bravely to bear the piercing pain; Eternal ease, Waits those who do not poorly plain, And worldly loss is heavenly gain.

Tell those who sigh Over some friend's untimely doom, That all must die; He whom they saw laid in the tomb, In God's own paradise may bloom.

Go, say to those Doom'd still to groan and till the soil, That soon repose Shall wipe away their drops of toil, And stay for aye their weary moil.

Tell those who pine In the damp dungeon's dreary gloom, There yet will shine Through their poor melancholy dome, A light to guide their footsteps home.

Tell the Pilgrim, When storms are blackening round his head, 'Tis good for him; What though his thorn torn feet have bled, The heart's blood of his God was shed.

The Mariner, Who bides the tempest's fiercest blaze, Bid not to fear; Though thunders hurtle in the air, The Launcher of the thunder's there.

Tell those who fear Their sins can never be forgiven, To be of cheer-- If they have call'd on God and striven, There's mercy for them still in Heaven.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ON SEEING THE JUNCTION OF THE SUSQUEHANNA AND LACKAWANNA RIVERS.

Rush on, broad stream, in thy power and pride, To claim the hand of thy promis'd bride,-- She doth haste from the realm of the darken'd mine, To mingle her murmur'd vows with thine; Ye have met, ye have met,--and the shores prolong The liquid tone of your nuptial song.

Methinks ye wed as the white man's son And the child of the Indian king have done; I saw thy bride as she strove in vain To cleanse her brow from the carbon stain,-- But the dowry she brings, is so rich and true, That thy love must not shrink from the tawny hue.

Her birth was rude in the mountain cell, And her infant freaks there are none to tell; The path of her beauty was wild and free, And in dell and forest she hid from thee,-- But the time of her fond caprice is o'er, And she seeks to part from thy breast no more.

Pass on, in the joy of your blended tide, Thro' the land where the blessed Miquon[1] died; No red man's blood with its guilty stain, Hath cried unto God, from that green domain; With the seeds of peace they have seen the soil Bring a harvest of wealth for their hour of toil.

On,--on,--thro' the vale where the brave ones sleep, Where the waving foliage is rich and deep; I have look'd from the mountain and roam'd thro' the glen, To the beautiful homes of the western men, Yet naught in that realm of enchantment could see, So fair as the Vale of Wyoming to me.

L. H. S.

Hartford, Conn.

[Footnote 1: The Indian name for William Penn.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HOPES AND SORROWS.

The fitful beam Of the rippled fountain, The purple gleam Of the eve-lit mountain, The vanishing glance Of the meteors motion, The lights that dance On the darkened ocean, Are the faithful types of the hopes that won us, While the dew of our youth still sparkled upon us.

The arid sands Of the sun-dried river, The rock that stands Where lightnings quiver, The pitiless rush Of the earthquake's ruin, The startling hush Of the sea-storm brewing, Are as truly types of the sorrows that found us, When the hopes that we nursed had all fled from around us.

{372}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE WANDERER.

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD, M.D.

Along the devious paths of life, A wild and wayward wand'rer, I, Have steered my bark mid passion's strife, And where destruction's pitfalls lie.

When on a dark and rock-bound shore, My bark was wildly tempest tost, And o'er the breakers' sullen roar, Arose the fearful cry--all's lost!

I shrunk not from the raging blast, But with a bold and reckless hand I steered her on, till she had past The stormy sea and rocky strand.

A fierce enthusiast, I have dared To risk my all, upon one cast,-- Have seen the danger,--nor have feared, What others looked upon aghast.

Disease has laid her iron hand, With no weak grasp, my frame upon, But all her power could not withstand The spirit which has borne me on.

A demon some have called me--yet, Admit that with my spirit blends, A feeling strangely to forget All thought of self, in aid of friends.

A madman some have deemed me--and, In sooth, dark shadows often run Across my mind, as o'er the land, When darkest clouds obscure the sun.

I often wish to die--and flee Far, far away from earth, that I May search the dim unknown, and see What wonders in its bosom lie.

'Tis not because life has no charm,-- I love the gay and laughing stream; I love the glowing sunshine warm; I love Old Luna's silvery beam.

I love to gaze on maiden's eye, Though it has often been my bane; I love on courser swift to fly, Like arrow o'er the flowery plain.

Yet still, my wayward soul will oft, Cherish the wish to pass that bound, Which spans this life, and seek aloft For bliss which here is never found.

But now my lyre begins to fail I'll cease my lone and wand'ring song. Fearful lest with my idle wail, I linger o'er the chords too long.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUE RICHES AND GLORY.

For fortune's prize let others pant, And count the "yellow slave," No joys can gathered jewels grant, No sickening sorrows save-- But bustling and jostling To swell the treasured heap, It cloys us, annoys us, And leaves the heart to weep.

Let others climb the dizzy height Where glory shines afar, Alas! renown is but the light That decks the falling star. Still driving and striving To reach the radiant prize, We grasp it and clasp it, And in our touch it dies.

But, oh! let mine the treasure be That social joys impart, And mine the glory, sympathy Beams on the feeling heart-- Still soothing and smoothing The grief of friends distrest, And lending and spending, That others may be blest.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DEATH OF THE MOTHERLESS.

"As the little one turned for the last time, his tenderly beaming eyes on all around, they seemed to say 'Father!--she calls,--I go,--farewell,--farewell.'"

"Who calleth thee, my darling boy? What voice is in thine ear?" He answer'd not, but murmur'd on In words that none might hear; And still prolong'd the whispering tone, As if in fond reply To some dear object of delight That fix'd his dying eye.

And then, with that confiding smile First by his Mother taught, When freely on her breast he laid His troubled infant thought, And meekly as a placid flower O'er which the dew-drops weep, He bow'd him on his painful bed, And slept the unbroken sleep.

But if in yon immortal clime Where flows no parting tear, That root of earthly love may grow Which struck so deeply here, With what a tide of boundless bliss, A thrill of rapture wild, An angel mother in the skies, Must greet her cherub child.

L. H. S.

Hartford, Conn.

{373}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER EIGHTH.

Hotel des Invalides--Chamber of Deputies--Pont Louis 16th--Bridges of Paris--The Pont Neuf.

PARIS, ----.

My dear Jane:

"Let them gild the dome of the Hotel des Invalides," said Napoleon to an officer, who informed him that unless the war in Italy was discontinued, there would certainly be a revolution in Paris. The mandate was issued, the dome covered with the shining leaf, and the minds of the people immediately turned from the operations of war, to those of the artisans employed on the cupola of the military asylum. Napoleon foresaw this, for well he knew the character of his subjects. A mere trifle, having novelty to recommend it, attracts their notice, engages their attention, and forms the theme of their conversation for a long while--at least, until another new bubble arises. This we must own is a happy disposition, and better calculated to render a nation contented and joyous, than the sober, phlegmatic temperament of our Islanders.

Thus, my dear Jane, have I managed to describe to you in a very few words--the dome of the Invalids and the character of the Parisians. Knowing you hate prolixity, I rejoice at my success, and for the same reason, proceed without delay, to give you an account of the Hospital in question. It is a stately edifice, and was erected by Louis 14th, for the reception of brave and disabled old soldiers. In approaching it, you traverse a vast esplanade embellished with a fountain and bordered by a grove of lofty trees, with seats beneath them, to tempt the lounger and rest the weary; some of them were occupied by veterans whom I readily imagined to be telling "how fields were won." We spent three hours in their noble asylum, examining its spacious halls and dormitories, its cleanly and well arranged kitchen, its library and magnificent church, and its cabinet of architecture, which consists of two large rooms, containing models of all the fortified towns in the kingdom. These are most ingeniously and beautifully executed, and give you a perfect idea of the places they represent. The council chamber adjoins the library, and this and two other apartments are decorated with the portraits of the deceased marshals of France; while the originals are living, their likenesses are deposited in the "Salle des Marécheaux," at the Palace of the Tuilleries. In the church we saw the mausoleum of Turenne and that of the famous engineer Vauban.[1] The interior of the dome and the ceilings of six chapels surrounding it are richly painted, and the tesselated pavement, interspersed with fleurs de lis and other symbols, is exceedingly beautiful. Three hundred flags, the spoils of different nations, were once suspended from the dome; but when the allies entered Paris the invalid warriors tore them down to prevent their being retaken.

[Footnote 1: He was deformed, and being once asked by the king what his enemies thought of his back,--"Sire, (he replied) they have never seen it."]

From the Hotel des Invalides we rode to the Chamber of Deputies, adjoining the palace of Bourbon, and situated on the southern bank of the Seine, which separates it from the "Place Louis Quinze." It is a handsome building, adorned with statues and corinthian columns, and has a pleasant garden attached to it; the deputies hold their assemblies in a semicircular hall, lighted from the top and appropriately arranged. Monsieur de N---- was so kind and polite as to send us tickets, and we have been twice to hear the debates; they were very animated, though whenever a member wished to speak, he was obliged to curb the spirit that moved him, until he could cross the floor and mount a rostrum, which delay I should think is most unfavorable to extemporary eloquence. Returning, we passed over the Pont Louis Seize, and examined the twelve colossal figures of white marble, that have recently been placed on it; they are masterly pieces of sculpture, but too gigantic for the size of the bridge and their approximation to you. There are no less than seventeen bridges athwart the Seine, but not one of them can be compared to those of Waterloo, Blackfriar's, or Westminster at London, as regards strength or magnitude. The Pont Neuf is the largest; it is more than sixty feet wide, and lined on each side with stalls of every description; the passengers are continually beset by the importunities of the shoe-black, the dog-shaver, the ballad singer, the bird seller, the fruiterer, the pedler, the vender of second-hand books, and various other petty dealers. Good night, dear sister. My paper and candle warn me to conclude, which I fear you will not regret.

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER NINTH.

Arrival of friends--Voyage from London to Calais--Route from Calais to Paris--Levee at the Minister's of the Marine--Expiatory Chapel.

PARIS, ----.

My dear Jane:

We were agreeably surprised the day before yesterday, while at dinner, by the arrival of the Danvilles, the American family with whom we were so charmed at Bath last summer. Leonora is as likely as ever, and delighted at the idea of spending the fall and winter here; she expects too, to be joined by her cousin Marcello, of whom we have heard her speak with such affection and admiration. She has been so good as to let me read her journal, and I have obtained her permission to transcribe a part of it for your perusal. It concerns the journey from Calais to Paris, and as I have given you a sketch of that from Havre here, this will enable you to compare the two routes. I dare say you will like, also, to read her observations about the Thames and our steam boats. She writes thus:

"Soon after leaving London, the Thames quite astonished me. I had no idea it was so considerable a river. For many miles it is broad and winding, and each shore presents fine scenery. We had a good view of several noted towns, and remarked the superb hospital at Greenwich and the royal dock yard at Woolwich, where ships of war are made. At Gravesend we passed two vessels transporting convicts to Botany Bay, and I regretted to observe that the women were more numerous than the men.

"The motion of the English steam boats is still more disagreeable than that of ours, but their machinery is less noisy. Coal being used for fuel instead of wood, the passengers soon look dingy in face and dress: therefore {374} one should not travel in them handsomely clad, as clothes are quickly ruined by the smoke and dust. There is no particular hour for breakfast; each person calls for it when it suits his pleasure, and has a table to himself. Dinner is served at five o'clock.

"We reached Calais about eight P.M. At the custom house the officers were not strict in their examination of our baggage; this surprised us, for we had understood that they were always very rigid in performing this troublesome duty. Perhaps our being Americans was the cause of their moderation in disturbing our trunks and boxes,--for the French like us almost as much as they detest the English. On landing, we were highly diverted at the scene on the Quay. The instant we left the boat we were beset with men and boys on every side, recommending different hotels,--and frequently cards of address were absolutely forced into our hands. When one overheard another advising any of us to go to a particular house, he would cry out, 'never do you mind that fellow, ma'am, (or sir) he tells a lie; he always tells lies!' Or, 'no such thing, sir; that house is full, sir; you can't get in, and he knows it!' Or, 'that hotel is not a good one, sir,--indeed it is not; try mine, sir; mine's a palace to it!' and fifty other such droll speeches, at which (tormented as we were) we could not help laughing. Sometimes they would even seize us by the arm and entreat us to accompany them to their hotel, if only to see how comfortable it was. These besiegers (we have since been told) receive a trifle from every innkeeper to whom they carry a guest, and it is their anxiety to obtain this fee, that renders them so annoying to travellers.

"Ere leaving Calais we had sufficient leisure to walk about the town and visit the church, the town hall on the 'place d'armes,' and the column on the pier commemorating the landing of Louis 18th, on the 24th of April, 1814. It is a plain stone pillar, surmounted by a ball and a fleur de lis. In front of it is a representation in bronze of the print of the king's foot (or rather his shoe) upon the spot he first stepped on from the vessel. We found the country between Calais and Paris uninteresting, and generally barren. Once or twice we had a fine view of the sea. The French villages appeared horribly dirty after the exquisite neatness of those in England. The highways presented a bustling and entertaining scene; for men and women, boys and girls, gaily dressed, continually passed us, carrying baskets of fruit, riding on donkeys, or driving along pigs, sheep, cows, or geese. The venders of fruit would frequently jump up behind our carriage, and thrust in at the window, peaches, pears and grapes, beseeching us to buy them, and assuring us we had never tasted better in all our lives. Whenever we stopped at an inn, or ascended a hill, we were surrounded by dozens of paupers, begging for a sous. Sometimes they looked so miserable, it was impossible to refuse; at others, we were fain to bestow it in order to get rid of them. Little urchins would also solicit a penny, and scamper after us a considerable distance, often springing up behind and sticking their heads into the coach. Upon the whole I am contented with our journey hither, for if it was not picturesque it was highly amusing.

"The principal towns we have passed through, are Boulogne, Abbeville, and Beauvais. The first is said to have been founded by Julius Caesar; and Le Sage, the author of Gil Blas, died there in 1747; the house in which he expired, is yet shewn as a curiosity. Within a mile of Boulogne is a corinthian column, which Bonaparte began to erect as a memento of his victories over the English; he left it unfinished, and Louis 18th had it completed for his own honor and glory."

Thus far, dear sister, I have copied from Leonora's diary; now for something of my own. Last night we were at Mr. de Neuville's grand levee; he has one every week, and being exceedingly popular, his rooms are generally crowded. We saw there, many distinguished characters; among them, Monsieur de Chateaubriand, whose travels have afforded us so much entertainment and instruction, and General Saldanha, the brave Portuguese. He has a commanding figure and face, and wears a pair of tremendous mustachios, which are so frightful and so fashionable! To-day we devoted a portion of our time to the Expiatory Chapel, a beautiful building, constructed in honor of Louis 16th and Marie Antoinette; it covers the spot where their remains were first interred; for since the restoration of the Bourbons, these have been conveyed to the royal vault at St. Denis. The entrance and interior of the chapel are very handsome; the light is admitted from the cupola, beneath which are fifteen niches, destined to hold statues of the chief victims of the revolution. There is a neat altar, and the will of Louis and that of his sister, (the Princess Elizabeth) are engraved in golden letters, on two white marble tablets. A subterranean apartment contains another altar, and in front of this a black marble slab bearing an inscription, still designates the original grave of the royal and unfortunate pair. In the court of the chapel many of their faithful Swiss guards are interred. The testament of Louis, wherein he expresses good will towards his enemies and forgiveness of his unloyal and cruel subjects, is very touching. A peasant girl was reading it when we entered, and her cheeks were bedewed with tears.

I regret to inform you that Mamma has had a return of her consumptive cough, and is compelled to drink asses' milk. She is plentifully supplied with it every morning, by an old man who drives a flock of female asses about the streets, and milks them before the door of each customer. The tingling of a little bell, which he carries, gives notice of his arrival whenever be stops. Farewell: kind greetings to those around you,--and above all, to yourself. From

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER TENTH.

The Luxembourg--The Observatory--Notre Dame--The Pantheon--Madame Malibran--M'lle Sontag.

PARIS, ----.

Dearest Jane:

On inquiring the day of the month, I am quite surprised to find that my pen has been idle nearly a week. I will now try to make up for lost time, by describing to you some of the places we have visited in the interim, and the Luxembourg being first on the list, will commence with that. It is one of the most magnificent palaces in Paris. The exterior is highly embellished; and to use the words of an English tourist, "the architecture throughout is distinguished by its bold and masculine character, and by the regularity and beauty of its proportions." This palace was built by order of {375} Mary de Medici, the widow of Henry 4th; it afterwards became the property of some of the French nobility, but was finally restored to the crown. During the revolution, it was used as a prison; the senate afterwards occupied it; at present it contains the Chamber of Peers,--and its galleries are filled with the chêf d'oeuvres of modern artists, whose productions are not admitted into the Louvre until their death. Of course the collection of paintings here is much smaller than at the Louvre, but the pictures are all on the most interesting subjects and are seen to greater advantage, the light being let in from above instead of from the sides of the rooms, as is the case at the Louvre. There are some choice pieces of sculpture; one of them (by Charles Dupaty) represents the Nymph Biblis, changing to a fountain. It is both a singular and ingenious production. The Chamber of Peers, like that of the Deputies, is semicircular in shape; it is hung with blue velvet; and the marble effigies of several orators, legislators and warriors of old, grace its walls. From the ceiling, which is painted, hangs a splendid chandelier. I will only mention one or two more of the apartments--the Salle du Trone,[2] as being particularly rich, and the billiard room, which is tapestried with white velvet, with various views of Rome beautifully delineated on it in water colors. On the ground floor is the chapel--this is very plain; near it is the gorgeous chamber of Marie de Medicis,--the ceiling, walls, and shutters of which are covered with gilding and arabesque paintings. The principal staircase of the palace is remarkably grand and magnificent; there are forty-eight steps, each twenty feet in length, and formed of a single stone; on the right and left of it, are statues and trophies. The garden of the Luxembourg is shady and pleasant, and has the usual embellishments of gods and goddesses amid fountains and flowers; as you are fond of the marvellous, I will tell you a tradition I have just read respecting it.

[Footnote 2: Hall of the Throne.]

There once stood a castle on the site of this garden, which remaining a long while uninhabited, was said to be haunted by frightful demons and apparitions; the whole neighborhood was nightly disturbed by them; no person would venture out after sunset, and finally the inhabitants were compelled, for the sake of rest, to seek other dwellings. In this state of things, the monks of a Carthusian monastery at Gentilly, (who were doubtless at the bottom of the mystery) promised to drive away the malicious spirits by exorcism, if St. Louis would grant them the castle and its appurtenances. Their request was complied with, and they so faithfully performed their part that peace was soon restored and the chateau converted into a convent, which existed about six hundred years.

From the Luxembourg we proceeded through a long sunny avenue, to the observatory. On the left of the road, Arnaud our valet de place, pointed out the spot upon which Marshal Ney was shot. "Regardez, Mesdames! ce fut la (pointing with his finger) l'endroit ou le brave Maréchal Ney fut massacré--Jétais présent et il me semble que je le vois tout sanglant dans le moment," said he, shuddering. We paused to look at the once bloody spot, now verdant with grass and so sadly interesting. The observatory may be considered a wonderful building, for neither iron nor wood have been used in its construction; it is entirely of stone, each piece being ingeniously fitted to another. Four astronomers pursue their avocations here, and have the advantage of a good library and apparatus; there are, likewise, an anemometer for indicating the course of the wind, and a pluviometer for measuring the quantity of rain that falls at Paris. A geometrical staircase leads to the entrance of some spacious caverns where experiments in congelation are made, and these caverns communicate with subterranean galleries that were originally quarries, and extend a considerable distance under the city, containing beautiful stalactites, formed by water oozing through the rocks. We did not see them, for they cannot be entered without a special guide, and a written permission from certain persons appointed by government to superintend and inspect them. But my stars! I have exhausted nearly all my paper, and have yet a dozen places to describe! Well, well, you must be contented with an account of two of the most important; and by the time I have finished with them, I shall have to squeeze in my name, no doubt. And now let me decide which of the various objects we have examined, I ought to regard as chief. Why, the mother church of France "Notre Dame," and the Pantheon, to be sure! The first is the most ancient religious structure in the city, and is pronounced to be one of the handsomest in the kingdom. Being built in the Gothic ages, its architecture is according to the fashion of those times, very singular and bold.--The interior of the building corresponds with the outside in curious carving and designs; the choir and the stalls surrounding it are covered with grotesque sculpture. There are no less than thirty chapels, and all of them contain pictures, but they are generally very indifferent. There are several fine ones around the choir--among them the "Visitation," by Jean Jouvenet; this painting was executed entirely with his left hand, after he lost the use of his right by a paralytic stroke. Behind the altar, is a good piece of sculpture by Coustou; the subject is the "descent from the cross." In the vestry room, we were shewn some extraordinary relics,--such as part of the crown of thorns that was worn by our Saviour, and a bit of his cross!! We also saw the regalia of Charlemagne, and the splendid robes given to the priests of this cathedral by Buonaparte at the period of his coronation, upon which occasion they were used; they are embroidered in the richest manner with gold and silver, and amazingly heavy. Numerous sacred festivals are celebrated at Notre Dame in the course of the year; and in August there is to be a procession in fulfilment of a vow made by Louis XIII. This is done on the 15th of that month annually, and the royal family always join in it. We shall go to see it of course; and how I wish you, aunt Margaret and Albert were to be of our party!

The Pantheon, or Church of Saint Geneviève, is a magnificent structure, and its dome is the most striking object that presents itself as you approach Paris. The interior of it is beautifully painted, the artist having chosen for his subject the apotheosis of Louis XVI and his family. When the work was finished, the king went to see it, and after looking at it attentively for a quarter of an hour, he turned to the painter Gros who {376} was anxiously awaiting his opinion, and said to him, "Eh bien Monsieur le Baron votre ouvrage est trés bien fait!" thus recompensing his talents, by bestowing on him a title of nobility. Saint Geneviève, the patron Saint of Paris, is buried in the Pantheon, and her tomb is always surrounded by lighted tapers, the votive offerings of those who come to demand her intercession for pardon or blessing. In the vaults beneath the church, many distinguished men are interred. Indeed, it was to receive the ashes of such that the Pantheon was designed; and Louis XV, who was the liberal encourager of science and art, was the founder of it.

Contrary to my expectations, I find I've yet space enough to inform you that we have been twice to the Italian Opera, to hear Madame Malibran and Mademoiselle Sontag. The former seems really adored here. At her benefit, many gentlemen voluntarily paid one hundred francs for a ticket, instead of twenty, the actual price. She sings enchantingly and acts with great spirit; so does her rival Mademoiselle Sontag. In fact, I know not to which of these nightingales I prefer listening. Adieu.

LEONTINE.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

"My life's employment and my leisure's charm, My soul's first choice, my fancy's early flame; My chance of fortune and my hopes of fame."

Shee.

There is no subject on which mankind more unhesitatingly decide, than upon the productions of the pencil, and none perhaps upon which the people of our own country especially, are so little qualified to form a correct judgment. Few works of any excellence ever reach us, and these are for the most part confined to the large cities, where those who visit them are more attracted by the subject than the execution of the painting. A striking illustration of this, may be found in the crowds which rushed a short time since, to see the immodest and demoralizing exhibition of our first parents in a state of nudity--an offence for which Ham was accursed to be a servant of servants to his brethren; and yet our modest maidens, attended by their equally modest beaux, hastened in company to view this production of Parisian profligacy. At the same time, the splendid painting of "Christ rejected" by the eminent West, scarcely attracted notice; and the beautiful "Star of Bethlehem" by Cole, twinkled in an empty hall. Still no one doubts his own intuitive knowledge of the arts!--He does not, indeed, profess to understand the modus operandi, by which they are perfected,--but yet he knows exactly what delights him, and with equally becoming modesty, knows how to censure what he does not like,--although to the real connoisseur, the work condemned may perchance be one of superlative beauty and value. There are some who fall into raptures at Cimmerian darkness and obscurity in a picture; they have heard that the works of the old masters are very dark,--ergo, all black pictures must be very good. Some have heard that Reubens and Rembrandt, painted with a bold free pencil,--and every daub is therefore free and bold; and there are others the very antipodes of these, who would have the canvass ivory smooth, and always test the excellence of a picture with their finger's ends. Such are the arbiters of taste, to whom the artist must look for patronage and favor; to whose critical acumen he must sacrifice the highest professional attainments, and all the poetry of imagery, for the prosing portraiture of vulgar nature as the uninstructed eye perceives it. Against such critics, Sir Joshua Reynolds warned his young academecians. "Study not," said he, "to please the many, but the few of cultivated taste." Alas! how few in any age, have given that attention to the subject which is essential to the formation of a correct judgment. They say,--do we not see and understand what nature is, and can we not tell when the artist has truly represented her?--We answer no. The eye unaccustomed to contemplate nature, cannot perceive the ever changing beauty of her scenery,--her lights and shades more various than the Dolphins hues; nor can it discern that play of the thoughts and passions in the "human face divine," which eludes common observation, and is beheld only by him who has studied profoundly, that wonderful title page to the volume of mind. Nature, it is true, like a lovely and virtuous maiden, is seen and admired by all; but the blush which reveals her sweetest charm, is only perceived and felt by the devoted lover. That Lover is the artist. To him the revolving year, brings but a change of beauty. It is the element in which he breathes,--the aliment on which he lives; his eye detects each flitting shadow--and the whole world of real or imaginary things, is to his mind full of moving pictures, which he can, in a moment, transfix and perpetuate on his canvass. On him the graces attend, and wreathe the flowers of every season into garlands of beauty; the jocund spring strews buds and blossoms in his way, which he transplants to other climes, to live in unfading bloom, and flourish on the same wall with the fruits of summer, or mingle with the sober and varied hues of autumn. Even winter, with frosty locks and snowy visage, is compelled to linger in social companionship with the burning heats of tropical regions. Old Time, in his onward march, strews cities and temples in the path of the artist, but his pencil like the wand of the enchanter, bids their sculptured fragments remain forever, and they obey him. When Aurora comes forth in the chariot of day, and Cynthia lights her pale lamp at Diana's altar,--he snatches promethean fire from heaven, and like Joshua, commands the unwearied sun to stand still, and the glowing canvass receives it. He not only transfers

"Italian skies to English walls,"

but by the magic of his pencil, the very faces and persons of the fair and the brave of ages gone by, come down to our day in the bloom of youth, and with the daring eye, as they lived and moved when Shakspeare wrote, or lovely Juliet died.

Where do not the trophies of this incomparable art arrest our attention?--from the ruins of Pompeii to imperial Rome, or from the Vatican, where Raphael's immortal pencil traced the transfiguration, to Hampton Court, the gallery of the cartoons, and of that fair but frail society, of which England's voluptuous monarch was the sun and centre.[1] But these are neither black, nor daubed, nor smooth!--and yet they are excellent in art, and have been so esteemed for three hundred years. {377} To these the painter may appeal as imbodying all that is noble in his profession, or like Sir Joshua, who felt and understood, what others only imagined, he may patiently submit to the ignorance of vanity--and the vanity of ignorance.

When they talk of their Raphael, Corregio and Stuff, He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.

G. C.

[Footnote 1: The cartoons of Raphael and the court of Charles II by Sir Peter Lely, form a part of the collection at Hampton court.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE FROM FLORIAN.

The following tale was translated from the French of M. Florian, by the present hand, about 7 or 8 years ago, for a Richmond newspaper. That translation its author has not seen since 1827; and lately meeting with the original again, it seemed new enough, as well as sufficiently pretty and interesting, to be worth presenting afresh to the public through the Southern Literary Messenger. It is seldom that so much varied incident has been compressed into so short a compass: yet the rapidity of the narrative has not hindered the writer from indulging a humor both playful and caustic, upon the foibles which he banters, and the vices and crimes which he holds up to detestation. And the moral, disclosed in unravelling the mystery of the allegorical personage from whom the story takes its name, is full at once of beauty and truth.

M.

* * * * *

BATHMENDI.

A PERSIAN STORY.

The THOUSAND-AND-ONE NIGHTS have always appeared to me charming tales; but I should like them better, if they had oftener a moral scope. Scheherezade, I am aware, is too handsome to be at the trouble of being rational: I know, that with so pretty a face, she has no need of common sense; and that the sultan would have been less enamored, if she had been less silly. These great truths I devoutly believe: and I merely repeat, that for my own part, I would rather read stories which make me reflect, while they amuse me. Extravagance is a fine thing, no doubt; but a picture must have shade: and I would fain have reason appear now and then, to make folly go off the better. So an uncle of mine once thought. He had often sailed in the Levant; and had amused himself while there, by composing PERSIAN TALES. They are far below the Thousand-and-one Nights in imagination, but exceed them infinitely in number; for my uncle in his life-time made four thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight--all of which are now lost except the following one, preserved by me.

* * * * *

Under the reign of a Persian king, whose name my uncle does not tell, a merchant of Balsora was ruined by commercial disasters; and, collecting the shattered remains of his fortune, retired to the province of Kusistan. He there bought a dwelling, and a farm which he cultivated badly, because he was perpetually regretting his days of opulence and ease. Chagrin shortened his life; he perceived his end to be near; and, calling his four sons around him, he said--"My children, I have nothing to bequeath you but this house, and a secret which I was bound to conceal till now. In the time of my wealth, I had for my friend the genius Alzim; who promised to befriend you when I should be no more, and to divide a treasure amongst you. He dwells some miles hence, in the great forest of Kom. Go--find him: claim the treasure: but take heed not to believe." ... Death here suppressed the merchant's voice.

His four sons, after interring and mourning him, repaired to the forest of Kom. They inquired for the mansion of the genius Alzim: it was readily shewn them. He was known to the whole country: he received kindly all who visited him; he heard their complaints, consoled them, and lent them money if they needed it. But these benefits were upon the sole condition of implicitly obeying his directions. This was his whim. No one could enter his palace without an oath to comply with this condition.

The oath did not deter the merchant's three eldest sons: the fourth, whose name was Tai, thought it a very ridiculous ceremony. Yet, being obliged to enter in order to receive the treasure, he swore, like his brothers: but reflecting on the dangerous consequences of so rash a vow, and remembering that his father, who frequently came to this palace, had passed his life in follies, he resolved, without committing perjury, to place himself out of danger; and, whilst they were leading him to the genius, stopped his ears with perfumed wax. Thus fortified, he prostrated himself before Alzim's throne. The genius made the sons of his ancient friend arise; embraced them, shed tears to his memory, and had a large chest brought, full of dariques. "Here," said he, "is the treasure I design for you. I am going to divide it among you; and I will then tell each the way he must take to be perfectly happy."

Tai heard not what the genius said; but watching him attentively, he saw in his eyes and visage traits of cunning and malignity which gave him much food for thought. Still, he received his portion of the treasure gratefully. Alzim, having thus enriched them, assumed an affectionate tone, and said; "My dear children, your good or bad fortune depends upon your meeting sooner or later a certain being named BATHMENDI, of whom all the world speaks, but whom few, very few, know. Wretched mortals grope after him in vain: But I, for the love I bear you, will whisper to each of you where he may be found." At these words, Alzim takes Bekir, the eldest brother, aside, and says--"My son, you were born with courage, and great military talents. The king of Persia has just sent an army against the Turks. Join that army: in the Persian camp you will find Bathmendi." Bekir thanks the genius, and already burns to march.

Alzim beckoned Mesrou, the second son, to approach. "You," said he, "have shrewdness, address, and a great propensity to falsehood. Take the road to Ispahan; 'tis at court that you must seek Bathmendi."

To the third brother, whose name was Sadder, he said, "You are gifted with a lively and fruitful imagination: You see objects not as they are, but as you would have them be; you often possess genius, and not always common sense: be a poet. Take the route to Agra: among the wits and fair ladies of that city, you may find Bathmendi."

Tai, in his turn, advanced; and, thanks to the pallets of wax, heard not one word that Alzim said. It has since been ascertained, that he counselled Tai to become a Dervise.

{378} After thanking the beneficent genius, the four brothers returned home. The three eldest dreamed of nothing but Bathmendi. Tai unstopped his ears, and heard them arrange their departure, and determine to sell their little dwelling to the first bidder, in order to divide the price. Tai offered to become the purchaser: he caused the house and farm to be valued, paid his brothers their respective portions, and embracing them tenderly, with a thousand good wishes, remained alone in the paternal mansion.

He then employed himself in executing a scheme, which he had long meditated. He was enamored of young Amine, the daughter of a neighboring farmer. She was handsome and discreet: she managed her father's household, comforted his declining years, and prayed Heaven for two things--that her father might long live, and that she might be the wife of Tai. Her prayers were heard. Tai asked, and obtained her. Her father went to live with his son-in-law, and taught him the art of enriching the ground, so as to be enriched by it in return. Tai had some gold still remaining of Alzim's gift: he employed it in extending his farm, and in buying a flock. The farm doubled its value; the fleeces of the sheep were sold; plenty reigned in Tai's house; and, as he was industrious and his wife frugal, each year augmented their income. Children, that ruin wealthy idlers, in the cities, enrich laborers. At the end of seven years, Tai, the father of six lovely children, the husband of a sweet and virtuous wife, son-in-law to an aged, yet a hale and amiable man, master of several slaves, and of two flocks,--was the happiest and the most independent farmer of Kusistan.

Meantime his three brothers were in chase of Bathmendi. Bekir arrived at the Persian camp; presented himself to the grand vizier, and begged to be employed in the most hazardous services. His mien, and his gallant bearing, pleased the vizier, who admitted him into a squadron of cavalry. In a few days, a bloody battle took place. Bekir achieved prodigies; saved his general's life, and captured the general of the enemy. The camp rung with the praises of Bekir: all the soldiers called him the champion of Persia; and the grateful vizier promoted his deliverer to the rank of general. "Alzim was right," said Bekir to himself; "'tis here that fortune awaits me; I am evidently about to find Bathmendi."

Bekir's glory, and especially his promotion, aroused the envy and the murmurs of all the satraps. Some of them came to ask him about his father; complaining that they had suffered by his bankruptcy: others pretended to have held madam his mother as a slave: all refused to serve under him, because they were his seniors in office. Bekir, made miserable by his very successes, lived alone, ever on the watch, ever in danger of some outrage, which he might amply revenge but could not prevent. He regretted the time when he was a mere private soldier, and awaited impatiently the close of the war; when the Turks, reinforced by fresh troops, and led by a new general, made an attack upon his division. It was the juncture, for which the satraps of the army had long wished. They exerted a hundred times more ability in procuring the defeat of their leader, than they had ever shewn to avoid defeat themselves. Bekir defended himself like a lion: but he was neither obeyed nor seconded. In vain did the Persian soldiers wish to fight: their officers restrained them, and led them only to flight. The valiant Bekir, abandoned, covered with wounds, and overwhelmed by numbers, was taken by the Janissaries. The Turkish commander unworthily loaded him with irons, and sent him to Constantinople, where he was thrown into a frightful dungeon. "Alas!" cried Bekir, "I begin to think that Alzim has deceived me: for I cannot hope to meet Bathmendi here."

The war lasted fifteen years, and the satraps always obstructed the exchange of Bekir. His dungeon was not opened until peace came: he hurried to Ispahan, to seek his patron the vizier, whose life he had saved. It was three weeks before he could obtain an audience. Fifteen years, in prison, make some change in the appearance of a handsome young man. Bekir was not easily to be recognized: and the vizier did not know him again. However, on calling to mind the various events of his own illustrious life, he did remember that Bekir had done him some trifling service. "Aye--yes, friend," said he; "I will requite you. A brave man--but the empire is deeply in debt: a long war, and grand feastings have exhausted our finances. However--come and see me again--I will try--I will see"--"Alas, my lord!" said Bekir, "I have not a morsel of bread; and in the fifteen days that I have been waiting for a moment's interview with your highness, I should have died of hunger, but for a soldier of the guard, my old comrade, who shared his pay with me." "That was very good of the soldier," said the vizier; "really, it is quite touching. I will report it to the king. Come and see me again; you know I love you." And with these words, he turned his back upon him. Bekir returned the next day, and found the gate closed. In despair, he left the palace and the city, resolving never to enter them again.

Throwing himself at the foot of a tree, on the bank of the river Zenderou, he reflected upon the ingratitude of viziers, his own past misfortunes, and those which menaced him; and, unable to endure thoughts so dismal, he arose, to plunge into the stream--when he felt himself clasped by a beggar, who bathed his face with tears, and sobbed out, "it is my brother; it is my dear Bekir!" Looking up, Bekir recognised Mesrou. No one can find a long-lost brother without pleasure; but an unfortunate, needy, friendless, and hopeless, who is about to end his life in despair, thinks, that in a brother whom he loves, he sees an angel from Heaven. Mesrou and Bekir at once felt this sentiment: they press each other to their bosoms--they mingle their tears--and, after the first moments of tenderness, they gaze at each other with affliction and surprise. "You too, then, are unhappy!" cried Bekir. "This is the first moment of happiness," said Mesrou, "that I have enjoyed since our separation." At these words, embracing again, they leaned upon each other; and Mesrou, seated beside Bekir, began his narrative as follows:

"You remember the fatal day, when we went to Alzim's abode. That perfidious genius told me, that I should find Bathmendi, the object of our desires, at court. I followed his advice, and soon arrived at Ispahan. There I became acquainted with a young female slave to the mistress of the grand vizier's first secretary. This slave took a liking for me, and made me known to her mistress; who finding me younger and handsomer {379} than her lover, lodged me in her own house, as her half-brother. The half-brother was soon presented to the vizier: and some days afterwards, obtained an office in the palace. I had only to let my fortune lead me on, and to remember the path which had brought me thus far. I never quitted that path: and, the sultana mother being old, ugly, and all-powerful, I failed not to pay my court assiduously to her. She distinguished me, by a friendship as intimate as that of the slave and her mistress had been. Thenceforward, honors and riches began to rain upon me. The sultana caused me to be presented with all the money in the treasury, and all the dignities of the state. The monarch himself testified affection for me: he loved to converse with me, because I flattered him adroitly, and always advised him to what I knew he wished to do. This was the way to induce him to do what I wished; and it soon succeeded. At the end of three years, I was at once prime minister, favorite of the king, lover of his mother, with power to appoint and displace viziers; deciding every thing by my influence, and giving audience every morning to the grandees of the empire, who came to wait for my awaking to obtain a smile of protection. Amidst all my wealth and glory, I was surprised at not finding Bathmendi. 'I want for nothing,' said I; 'why does not Bathmendi present himself?' This thought, and the frightful solicitude of my life, poisoned all my pleasures. As the sultana grew older, she became more difficult to please, and my gratitude grew more irksome. Her tenderness for me was a torment. On the other hand, my station procured me a thousand tiresome flatterers, and a hundred thousand powerful enemies. For every favor I conferred, hardly a single mouth thanked, and a thousand reviled me. The generals whom I appointed were defeated, and all was attributed to me. Whatever good the king did, belonged only to himself; all the evil was laid at my door. The people detested me--the whole court hated, a hundred libels excoriated me: my master often frowned, the sultana-mother sickened me by her fondness; and Bathmendi seemed more distant than ever.

"At length, the king's passion for a young Mingrelian gave the finishing stroke to my fortunes. The whole court united with her, in hopes that the mistress would expel the minister. I parried the blow, by joining the Mingrelian, and flattering the king's passion. But his love became so violent, that, being resolved to espouse her, he demanded my advice. I evaded an answer for some days. The sultana mother, who was afraid of losing her power by her son's marriage, declared to me, that unless I broke off the match, she would have me assassinated on the very day of its consummation. An hour afterwards, the fair Mingrelian vowed, that unless I procured her marriage with the king the next day, I should be strangled on the day following. My position was embarrassing. I must choose the dagger, the bowstring, or flight. I chose the last. Disguised as you see, I escaped from the palace with some diamonds, which will sustain us in some nook of Hindostan, far from courts, Mingrelians, and sultana mothers."

Bekir then recited his adventures to Mesrou. They agreed, that it would have been as well for them not to run over the world; and that their wisest course was, to return to Kusistan, to the neighborhood of their brother Tai, where Mesrou's diamonds would procure them a peaceful and easy life. Thus resolved, they took the road, and travelled for some days without an adventure. As they passed through the province of Farsistan, they arrived one evening at a village, where they proposed to spend the night. It was a holiday. Upon entering the village, they saw many children of the peasants' returning from a procession, led by a sort of master, ill clad, marching with downcast look and pensive air. The two brothers approach, and observe him attentively. What was their surprise! It was Sadder--their brother Sadder, whom they embraced!

"Ah!" said Bekir, "is genius thus rewarded?"--"You perceive," answered Sadder, "that genius is treated much like valor. But philosophy finds in misfortune an ample subject for meditation; and that is somewhat consoling." He then sent his pupils to their home, conducted Bekir and Mesrou to his little cabin, served them up a little rice for supper, and, after having heard their histories, told his own:

"Alzim, who, I strongly suspect, delights in the woes of mankind, counselled me to seek this undiscoverable Bathmendi in the great city of Agra, among men of genius and fair ladies. I arrived in Agra; and determined, before I appeared in public, to herald myself by some brilliant production. At the end of a month, my work appeared: it was a complete course of all human sciences, in a small octodecimo volume of sixty pages, divided into chapters. Each chapter comprised a tale; and each tale taught a science perfectly. My book had prodigious success. Some reviews cavilled at it, as too prolix: but all people of fashion bought it; and I was consoled for the criticisms. My book and I became all the rage. I was sought for--invited into every circle that had any pretension to wit or genius: all that I did was charming: I was the theme of every tongue, and every wish; and the favorite sultana with her own hand wrote me a badly spelled note, praying me to visit the court. 'Bravo!' thought I; 'Alzim has not deceived me. My glory is at its height: I shall sustain myself by surer means than intrigue: I shall please--I shall captivate--I shall find Bathmendi!' I was favorably received at the great Mogul's palace. The sultana loudly proclaimed herself my patroness; called upon me for verses; gave me pensions; admitted me to her select suppers; and, a hundred times a day, swore to me an unalterable friendship. For my part, I gave myself up to the liveliest gratitude. I promised to devote my days to singing the renown of my benefactress; and made a poem, in which the sun was but a mock-diamond beside her eyes, and ivory, coral, and the pearls of the Persian gulf, were dim and homely compared with her face, neck, and teeth. These refined and delicate compliments completed my assurance of her perpetual favor.

"I thought myself on the point of meeting Bathmendi, when my protectress quarrelled with the grand vizier, about the government of a province, which he refused to the son of her confectioner. The sultana, exasperated at such audacity, demanded of the sultan the banishment of the insolent minister; but the sultan loved the vizier, and refused the favorite. The next thing was to organize an intrigue, to destroy the cherished vizier. Being in the plot, I received orders to compose a bloody satire against the minister, and circulate it. The satire was soon made--that is not difficult: it was even {380} good--which is still easy: it was read with avidity--and that is sure to tell. The vizier soon learned that I was the author. Going to the favorite, he carries her the commission which he had before denied, and a draft upon the royal treasury for one hundred darics; only asking in return, permission to put me to death in a dungeon. 'He is a vile wretch,' answered the favorite; 'and I am happy in having the power to do what may please you. I will instantly have the insolent sought for, who has dared insult you against my positive orders; and he shall be put into your hands.' Happily, a slave who was present, ran to tell me of this conversation; and I had barely time to escape. Ever since, I have been traversing Hindostan, gaining a meager subsistence by writing tales, making verses, and toiling for booksellers who cheated me, and who, less indulgent to my talents than to their own consciences, continually asserted that my style was not pure enough. Whilst I was wealthy, my works had been master-pieces: now that I was poor and friendless, my effusions were trash. Tired at length of enlightening the universe, I preferred teaching the peasants to read: and I am now schoolmaster in this village, where I eat black bread, and have no hope of seeing Bathmendi."

"You must go hence," said Mesrou, "and return with us to Kusistan, where some diamonds of mine will ensure us an easy and quiet life." It was not difficult to persuade Sadder; and the three brothers, setting out early next morning, took the way to Kusistan. They were on the last day of their journey; and not far from Tai's dwelling. This thought consoled them: but their hope was mingled with fear. "Shall we find our brother? We left him poor--he cannot have found Bathmendi, since he has been unable to go in quest of him." "My dear friends," said Sadder, "I have reflected much on this Bathmendi, that Alzim told us of; and really, I believe he deluded us. Bathmendi does not, and never did exist: for, since Bekir did not meet him when he commanded half the Persian army--since Mesrou did not hear of him when he was the favorite of the great king--and I could not even divine who or what he was, whilst the favors of glory and fortune were heaped upon me--it is evident, Bathmendi is a creature of fancy; a chimera; an illusion, which men chase merely from the love of chasing illusions." Sadder was proceeding to prove that Bathmendi dwelt no where on earth, when a band of robbers issued from some rocks on the road-side, and ordered the brothers to strip. Bekir offered resistance; but he was disarmed; and four of these gentry, holding a dagger at his breast, unrigged him, while their comrades did the like to Mesrou and Sadder. After this ceremony, which was the work of a moment, the captain of the robbers wished them a pleasant journey, and left them half naked in the highway.

"This confirms my position:" said Sadder, looking at his brothers. "Ah, the cowards!" cried Bekir; "they took away my sword!" "Oh, my poor diamonds!" said Mesrou, sorrowfully.

It was now night: the three unfortunates hastened on towards the mansion of their brother: and on arriving there, the sight of it made their tears flow fast. They stopped at the door, but durst not knock. All their fears, all their doubts, returned. While they hesitated, Bekir rolled up a large stone below the window, and mounting upon it, looked in. He saw, in a neat and simply furnished apartment, his brother Tai at table, amid ten children, who were eating, laughing, and prattling all together. On his right was Amine, mincing some meat for her youngest son; and on his left was a little old man of a mild and lively countenance, who was filling Tai's cup. At this spectacle, Bekir threw himself into the arms of his brothers, and knocked at the door with all his might. A servant opened it, but uttered cries of alarm on seeing three half-naked men. Tai runs out: they fall upon his neck, call him "brother!" and bathe him in tears. Though confounded at first, he soon recognises them, and locks them in his arms. The children run to the spectacle; and so does Amine, but retires with her daughters, on seeing the three strange men. The old man alone did not leave the table.

Tai clothed his brothers; presented them to his wife, and made them kiss his children. "Alas!" said Bekir, much affected, "your happy lot consoles us for all that we have suffered. Since the moment of our separation, our lives have been but a series of calamities; and we have not so much as had a glimpse of that Bathmendi, after whom we have been running." "I believe you"--said the little old man who continued still at the table; "I have never stirred from this place." "What!" exclaimed Mesrou, "are you ..." "I am BATHMENDI," said the old man. "It is quite natural that you should not know me, since you never saw me before: but ask Tai--ask Amine--and all these children, every one of whom knows my name. I have lived with them fifteen years; and am perfectly at home here. I have been away but for one day; it was when Amine's father died: but I returned, and now hope never to go hence a single step. It rests only with yourselves, gentlemen adventurers, to become acquainted with me. If it so please you, I am willing: if not, why I shall be content. I trouble no one: I stay in my corner, never dispute, and detest noise." The three brothers, whose eyes had been eagerly fixed upon the little old man, wished to embrace him. "O, softly!" said he: "I do not like all these violent emotions: I am rather delicate; and too close an embrace stifles me. Besides--we must become friends before we caress. If you wish us to become friends, do not busy yourselves too much about me. I value freedom more than politeness; and have an antipathy to all excess." At these words he arose, kissed the foreheads of all the children, slightly saluted the three brothers, smiled upon Amine and Tai; and went to await them in their chamber.

Tai sat down again with his brothers, and had beds prepared for them. The next morning, he shewed them his fields, his flocks, his working beasts; and unfolded to them all the pleasures he enjoyed. Bekir wished to begin work that very day; and he was the first to become the friend of Bathmendi. Mesrou, who had been prime minister, was the chief shepherd; and the poet assumed the task of selling the corn, wool, and milk, which were sent to market in the city. His eloquence attracted customers; and he was as useful as the others. At the end of six months, Bathmendi became attached to them; and their days, many and tranquil, flowed softly on to the bosom of felicity.

[It is needless to say, that Bathmendi, in the Persian tongue, signifies Happiness.]

{381}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SCENE IN PARIS--1827.

BY A VIRGINIAN.

In the month of May 1827 I was in Paris. The discontent of the people with the government had recently been augmented by a proposition to restrain the liberty of the press, which the king had laid before the legislative chambers; and which, having passed the deputies, was under consideration before the peers.

This discontent with a government, which was in point of fact a very good one, had existed since the restoration of the Bourbons, and had its origin in the degradation to which the French people conceived themselves to have been subjected, in receiving a monarch at the hands of hostile strangers.

This monarch too was the brother of that imbecile, though amiable king, whose passiveness had brought him to the scaffold like a lamb to the slaughter; and he was placed in powerful contrast with him whose grand ambition aspired to make France his court, and the eastern continent (perhaps the world,) his empire. Louis le gros was to occupy the throne of Napoleon the magnificent.

The national pride common to all nations, and the national vanity peculiar to the French, were thus so severely shocked and wounded, that the people could not regard with their characteristic loyalty, or even with toleration, the family whose ascendancy had been established by other hands than those of Frenchmen. Louis the 18th too, had violently aggravated this hostility by the unfortunate declaration that "under God, it was to the Prince Regent of England that he owed his crown." It was not then to be wondered at that the public mind was in a state to be easily exacerbated by any cause, and not to be conciliated by any course however moderate, short of absolute concession to the popular will. Accordingly the measures of Louis the 18th, who was a wise monarch, and really desired the welfare of his people, met with jealous opposition, or at best, with unwilling acquiescence.

The administration of Décazes, which was conducted upon wise and sound principles, was finally clamored down; and the court, finding the people incapable of appreciating the mild and liberal measures of the government, infused more strength into their system.

Charles the 10th, inferior to his brother in mental endowments, and who brought to the throne stricter notions of legitimacy, and less disposition to conciliate his subjects, rather tightened than relaxed the reins of government, and thus increased the disaffection of the people. Add to this the real or fancied attachment of the king to the Jesuits, against whose order ancient odium had been recently revived, and the feelings may easily be conceived which were excited by the menaced blow at the freedom of the press, which was pending at the time of which I write.

These feelings were put forth through the usual vents. The public journals made the most of their liberty while it remained to them, and kept up an incessant fire of various grades; from the grave remonstrances of the "Constitutionnel," to the piquant badinage of the "Drapeau Blanc." The Salons, the Cafés, the Boulevards, the Tuileries, the Champs Elysées and the Pont Neuf exhibited the politicians of their respective meridians, from the "riche banquier" to "Monsieur le tondeur de chiens." The print shops displayed caricatures of the Jesuits. Beranger "showed up" the royal family in his songs. Mars played "Tartuffe" at the Francais, and the "parterre" rapturously applauded her and snapped their fingers at the police.

Early in the month, the annual review by the king, of the regular troops stationed in Paris, was to take place.

By one of those tacit combinations which sometimes unaccountably occur, it was resolved that this review should serve as an occasion for affording an evidence of the sentiments of the people, which though negative in mode, should be sufficiently positive in character. It was determined to withhold from the king those testimonials of attachment and loyalty with which most of the people of Europe are wont to greet their sovereigns when they appear in public. Accordingly when on the expected morning, the king with his brilliant suite issued from the court of the palace, not one of the spectators uttered a sound of welcome. The place of the review was a mile and a half distant, and the route was through populous streets; yet from all the crowd which gradually swelled as the train advanced, not one voice was heard to utter "vive le roi!" No man cried "God save him." A uniform silence pervaded the scene, thus giving it the air of a funeral pageant, rather than of a splendid military display; while at every turn which the royal company made in their progress, this portentous legend inscribed on the walls, met their eyes--

"La silence du peuple est la lecon du Roi."

Proceeding more rapidly and by a nearer route, I reached the Champ de Mars, the scene of the review, in time to witness the king's arrival. The Champ de Mars is a beautiful plain, artificially levelled; a quarter of a mile in breadth, and extending from the Seine to the école militaire, rather more than half a mile in length--bounded on each side by embankments, appearing to the eye like ramparts, which are covered with turf and set with trees.[1]

[Footnote 1: The Champ de Mars was the scene of the famous "fête de la fédération," which took place in 1790, on the 14th of July, the anniversary of the taking of the Bastile; when the king, the representatives of the people, and the other public functionaries, the commandant of the National Guard, and delegates sent from each of the eighty-three departments of the kingdom, took an oath to preserve the new constitution. A splendid altar, called "l'autel de la patrie," was erected in the middle of the field, around which was an amphitheatre which held four hundred thousand spectators; in the centre of this was the throne of the king. All the people of Paris assisted in making these preparations, that they might be completed by the appointed time. The Bishop of Autun (Talleyrand) was the ministering flamen of the solemnities. At the celebration an incident occurred, illustrating the far seeing sagacity of this man, who thus early discerned the frail and transient nature of that constitution, which its founders had decreed should be "une, indivisible, et impérissable." Lafayette, as commandant of the National Guard, was the first to take the oath; and as he approached the altar for that purpose, Talleyrand in an under tone exhorted him to keep his countenance and not to laugh! thus indicating that he considered the whole scene a solemn farce. I had this anecdote from an American lady to whom Lafayette told it.]

I found as I had expected, these embankments covered throughout their whole extent with an innumerable crowd, eager at once to behold the spectacle and to convince the king that Frenchmen could be silent when there was an occasion for it, however unnatural the restraint.

{382} I found also the troops to be reviewed, twenty-five thousand in number, drawn up in beautiful array, and arranged on the plain between the embankments, in separate divisions, according to their various designations; the whole forming two lines looking to the centre of the field, and of course facing each other.

Here were the famed Cuirassiers, arrayed in triple steel--each one looking the impersonation of war--men and horses forming a dense, motionless, terrific mass.

There, were the "Chevaux-légers," less imposing in appearance, but dazzling the eye by the brilliancy of their dress and the rapidity of their evolutions.

On one side frowned the "Sappeurs Pompiers," with their ample caps of black fur, their white leather aprons, their glittering axes, their grim moustaches, and beards like Egyptian sheiks. On the other were displayed the regular infantry, with their brilliant pieces and bristling bayonets, at whose points they had so often compelled victory.

The elder superior officers were conversing in groups--while the younger paid court to the ladies; whose nodding plumes and wreathed smiles were displayed in covered stages erected temporarily for the purpose, and arranged at the inner foot of the embankment on either side of the field.

In a short time a flourish of trumpets at the école militaire, announced the arrival of the King. The officers flew to their posts. Every tongue was hushed, and every eye directed to that extremity of the field at which the king now appeared, mounted on a white Arabian, which he managed as one familiar to the seat. He was attended on either side by the royal dukes Angoulême and Orléans, (the present king) and followed by a splendid cortège of field marshals and general officers in gorgeous uniforms, and their horses highly caparisoned.

The king too, and the royal dukes, wore military uniforms, over which hung the "cordon bleu." After the king and his suite, came an open barouche, in which appeared the royal ladies d'Angoulême, de Berri and d'Orléans.

The magnificent cavalcade moved slowly on between the different bodies of troops, going down on one side of the field and returning on the other, passing close in front of each line. Their approach was acknowledged with the promptitude of military discipline, by the waving of swords, the presentation of pieces, and the lowering of standards. But this formal military salute was the only greeting. A silence reigned throughout the immense mass of beholders, as profound as that which habitual discipline preserved among the troops.

After the review was thus completed, a few evolutions were performed by the troops in presence of the royal spectators, who then left the field and returned to the Tuileries.

In a very few days after, it was announced that the king, with a moderation and wisdom which were not expected, had yielded to the unequivocal exhibition of public opinion which had been made, and had withdrawn the offensive law from the consideration of the chambers. The demonstrations of public joy were then as numerous and violent as had been before, the expressions of dissatisfaction. For several days it seemed as if the whole population of Paris had relinquished every employment, to devote themselves to the most tumultuous display by every means in their power, of their satisfaction at the victory which they supposed they had obtained over the court. The public rejoicing was concluded by a general and splendid illumination of the city.

About ten days after this time, followed the annual review of the National Guard of Paris.

In the excited state of the people, it was not to be expected that so remarkable an occasion as this, would be permitted to pass over, without being marked by some decisive evidence of public sentiment. It was therefore soon generally understood that the king would, on this occasion, be received with every outward demonstration of popular favor and affection; in order that by the contrast with his former reception, he might be convinced beyond the possibility of doubting, that in both instances a strong expression of public opinion was intended.

Of course it was not imagined that all this was not as well known to the king and his ministers, as to the authors and contrivers. Villèle, the prime minister, was too sagacious and wary to leave unemployed any means of obtaining information concerning every subject which agitated the public mind--information indeed which was of the highest importance to an administration steering full against the current of popular opposition. It was therefore feared that the court, usually desirous of avoiding and preventing all occasions for popular ferment, would disappoint the public expectation by dispensing with the review. Innumerable conjectures and rumors floated about like vapors in the atmosphere, many of which no doubt had their origin in the cabinet, who probably sent them forth as feelers of the public pulse. All these at length centred in the general belief that the court would compromise the matter with the people, by permitting the review to take place indeed, but by assigning as its locale, the Place du Carrousel, (adjacent to the Tuileries,) where too little space could be allowed for spectators, to afford a theatre for the grand exhibition of public sentiment which had been arranged for the occasion.

Thus matters stood on the morning of the expected day, which opened in all the calm glories of May, on the magnificent city and her million of inhabitants; all ranks of whom, from the courtier to the beggar, were for once at least occupied by the same theme and excited by the same agency.

The Moniteur, the government print, was eagerly torn open by thousands of hands, and thousands of eyes glanced upon the unexpected announcement that the review of the National Guard would take place (as usual) at the Champ de Mars!

The people were somewhat taken aback by this unlooked for boldness on the part of the ministry, but their excitement was not lessened by it. On the contrary it increased until the great city resembled the swarming of a mighty hive.

At length the hour appointed for the review arrived, and at that hour the king, followed by the same brilliant train which had on a former occasion attended him, once more issued from the palace gates. But not now as before, was his progress in silence. Every step of his advance was marked by the most tumultuous {383} and joyous acclamations, which grew louder as the throng increased, until he reached the Champ de Mars. The deafening shout of welcome which greeted him from the hundreds of thousands of spectators there assembled, would have impressed one, ignorant of the immediate cause, with the belief that Charles the 10th rivalled in popularity his illustrious ancestor Henry the 4th; or the still more illustrious usurper of the Bourbon throne, whose star had just set in St. Helena.

The appearance now exhibited by the Champ de Mars differed but little from that already described, save that the eye of a critical observer would have discerned a marked difference between the unmilitary bearing of the "Milice Bourgeoise," and the exact discipline and compact and symmetrical array of the regular troops. The martial dress and perfect armament of the National Guard however, together with their number, which perhaps exceeded that of the troops at the first review, gave them a sufficiently imposing appearance.

The Royal personages and their splendid escort advanced towards the assembled legions, amid cries from every side, of "vive le roi!" "vive la famille royale!" "vivent les Bourbons!" marking the different feelings of those who uttered them. The "vive le roi" was on this occasion merely a "mot de coedille circonstance," a conventional mode of acknowledging with respect the presence of the monarch. But the heart had some little agency in prompting "vive la famille royale!" and "vivent les Bourbons!" These denoted a lurking loyalty, and were uttered, as I observed, almost exclusively by the females. And this serves to illustrate the remarkable fact that while the minds of a large majority of French-men still retained the inclination given to them by the Republic or the Empire, almost every French-woman was a decided royalist. The fair sex are usually for the powers that be.

A little incident which occurred on this occasion may be mentioned as indicative of the sprightliness of the French character. A vagabond urchin (the like of whom would in our country have been staring in puzzled wonderment at the scene before him) seeming to enter fully into the humor of his elders, just as the carriage passed him in which rode the royal dames, tossed up his ragged cap and exclaimed "vive la duchesse de Berri toute seule!"

The moment the king reached the first company of the Guards, all its members, as they gave the military salute, shouted "vive le roi!" which passed as a watchword from company to company as in turn he approached them, until at length the entire National Guard were swelling the chorus of gratulation and welcome.

The harmony was perfect, and the public satisfaction was at its height, when suddenly a change came over the scene, as rapid and violent as a storm in tropical climates which in an instant blots the face of the sunniest day with blackness and wrath.

The review was nearly finished, when a voice was heard from the company which the king was at the moment passing, mingling with the cries of "vive le roi," the exclamations "à bas les ministres!" "à bas les Jésuites!"[2]

[Footnote 2: Down with the ministers, &c.]

A momentary silence following this bold expression, the king instantly stopped and with becoming spirit said, that he was there to review the National Guard and not to receive dictation. At the same moment he ordered the Duc de Reggio, the commandant of the National Guard, (who was one of his suite) to cause the individual to be arrested who had uttered the offensive words. The duke promptly passed the order to the captain of the company; but its execution was at once resisted by the whole company, who closed around their comrade and energetically declared that he should not be arrested; and that they all thought as he did. It was evident that an attempt to enforce the order for arrest would produce a display of the most alarming violence; it was therefore wisely abandoned, and the king abruptly left the field.

Immediately a scene of the wildest confusion ensued. The demon of discord usurped the empire of the spirit of harmony, and in the twinkling of an eye converted the genial current of good feeling into the bitter waters of strife.

The troops were instantly dismissed by their officers, and they mingling with the immense crowd of spectators, the whole mass returned with tumultuous haste to the city, uttering cries of passion, of discontent or of derision. "À bas les ministres! à bas les Jésuites! à bas les Bourbons! vive la charte! au diable Villéle!" &c. &c., issued from lips which but a few minutes before sent forth expressions of attachment and loyalty.

The residences of Villéle and Peyronnet, the two ministers against whom popular indignation was chiefly directed, lay immediately in the route of the returning crowd. A large number, including many of the National Guard, stopped before the houses, which were separated only by a street, and seemed by their furious gestures and menacing cries, to meditate an attack. The ministers were not at home; for the king on the instant of his rapid return, had called his cabinet together. Their families were of course in a state of the most dreadful alarm; but so soon as the crowd ascertained the absence of the ministers, and that only unprotected females were within, with the characteristic gallantry of French-men, (who were not yet wrought to revolutionary phrenzy) they quitted their position and swept on to communicate their excitement to those of their fellow citizens who had not witnessed the events. The effect of their coming, upon the population of Paris, was that of a whirlwind upon the ocean. It excited them to a state of fearful commotion, and in less than an hour, the din which arose from every part of this vast city was as the mighty roar of many waters.

Evening was now approaching; but with it came no diminution of the wrath of the Parisians. Throughout the night the agitation continued, and at intervals its sound came through the gloom to startle from sleep the few who sought repose.

During all this time the king and his cabinet, unterrified by the denunciations which resounded in their ears, were planning in secret council at the Tuileries, a "coup d'état" which was to astonish France.

The next morning the Moniteur appeared as usual, and the very first line of the first column, which was always appropriated to annunciations made by authority of the government, consisted of the following momentous words--

{384} "La Garde Nationale est licenciée"--(the National Guard is disbanded.)

Had a volcano burst forth in the "place Vendome," the people of Paris could not have been more astounded. The step was indeed of a boldness bordering on temerity; for the National Guard was the last remnant of the revolution--the only connecting link between the present time and the days of the republic; and its association with revolutionary remembrances rendered it sacred in the estimation of all those who professed to entertain the principles of the revolution. And those were at this time more than three-fourths of the population.

Surprise for a time so completely mastered every other emotion, that the people were comparatively calm--but this calm was only the precursor of a fiercer excitement. For several days the commotion presented the aspect of a menaced revolt. It was by many likened to the commencing scenes of the revolution; and it filled with anxiety and dread, all moderate persons who recollected that period of horror. The entire population of Paris (at least the middle and lower orders) deserted their homes and thronged the streets and public squares; and in all parts of the city the tumult of the populace was like the heaving of a troubled sea.[3]

[Footnote 3: An officer of cavalry with whom I was acquainted, told me that the agitation far exceeded that which was caused in Paris by the news of Napoleon's flight from Elba and debarkation in France.]

On one of the nights when the agitation was greatest, I went to the Rue St. Honoré, one of the great thoroughfares of the city, to witness the movements of the crowd. When I arrived I found it so thronged as to render it hazardous if not impossible to enter it. As far as by the aid of the lights, the eye could reach in either direction, the entire space of the street presented a dense array of human beings, from which issued sounds of every variety, constituting altogether the most deafening clang which ever assailed my ears.

Through the centre of this living mass moved a large body of gendarmes in single file, reining in their horses to so slow a pace that their motion through the crowd was barely perceptible. So closely were they wedged in on every side indeed, that it was impossible to do more than just to move.

A fitter agent and emblem of an absolute, or, at least, an energetic government, does not exist, than a gendarme. Stern, silent, imperturbable, patient--armed at all points, and the moment there is need for action, implacable, rapid and sure in execution. On this occasion these men moved through the crowd as though they saw and heard them not. On every side they were assailed with jeers, with execrations, and even occasionally with missiles. But these disturbed not their unconquerable equanimity. They passed on apparently, unheeding all; but with their swords drawn, ready at a moment's warning to strike, should the conjuncture arrive to render it necessary.

They were acting of course under the influence of orders, clear and strict, and carrying with them the severest penalties for violation. These orders were, no doubt, to refrain from violence until the occurrence of some overt act on the part of the people, indicative of a revolutionary spirit; and to do nothing which might by possibility lead to such an occurrence.[4]

[Footnote 4: As I had, before going to France, conceived an erroneous idea of the gendarmes, it may not be useless to explain, that although as their designation implies, they constitute an armed force, they have no connection whatever with the army. They are nothing more or less than the executive police of the kingdom, and are under the command of the prefect of each department. They are mounted and completely equipped with sword, pistols, carbine and bayonet; and when it is recollected that to resist a gendarme, is to resist the law, it will be readily conceived that they are a formidable body. As their power is great, so also is their responsibility; and they encounter death as the penalty for any deviation from the strict letter of their orders. They are perfect machines and the most efficient police in the world.]

The people had evidently no matured design. They were unprepared for the energetic measures of the ministry, so that although they more than once in different parts of the city, gave occasion to the gendarmes to charge upon them, and several deaths were the result; it soon became apparent that the excitement was subsiding. After the expiration of the third day, the city began to wear a calmer aspect. The affair merely furnished a theme for animated discussions in the cafés and for eloquent denunciations in the liberal prints. The surest evidence, however, that all danger of a serious issue was for the present at an end, was the fact that the little scandalous journals which exist in every large city, began to serve up the subject in humorous scraps; for it has been truly remarked, that if the Parisians, can but be induced to jest about a matter, it is impossible afterwards to render it serious.

The unexpected boldness of this decisive display of state policy thus rendered it entirely successful. The king and his ministers were determined to regain the ground which they had lost in yielding the law concerning the press.

Fully informed as to the state of the public mind, and ascertaining that the people had not reached the crisis of revolution, they resolved to strike a blow which could not be successfully resisted but by revolution. A more favorable opportunity could not have occurred than the one which I have attempted to describe; and it was seized with a promptness and employed with a skill which have never been excelled. On the very night of the day on which the pretext was given, the decision was made. At the dawn of day this decision was communicated to the commanders of all the divisions of the disbanded body; and with the first rays of the sun the startling annunciation met the eyes of the astounded Parisians--"La Garde Nationale est licenciée!"

The very style of the decree is worthy of remark, as being in strict keeping with the rest. There is no labored preamble--no heavy article covering six columns of the Moniteur, setting forth the reasons for the act--no endeavor to render the potion palatable to the people by conciliatory and cajoling declarations--no attempt to lead off the public mind by sophistry and a maze of argument--none of this. But the simple, naked, peremptory mandate of authority not expecting to be questioned--The stern, terse, despotic "sic vole" of absolute rule--"La Garde Nationale est licenciée!"

The shaft being shot, the cabinet remained perfectly quiet until the effervescence and confusion created by the discharge, had subsided; and then resumed the ordinary routine of their administration, having derived from the review of the National Guard and its results, {385} a decided accession of power; and for a time at least, impeded the progress of liberal principles in France. And although the influence of these principles must, of course, finally have prevailed, there is little doubt that the time for their ascendancy would have been longer deferred, had the successor of Villéle possessed his sagacity, his boldness, his energy, and his knowledge of the existing state of things.

Had this been the case, Charles the 10th would perhaps not now be giving profitless lessons in Royalty to his grandson at Prague, nor Peyronnet and Chantelauze be playing chess at Ham.

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE CAVALIERS OF VIRGINIA, or the Recluse of Jamestown. An Historical Romance of the Old Dominion. By the author of a Kentuckian in New York. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1834.

This work is by a Virginian,--and with that sort of partiality which inclines us to espouse the literary claims of our native state, (too long and too unjustly neglected,) we were predisposed to receive it with favor. Some of the northern periodicals moreover had lauded its merits, and we own that we felt some pride in the reflection that one of the most interesting periods in our early colonial history, had attracted a native adventurer in the field of historical romance. We regret to say that we are much disappointed in the manner in which the task has been executed. Our feelings and partialities, which were all on the author's side,--we are compelled to surrender to the stern demands of literary justice. The "Cavaliers," in our humble opinion, is unworthy of the subject it was intended to illustrate,--and although not entirely destitute of merit,--its faults are so numerous and censurable, they greatly preponderate in the estimate we have formed of the work. In the first place, the author has evidently failed to make himself acquainted with the history of the age and the character of the incidents which he has chosen as the groundwork of his story. The portrait of Bacon, is but a poor and feeble likeness of the original,--and that of Sir William Berkeley, is the merest caricature of that brave, accomplished, but despotic vicegerent of royal power. Bacon is represented as a kind of half frantic, inconsiderate stripling--something of a dandy--but more of a wild and reckless lover, whose thoughts were principally occupied by his "ladye love;"--and but slightly, if at all, by the wrongs of his suffering country. Far different indeed, was the noble and lofty heroism of the real Bacon--a character which shines in the foreground of our ancient history,--with a lustre, that despite of the efforts made to diminish it, will vie with the Wallaces and Tells of other ages and countries. Sir William Berkeley, though certainly a tyrant, was not the vulgar insensate wretch which our author has made him. His ambition was made of "sterner stuff," than to be employed upon petty schemes of matrimonial alliance,--and the Knight, "in a blue velvet doublet and pink satin breeches," is but an outre representation of the ancient and renowned Cavalier,--who had battled with the red man in his savage lair,--and had exchanged the luxuries of English society, for the perils and hardships of a wilderness.

There is another capital defect in our author, which if he ever hopes for success, must be first overcome. He leaves his pictures, both of character and incident, altogether unfinished,--and darts with a meteor-like swiftness from subject to subject,--reminding the reader of a show-box,--in which the eye scarcely lights upon one spectacle, before it vanishes,--and is substituted by another and a different one. This perpetual flash and glare, without even the merit of distinctness, is far more painful than agreeable;--and the author would do well, if he bestowed more pains in separating the several parts of his story,--and a little more skill in the arrangement and harmony of his coloring. In truth, if he intends to repeat his efforts; and is really a bona fide candidate for fame, we would advise him to put more oil into his lamp, and expend some additional labor in fitting his offspring for public exhibition. He does not employ sufficient thought in the composition of his narrative,--but suffers his imagination (rich and vivid enough,) to run riot without restraint or limit. The conduct of Bacon, after the interruption of the marriage ceremony, as described in the first chapter of the second volume--is the conduct of a bedlamite, rather than of a rational being; and the whole scene of his mounting his fiery courser,--plunging into the river and swimming to the opposite shore,--his head bared to the "pitiless storm"--"the monsters of the deep his playmates, and the ill-omened birds of night his fellows;" is such a tissue of exaggeration and sublime fustian,--that what was evidently intended for great effect, is in reality extremely ludicrous. The hero indeed, acts so little like a man of sense, in this nocturnal aquatic excursion, that the reader feels much more sympathy for "the white silk breeches and graceful blue cloak," (which were likely to be spoiled by the half saline element,) than for the poor unfortunate wight of a bridegroom himself.

The author has moreover been guilty of a very strange mistake in his geography. He makes his hero swim, "Leander-like," over the majestic James,--which according to our reckoning, and agreeably to the map of the country--would have landed him on the south side, in the very respectable county of Surry;--but, to our utter amazement, the next glimpse we have of him, he is rushing on his fleet courser into the wilderness on the margin of the Chickahomony,--which our best informed geographers have placed on the north side of the ancient Powhatan,--now called James river. Such mistakes are altogether inexcusable,--and the more so as the author is a native of the "Old Dominion," and ought to have been more circumspect in his topography. Equally unfortunate is his arrangement of historical events,--for if he had looked a little into our early writers, he would have found that Bacon was never carried prisoner to the Eastern Shore; and that the treachery of Larimore, did not betray the insurgent squadron into the power of Berkeley, until after the destruction of Jamestown. These errors in chronology however, might have been forgiven, if the author had otherwise redeemed himself from equally formidable objections. The whole story of the Recluse,--and the miraculous preservation of Bacon when an infant, as related by the old nurse,--strike us as evincing poverty of invention, and as altogether too absurd for an ordinary writer at least to use as materials for romance. Scott, perhaps, might have turned them to some advantage;--at all events, the matchless vigor and beauty of his style, would have thrown a veil over {386} other imperfections. The author might have made something of Wyanokee, but unfortunately failed to do it,--and we cannot say that we even felt interested in the sorrows of Virginia Fairfax. The girl is well enough--very pretty--amiable--and all that, but she wants force and individuality of character. The whole scene in which the dying Mrs. Fairfax is exhibited in the bloody conflict with the Indians in the neighborhood of Richmond, is particularly horrible, and in wretchedly bad taste.

In taking our leave of the author, we would also advise him, when he writes another romance, to "sink the shop,"--or rather the profession; and not to describe the wounds and bruises of his dramatis personæ with that technical precision which only surgeons and anatomists can fully comprehend. We would also recommend to him, as a medical man, that when any unlucky hero of his is hereafter tied to an Indian stake, by all means to have him rescued before the pine splinters have actually pierced the flesh,--especially when that hero is made so soon thereafter to perform a series of active exploits requiring sound bodily health and great muscular exertion.

We have taken no pleasure in this free commentary upon the work before us, and have only been induced to make it by a sense of duty. Its author is evidently afflicted with a kind of rabid propensity to write works of fiction; and, if he is resolved to gratify it, we do most earnestly entreat him for his own sake and for the sake of his native state, to invoke hereafter a little more reflection, a purer taste, and a more enlightened judgment in aid of his labors.

* * * * *

VATHEK.

The publisher having sent a copy of the above work to a correspondent in whose literary attainments, taste and discrimination we place great confidence, received the following criticism from his pen:

I thank you for Vathek, which I have read purely because you sent it to me; otherwise it would have remained unread by me forever. I see nothing "sublime" in the work; on the contrary, I was disgusted at its impurity. A more revolting jumble of nonsense, ridiculous conceptions, debasing exhibitions, and corrupt imaginings, I never met with in my life. This may perhaps be somewhat redeemed by the oriental descriptions, which were pronounced by Lord Byron, I think, to be excellent. Or this I cannot judge; but if the book were intended, as it seems to be, to inculcate the lesson of the impiety of looking into matters which are too high for us, the moral loses all its force, from the very great corruption of the characters of Vathek and Carathis, who certainly were most justly lodged in Hell, as the fittest place for such useless and abominable wretches. We feel no sympathy for them, when we find them with their hearts on fire; and as for the contrast of the happiness of Gulchenrouz, we care as little about him, for his happiness was certainly undeserved by any thing he had done, so far as we are made acquainted with him. There is such a singular mixture of comic and serious, that one is at a loss to know what the author would be at. What think you, for instance, of the game at football? of Aboulfakir the camel, having a taste for solitude and snorting at the sight of a dwelling, and Cafour's predilection for pestilence? &c. &c. I am quoting now from memory, and have not the patience to look at the book to see if I am right.

A learned English reviewer is not less severe upon this lauded production of juvenile years. After quoting Lord Byron's eulogy upon the work, he says--

Vathek is, indeed, without reference to the time of life when the author penned it, a very remarkable performance; but, like most of the works of the great poet who has thus eloquently praised it, it is stained with some poison-spots--its inspiration is too often such as might have been inhaled in the "Hall of Eblis." We do not allude so much to its audacious licentiousness, as to the diabolical levity of its contempt for mankind. The boy-author appears already to have rubbed all the bloom off his heart; and, in the midst of his dazzling genius, one trembles to think that a strippling of years so tender, should have attained the cool cynicism of a Candide. How different is the effect of that Eastern tale of our own days, which Lord Byron ought not to have forgotten when he was criticising his favorite romance. How perfectly does Thalaba realize the idea demanded in the Welsh Triad of "fulness of erudition, simplicity of language, and purity of manners." But the critic was repelled by the purity of that delicious creation, more than attracted by the erudition which he must have respected, and the diction which he could not but admire:--

"The low sweet voice so musical, That with such deep and undefined delight Fills the surrender'd soul."

It would argue a great decline in the moral feeling of our country, and a most adulterated literary taste, if such works as "Vathek" could be generally admired.

* * * * *

SCRAPS, by John Collins McCabe. Richmond: J. C. Walker. 1835.

This little volume from the Richmond press, consists of various poems and half a dozen tales and legends in prose. The pieces, though of unequal merit, are upon the whole decidedly creditable to the author; who is not only a young man, but as we are informed, has been denied the advantages of a liberal education. His productions are vastly superior to those of many a college dunce, upon whose vacant cranium the heritage of wealth has been expended; and their author holds a much higher grade in the scale of intellect than many of that snarling tribe, who can discern neither talent nor genius, unless allied with some ideal advantage or accidental distinction. We nevertheless hope that Mr. McCabe will continue to look ahead, and contemplate the highest standards of excellence in composition. The most acute observation of men and things, or the most delicate perception of poetical imagery, will avail but little without profound mental labor, and the assiduous cultivation of taste. We select the following as a favorable specimen of his poetry.

LINES

On hearing the song "Sweet Home," and reflections during the same.

O breathe again, that touching strain Which comes like winds o'er waters stealing; Its fall, its swell, like vesper bell, Its full rich notes in rapture pealing, Bids the lone heart, rejoice again In music's all subduing strain.

O Music! rapture's in thy chords! Now gushing soft like moon-beams streaming On quiet spot, on rural grot, On mossy couch, on infant dreaming,-- Or rising into raptures wild, It fills with wonder nature's child.

The Exile lone, no land to own, Lists to thy soft and touching numbers, And dreams he sees the cot, the trees, The scenes of youth, (how sweet his slumbers!) Nor dreams when thy bright spell is o'er His happy "Home" he'll see no more.

The sailor boy, bereft of joy, Looks on the stars above him glowing; The big tear steals, his bosom feels As troubled as the waters flowing, And while the billows round him foam, He faintly murmurs, "Home! sweet Home!" {387}

The warrior stern, whose feelings burn To meet the foe, his rights defending, When war is o'er, sweet home once more Its rainbow colors round him blending, Invites him from the bloody plain Back to its quiet hearth again.

The christian warm, round whom the storm Of opposition wildly rages, Beholds the prize beyond the skies, Reflected on the glowing pages Of God's own book, and with a tear Of joy, he "reads his title clear."

O! onward press, life's wilderness Will soon be past; where spirits linger Round flowing streams in rapt'rous dreams And golden lyres, softly finger, We all shall meet, no more to roam, And dwell in an eternal home.

EDITORIAL REMARKS.

We continue the interesting "Sketches of Tripoli and the Barbary States." We believe that when completed, they will constitute the most authentic record extant, of the military and diplomatic transactions of the period referred to. Besides the author's access to correct sources of information, he has the taste and talent to impart peculiar grace and interest to his narrative.

"Berenice," a tale, by Mr. Edgar A. Poe, will be read with interest, especially by the patrons of the Messenger in this city, of which Mr. P. is a native, and where he resided until he reached manhood. Whilst we confess that we think there is too much German horror in his subject, there can be but one opinion as to the force and elegance of his style. He discovers a superior capacity and a highly cultivated taste in composition.

The "Extract from the Reminiscences of a Western Traveller," proceeding as it does from the pen of a practised and polished writer, has the additional advantage, as we are assured, of being founded in strict truth.

We are sorry that we are not permitted to announce the source from which we derive the original story or apologue of "Jonathan Bull and Mary Bull." Its own merit however, and its obvious application to events of the time at which it was written, will attract a due share of attention.

We especially recommend to our female readers, particularly the young and lovely who are just entering into the flowery but deceitful paths of worldly pleasure, to read the original narrative which is headed "Marrying Well."

The "Letters from a Sister" will amply repay the reader; so also will the article on the "Fine Arts"--and the "Persian Story," translated from the French of Florian.

The "Scene in Paris, by a Virginian," we have no hesitation in particularly recommending. It is an admirable and graphic description of what the writer saw with his own eyes,--and the excellent delineation of the French character, comprising its extremes of energy and weakness, will forcibly strike the reader. With us the whole narrative possesses powerful interest.

It is but sheer justice to insert the letter from "Larry Lyle," (printed by mistake in our last "Zarry Zyle,") in answer to the criticisms of our Shepherdstown correspondent. Mr. Lyle defends his muse with spirit and ability.

We also insert from a sense of duty, a letter from the author of a "Note to Blackstone's Commentaries," accompanied by the expression of our regret that he should have considered himself somewhat unkindly treated by the gentleman who furnished a reply to that article. We think we can vouch for it that the gentleman referred to, fully intended to restrict himself within the bounds of fair and honorable discussion, and if we had thought differently, his article would have been excluded.

We must be excused for saying a word or two in respect to the poetical department. Unless the reader is very fastidious, he must, we think, be pleased. We read "Young Rosalie Lee" more than once, before we could fully perceive the exquisite beauty and delicacy of the mind which produced it,--and we venture the prediction, that unless the author is divorced from the society of the sacred nine by paramount duties, he is destined to no ordinary celebrity. We dare say that for the expression of this opinion, we ourselves shall not be spared, for we confess there is a quaintness in the style which will be repulsive to most readers.

In the "Stray Leaves," there is something which reminds us of Waller's beautiful lines beginning, "Go lovely rose," &c. and we almost regretted that the author should have so suddenly glided into the genuine Anacreontic.

Our readers will agree with us that the remaining pieces, particularly the "Extract from an Unfinished Poem"--the lines "To Hope"--"To the Bible"--"Moonlight"--and "Hopes and Sorrows," have each more than ordinary claims to admiration.

The "Lines on Barlow's Monument," by the celebrated Helen Maria Williams, and now published for the first time, need no praise from our pen; neither do the two original productions of Mrs. Sigourney, which we take great pleasure in inserting.

It would be doing us much injustice to suppose that the pieces which we do not particularly notice, are for that reason lightly esteemed. Whilst there are, it is true, degrees in the pleasure with which we regard the favors of contributors, their insertion ought to forbid the idea that any are unwelcome.

TO CONTRIBUTORS, CORRESPONDENTS, &C.

We thank our correspondent C. W. L. for pointing out the resemblance between the little epigram entitled "The Mistake Corrected," in our last, and the "Surprise," in Little's poems, which he quotes. The resemblance is certainly strong, and it is quite probable that the former if not borrowed was at least suggested by the latter. We cannot agree however, that it is a "plagiarism," in the proper sense of that term; for we know too well the personal and literary character of the gentleman who presented us with the trifle referred to, to suspect him for a moment of so paltry a proceeding. We rather conclude therefore, that its resemblance to Moore's bagatelle, is either the result of casual coincidence,--or more probably, perhaps, of an accidental mistake of the product of memory for that of fancy; a kind of mistake which those who have read much are very liable to make.

We assure our correspondent B. R. B. that we have carefully compared the lines published in our last with his manuscript, and find them to correspond verbatim. He wrongs us much if he thinks we would do him wilful injustice; and if one word has been substituted for another in the lines referred to, so as to change their sense, he must ascribe it to himself. We hope with this explanation he will excuse us from inserting his letter at full length.

There is a great deal of feeling in many of the communications sent to the publisher by T. H. C., M.D.; but to our poor taste, there is not much poetry. We question whether the Doctor will not find the lancet and pill box of more profit in that warm region to which he has emigrated, than the offerings of his prolific muse. The poetical manufacture depends more upon the quality than the quantity of its fabrics, for success.

We have received the following communication since the publication of our last number, from "Fra Diavolo," (Horresco referens!) which, as it is brief, we spread before our readers. His sneers at our "literary morality" and "critical acumen," we receive with great composure. Perhaps indeed, our vanity might be wounded if we had a tithe only of what seems to belong to the writer himself; but as our pretensions are very humble, we care not a farthing whether they are disputed or not. His request not to publish his poetry, (except on his own terms) shall be complied with; and should we consign his impure effusions to the flames, as he also desires, the world will have little or no cause to regret it. So long as we can secure the rich contributions received from other quarters, we shall console ourselves with the loss of "Fra's" favors, and even endeavor to survive his unprovoked resentment. To "give the devil {388} his due," however, we shall continue to lament the downward flight of our correspondent's muse; and uninitiated as we profess to be in the sublime mysteries of the school to which he belongs, we shall even be so perverse as to prefer the "modest mien and plain attire" of mediocrity, to the more flashy but less useful adornments of brilliant but misguided genius. One word in justification of ourselves. We did not admit the "Doom" into our columns without reluctance; a reluctance which nothing would have overcome but the conviction that a useful moral might be deduced from the fate of the "Lover Fiend," who figures as the hero of the story. As to the "Passage of the Beresina," whether it be "balderdash" or not, is matter of taste and opinion. One thing is certain; it is from the pen of a highly accomplished scholar.

Mr. White,--I have just seen your sixth number of the Southern Literary Messenger, and shall decline having my contribution published on condition of any improvement of the poetry by your most chaste and wise editor. The admission of such balderdash as the "Doom" and "The Passage of the Beresina," is quite enough evidence of his literary morality and good taste. I require no further token of it; least of all in my own case, where I am to be martyred at the shrine of such critical acumen--God save the mark! Put the manuscript into the fire, and oblige yours,

FRA DIAVOLO.

March 25, 1835.

* * * * *

From the author of the "Note to Blackstone's Commentaries."

You judge rightly that I have no call to answer my censor. I have no pride of authorship in the affair. I wished to awaken the public mind, and he has aided me, for which he has my thanks. I have no controversy with him. He argues against opinions I have not advanced, and, in his last paragraph, comes in aid of that I had endeavored to maintain. By his own showing a quasi war exists among ourselves, under circumstances which render any nearer approach to peace impossible. We have the alternative of "a war-like peace, or a peace-like war," and he wisely prefers the former. He predicates this decision on the only principle for which I contended, viz: the effect of a continuing necessity. I only suggested the possibility of such a case. He finds it existing in fact. It doubtless might exist in various ways. Destruction is the precise object of savage warfare. With us, it is the means to an end. With savages, it is the end itself. Had he seen, as I have, a few individuals of once powerful tribes, escaped from massacre, and saved from utter extinction only by finding shelter among the whites, he would not have to learn that bellum ad internecionem is not unknown among savages.

The style and matter of his essay both show an education which should have taught him that a supercilious tone should find no place in a controversy between an anonymous and an avowed author. He wears defensive armor. I am naked. Is it chivalrous; is it manly; is it fair, in a contest which should be conducted "as if a brother should a brother dare to gentle exercise and proof of arms," to thrust with "unbated point?" His point indeed is not envenomed, nor does he stab malignantly, but he should have touched my scutcheon with the reverse of his lance. To strike with the point, however gently, is a challenge to combat of outrance. I decline it.

* * * * *

Extract of a Letter from the Reviewer of Messrs. Adams' and Everett's Orations.

You say, "The most sublime events and the most heroic actions have generally found some poet or historian of sufficient qualifications to record them with dignity and effect." Granted, but what is dignity? Does it consist in that sort of declamation which is meant to "split the ears of the groundlings?" What is effect? Is it stage effect? Is it made up of "gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss and thunder," and images placed by the speaker's side to be apostrophized? The example that you give illustrates the maxim that "the language of eulogy is misapplied to transcendant greatness. It weakens and dictates the truth of history."

You say "even the most exalted truths which have ever dawned upon mankind,--the facts and doctrines of revelation,--have lost none of their grandeur in the simple narratives of plain and unlettered men." Most true. The simplicity of the narrative is its excellence. But what should we say to a Gospel after the manner of Mr. Adams, or even of Mr. Everett?

* * * * *

Mr. White:--The legitimate aim of criticism is, as you yourself have more than once remarked, to point out the proper path towards excellence. A true critic effects this by gently and courteously exposing error, and lauding beauties where beauties are to be found. So far as I can judge, neither gentleness nor courtesy can be said to characterize the critique of your "Shepherdstown friend." The want of these qualities would certainly have induced me to pass over the letter in question, had it not received honorable notice from yourself. In the pamphlet war between Matthew Carey and the redoubtable Cobbett, the first apologizes for his own rudeness, by quoting the old proverb, "fight the devil with fire," or something to that amount. But this is bad philosophy; and in my brief answer, I will endeavor as much as possible to observe that courtesy which your correspondent has forgotten.

In the "Song of the Seasons" quaintness was aimed at, and aimed at only because I thought the subject called for it. One part of my object was to depict the minute relations existing between the human heart and earth itself. Minuteness was necessary, and to be minute without quaintness, would render any piece dull and pointless analysis. With regard to obscurity, and the use of terms, I would ask your critic, if when he had "studied the song," obscurity did not disappear, and if the terms are not in keeping with the quaintness aimed at. Indeed, I would ask him, if the terms used are not just such as should have been used in any case. Beams are "amethystine." We will find an admirable application of the word in Keates' "Eve of St. Agnes;" and Mrs. Hemans sings very prettily of the drowsy "Bugle-Bee." By the way, let me in this last phrase, adopt the change recommended. The stanzas quoted is the second of the "Song."

"A white roe wandered where sweet herbs and tender grass were peeping; His snowy head was poised in pride, his chainless heart was leaping: The 'bumble-bee' had called the herd from icy solitude,-- And he had come at 'bumble' call--fleet centaur of the wood!"

A vast improvement i' faith. The term "gauze wing," is as common as the rhymes love and dove. "Soughing blasts" are frequent in Wyatt, and more frequent in Shakspeare. An amethystine beam thrown on a red body produces a glittering gold, and thus the red breast of "poor robin" was metamorphosed into one of gold. So much for the criticism. As for the critic, he has most unequivocally proved himself, by these syllable censures, to be one of the anceps syllabarum tribe. As such I wonder that you, who have so often expressed your contempt for the whole race, should have opened your columns to his communication. Is not his letter a specimen of "the carpings of illiberal and puerile criticism?" Is not the writer one of the "little great men in the world, who have the vanity to conceive that their taste and judgment, (if they have any) is the standard for all mankind, and who snap and bark like the curs which infest our streets and annoy the by-ways?" I have used your own words, and ask if they are not applicable.

The Song of the Seasons (though never so little deserving,) has received praise from a higher quarter than Shepherdstown. My home is not very far from that village--near enough to know the character of its people; and in truth, gentlemen of talent and distinction are there with whom I have ever held it an honor to be acquainted. But it is plain that the critique could not have been written by any one of them. If I had no other reason for thinking so, I would say, "because it is not in keeping with the good sense, accurate taste, and elevated candor which I know these to possess." As for their townsmen, I have never heard of any Longinus among them, whose praise would not be disgrace. If your "friend" thinks an answer to this necessary, let me hope that his name will accompany the communication; or if he is unwilling to annoy, with private concerns, the public "upon whom Larry Lyle has [already] inflicted the study of his song," his communication may be directed, not to yourself, but to his very humble servant,

LARRY LYLE.

Winchester, Va.

{389}

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.] RICHMOND, APRIL 1835. [NO. 8.

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

We regret that from the late period at which the sixth number of "Sketches of the History of Tripoli" was received, it has been impossible to present it to our readers this month. It will appear in our next.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

INFLUENCE OF FREE GOVERNMENT ON THE MIND.

Human society, from the nature of its formation, is governed in all its multifarious movements, however majestic or delicate, by mind. There are no changes, nor revolutions in society, that do not acknowledge its influence. It is the all-pervading, all-exciting cause of human action. Its power on the social system is similar to that of gravitation in regulating the magnificent and rolling orbs of space; the great centre of attraction, holding together and preserving in harmonious order the thousand relations of life. Physical force, which to the superficial eye appears to have swayed the destinies of mankind in all ages of the world, will be found on examination to be only a mean, enabling it to wield with greater skill and force the sceptre of its power. The conquering legions of Cæsar or Bonaparte would have been a useless pageant, deprived of this active, governing principle. This exciting principle of society reaches its maturity and power by gradual developement. In the first stages of civilization its strength is that of an infant, afterwards that of a giant; and the spheres of its action are as various as its powers. We behold it soaring on the shining wings of imagination to the fields of fiction; calm, comprehensive, searching in philosophy and science; animated and exalted on the noble theatre of eloquence; pure and humble in the holy aspirations of religion. Such being the nature of mind, we are led to the irresistible inference, that the state of communities or nations will be low or elevated in proportion to its neglect or cultivation. The conceptions of mind form the mirror of national character. If there be a want of mental cultivation, as a consequent, the numerous attractions which hold in harmony and union the relations of society will be destroyed; and general darkness and misery prevail. On the contrary, if there be an expansion of mind, these ties so necessary, so sacred, will receive new strength; and a universal joy, and beauty, and brightness, pervade the whole social compact.

Many and various causes tend to the development of mind. It varies in every nation and under every form of government. We read of the majestic melancholy, the lofty passion, the stern intellect of the North; of the mental effeminacy, of the exuberant fancy, beneath the sunny skies and amid the olive groves of the South. We read of the effects, natural advantages and impediments; how inaccessible barriers may raise their Alpine heads, and prevent the light of one nation from beaming on another; thus destroying the interchange of kindred thoughts and obstructing the growth of mind; how nature's works, her forests, rivers, lakes, groves, and water-falls in their original grandeur and sublimity; how art's works, shining in their new splendor, or fallen from their primitive state, cities and towers lying in the crumbling embrace of time, stir up the sympathies, enliven the emotions, and arouse the imagination to high exertion; how the resources of the earth, her rich mines, her quarries of marble, stimulate the spirit of improvement in the arts and sciences. We read too, how the mind wastes away under the influence of despotic institutions, and how ignorance reigns shining in purple and gold; lastly, how the mind attains its full developement, and is ever active in its native strength, and power, and greatness, under the pacific and stirring effect of free principles. Each of these causes which may advance or retard the growth of mind, afford themes worthy of investigation. That of the influence of free institutions, having a bearing on the destinies of American mind, we have selected as the subject of this essay.

A ceaseless activity is the original characteristic of all material creation. All matter, whether on the surface, or in the centre of the earth, is imperceptibly undergoing a continuous change. To-day, we gaze with delighted eye on the loveliness and grandeur of nature, lit up by the smile of heaven; to-morrow, they have passed away. We only look upon a clear blue sky, to behold it the next moment hung with dark and angry clouds. The sun and the moon ever pursue their same eternal tireless course. Nature has likewise created an undying active spirit in the mental world. Activity is the earliest intellectual developement. The many imperious duties, connected with the stupendous relations which the individual members of society sustain to each other, prove that the mind was destined for action. The different natures, and the beautiful adaptations of the intellectual powers, prove it. Their native elasticity, their quick excitability, prove it. Curiosity, that key which unlocks the sanctuaries of knowledge, is seen from the days of childhood to silvery age. A desire of society, a commune and interchange of thought and feeling, has ever been a distinguishing characteristic of mankind in all ages and in all parts of the world. The sublime summits which the mind has reached, and the perennial glories which have crowned its efforts, are evidence unanswerable of the vastness of its power. But there cannot be full powerful mental action without mental freedom. Freedom is incident to action mental or physical. Observe the king of birds as he spreads his majestic wings on high; mark his swift flight, his strength and vigor; then behold him shut up within a cage, how weak, how lifeless, how nerveless! The same is true of mind; unrestrained, its powers transcend all limits, but fettered, they dwindle away--are powerless. The mind then is both naturally free and active. Such being the case, free institutions are founded in nature; and, therefore, their influence on the mind arises from a natural and mutual relation: this relation cannot be otherwise than efficacious in its tendencies on the mind.

What is the nature of free institutions? Founded in {390} man's free active nature, their tendency is to develope his powers and dignity. Their permanency, depending on the mental part of man, their chief aim and policy are his moral and intellectual elevation. Universal mental cultivation is the enduring basis and majestic pillar of their structure. As the effulgent life-giving orb of day brings forth the hidden beauties and treasures of nature, they draw out to the light the powers and faculties of every member of society. They bring mind in competition with mind; thus striking out the "celestial spark," they recognise no mental indolence; they afford means suited to the growth of all kinds of mind; they hold out the same common inducements to all; they reward with immortality noble intellectual action. Their true prominent feature is the collision of minds.

Let us examine their influences. All legislation, all governmental measures and operations, originate in the chosen intellect of the people, assembled in free deliberation. No single will creates a law. Many cultivated thinking minds coming together in close discussion, strike out the great principles of political science. And the minds thus exercised are not confined in their illuminating influence to the legislative hall, but go abroad, brilliant and powerful, awakening to thought, and enlightening millions of minds. Whatever the legislators conceive and create, affords a theme on which a thousand other eloquent minds among the people concentrate their talents, and shine forth in bright display. Thus we perceive that the splendid and dazzling theatre of eloquence is opened, inviting the exertions of bold, persuasive, original intellect. Eloquence is one of the characteristics of free governments. It requires free action. Its nature is to thrill the feelings, to awaken the fancy, to exalt the thoughts of a nation. It is the mind speaking forth its native inspiriting thoughts. It is the rapid flow of deep excited feeling. It is the natural influence which one mind exerts over another. It is the unbridled intellect, clothed in shining and magic forms. Can it exist under a despotism? The bird that dips its wings in the heavens does not require more freedom. It is opposed to tyranny of any kind. What is the history of eloquence? We behold it in unrivalled brilliancy and power in the Republican of mighty Rome. Rome's eaglet of conquest canopied the world under his expanded wings; but the genius of her eloquence, peaceful, but powerful, moulded and swayed the mind of her people and raised her to matchless grandeur.

In free governments, new occasions are continually arising for intellectual action. It is the inevitable result of that freedom they give to the mind. The free mind is ever active and progressive, ever soaring to lofty heights. The free mind disdains to follow the beaten track, and marks out an original, a more elevated path. The free mind experiences the full efficacy of all the stimulating feelings of our nature. Can such a cast of mind do otherwise than open new fields for high action? or produce other than wonderful and glorious results? Animated by an unconquerable love of action, all obstacles and difficulties vanish before it. It overthrows old systems, and erects new ones more dazzling in splendor. It revolutionizes all unsound associations, political, social, religious and literary. It fully developes and explains the existing relations of life, and unfolds hitherto unfelt ones. It thinks and feels more exaltedly, more deeply, more strongly. Lethargy never steals upon such a mind. Now a mind thus exercised, thus unlimited in its action, must shine forth in its original beauty and might, must attain all that is noble or sublime in intellectual achievement. This mind does not exist under despotic institutions. It could not. The restrained mind is ever retrograding. The restrained mind, aimless and unambitious, pursues the old path and never thinks of seeking a new one. The restrained mind never feels the irrepressible delight of a superior thought, never the exhilarating influence of deep and lofty meditation. Is it wonderful that despotic governments never attain a high degree of intellectual eminence? Or is it wonderful that free governments should know no barriers too great, no limits too extensive, no summits too elevated; should send forth a living increasing light of mental glory over the world?

In free governments "capacity and opportunity are twin sisters." Development of mind being their chief aim, they afford every proper means to this end. The genius of learning is brought down from her high abodes, and caused to walk radiant with beauty, through every grade of society. Education, the soul's strength, is disseminated with a liberal hand to every portion of the community. Intellectual illumination is made universal, as extensive as the circling canopy of the firmament. The inferior and superior mind drink at the same fountain--aspire to the same immortal renown. For while they thus develope the mind, they open to all the bright halls of eminence, offer to all fame's brilliant diadem. Glorious is the effect! The principles of science are seen shining in increased brightness in the work-shop; eloquence, deep and overwhelming, full of heavenly fire and pathos, arises from the shades of obscurity; the lyre of poetry touched by the spirit of song, sends forth its melodious and inspiring strains from the deep valley and the mountain top; in truth, the great mass of society is moved and agitated by an active untiring spirit, even as the waters of Bethesda were wont to be moved when visited by the angel of the skies. Do we behold such an aspect under despotic institutions? Do they encourage the universal growth of mind? Do they hold out a common inducement to eloquent and lofty effort? or insure to superior genius an enduring fame? Impossible! when all intellectual influence is confined to the palace. Impossible! when learning in its effect on society is no more than the light of the moon, shining by the side of the noonday sun.

But free circulation of thought and feeling composes the chief influence of free institutions on the mind. The beauty, union, and elevation of society depend upon the action and re-action of mind. Indeed, this reciprocal influence of mind is the final cause in the formation of society. Where it is unfelt all relations, political and social, are frail and disregarded. If we look through society we shall find that all national mental greatness and power, originates in the influence which a few mighty minds exert in setting the great mass of mind to thinking and feeling. How great have been the effects of the minds of the Newtons, Bacons, Ciceros and Luthers on the world! How many millions of minds have they not excited to strong and elevated {391} action! Now, free governments, from their very nature, encourage this interchange, this mutual action of mind on mind. And mark the results. The original brightness of one mind throws new light on the path of another. A superior thought, like the blast of the Highland warrior's trump bounding from crag to crag, and causing, quick as sound, a hundred minds to beat for action, spreads with electric rapidity through every nerve of the social frame. Thoughts once clouded in darkness assume a blinding brightness. Thoughts once confused and incomprehensible are mastered and imbodied in enchanting forms. Patient and ambitious investigation, surmounting every obstacle, and penetrating to the lowest depths of knowledge, brings forth its rich treasures; truths, brilliant and irresistible. Free discussion is awakened, eliciting talent, intellectual energies and glories. Nor is this all. In philosophy, a few mighty minds arise and unfold new principles in human nature; and, immediately, a spirit of revolution, rapid but glorious, rages through society, destroying false and unnatural relations, and strengthening those that are genuine by holier and imperishable ties. In literature, a few mighty minds arise, profound in thought, imperial in fancy and conception, which like so many meridian suns, casting their beams upon the mental world, draw forth the native graces, and beauties, and grandeur of mind, and disseminate through every department of letters an influence enlivening and beautifying: an influence, which arouses the slumbering spirit of poetry, and throws an immortal radiance over the Elysian realms of fiction. In science, a few mighty minds arise, expose old fallacies, explore the rich mines of the earth, develope the mysterious principles of matter, explain the nature of their application, and suddenly an unusual mental splendor encircles the temple of learning. Art wields her sceptre with greater skill and precision, improving and adorning every branch of mechanism, that administers to the uses and comforts of society. And this influence of these few mighty minds on the general mind of society reacts in resilient bounds, again acts, and again rebounds, continually increasing in vigor and majesty. Thus the powers, passions and emotions of the mind, are developed to their full stature. Thus, that mind gains its natural ascendancy, crowns itself with unfading laurels, erects its throne, all magnificent, far above human thrones, and wields an overpowering influence over the destinies of mankind. Thus, all nations either in the ancient or modern world, where mind has shone in its brightest forms, have gained their immortality. From a want of this mutual influence of superior and inferior minds, despotic nations have ever remained in superstition and ignorance. For the sake of mind, who will not hail with delight the day when the genius of liberty shall canopy the world with her guardian wings!

But the friends of monarchical governments tell us that Republics do not encourage high intellectual developement, because they do not stimulate the mind to exertion by liberal rewards. In a triumphant air, they point us to the munificent era of Augustus, when genius bloomed amid kingly splendor, to the profuse liberality of Eastern kings; to the generous age of Leo X, when Italia's mind shone in rivalry with her own bright and lovely skies. We grant that the mind in free governments is deprived of this influence. Does it thereby sustain any loss? Let us examine this point. Will the mind whose only stimulant are the smiles and pecuniary emoluments of kings, exhibit its native strength and grandeur? or will the Muse that sings to please the whims and caprices of a court, soar on eagle wings and to mountain heights? He who depends on another for support, must necessarily so shape his actions as to gain the good will of his patron. It is familiar to every one, that they who live in the sunshine of a palace, and from whom the mind in monarchies receives its patronage, are no more nor less in their characters than a composition of vanity and pride; of vanity and pride demanding deification. The mind then that acts under courtly favor must bow in lowly adoration and flattery. The scholar mourns over this defect in the writings of Horace: he wrote to please the wily and arrogant Augustus. If we turn over the productions of modern ages, when monarchy has reigned, we shall find the same grovelling slave-like spirit. Can such an influence develope the real beauty and sublimity of mind? No! For the mind that would attain a full growth, a growth noble and dignified--must mark out a course of its own, must move forward with a fearless, unbending step.

But because the mind in free governments does not enjoy the influence of princely favor, (which in our humble opinion is rather an injury than a benefit,) it is not therefore deprived of every other stimulant. In a Republic, mental influence is not confined to any one particular sphere, but illumines by the same beneficent rays the summits and the depths of society. It is sound reason, that the motives to intellectual action will bear a character corresponding to the influence of that action. If its influence be noble and extensive the stimulus of mind will be strong and awakening. How great then the motives to mental effort in free governments! There the mind acts not to please a crown, not to scatter flowers for courtiers to walk over, but conscious of the weight of its responsibility, and the boundless extent of its power, thinks and feels, that its thoughts and feelings may mould and sway countless other minds. There is an indescribable glory in such a stimulus. It not only purifies and elevates the mind which it arouses, but prospers and ennobles the condition of mankind. Still further--The mind whose theatre of action is thus extensive, and that looks up to no living being for aid, will in most instances, be excited to action by the idea of a virtuous immortality. And say, friend of monarchical munificence, is not the mind that conceives this idea in its pure genuineness, actuated by a stimulus more powerful than all the smiles of all the kings, than all the gold of all the Perus in the world could create? Analyze this idea. It combines benevolence and sublimity of feeling. It raises the mind above earthly scenes to the contemplation of the ineffable brightness and goodness of the Creator. Its great end is the promotion of the happiness of coming ages. Who will compare the action of the mind thus stimulated with that of the mind, whose only stimulus is present selfish enjoyment? As well may we compare the anthill to the "cloud-crowned Andes."

What says biography of those superior minds that have shone as lights to the world. Did they grow to their full power and greatness under the influence of {392} monarchical institutions? Did they arouse the mind of Homer, the immortal bard of antiquity? Or the eloquence and moral sublimity of Cicero? Or the unrivalled philosophy of Socrates? Who has not lamented over the severe fate of modern genius? Danté, Petrarch and Ariosto, minds resplendent in imagery and conception, wrote their best works when friendless exiles on a foreign shore. Cervantes wrote his Don Quixotte of undying fame, in a dungeon. Shakspeare, rightly styled the great magician of human nature, was often obliged to act parts in his own plays. Milton, who in thought and conception dwelt in the home of angels, sold his Paradise Lost for five pounds; lived the disgrace and glory of his age. These minds were the subjects of monarchies. Others might be mentioned. Surely then this patronage of kingly governments is but an empty name. It will not stimulate the noble mind, for such a mind creates its own stimulus. Let no one say then that the mind cannot ascend to lofty heights without its aid. But rather let us exclaim with the poet,

"'Tis immortality should fire the mind."

In looking over the pages of history, no fact strikes us more perceptibly than that all greatness of mind has ever been proportionate to its enjoyment of civil liberty. In vain do we look for universal education, either in ancient or modern times, among the numerous kingdoms of the East; in vain for a philosopher, poet or historian. The story of Grecian mind in its full maturity and superiority is known to every scholar. He there beholds mind in its real glory and power, shining under diversified forms; in imaginative brilliancy; in philosophic research; in the highest spheres of literature and science. But her freedom departed. The voice of eloquence was no longer heard in her forums, or in her beautiful fanes and groves; her Muses were cold to the embraces of her poets; in short, her intellectual greatness was gone. Behold her now! How striking the contrast of her former and present condition! And how appropriate the line of Byron--

"'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more."

The history of Roman mind does not differ from that of Grecian mind. Who would ask for stronger illustrations of the argument in favor of free principles on the mind.

But the influence of free institutions on the mind is not confined purely to the intellectual, but extends to the moral nature of man. They blend strength and splendor of intellect with the soft and beamy radiance of moral feeling. This is a natural consequence. For as a general rule, where there is an expansion of intellect, there will be a similar growth in morals. As intellect expands, as its perceptions become keener and surer, the relations and duties of life are perceived in a stronger and clearer light. Deprived of intellect, morals and principles lose their efficacy. We speak now of unperverted intellect; not of that kind of intellect which blasted the hopes of revolutionary France; not of that kind of intellect which characterized a Mirabeau or a Voltaire, but of such as free institutions in their purity would create--an intellect pure and exalted. Such an intellect cannot fail to strengthen our obligations as public and private men.

Indeed, one of the fundamental principles of free governments is founded in man's moral nature, the equality of mankind. For from this principle flows a spirit of peace, of love and kindness. Cherish the idea that men are by nature possessed of equal rights, and you destroy that coldness and selfishness which corrupt and debase the moral affections. Cherish it, and benevolence reigns queen over the heart, dispensing far and wide her refreshing benefits. Cherish it, and every member of society feels himself drawn towards his fellow by heavenly attractions. Cherish it, and the springs of sympathetic feeling rise to overflowing. In fine, cherish it, and the virtues of the heart increase in beauty and holiness, and run out in gladdening streams. Destroy it, and general morality is gone forever.

Thus we perceive that free governments tend both to growth of morals and intellect; that the developement of the one is not attended to and the other neglected, but that they unfold, bloom and mature in union. Thus too, we perceive that free governments do not unfold half of man's powers or strength, but that under their influence the whole mind expands, full, bright and lovely, as the "bloom of blowing Eden fair."

We have now finished an imperfect view of the influence of free principles on the mind. Beautiful is their application in our own country. Here they exist in their pure original character. Here, their influence is beyond calculation--over an extensive territory, abounding in every variety of interest and advantage. Here the press is free, and the thoughts and feelings of one section of the land may enlighten another section; this section may throw new light and splendor into another, this into another and another: thus creating a chain of mental influence, which will extend from one extremity of the country to the other. Here there is every civil advantage; numerous theatres for the display of eloquent mind. Here there is every natural advantage; numerous theatres for the display of literary and scientific mind. Let the discerning traveller perform the tour of our land, and there is no beauty of nature, no charm of landscape, no majesty of forest, no grandeur or sublimity of mountain or water scenery, that will not meet his delighted vision. Every state possesses materials sufficient to create a literature of its own. The Baronial castles and lofty hills of Scotland, together with their incidents, penciled by the graphic hand of Walter Scott, gained him a deathless name. Every state, and we assert it without fear of contradiction, has more of the interesting, the romantic and picturesque in incident and scenery than Scotland. It is our own fault then if our literature is not immortalized by more than one Scott. Add to these the great variety of mind which characterizes our land. Let the traveller go through the south, and he will behold mind glowing, impetuous and brilliant; let him go through the north, and he will behold mind, more systematized, profound in reason, silent, deep in feeling; let him go through the west, and he will behold a comminglement of every variety of mind. Besides, there are peculiar thoughts and feelings which belong to each state. Now consider all these advantages joined together, mingled as the colors in the rainbow, by one grand powerful feeling, which characterizes the whole, a feeling of union, a common American feeling: and let our free institutions act upon them in their full vigor and power, and we will {393} have a mind presenting every variety of interest, beauty, strength and brightness--all eloquent, all sublime--a sun illumining the world.

H. J. G.

Cincinnati, Ohio, April 1835.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A few weeks since D. D. Mitchell, Esq., a resident for many years past, near the falls of Missouri, in the vicinity of the Rocky Mountains, was in this city, on a visit to his native State, and it was my good fortune to become personally acquainted with him. He has been an enterprising and successful adventurer in the American fur trade, and is now in command of a fort and trading establishment in the neighborhood of the Black-feet, a nation of Indians with whom the whites have had but little intercourse, and whose peculiar character and manners we have had few opportunities of knowing. Besides being a bold and active participator in many of the bloody conflicts of various tribes, Mr. Mitchell has been a keen observer of Indian customs, traits, and superstitions; and so great a favorite was he among the powerful tribe of the Black-feet, that they created him a chief, with the title of the Spotted Elk. Mr. Mitchell did me the favor whilst here, to submit some of his manuscripts to my inspection. They contain sketches of the Indian character, and of the country, on the head waters of Missouri, hitherto almost unexplored by the white man, and also various interesting anecdotes and observations, highly creditable to the intelligence, discernment and enterprise of the writer. I cannot withhold from the patrons of the Literary Messenger, some share of the pleasure I have myself experienced, in reading these valuable papers, and, for the present, I send to the publisher, a remarkable Indian love tale, which Mr. Mitchell, besides his written testimony, privately assured me was founded on fact.--Washington Irving, in his recent "Tour on the Prairies," makes the following remark: "As far as I can judge, the Indian of poetical fiction, is like the shepherd of pastoral romance, a mere personification of imaginary attributes." It may be so, and perhaps most heroes and heroines of novels and romances, are principally creations of fancy; but if the author of the Sketch Book, meant to assert, that the children of the forest were altogether unsusceptible of some of the noble and tender emotions of our nature--he stands opposed by undoubted evidence to the contrary. Who does not believe, for example, what our own history has taught, of the matchless purity and guileless simplicity of Pocahontas--the lofty spirit of Totopotomoi, and the rare magnanimity of Logan? The passion of love indeed, as modified and refined in civilized life, has not often been found in the breast of the Indian warrior, but even to this general truth, there have been numerous exceptions, and among them, I have never met with one so marked and striking, as that which is recorded in the following story.

H.

THE WHITE ANTELOPE;

OR, INDIAN LOVER.

From the Manuscripts of D. D. Mitchell, Esq.

Some time during the autumn of 1832, a young blood Indian (of the race of the Black-feet,) arrived at the fort all alone. He had no furs, or other articles of traffic with him, and was not equipped in the usual style for war. His pale haggard appearance, and deep settled melancholy, attracted the observation of all who saw him; but as a residence of several years among the Indians, had taught us something of their rules of politeness, I forbore to question him as to the cause of his grief, more especially as he did not seem to be in a very communicative mood. I ordered him something to eat, but he pushed the proffered repast aside, and refused to partake. Our interpreter then handed him a pipe, which he received in a cold mechanical manner, appearing scarcely conscious of what he did; and instead of sending up dense columns of smoke in rapid succession, as is usually the case, he sat with the pipe extended across his knees, absorbed in a deep reverie, and now and then heaving profound sighs, which appeared to arise from the inmost recesses of his soul. The pipe having gone out, the interpreter relighted it, and again placed it in the young Indian's hand. He started up, and after a few hasty whiffs, seized his bow and arrows, and walked hastily out of the fort. Our curiosity having been excited by his mysterious conduct, several of us followed in order to watch his motions. He went to the river bank, and having thrown off his robe, which he fastened to the back of his head, in order to keep it dry, he deliberately plunged into the river and swam for the opposite shore. I called to him through the interpreter, promising if he would return, to send him over in my skiff, reminding him at the same time that the current was wide, and the water extremely cold--but he only turned his head around, and with a bitter smile, exclaimed, "the fire which is burning in my heart, will keep me warm!" He spoke no other word, but dashing through the waves, which a keen October wind had lashed into motion, we saw him presently ascend the rocky cliffs of the other side, and striking into the path which led to the mountains, he disappeared, with the speed and agility of an antelope. Several conjectures were made among us, respecting the singular conduct of this seemingly unhappy youth; but as none could furnish an explanation entirely satisfactory, the affair in a few days, ceased to be the subject of inquiry or conversation.

On a cold stormy evening, about the middle of the following February, I was standing on the bank of the river, giving some directions to the men engaged in constructing a kind of harbor or basin, to secure our boats, on the opening of spring, from the drifting ice, when I was startled by the quick report of a gun, and a loud shout of triumph, which proceeded from the opposite shore, and were echoed in long reverberations from the rocky cliffs of the Missouri. Broad flakes of snow were falling around me, and whirling in every direction, so that I was prevented from perceiving objects on the opposite side; but I supposed that some war party was probably returning from a victorious campaign. When about to return to the fort, I discovered two Indians, a young man and woman, crossing the river on the ice; they both approached the spot where I stood; the youth holding his hand towards me, in a manner which denoted confidence and friendship. Though actually shivering with cold, his countenance seemed to beam with joy and animation, and pointing my attention to the comely girl, at his side, he exclaimed, whilst his dark eyes sparkled with triumph, "Now she is mine, for I have fairly won her in battle!" and at the same moment {394} he cast a glance at two bloody scalps, which hung suspended from his ram-rod. I now recognised the mysterious young man, who had visited the fort in October; but his manner and appearance were altogether changed. His step was now buoyant and elastic, and in place of the gloomy silence and mental agony which marked his previous deportment, he was now gay and talkative, indulging in the light laugh and ready jest. Being anxious to know something of his story, I invited the lover and his young Indian maiden into the fort, an invitation which they readily accepted. After a hearty meal, and a few whiffs of the pipe, the warrior swain, drawing his Indian beauty closer to his side, and assuming as much gravity of feature, as his thrilling sensations of happiness would allow, related in a very circumstantial manner, the following story:--

"I have loved this girl," said he, "as far back as I can remember;" and at the same moment, as he laid his hand on her shining dark hair, the black eyed damsel of the Prairies rewarded her lover's confession with a smile of approbation. "I loved her," he continued, "long before I knew the meaning of love; for when a small boy, I once shot my arrow at her mother for striking the daughter. I afterwards wondered at myself for doing so, especially as my father talked to me angry, and said that the girl was no relation of mine. I remember too, when we played at ball on the ice, if we happened to be opposed in the game, I would not win from her, though every thing I had was staked. Those were happy days. In the winter, we made snares for rabbits and foxes, or climbed to the top of some high hill, and amused ourselves by rolling the snow down its sides, which, as it rolled, grew bigger and bigger, until it reached the bottom, where it lay till the warm sun in the spring melted it away to fog, and raised it again to the clouds. Even so has it happened to us. We continued to roll down the stream of life, increasing in size and in love, until now we have reached years of maturity; and we will continue to love each other, until time wastes us away like the snow ball, and the Great Spirit takes us up into his own land.

"Last summer we were encamped by the side of the chief mountain, and I saw Sinepaw (the name of the Indian girl,) almost every day. Often have I wandered from the camp, and hiding myself behind some tree, have watched the whole day in the hope of seeing her pass that way. If I could but get a glance at her, I was satisfied, and returned quietly to the lodge; but if it chanced that she did not make her appearance, I then sat me down and wept; but during my sleep I was always happy, for in my dreams I was never separated from her. You know that, according to the law of our tribe, none but a warrior can dare to think of a wife; and as I was nothing but a youth, and had never taken a scalp, I was therefore ashamed to speak even to Sinepaw, much less to her father and mother. One day, whilst preparing to go out to war, where I panted to perform some exploit which should rank me amongst our braves and warriors, and entitle me to the privilege of marrying the girl of my choice, the whole camp was suddenly thrown into an uproar, and I learned that eight of our women who were gathering wild turnip in the prairies, had been captured and carried away by the Flat-heads. Sinepaw was one of the eight. A war party, myself among the number, was immediately despatched in pursuit. We followed for several days, but we lost the trail of our enemies in the mountains, and our leader commanded us to return. I thought that my heart would burst with grief; but as yet I had no trophy in battle, and I dared not utter a complaint. When I returned to the camp, my heart was very heavy. I believed that it was dead. I could neither eat, nor sleep, nor join in the merry song or dance, as it was my custom to do. My only pleasure was, to climb to the top of the mountain, seat myself on a bank of snow, and looking to the country of the Flat-heads, pray the Great Spirit to give me the cunning and courage to recover my lost Sinepaw. Once when I had remained in that dismal spot three days and nights, taking neither rest nor food, on the fourth morning the sun drove away the mist from the mountain, and warmed my veins with its beams. I fell into a sound sleep, and the Great Spirit came down and told me to go in pursuit of the Flat-heads; that he would take pity on my grief, and restore Sinepaw to her lover. I awoke from my pleasant dream: the Great Spirit was gone, but I remembered his words.

"The next day I started all alone. You saw me when I passed your fort, and you pitied my distress. For thirty-four days I travelled through the mountains, before I found the camp of the Flat-heads. The Great Spirit had caused them to place it in the only spot where it was possible I could ever succeed in recovering Sinepaw. It was just at the foot of a high rocky cliff, on the banks of the Snake river.[1] On the top of the cliff, I found a hole in the rock, which served as a hiding place, and from which I could easily see all that passed in the camp. For seven long days I kept a constant watch, before I could once get a glimpse at my girl. At last I saw her, and I thought that my heart would leap from my mouth. My limbs trembled so violently, that I could not stand, and the tears gushed from my eyes, causing the prairie beneath me to look like a vast lake, whose waves were troubled. Soon, however, I brushed away my tears, the lake disappeared--and I again beheld the camp, and Sinepaw standing in the same spot. She was employed in harnessing two dogs for the purpose of assisting the squaws to haul wood from a little island in the middle of the river. She did not return until nearly sun-set; but when she did, I was lucky enough to see the lodge into which she went. I examined that lodge particularly, and all the others around it, so that I should know it again. When it was dark, I spoke to the Great Spirit; told him he promised I should have my Sinepaw again, and begged him not to deceive me. I resolved to carry her off that night, or leave my scalp to be danced in the camp of the Flat-heads!!

[Footnote 1: A small stream that falls into the Columbia.]

"The night was very dark and stormy; the wind mourned around the top of the cliff, and the snow flakes whirling through the air, seemed to me like so many ghosts. Three ravens fluttered up the side of the rock, and lighting on a stunted pine, which grew near my place of retreat, uttered a dismal scream, as if scenting for something to eat, and waiting to feast on my carcass. Beneath me lay a thousand enemies, who would in a moment have cut me into pieces, and given my body to their dogs. My teeth chattered with cold and fear, and I felt like a woman. The cliff was steep and {395} overhung with shelving rocks. It was so dark that I could not see my hand before me; and if I made one false step, I should be dashed to pieces among the rocks, and Sinepaw would remain a slave among my enemies. When my courage was about to expire, this horrid thought revived it, and I immediately commenced sliding down the cliff, holding on the points of the rocks, and grasping the pine bushes which grew in my course. Several times my foot-hold crumbled beneath me, and I fell from rock to rock, but there was always something to stop my descent and prevent my destruction. At length I reached the bottom, and stood on the level prairie. The camp was but a short distance from me, and I walked towards it slowly and cautiously. Every thing was solemn and silent, and the stillness was only broke by the hollow wind whistling through the prairie glass, or by the howl of some dog who could find no shelter from the storm. When I entered the camp, I drew my robe over my head, and boldly stepped forward. Several young men were standing near the different lodges, perhaps to get a sly look at their sweethearts, but they took no notice of me. Once I thought that a dog, belonging to the camp, would have ruined me: he made for the spot where I was, snapping and barking, and running around me several times; but, luckily, an old squaw came from a lodge hard by, and drove him off. No doubt the Great Spirit sent her, for had it been a man, he would have come towards me, and spoken, and all would have been lost.

"When I came to the lodge I was seeking, I knew it by a large white wolf skin, which hung on a pole at the door. I stood a few moments, and prayed the Great Spirit to pity me, then ventured to raise the skin and look into the lodge. A small fire which was burning in the centre, cast a pale and sickly light all around me, and I saw that all who were there, were asleep. Several times I tried to go in, but as often felt as if something was pulling me back; but looking around and beholding nothing, I knew it was the evil spirit, so I raised the skin once more, boldly stepped forward, and stood in the same lodge with Sinepaw. My heart beat so loud, I thought it would wake all the sleepers. At the first glance, I knew it was the lodge of a chief, for over the spot where he lay, hung his medicine bag, his bow and arrows, and immediately under them, two scalps of my own nation. At the sight of the scalps I drew my knife, intending to kill him, but I thought of Sinepaw and stopped. Where was she? Fifteen men and women lay sleeping on the ground, and all so wrapped in their robes, that I could not distinguish them; so I drew my own robe over my face, and sat down to listen to their breathing, for I knew there was music in the breath of Sinepaw, different from that of all other women. I was not deceived: I found that she lay just behind me: so I turned and took the robe from her face. She still slept; a tear was glistening on her eyelash, and her cheek was thin and pale. She murmured something which I could not hear, but, stooping down, I kissed away the tear, which was even sweeter than the blood of my brother's murderer, which I had tasted. She opened her eyes, looked up, and saw me, but thought it was a dream. She looked again, and when she saw that it was really me, she would have screamed, but I laid my hand on her mouth, and whispered in her ear, 'Rise, let us fly from the camp!' She gazed wildly around the lodge, and seemed as if her senses would fly from her. At length I raised her up, and led her to the door, but she stopped and turned my face to the light, as if to be assured that it was me. She hesitated no longer: we both sprung from the lodge, and Sinepaw threw her arms around me!

"Oh, my friend!" exclaimed the impassioned lover, addressing himself to me, whilst his eyes sparkled with extraordinary brilliancy, "at that moment I looked around on the camp, and laughed at all its dangers. I felt as if I should not fear to meet a hundred enemies. It was the first time that Sinepaw ever embraced me, and it kindled a feeling, such as I shall never experience again. I believe when I am dead and mouldered into dust, the parts of my body which her arms encircled, will never be corrupted.

"A number of horses stood tied around the lodge, and Sinepaw cut loose the cords of two of the best, which we quickly mounted. I drew my bow and arrows, and rode slowly forward, making as little noise as possible; but a young man soon discovered us, and gave the alarm! Laying whip to our horses, we soon cleared the camp, dashed down the bank, and crossed the river on the ice; but the uproar which we heard behind us, and the thundering of horses' feet over the frozen prairie, too plainly told that we were closely pursued. The storm continued to roar, and the darkness was greater than ever. Sometimes I heard a shot behind us, and a hundred voices calling out loudly to each other; but we still kept on our way, at the full speed of our steeds, and in about two hours from the time we started, the tempest had spent its rage, and daylight began to dawn. At sun-rise I rode to the top of a hill, in order to survey the country and the better to shape my course, when I spied two Flat-heads on horseback, not far to my right, who, seeing me also, raised a shout of triumph, and immediately rushed forward in pursuit. I knew it was in vain to fly; our horses were already weary and faint, and could hold out no longer. I made signs to Sinepaw to come to the top of the hill, when seizing her horse by the rein, I sheathed my knife blade in his throat, and dealt the same fatal blow at my own. Their lifeblood gushed as a spring, and as they staggered and fell, I placed their bodies around us, to form an entrenchment for defence.

"The warriors soon rode up, and discharged their guns, but their balls fell harmless, or lodged in the carcases which protected us. They fired again and again, but I still lay motionless, for as I had but nine arrows left, I had not one to throw away. At last they began to conclude that I had no arms, and they ventured to ride still nearer. I heard the trampling of their horses a few steps off; my bow and arrows were prepared, and I raised my head, but withdrew it as quick as lightning. They fired at once, but their fire came too late: I sprang upon my feet, and before the Flat-heads could either reload or retreat, I sent two arrows through the body of one, and one through the head of the other. They attempted to fly, but both were brought to the ground. I raised the war whoop of the Spotted Eagle, and rushing down the side of the hill, I secured their scalps and guns. Here they are!" he exclaimed, exhibiting his spoils in triumph; "who can now say that the White Antelope is not a warrior, or who can refuse him his daughter as a wife?"

{396}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

Mr. White,--The following spirited lines, evidently composed on some occasion of serious import, together with a gold ring broken into several fragments, were accidentally found in my neighborhood about two years ago, enveloped in a neatly folded sheet of letter paper, without date, seal, or superscription. I send you a copy of them, hoping that by the aid of your very good "Messenger" they may meet the eye of poor "Corydon" again, or if you please, that of his "faithless one." Should you deem them worthy of publication, they are now at your service. Yours, respectfully,

AGRICOLA.

Albemarle, March 25, 1835.

THE LAST GIFT.

When I sit musing on the chequered past, (A term much darken'd with untimely woes,) My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows The tear, tho' half disown'd, and binding fast Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart; I say to her she robbed me of my rest, When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast Received from her this wearying, lingering smart, Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart: Tho' wrong'd, I love her--yet in anger love; For she was most unworthy. Now I prove Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams The native pride of my much injured heart.--H. K. White.

I said to Love's accursed art, Behold this broken ring! Thus thou hast broke the bruised heart, As 'twere some worthless thing. But tho' it bleed at every pore, Crush'd by the reckless blow, My spirit still shall triumph o'er The tide of wo. I said to Friendship's lifted hand, Smite on--my bosom's bare-- Deep didst thou plunge the fatal brand, And left it rankling there. But still there throbs within these veins, The spirit's manliness, That scorns, amid its keenest pains, To seek redress. I said to Treachery's cunning dame, Come on--I dread thee not; Thou may'st pursue me till my name And being are forgot. But still my spirit ne'er shall weep, Tho' driv'n to Ocean's farthest Isle, I'd rather brave the angry deep, Than thy cold smile. I said to Mammon's golden store, Shine on--thou art but dust; I covet not thy worthless ore, Tho' by Misfortune crush'd. For deep within this bosom's shrine, There lives a spirit still, (More costly far than wealth of thine,) Thou canst not kill. I said to Earth's unstable ball, Roll on--it matters not; A few more suns will rise and fall, And I shall be forgot. But still the spirit in its bloom, Tho' oft by sorrow curs'd, Shall yet from thy sepulch'ral gloom With rapture burst. I said to Her, the faithless one, Who vow'd to love me best, Smile on--thy friendship I disown, And spurn thee from my breast. But still the spirit thou hast crush'd, The secret ne'er shall tell, And tho' thou tread it in the dust, 'Twill say--FAREWELL. I said to Him, the mighty Lord, Who reigns above the sky, And governs by his sovereign word, Man's darkest destiny,-- Father, I kiss thy chastening rod, In love I know 'twas given, For while it smites me 'neath the sod, It points to Heaven.

CORYDON.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

APOSTROPHE

Of the Æolian Harp to the Wind.

"Wind of the dark blue mountains, Thou dost but sweep my strings, Into wild gusts of mournfulness, With the rushing of thy wings.

When the gale is freshly blowing My notes responsive swell, And over music's power, Their triumphs seem to tell.

But when the breeze is sighing, Then comes 'a dying fall,' Less--less indeed exalting, But sweeter far than all.

It sighs, like hapless mortals, For youthful pleasures fled, For hopes and friends once cherished, Now mingled with the dead.

And oh! how sweetly touching, Is the sad and plaintive strain, Recalling former pleasures, That ne'er can live again.

Once more thy breezes freshen, And sweep the Æolian strings, And again their notes are swelling, With the rushing of thy wings.

They seem to cheer the drooping, To bid the wretched live, And with their sounds ecstatic, His withering hopes revive."

Alas! and in life's drama, Howe'er we play our part, Hope is forever breathing, On the Lyre of the Heart.

Hope is forever touching Some chord that vibrates there, While bitter disappointment Mars the delusive air.

Alternate joys and sorrows, Obedient to her call, Now breathe a strain that's flatt'ring, And now "a dying fall."

Yet how unlike the measures Of the sweet Æolian string! These soothe the heart that's wounded, Those plant a deeper sting.

Then wind of the dark blue mountains, Still sweep these trembling strings Into sweet strains of mournfulness, With the flutter of thy wings.

{397}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAP. I.

"Every modification of a society, at all lettered, works out for itself a correspondent literature, bearing the stamp of its character and exhibiting all its peculiarities."[1]

[Footnote 1: Sir J. Mackintosh's History of England, vol. I.]

It is thus that we see among the simple progenitors of a now polished race, a simplicity of literature in extreme accordance with their rude and unsophisticated manners. Yet when I speak of a rude literature, I am not to be understood as implying want of merit. On the contrary, the unpruned freedom of thought and unextinguished fire of feeling, so essential to true poetry, are chiefly to be found among a people martial and but little cultivated. Nor is this all; we often discover a beautiful tenderness, breathing of the primeval simplicity in which it has been nurtured. The dangers and hardships of severe employment, were sometimes forgotten in intervals of rest, and at such times, love ditties were made and sung. All natural beauties--the mountain--the waters of the valley--the dingle--the mossy wood, peopled by its vagabond essences and strange spirits--were inexhaustible food for poetry. This love of gentleness was the stronger for its contrast with the tone of feeling which preceded it. There are many instances of "the soft" to be found amongst the mutilated scraps and scattered records remaining to us from the numerous races usually called Barbarians. Montaigne somewhere quotes an original Caribbean song, which he pronounces worthy of Anacreon:

"Oh, snake stay; stay, O snake, that my sister may draw from the pattern of thy painted skin, the fashion and work of a rich riband which I mean to present to my mistress: so may thy beauty and thy disposition be preferred to those of all other serpents. Oh, snake stay!"

If this had been the song of a Peruvian or a Chilian, it would have been less singular. As it is, it was probably sung by a savage Carib in a moment of that rest, of which I have spoken as the season for "love ditties."

The curious student who searches into the authorities of our historians, will find that they are chiefly made up of legends imbodied in the songs of coeval bards and minstrels. This was the source of historical knowledge to the Danish writers, more than to those of any other country; indeed the scald was as well a chronicler as a singer. Nor is this historical foundation to be despised. Those who sung were most frequently eye witnesses of the occurrences celebrated in their songs. Men in those early ages had not so thoroughly learned the art of misrepresentation. Manly openness was a virtue: cunning was scarcely known in action or narration: or, if known, despised. Consequently we find that in many or all cases where other proofs are to be had, the legends of the bards are substantiated.--The chief source of our information with regard to the Saxon rule in the island of Great Britain, is the Saxon Chronicle--a kind of journal or annual, kept by the monks of early ages. This extends considerably beyond the era of the conquest, and is often spun into verse. Indeed the first instance of the use of rhyme in the Saxon tongue, is to be found in this chronicle--I will not however anticipate my subject by quoting the lines in this place.

The materials with which English antiquaries build up their historical creeds, are so slender, that the very existence of the minstrel, as distinct from the poet, prior to William's coming, has been matter of controversy.--After close examination, I am inclined to side with those who maintain that minstrelsey--like the feudal system--was no more than improved by the Normans; that it had accompanied the Saxons from Germany.

We are told that, Colgrin, a Saxon prince, gained access to his brother Baldulph, while the latter defended York against Arthur and his Britons, by disguising himself as a harper.[2] Likewise that the great Alfred stole forth in the same disguise from the Isle of Athelney--whither Guthrun the Dane had driven him--and that in such plight he entered the enemy's quarters unhindered. Another story of the same nature is told us of Anlaff, a Danish chief, who explored the camp of king Athelstane.[3] The learned bishop of Dromore, after quoting these several stories at full length, remarks: "Now if the Saxons had not been accustomed to have minstrels of their own, Alfred's assuming so new and unusual a character would have excited suspicions among the Danes. On the other hand, if it had not been customary with the Saxons to shew favor and respect to the Danish scalds, Anlaff would not have ventured himself among them, especially on the eve of a battle. From the uniform procedure then of both these kings, we may fairly conclude that the same mode of entertainment prevailed among both people, and that the minstrel was a privileged character with each."

[Footnote 2: Geoffrey of Monmouth.]

[Footnote 3: Vide Rapin.]

This proves, to me, that a plant from the same root whence sprung the Danish scald, grew and flourished in England. This idea is farther strengthened by the fact that Saxons and Danes were of one and the same origin--both swarms from the same northern hive--and that the scald retained by the Danes[4] was an important personage among the Teutonic tribes; and nothing can be more natural than for men to recur to the customs and usages of their parent-land.

[Footnote 4: Sir W. Temple.]

It seems therefore that minstrels constituted a privileged race among the Saxons. Yet poetry was not meanwhile confined to their vocal performances. Alfred himself was the author of several written pieces of considerable merit. Among other ballads, one descriptive of the battle of Brunnenburgh, is still extant. This battle--fought between Athelstane and a confederacy of Danes and rebel Britons--was well drawn in the original, and has been translated by a school boy at Eton with unrivalled beauty and truth.[5]

[Footnote 5: Frere.]

Song was used likewise on the field of battle. Many instances of this are on record, but I shall select no more than one for the sake of proof.

When Harold the last Saxon king, drew up his army against the combined forces of Tostigg--his rebel brother--and Harold Hardrada, the Norwegian king, Tostigg rode out upon a hillock, and after the fashion of the day, began a war-chaunt. While thus engaged, a herald came from Harold, his brother, greeting him, {398} and offering reconciliation. "The dukedom of Northumberland shall be given thee," said the herald. "And what reward has he for my friend and ally?" replied the haughty rebel. "Seven feet of English ground, or as men call him a giant, perhaps eight." And the herald finding his attempt at reconciliation futile, put spurs to his horse. Tostigg rode backward and forward, tossing his bare sword into the air and catching it as it fell. Meanwhile his brother's archers came within bow-shot, and their arrows whistled from the string. Tostigg fought beside his ally, in a blue tunic and shining helmet. He was yet chanting to his army, when a shaft pierced his throat and ended song and life together.

Thus do we see that poetry existed in three shapes; in the songs of a privileged order, called by the various names of joculator, minstrel, &c. &c.; in writing; and in the martial chaunts of heroes "bowne for battelle."--And what were the subjects of these several species of poetry? The last explains itself. The first two were probably on martial topics; so we may infer at least from the specimens which have reached us, and from the situation of England, even for centuries after its union under Egbert. Swept by the repeated inroads of the Danes--harassed and ground by the never-ending feuds of the great nobles, "ye might (in the strong words of an old historian,) as well plough the sea."--Thus with warlike customs--the last half of Sir J. Mackintosh's remark, quoted in the beginning of this paper, being at all times a consequent on the first--literature grew up in more harsh strength than graceful beauty. Society was little better than a confederacy for joint defence against watchful foes. The air was redolent of strife and contention. The "clash of armor and the rush of multitudes," mingling minaci murmure cornuum, were imitated on the harp's string, and enthusiastic damsels sung the deeds of their lovers, or so far forgot the more tender affection which would prefer the life of its object, to that object's death and after-honor, as to mingle the io triumphe with the burial song; thus giving way to the fierce joy, which weakness, when excited by thoughts of great deeds denied itself, conjures up--the gaudia certaminis, ever strongest in the weakest. I have already remarked, that "during intervals of rest, love ditties were sung." We have remnants enough to know that the Saxon poets were not forgetful of all gentler feeling, though these too were most often mingled with alloy. There were not wanting those willing and eager to embalm the names of the beautiful and great. There were not wanting bards to sing of the loves of these.

Elgiva, who drew her royal lover from the board where his nobles, and the sage Dunstan, had met to do him honor. Editha, the lady of the swan-neck, who recognised the body of Harold though mangled and disfigured wofully "for that her eyes were strong with love." These have had their good qualities and misfortunes immortalized by men, who, in the pauses of the bitterest strife, turned to admire beauty and unyielding affection, and to lament the evils brought upon innocent heads.

They sung too of Elfrida, who stabbed young Alfred while feasting in Corfe-castle--a deed "than which no worse had been committed among the people of the Angles, since they first came to the land of Britain." And in this we perceive the alloy, as in their praise of the masculine Ethelflida, "the lady of Mercia," daughter of the great Alfred.

I have barely glanced over the Saxon literature from the middle of the fifth century, to that of the eleventh, without entering into a careful and accurate detail of the changes which must have occurred, and which probably by a closer examination than I have thought needful, might be spread open. One great change occurred about the end of the eighth century. Egbert--Bretwalda, or king of Wessex, one of the seven principalities forming the Heptarchy--long lived at the court of Charlemagne, then the most polished court west of Italy. He united the seven petty kingdoms into one, and as their single head, had an opportunity of using effectually the information gathered abroad.

Several additions were made to this, but the one most worthy notice, was more than two centuries after. Edward the confessor, passed twenty-seven years, from boyhood to middle age, at the court of Rouen; indeed (according to Ingulphus,)

"Paene in Gallicam transierat."

He therefore added to the polish, introduced by his predecessor, though at so late an hour that the change for the better was scarcely perceptible, before it merged in the more important one, introduced by the Norman invasion.

I now proceed to an examination of poetry through ages of comparative light. Although from the gradual intercourse between the two nations prior to their amalgamation, no alteration of feeling or manners had taken place, extensive enough to mark the "conquest" as a grand and important era in the history of national customs, still many and subtle changes were produced, bearing in no small degree upon the subject before us.

The poetry of the Saxons was without rhyme, and the author of "an essay on Chaucer," says, "without metre." The learned antiquary must have attached a meaning to the word metre, wholly at variance with that now and usually received. Metre (from the Greek [Greek: metron] and Latin metrum) has several meanings, but scarcely distinct ones: all may be included in that of 'an harmonious disposition of words.' It is not enough to say that it differed from prose in being the language of passion. The general rules by which we judge poetry, are immutable, and equally applicable to that of Greeks, Saxons, and modern English. Dr. Blair and his authorities, define poetry to be "the language of passion metrically arranged," (I quote from memory) and supported so ably, I will not consent to a halving of the definition. The before mentioned Essayist on Chaucer, adduces the "vision of Pierce Ploughman" as a specimen of the Saxon style of poetry. And herein it becomes evident that he mistakes the meaning of the word metre. For those old lines, composed about the middle of the fourteenth century, are, notwithstanding the ancient mode of writing without breaks or division into lines, beyond doubt capable of being arranged in separate and distinct verses. I am not without support in the opinion here given; Dr. Hickes[6] maintains that the Saxons observed syllabic quantities "though perhaps not so strictly as the Greek and Latin heroic poets." {399} It may be asked how this comes to be at all a question, since monuments of Saxon poetry still remain by which we can judge. But it is no such easy matter to judge correctly. Syllables were accented much at the whim of the versifyer; so much so that general rules for the disposition of accent are little less than useless. Add to this the common custom, before mentioned, of writing poetry and prose alike; and when we remember that the object in view is to ascertain the number and accentuation of syllables, the wonder will disappear.

[Footnote 6: Pref. Sax. Gram.]

One among the earliest specimens of the use of rhyme in the Island of Great Britain, is to be found in the Saxon Chronicle. The author says that he himself had seen the Conqueror, and we may thence infer that the lines were written in the reign of William Rufus, or at farthest in that of his brother and successor Henry. It may be as well before quoting this literary curiosity, to notice a distich in itself trifling, and only worth noticing as the very earliest specimen of Saxon Rhyme, on record.

Aldred, Archbishop of York, threw out two rhyming verses against one Urse, sheriff of Worcestershire, not long after the conquest:

"Hatest thou Urse--Have thou God's curse." Vocaris Ursus--Habeas dei maledictionem.

William of Malmsbury, who has preserved this precious morsel, says that he inserts this English, "quod Latina verba non sicut Anglica concinnati respondent." The concinnity I presume consisted in the rhyme, and would scarcely have been deemed worth repeating if rhyme in English had not been a rare thing. It is quite apparent that rhyme and an improved metre were introduced by the Normans, among whom composition in their own dialect had been long before attempted in imitation of the jingling Latin rhythm.

The lines in the Saxon Chronicle to which I have referred, are a comment upon the changes effected by William. I will set them down in legible characters.

Thet he nam he rihte And mid mycelan un-rihte He foette mycel deor-frith And he loegde laga therwith-- He forbead the heortas Swylce Eac tha baras; Swa swithe he lufode the hea-deor Swylce he waere heora faeder, Eac he sætte be tham haran, That hi mosten freo faran.--

This may be translated after somewhat the following fashion: "He took money by right and unright--He made many deer parks and established laws by which," whosoever slew a hart or a hind was deprived of his eye-sight--"He forbade men to kill harts or boars, and he loved the tall deer as if he were their father. He decreed that the brindled hares should go free."

In addition to these, Matthew Paris mentions a canticle which 'the blessed Virgin' was pleased to dictate to Godric, a hermit near Durham.

From this time to the reign of Henry II, which began in 1154, we find no records of rhyming poetry. In that reign, one Layamon, a priest of Ernleye, near Severn, as he terms himself, translated from the French of Wace, a fabulous history of the Britons, entitled, "Le Bruit;" which, Wace himself, about the year 1150, had translated from the Latin of Geoffrey of Monmouth. This poem is for the most part after the Old Saxon fashion, without rhyme, except so far as a jingle at intervals may be so called. We next, if guided by the actual records of written poetry, are forced to pass over an interval of 100 years--to the middle of Henry the third's reign. The reasons of this gap are perhaps these--

The[7] scholars of the age affected to write in Latin--which they called the universal language. The more skilful poets who lived, as is usual with the race, upon the bounty of the great nobles, out of compliment to these their Norman benefactors, framed their verse into the Norman French; while the low and popular singers--then the only true English poets--left nothing worth preservation. I will pass on hurriedly through this uninteresting portion of my slight history of written poetry, to the nearest resting-place, and thence take a back view of minstrelsy as nourished in the courts of the English Kings, and principally in that of Richard Coeur de Lion.

[Footnote 7: The poems of this interval have been translated into the English of Elizabeth's time, when the rage for gathering scraps of ballad into "garlands" was at its full. It is, however, impossible to distinguish them from the numerous pieces, really French--i.e. written not only in the French language, but in France, bearing similar date, and translated at the same time. It is impossible to draw hair lines or any kind of lines between these; or if possible, needs a more skilful antiquary, than the author of these cacoethes scribendi.]

In the reign of Henry III, we find that one Orm or Ormin, wrote a paraphrase of the gospel histories, entitled, Ormulum. Hickes and Wanley have both given large extracts from this, without discovering that it was poetry. But a close examination will render evident to any one, with any ear for metre, that the Ormulum is written very exactly, in verses of fifteen syllables[8] without rhyme, in imitation of the most common species of the Latin, tetrameter iambic. Another piece, a moral poem on old age, bears date about the same reign; it is more remarkable for a corrupt MS., from which the only print of the poem at all common, seems to have been taken, than for any thing else.

[Footnote 8: This metre is the same metre with that of the Modern Greeks, which Lord Byron tells us, shuffles on to the old tune: A captain bold of Halifax, &c.]

The next interval from the end of Henry the third's reign, to the middle of the fourteenth century, when Chaucer came upon the dais, was filled up with a swarm of 'small poets.' These were principally translators of popular poems from the Roman or French authors, and their compositions were thence called Romances. They neither improved on the material before gathered, nor added anything of value to the store. And so we come to Geoffrey Chaucer--whence, let me recur to another branch of the subject in hand.

I have said that minstrels were known among the Saxons before the conquest, and that these were in high repute at the Saxon courts. That Alfred himself was a poet, and on one occasion, a minstrel. The Normans brought with them their harpers and troubadours[9] and the profession received a great acquisition of strength and honor. Every Baron had his own joculator, and we find amongst the records of the Old English families, items of largesse to wandering harpers. Such were at all seasons welcomed by the feudal nobles--perhaps for the same reason that our modern aristocrats of {400} Virginia were hospitable--from a love of news. Minstrels as news-gleaners--often coming too from the royal court--were a source of entertainment to the lords, who, immured in their solitary castles among swampy moors, or perched on hill-tops almost inaccessible to man, seldom heard other than an enemy at their gates.

[Footnote 9: Vid. the story of Taillefer--Du Cange.]

At the court of Henry I,--to whom Sir Walter Scott refers in those lines of his rambling epistle to George Ellis--

"But who shall teach my harp to gain A sound of the romantic strain, Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere Could win the royal Henry's ear,-- Famed Beauclerc called, for that he loved, The minstrel, and his lay approved?"

Minstrels and minstrelsy were especially favored.

Beauclerc--the most accomplished monarch of his day, so far as letters were concerned, became by fellowship of feeling and taste, the patron of all the caste. The court-fed minions, like the lizard whose color depends on the species of grass or plant of which it eats, became of course completely Norman in their feelings. Indeed the greater number were Normans by birth and education, lured to the English court by the ever ready bait of patronage; and those that were not, seeing that these met with favor, imitated them in style and every thing else. The 'Anglo' might with propriety have been dropped in Sir Walter's verse just quoted.[10]

[Footnote 10: It is a melancholy sight to see so exalted a class of human beings, whether from necessity or not, forever debasing themselves into servile dependency. Even Dante, whose lament that he had to climb another's stair would seem the outbreak of an independent spirit, could humble himself before a Guido.]

That the six kings following the conqueror were, with an exception, completely Norman in their habits and predilections, we may easily discover in the history of English law, traced back to its foundation among the very roots of the feudal system. It was against Norman innovation that the independent Barons of the thirteenth century arose, and held John Lackland in duress until his name was affixed to Magna Charta--a paper purporting to restore affairs to the state in which Edward the Saxon left them. It was this same fondness for French men and French rules that forced from Henry III a signature to the same paper,--John having evaded his on plea of compulsion.

But, although extremely opposed to those principles of freedom which Hengist and his followers had brought from the woods of Germany, and which ages after marked England as a great and prosperous nation, Norman ideas and sentiments were a southern sun to the growth of poetry and other literature.

I have mentioned Henry Beauclerc's love for these. After him, in the struggles of the heroic Maud or Matilda, and in the turbulent reign of the ill-fated Stephen, neither party had leisure for literary pursuits. But in the reign of Henry II, love and poetry both received countenance from that gallant monarch. His amours with Rosamond Clifford of Woodstock, have been the theme of many a popular ballad. Richard Coeur de Lion, the knight errant king,[11] and king of knight errants, invited the most famous of the Provencal bards to his court. Ubi mel ibi apes, and London was soon a theatre crowded with troubadours warm from the feet of the Pyrenees and banks of the Rhone. The whispers of the sunny Provencal love-ditty were breathed upon the rough ballad spirit of an earlier time,--mellowing that spirit, and adding to its former dauntlessness the gloss of polish and refinement.--Richard was himself a troubadour; and though at the present day his deeds of verse would damn a schoolboy, they were then thought worthy of being coupled with his deeds in arms.

[Footnote 11: Richard was truly a king errant,--for he spent scarcely one out of the ten years of his reign, in England.]

Many romantic traditions have been handed down to us of that adventurous monarch and Blondel de Nesle, his favorite minstrel. We read in the records of our ancient chroniclers, a simple tale of the latter's long pilgrimage in search of the captive king his master. How Blondel came one evening as the sun went down among the hills of the Rhine, to the solitary castle of Trifels, where the monarch lay in a damp cold dungeon. How he seated himself at the dungeon grate, and taking his harp from his shoulder, began a song which Richard and he had made together in Palestine; and how the overjoyed king took up the words as they reached his ear, and chanted to the top of his full voice in answer. And farthermore, how Blondel returned to England, and went 'shoonless and unhooded' through all parts of the land, until the captive's loyal subjects were aroused; and until the great ransom was gathered together by which those subjects bought his freedom. Many such stories are told of the time of the chivalric Richard; and the devoted fidelity of his dependents will ever be a bright spot on the page of that history into which their names have stolen, and through which they are now receiving--reward dearest to noble spirits,--virtuous and stainless renown.

In the reign of John Lackland, the minstrels were the means of saving the life and fortunes of an Earl of Chester, by stirring up the rabble, who had gathered to a fair in the border of Wales, to go to his rescue. This they did under one Dutton, at sight of whom and his followers, the Welsh besiegers retired from before the Earl's castle.

In the time of Edward I, "a multitude of minstrels attended at the knighting of his son."

Under the reign of Edward II, such privileges were claimed by this class, that it became necessary to restrain them by a particular statute. Yet notwithstanding this, towards the latter part of this reign, we find that the minstrels still retained the liberty of entrance at will into the royal presence, and were still remarkable for splendor of dress.

During the short rule of Richard II, John of Gaunt instituted a court of minstrels at Tutbury in Staffordshire. They had a charter, empowering them variously, and bestowing inter alia the right of appointing "a king of the minstrels with four subordinate officers."

Under the usurper Bolingbroke--Henry the Fourth--the profession maintained its dignity and importance, and met with favor from king and noble, notwithstanding the contempt of the stuttering Hotspur.

I had rather be a kitten and cry--mew, Than one of these same metre ballad mongers; I had rather hear a brazen canstick turned Or a dry wheel grate on an axletree, Etc.

Alcibiades cried down lute playing--because, though {401} he excelled his comrades in beauty, eloquence, and gallantry, in this one little thing his skill failed him. Percy "spoke thick" and so song did not suit him. Even as late as Henry VIII, we find minstrels attached in licensed capacities, to the households of the great nobles. But the profession was fast sinking into disrepute; and in the great entertainment at Kenilworth Castle in 1575, a caricature copy of the old minstrel appeared among the sources of amusement prepared by the gallant Leicester for his royal mistress.

Thus had the profession completed a circle, and, in name at least, returned to its primitive state. Centuries before among the Saxons the singer was called mimus, joculator, histrio, indiscriminately. And though these words, like parasite, demagogue, tyrant, sophist and others, bore a respectable meaning at the period of their first use, the minstrel in the course of time adapted himself to the meaning which time and change had given them, and in the reign of Elizabeth had become a mere 'jester.' He turned the circle and went back to the titles of his progenitors, adding to the ignominy of those titles by wearing them. An act was at length passed, in the thirty-ninth year of the queen just mentioned, classing "all wandering minstrels, with rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars," and ordering them to be punished as such. From this severe judgment, however, those, attached by peculiar circumstances to the house of that Dutton spoken of above as the preserver of Ranulph the last Earl of Chester, were particularly excepted. This statute was the death blow to the few remnants of the genuine old minstrelsy.

I can now proceed undividedly in tracing out my slight sketch of English classic poets and written poetry.

Before I end this chapter, however, let me make a few remarks upon the spirit prevalent among the English after the conquest.

In the scrap of Saxon poetry quoted above, the reader will perceive that the chronicler mentions William's severe restrictions upon the exercise of woodcraft in the wide waste lands of the escheated manors. Following the same lines farther, we find in the old chronicle the winding up words, which I will translate from the original. After remarking that "he forbade men to kill harts or boars," the chronicler adds, "Rich men bemoaned it and poor men shuddered at it. But he was so stern and hot that he recked not the hatred of them all."

In consequence of these laws, Robinhoods and Littlejohns gathered in the matted thickets, and among the oak glades on the banks of every obscure lake and river, from the Thames to the Tweed. There was something alluring in the romantic life of an outlawed forester, and many a tall deer and bristling boar, died on the 'green shawe,' against whom that law, intended as a shield, pointed the arrow.

Thus sprung up a race of men of whom the ballad makers delighted to sing--coupling their names with 'Hereward the hardy outlaw' and the patriot heroes of the ground and trampled Saxons.

That the introduction of Norman manners brought with it more softness--a fact mentioned more than once--we may discover by comparing the productions of those bards who in the same age, sung in the rugged north country, and those who grew up in Kent and on the Thames. These latter were for years before the Norman's coming, receiving polish from their neighborhood, while those of Northumberland retained much of their early rudeness ages after. The bard who sings of the reyde on which

"The Perse out off Northumberland"

went to be killed among the Cheviot hills, has more roughness as well as more strength than any of his compeers on the Thames. This old poem is an important stone in the temple of English literature, and I will treat of it in due season, as coming within the pale of English classic poetry. This polish and increased softness introduced by the Normans, opened the eyes and ears of all to "the soother and honeyeder" style of poetry. And, indeed, unless Lord Bacon's remark,--that verse is a better balm than any the Egyptians knew, "for that it not only preserveth the stateliness of the form and the color of the face--which the Egyptian preservative doth not--but giveth to the one tenfold stateliness and borroweth from the rose for the other,"--be true, their women were passing stately and very beautiful. There were the three Mauds, all queens and all heroines. There was the proud yet "fair Rosamond," who forgot her pride in the arms of a royal lover; and many another fitting sharer in immortality with the Elgivas and Ediths of an earlier time.

Superstition too gave a tinge to poetry.--The Druids had left their foot marks upon the soil, and the ancient rites and feelings cherished in Wales--the last place of refuge for the injured Britons--still held an undefined influence over the hearts of their neighbors. This feeling blazed out for awhile, when the partisans of Henry slew Thomas a-Becket, the "child of love and wonder,"[12] before the altar of St. Bennet. And the murdered Archbishop was doubly canonized, in the holy ritual of Rome, and in the songs of those whom his death had made worshippers.

[Footnote 12: Sir J. Mackintosh tells an odd romance of the mother of the celebrated Archbishop, whom he calls the "child of love and wonder."]

But the greatest characteristic of the ballad, as used among the Norman successors to the Saxons in England, was a love for the legendary. Britagne--that country lying between the Loire and the Seine, had been peopled by a body of British emigrants about the time of the Saxon invasion under Hengist, and these calling themselves Armoricans, settled quietly down in a strange land. They retained many of their old British feelings, and when in the course of time they became nearly amalgamated with their Norman neighbors, and followed them into England, the old love of country revived and they sung of King[13] Arthur and his knights as champions of their forefathers. The strange legends of the early contests between Angles and Britons, were mere clews to the discovery of a thousand others, wholly unfounded in truth, yet none the less palatable to the ignorant. This love of the legendary remains to this day among the descendants of these people, and will, perhaps, never be obliterated.

[Footnote 13: "The words Konung, Kyning, King, Kong, Koenig, and others like them in the Teutonic languages, denoted every sort of command from the highest to that of a very narrow extent. It would be a gross fallacy to understand these words in their modern sense, when we meet them in Anglo-Saxon history."]

{402}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--I offer a very threadbare excuse for the publication of the following verses. They are published "at the request of a friend," for whom, indeed, they were written. You have accused me of obscurity, and to prevent a repetition of your censure, I will here add a scrap of explanation. "The Last Indian" is something of a Salathiel; he has survived his whole race. Stanza VI, refers to the Aztecs and other tribes long ago extinct, and supposed to have lived once upon a time, among the higher valleys east and west of the Mississippi. A second and more hardy people, referred to in stanza V, perhaps drove the Aztecs, as the Huns drove the Goths, southward, upon the rich regions of Mexico. These dead Mexican tribes are described on their return--led by a kind of amor patriæ instinct--to their early homes in the north.

Before ending this scrawl, I would correct an error into which you have fallen with regard to my signature. "Zarry Zyle" should be

LARRY LYLE.

THE LAST INDIAN.

Once more, and yet once more, I give unto my harp a midnight-woven lay; --I heard the ebon waters roar, I heard the flood of ages pass away.--Kirke White.

I.

I slept beneath a tree one Summer eve, My couch a bed of blossom-beaded thyme, My roof the bough which spirit fingers weave, My slumber-song a brooklet's mellow chime: I dreamed--and far away thro' space and time, My liberated spirit joyfully Forth went--a pioneer well skilled to climb The cloudy crags and cliffs of mystery. I dreamed--I speak my dream; and canst thou read it me?

II.

On the jagg'd summit of a mountain range, More azure than the blue sky, sternly stood-- Like Sathanas of old--a wanderer strange, Drinking deep grief, as one who meets the flood Of bitterness in some parched solitude; Before him spread, in undulations vast, A Prairie sea, all isled with rock and wood; And young winds closed their wings above its breast, As faint bees close their wings when Summer days have passed.

III.

The Sun had come--a weary traveller-- Up o'er the hills of ether, for methought 'Twas many thousand years since Lucifer Fell from his glory, and, with trial fraught And leaden labor, Time had weakness brought To Sun and Moon. Men saw the Sun upcome, And marvelled at its lustre: Sages sought That lustre's source, and said "at point of doom Mysterious fires full oft the closing eye illume."

IV.

Methought a change came o'er the face of earth; Hill, plain, and hollow shook as with the throe Of mortal agony. The mountain girth Shrunk, heaved, then burst asunder. In mad flow The waters of great lakes foamed, battling through Far scattered crags; and mighty rocks, down hurled From mountain tops, laid bare the volcano-- The great volcano! and its flame unfurled, Streamed redly, wrathfully, above the reeling world.

V.

A voice went forth, far louder than the roar Of bounding rivers; and the summons broke The deep sleep of earth's dead. Each burial shore And tree-robed mound in groaning travail shook, And giant skeletons from death awoke. Barbarians seemed they, armed with spear and bow; And thro' their ribs as thro' the winter oak Winds whistled; while from bone lips evermo' Uptrembled hollowly, horn murmurs, faint and low.

VI.

And, from the charnel valleys of the South, A multitude, vast, vast beyond compare, Moved darkly onward. Song and shout uncouth, Betokened their wild joy; while on the air, Forgotten instruments breathed music rare-- Sweet unknown tunes, as soft as hymn of rills. The Mammoth and the Mastodon were there, All yoked;--and then I heard far-groaning wheels: The tomb had gaped--the dead tribes sought their early hills!

VII.

Amid the groan and rumbling heave of earth, And noise of waters, came each silver tone. But ere my wonder ceased, a storm had birth, And rattling thunder mingled with the moan And sob of nature. O'er car--skeleton-- A cloud-veil passed and hid them from my sight; While o'er that cloud, far on a mountain throne, A city rocked--illumined by the light Of its own burning towers--fit type of frail man's might!

VIII.

And then the Sun waxed dim. The red Moon rode Above the trembling nations, with an eye Of wrath and anguish, and a brow of blood-- While one by one, afar, in the dun sky The stars went out, as dew-drops, when winds sigh, From grass and flower and thin leaf disappear. Then no man saw the Sun! but still on high The great Moon rode; and, ever redly clear, Glared thro' thick fog and mist, till men grew dumb with fear.

IX.

The wanderer looked forth tremblingly, and lo! A wide winged Eagle on the darkness came. Her brood had died,--all died! and wild with wo And reckless wrath, that terror might not tame-- Chasing the swart cloud from her eye of flame-- She sought the summit of that lonely peak. She saw the Red Man, and with joyous scream, Claimed fellowship; but to her iron beak A single death-flash leapt, and wreathed her scornful neck.

X.

Innumerable mounds belched lurid streams, And poured, in hot black showers, the cinder-rain; I gazed and saw, as high the forked gleams Sprang piercingly thro' volumed smoke again, Earth's wan-faced myriads. From the Ocean-plain {403} Her living tribes had flown, to seek the light And safety of that adamantine chain, In shivering crowds; and wildered with affright, They toiled in throngs to reach the mountain's farthest height.

XI.

And one, more daring, stood upon the brink Of a volcano,--and his scathed hand raised, Dripping with hissing lava. Some would shrink; And many called on God; while some, amazed, Stood statuelike: and some in madness seized With Vampyre tooth, and laid their full veins bare. And one--a blue-eyed maiden--upward gazed In speechless wo, while gleamed her long fair hair And ghastly cheek, beneath that flame's unearthly glare.

XII.

Methought, pale girl, that thou wert of the line Of her I loved; and tears flowed full and fast, To see a form so beautiful as thine In the Volcano's death-light. This soon passed! Again with strength I heard and saw. A blast From unseen horn, rang wildly o'er the herd Of dead and living men: The myriad vast Wailed moaningly when each the strange blast heard, And dead and living stood with stony brows upreared.

XIII.

Earth heaved anew, and toppling crags fell down In darkness. Rivers turned and fled the main-- And galloping--like startled steeds back thrown By some strong rampart--rushed in fear again To their far founts, o'erwhelming rock and plain. The fiend Tornado shrieked and wrung the wood, Old Earth's scorched locks--until her ory brain Lay shelterless and bare: while beryl-hued And bubbling streams, breast, cheek, and cloven brow imbrued.

XIV.

Mine eye waned slowly into wakefulness; The wild forms of my dream waxed faint and dim; But ere they fled, methought the pallid race Had crumbled into ashes; while o'er him, Last of the injured, twin in death with time-- A strong joy swept. Woe's furrow had been ploughed Deep in his heart; he was avenged! As swim O'er Autumn skies the fleets of shattered cloud, So swam those scenes and passed. I turned and sobbed aloud.

XV.

A purfled Oreole sate upon a bough Above me, and with gentle carollings Shook the still air; e'er raining on my brow The dewy globules, with her restless wings: I love the bird,--I love the song she sings! For that I heard it by a lonely stream In days, when love and hope were rainbow things: The sweet bird soothed me, but my brain will teem Full many a mirthless eve, with fragments of that dream!

Winchester, Va.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WILLIAMSBURG BIRTH NIGHT BALL.

MR. WHITE,--From all I can learn, your "Messenger" seems to give general and increasing satisfaction in this quarter: to use a French phrase, tout le monde en dit du bien. Though it is not probable any thing so light and playful, (and particularly at this late period of the month,) should obtain admission into its columns, yet, as one or two stanzas of the annexed metrical, have some how or other found their way into the newspapers, I have at last succeeded in procuring a copy of the whole, that you may exercise your own discretion in respect to its insertion. It originated as follows: Some young ladies of your place, during a visit to Williamsburg to attend the Birth-night Ball, &c. received from an accomplished female friend at Richmond, a charming poetical letter, describing a musical party at which she had assisted; and narrating in a familiar, agreeable manner, the principal incidents that had occurred in their absence. The following lines were composed, as a response to this lively and entertaining communication:--

WINTER SCENES AT WILLIAMSBURG.

Your letter, dear Mary, tho' resting so long, Without a response, gave us infinite pleasure; For seldom indeed, in the language of song, And verse of so beautiful, smooth-flowing measure, Have we met with the news and events of the day, Reported and told, in so pleasing a way-- Is it thus, that the Muses to each other write, And render e'en absence, a source of delight?

Euterpe, perhaps, (ever partial, they say To a musical fête,) your concert attended, And pleased with your talent to sing and to play, Thought music with poetry happily blended-- And so, when you took up the pen to prepare An account of your party, to make it more rare, Bade you write it in verse--and assisted you too, To get up a style, so romantic and new.

Be this as it may--'tis certain that such As have been indulged with a sight of your letter, Sans compliment, all, have admired it much, And say, of its kind, that they never read better. But how can we answer, in similar style, A missive like yours?--we are sure you will smile At our awkward and feeble attempt to compose, An answer in verse, in our accent of prose.

But smile, if you please--even laugh, if you choose-- We must make an effort to put rhymes together, To give you some items of Williamsburg news, And tell you how well we got thro' the cold weather: In converse and reading, we passed with delight, The keen winter morning, the long winter night, With a family never surpassed upon earth, In kind hospitality, virtue and worth.

'Tis said, this old city has seen its best days-- We cannot think so--its present possessors Are subjects of just admiration and praise-- Whether Judges or Lawyers, or learned Professors-- All mingle with freedom and ease in the throng, And move in the current of fashion along; At the ball, or the board, or the cheery fire side, Society's ornament, pleasure and pride.

"And are there no Doctors (perhaps you exclaim) Distinguished by talents and virtues and merit?"-- {404} O yes, there are several; whom if we but name, Or mention their liberal and generous spirit, "The Messenger's" Critic may cry out--"O fie! Who ever blamed Hercules?" Subjects so high, Like Washington, need not a line to exalt Their virtues and worth--Who ever blamed G----?

The fear we suggest, of the "Messenger's" lash, As you well may imagine, is merely pretension; Its Critics at monarch-like Hickories dash, And smile at flowret or shrub's apprehension-- Palmettoes escape too! but, Party, away! 'Tis time, to the birthnight our homage to pay; E'en the Critic himself, we hope may agree To spare our "Sic semper--PATRI PATRIÆ!"

The ball of the birthnight, on Monday took place, And, once more, the hall of the ancient Apollo, Assembled a train of youth, beauty, and grace, In which, well escorted, we ventured to follow: Professors and students, the bench and the bar, The single and married of both sexes, there, In mirth and good humor, the hours employed, Partook of the dance, or the music enjoyed.

The supper was superabundant--in fine, No gourmand complained of a scanty provision Of flesh, fish, or fowl--or of excellent wine, Which Bacchus's tribe thought a charming addition; But the nymphs and the graces impatiently flew To the ball room again, the dance to renew; And thoughtless of sleep or repose, in their glee, Kept it up, it is said, till full two or three.

Of the cake, fruit, and wine, there yet was such store, Laid in and prepared for the festive occasion, That the Managers thought of a hop or two more, As a matter of justice and easy persuasion; So, on several nights, the beauty and grace Of the young and the old that distinguish the place, With music and dancing enlivened the hall, Till the close of the week, gave repose to us all.

All needed it much; for a deep fall of snow, Fatigued as we were, to sleighing invited-- And who could refuse, pray, a gallant young beau, Alcibiades like, with driving delighted?-- Thro' the streets, and around and around on the square, For the belles and the bells, were all gathered there, What racing--what contests Olympic were seen, On the snow-white expanse of the cidevant green!

We have not half finished the sleighing affair, With some other topics of social diversion, But here we must stop--as we now must prepare For a trip to old York, on a pleasure excursion-- We wish you were with us. Your eloquent pen Might there find a scene to amuse us again, With lively description of things "old and new"-- But the carriage is waiting; so, dear girl, adieu!

UNREASONABLE WISHES.

The subjoined morceau is worthy notice. Many grave essays have been written upon the vanity and unreasonableness of human wishes; but it would seem, without much effect. The rhapsodies of lovers in the olden time were thought sufficiently extravagant, and their wishes have been quoted as the very essence of inordinate imaginations: in fact, Shakspeare has classed the lover and the madman together:

"The lunatic, the lover and the poet, Are of imagination all compact: One sees more devils than vast hell can hold-- That's the madman--the other all as frantic Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt," &c.

Yet the old fashioned lovers kept some rule in their imaginary desires, when compared with the vast conception of our correspondent.

"Ye Gods! annihilate both time and space, And make two lovers happy"--

and the passionate exclamation of Romeo,

"Oh that I were a glove upon that hand! That I might kiss that cheek!"

were thought wild enough for those more stoical times. But it seems that the march of improvement is onward in love-making, as well as in road-making, as we will trust our correspondent's effusion to show.

* * * * *

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MISS S---- S----

Would that thou were some isle, my love, And I the wave that bound thee, With naught but Heaven's pure sky above, And I sole guard around thee.

Then in one fond and long embrace, Through calm and storm I'd cheer thee, And bless the wind, that face to face, Had brought me still more near thee.

Norfolk, April 9, 1835.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE BROKEN HEART.

I come, a stricken Deer, Bearing the heart midst crowds that bled, To bleed in stillness here.--Mrs. Hemans.

I come to my home in the forest shade, By the summer boughs in their minglings made, To my own bright hills and their clear blue sky, With a broken heart in their stillness to die.

I come from the midst of a changing world, And the banners of Hope in my bosom lie furled; I bring from the spoiler a mournful token,-- The unfledged wing of my soul is broken.

There is weight on my spirit too painful to bear-- A feeling of gloom that corrodes like despair; And the Rose's rich hue and the Violet's bloom, Whisper we're nursed but to fade at thy tomb.

And there comes a sound on the murmuring breeze, As it creeps thro' the boughs of a thousand trees, And it echoes back from the stars of night And the placid lake, like a mirror bright,

"Thou art not for earth! thou art not for earth! And thou bearest no part in its gladness and mirth; Its moments of pleasure have ages of care! And the love which thou seekest is never found there!"

And Spring shall return with its leaves and flowers, And the song of birds to the woodland bowers; To me they shall be as to one that's departed-- There is rest in the grave for the broken hearted.

S. W. W.

Raleigh, N. C.

{405}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A DISCOURSE

On the Progress of Philosophy, and its Influence on the Intellectual and Moral Character of Man; delivered before the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society, February 5, 1835. By George Tucker, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Virginia.

Mr. President, and Gentlemen of the Society:--

I feel the weight of the task I have undertaken to perform, the more sensibly, when I recollect the brilliant qualifications of the member[1] who was the first choice of the society, and that I must disappoint the expectations which that choice so naturally raised. The grave and sober speculations which I am about to submit to your consideration will, I fear, but poorly compensate those who hear me, for the graces of elocution, the rich, but chaste imagery, and the rare felicity of diction by which that gentleman is distinguished; and I regret on your account, as well as my own, that he has thus unexpectedly failed to fulfil the wishes of his associates.

[Footnote 1: James McDowell, Esq. of Rockbridge.]

I have thought it would not be unappropriate to the occasion, to present to the society some views of the influence which philosophy has exercised, and must continue to exercise, over civilized man. Amidst the din of political controversy, and the bustling concerns of life, it is well sometimes to withdraw our thoughts from the tumultuous scenes around us to the calm views of rational speculation. Our minds may be not merely refreshed by the change, but they are likely to acquire elevation and purity in being thus severed from sordid and selfish pursuits, and made to contemplate human concerns in the transparent medium of truth and philosophy.

Philosophy! a term to which some attach a mysterious import, as implying a kind of knowledge unattainable except by a few gifted minds--whilst others regard it as more an object of aversion than of affection,--inculcating a system of thought and action equally at war with nature and common sense,--as a perversion of human reason and feeling, at once cold and repulsive to others, and profitless to the possessor. This is not the philosophy of which I propose to speak, but her counterfeit; which, being as bold and forward as the other is modest and retiring, has made herself more known to the world than the character she personates, and has thus brought discredit on the name.

By philosophy, I mean that power of perceiving truths which are not obvious--of seeing the complicated relations of things, and of seeing them as they really are, unperverted by passion or prejudice. So far from being repugnant to nature and common sense, it constantly appeals to these for the justness of its precepts. It is indeed Reason, exercising its highest attributes in the multifarious concerns of human life. Such was the philosophy of Newton and Locke, and of our own illustrious Franklin.

It will be the object of the following remarks to show, that this philosophy is gradually increasing and diffusing itself over the world; that it now mingles in all human concerns, and gives to the present age its distinguishing characteristics; that its progress must still continue, and more and more influence the character of man and civilized society; and that in no country is its influence likely to be more extensively or beneficently felt than in this.

The most superficial observer must be struck with the prodigious advancement of the human intellect, when he compares the opposite extremes of society. The savage, when his mind is roused from a state of apathy, passes into one of strong emotion; for he is capable of intense feelings, but not of profound and comprehensive thought. He knows but few facts; and they have not that variety and complexity which distinguish the knowledge of the civilized man. All that he sees and hears, is heard and seen by the men of civilization; but to this the latter is always adding the perception of new and intricate relations, of which the former is incapable. Thus, compare the knowledge of the relations of numbers possessed by one who barely knows how many fives there are in twenty, with that of him who can mark out the paths of the planets, calculate their mutual attractions, and predict a distant eclipse to a minute; or the few and simple rules of justice among a tribe of savages, to the intricate and multifarious codes of civilized society; nay, extend the comparison to any other department of human knowledge, and there will be found the same difference between the two, as exists between the wigwam of mud or bark, without a door, window or chimney, and the solid and spacious hall in which we are assembled. Nor is this all; for as the reason, in common with every other faculty, is strengthened by exercise, the severer and more incessant exercise to which it is subjected by the multiplication of new relations, is constantly increasing the authority of reason, and weakening the dominion of the passions and prejudices.

The mind therefore becomes, with the progress of civilization, more capable of perceiving relations--more imbued with a knowledge of these relations--more comprehensive--more capable of making remote deductions. It perceives more truths that are complex and difficult--and has more capacity to detect illusion and error. We thus see human reason gradually extending its empire, successfully assailing former prejudice, and fashioning human institutions to purposes of utility. We see men more and more inclined to value every object only in proportion as it conduces to the happiness of the greater number; and to {406} consider nothing as permanently connected with that happiness, but what gives gratification to the senses without debasing them; to the intellect without misleading it; and to the passions when fulfilling their legitimate objects. It is thus we see each succeeding generation regarding with indifference, and even with contemptuous ridicule, what commanded the veneration of a former age.

It would exceed the limits of such a discourse as the present to give even an outline of the advancement of reason, as exhibited in the various branches of science. Nor is it necessary. It will be sufficient for us to give our attention to some few striking facts in the progress of science and art, especially in those cases which being more recent, are at once better known to us, and have a nearer relation to our interests. Let us turn to any department of human knowledge or inquiry, and we see the clearest manifestations of the growing philosophical spirit of which I speak.

If we look at the character of civil government, we find that every revolution--every important change--is the result of the progress of philosophy--of the extension of the empire of reason. Once kings were regarded as deriving their power not from the consent of the people, but immediately from the Deity. They were said to be the Lord's anointed; and implicit obedience--unresisting submission to the mandate of the sovereign, was enjoined not merely as a civil, but as a religious duty.

In two out of the four quarters of the world, we all know how much these opinions are changed; and that there, with the thinking portion at least, government is now regarded as an institution created solely for the happiness of the people; that they are the judges of what constitutes that happiness; and that government may be changed, either as to its form or agents, whenever it is proved incapable of fulfilling its main purpose. This principle of reason and common sense caused and justified the establishment of the Commonwealth in England; the restoration of the monarchy; the subsequent revolution in 1688; the American revolution in 1776; the French revolution of 1789, under all its various phases; and that which produced a change of dynasty in 1830. We have seen the operation of the same principle in separating the Spanish provinces on this continent from the mother country. We have seen it in the separation of Belgium from Holland, and in the liberation of Greece from the Turkish yoke.

Every subordinate institution too, is now judged according as it tends to promote the welfare of the community; and the notion of rights of particular classes and orders of men, farther than they can be shown to rest on this foundation, is deemed presumptuous and absurd. Even the rights of property itself, the most sacred of any, because they are the most obvious and are possessed by a greater number, are derived from the same source, and are regulated and controlled by it. Every tax in a popular government--every restriction on the free use of one's own,--whether it be in the form of a prohibition against gaming, or of laying out a new road, or of an inspection law, recognizes this principle. It governs legislatures in conferring rights as well as abridging them. They all find their authority and justification in the public good; nor does any one now attempt to resist a tax or defend a privilege, but by appealing to this great test of right, the interests of the community.

You see too in jurisprudence, that all those principles which grow out of barbarous usages, or were the result of accident, or of mistaken theory, are gradually made to give way to the light of reason and the spirit of philosophy. They conform more and more to the common sense and common feelings of mankind. Crimes which once incurred the severest penalties of the law, are crimes no longer; modes of trial originating in superstition have been abolished; many of the frivolous niceties of pleading, or rules founded on a state of things which no longer exist--such as that which excluded written testimony from the common law courts, and which, like noisome weeds, choked up the administration of justice, have been eradicated, in spite of the cry which always will be raised against innovation, and which some of our best principles, as well as our weakest prejudices, concur in raising.

Nor have we yet reached the end of this course of salutary reform. The administration of justice may be still more simple; and though the rules of property and of civil rights must always be numerous and complicated in a civilized community, yet this necessity furnishes a further reason why the modes of investigating truth and the rules of evidence should possess all practicable simplicity. The spirit of philosophy has been actively at work here. In some instances, perhaps, it has been too far in advance of the age, and under the influence of the pride of discovery and reform, or provoked by opposition, it may have been urged farther than reason and propriety would warrant. It has, however, arraigned the whole system of judicial evidence, and endeavored to show that the rules for the examination of contested facts are so erroneous or defective, that the truth is commonly discovered better out of court than in it; and that questions about which all the world is satisfied, when technically examined by tribunals created purposely for their investigation, either receive no answer, or a wrong one. The official expounders of the law, partaking of the liberal spirit of the age, have of late years greatly narrowed the objections to the competency of witnesses; but it is only the legislature and public opinion which are adequate to a complete reform, and they will one day assuredly bring it.

{407} There is much seeming force in many of the other objections of the reformers to the present very artificial and complicated system of jurisprudence; but whether their views are satisfactory or otherwise, they equally serve to show the prevalent disposition of men to bring all human concerns to the bar of reason, and make them submit to her decrees.

There is nothing in which the progress of reason and philosophy are more shown, than in the subject of religion. A large part, perhaps I may say, the best part of religion, as it is most productive of good results, is the religion of the heart; and consists in a profound and thorough sense of the wisdom and beneficence of the Creator--of thanksgiving for the blessings he has vouchsafed to frail and humble beings like ourselves--to vigorous self-examinations by our own conscience--to fervent aspirations after moral excellence in this life, and a purer and higher state of existence hereafter. But all of these are impulses of the feelings, rather than the cold dictates of the reasoning faculty; and being dependant on the laws of our emotions, which are as unchangeable as our forms, and probably as much the result of organization, are the same in character, if not in degree, in every stage of society.

But while philosophy has not altered, and could not alter these impulses of the heart, we may see here also its benignant operations. It has driven away from religion the superstitions which fraud and credulity combined had gathered around it. Man no longer imputes to the Deity the same violent and ignoble passions by which the baser part of his own nature is agitated; and instead of regarding cruelty and vengeance as attributes of the Supreme Being, he is invested with those qualities which appear to our feeble conceptions more consonant with divine perfection. Thus mercy to human frailty and pity for human suffering, are regarded as divine attributes no less than wisdom and power. On the part of its votaries, humility is invoked to take the place of pride; forgiveness of injuries to supersede resentment; meekness and patience and long suffering are held to indicate a truer devotion than pompous rites and vain ceremonies; and instead of incense and sacrifices, good deeds to his fellow mortals, and a lowly and penitent spirit, are deemed the most acceptable offerings which man can make to his Creator. In this transformation, Mr. President, you recognize the leading precepts of christianity, which may well be called the most philosophical of all religions.

It is true that after this religion became the creed of those northern barbarians, who poured like an avalanche over the south of Europe, christianity became greatly perverted from its original simplicity and purity; but it was not destined to remain forever shrouded in these mists of barbarism. After the growing spirit of philosophy prepared men's minds for its reception and welcome, it broke forth in its pristine beauty and splendor. The further continuance of the abuses of the christian church was inconsistent with the increase of general intelligence; and the reformation must have taken place had Martin Luther never existed, or had the Dominican friars never carried on the traffic in indulgences; though it might not have happened at the precise time, or in the precise manner in which it did occur.

In truth, man's religion, as well as every thing else relative to his opinions and feelings, partakes of the character of the age; and we are warranted in saying, that the christian religion in the middle ages must as necessarily have been subject to its corruptions, its superstitions, and its persecutions, among a people so rude as that which then swayed the destinies of Europe, as that after the discovery of the art of printing, the revival of letters, and the general progress of science and philosophy, these foul exhalations should disappear.

It has been supposed, that the spirit of philosophy which has been so hostile to superstition, is also unfavorable to true religion; and many, listening to their fears rather than their reason, have readily yielded to that opinion. But they have been too hasty in drawing general conclusions from particular facts. It is true that many of the philosophers of France, and some of those of Great Britain, during the last century, were not only opposed to the prevailing creeds of their country, but seemed to have no very fervid religious feelings of any kind; but they were led first to make war on what they regarded as the abuses of religion, and then their attacks appear to be levelled against every thing which bore its name. It is highly probable that, by a natural process of the mind, from coming to hate the corruptions of christianity, they felt a prejudice against every thing which was associated with it. But on the other hand, we have seen some, occupying the very highest places in the scale of philosophers, who were sincere and zealous christians. Besides, the present age, which is the most philosophical the world has ever seen, is also the most generally and ardently devoted to christianity, as is evinced by the extraordinary number of Churches, Bible Societies, Missionary Societies, Sunday Schools, &c. Let then the sincerely devout and pious dismiss their fears. The foundations of religion are seated in the very nature and constitution of man; in the deepest recesses of his heart. It is a want of his moral nature, as indispensable as food to his physical; and philosophy tends only to separate it from a part of the dross with which every thing earthly more or less mingles, and to leave its own pure essence undiminished and untouched.

Let us now pass to the subject of literature, where we shall see the same evidences of the {408} growing influence of philosophy and reason over the minds of men. Thus poetry, in its efforts to please and elevate the mind, by exciting the imagination and feelings, now never addresses us unattended by philosophy. Her favorite occupation of late has been to delineate the dispositions and characters of men; to reveal the secret workings of the passions and the sources of human sympathy; to exhibit the human mind, in short, under its most impressive phases. The prevalent taste of the age is for metaphysical poetry; by which I mean, poetry imbued with philosophy,--poetry which lays bare the anatomy of the human heart, and discloses all the springs and machinery by which it is put in play. Those who are gifted with this beautiful talent, have conformed to the ruling taste, and their success has been proportionate. It is to this circumstance that Byron owes part of his popularity; for in exhibiting the most subtle processes of human passion, its energies and its susceptibilities, he is superior to any of his predecessors; though in the mere embellishment of smooth and felicitous diction, and of agreeable and varied rhythm, or even in the higher attributes of lively imagery and lofty conception, he can boast of no superiority. Perhaps it would be more correct to say, that the metaphysical character of his poetry proceeded not so much from his wish to adapt it to the public taste, as because he himself partook of the character of his age; that he wrote metaphysically and philosophically because he spoke and thought in this way, and he so spoke and thought from the very same causes as his contemporaries.

This inference is the more warranted, when we find the same tincture of philosophy in the poetry of his contemporaries,--Southey, Wordsworth, Campbell and Coleridge.[2] Even Moore infuses into his amatory poems as much philosophy as the subject will admit, though it is of the sensual school of Epicurus. Sometimes we see the spirit of philosophy controlling the poetic spirit, as was the case with Shelley, Coleridge and some others, in whose poetry the precepts of philosophy were more obscured by the restraints of verse than aided by its ornaments. It is an unnatural alliance, and both the poetry and the philosophy are the worse for the union.

[Footnote 2: The recent poetry of continental Europe exhibits the same psychological character; as for instance, that of Alfieri and Monte in Italy, of Goethe and Tieck in Germany, and of Beranger in France.]

In other works of imagination, those intended for the stage, and in the region of romance, we see the same proofs of the progress of philosophy. Walter Scott's novels are, throughout, the same exhibitions of man, whether acting, speaking or thinking, which a philosopher would take. We are made to see, not by the formality of an instructor, or the impertinence of a cicerone, but by the consummate fidelity and skill of the representation, every motive and passion of the actors laid open to our view, and in strict conformity to what we had often previously observed, though we may not have made it the special subject of reflection. There never was before so much philosophy taught by one writer, or taught in so pleasing a mode, or taught to so many disciples.

Such a gallery of moral pictures could not have been created before the nineteenth century; and though they had been, they would not have met with the same unbounded popularity, but, like Milton's Paradise Lost, would have been in advance of the spirit of the age.

In the drama, the plays of Joanna Baillie, and of Byron, are the most metaphysical of all dramatic productions--so much so, as to make them unsuited either to the tastes or capacities of a promiscuous audience. The tragedies of Voltaire are of a more philosophical character than those of Racine or Corneille, and these again more philosophical than the earlier productions of the French drama.

But it is in history that we most clearly perceive the spirit of the age. Formerly it consisted in little more than a recital of the actions of princes, public or private; and no occurrence in the annals of a nation was deemed worthy of commemoration, except battles and conquests, revolutions and insurrections--with now and then the notice of a plague, famine, earthquake or other general calamity. Now, however, the historian aims to make us acquainted with the progress of society and the arts of civilization; with the advancement or decline of religion, literature, laws, manners, commerce--every thing indeed, which is connected with the happiness or dignity of man; he does this, not only because he deems these subjects more worthy the attention of an enlarged and liberal mind, but also because we can, from a faithful narrative of these events, traced out from their causes, and to their effects, learn the lessons of wisdom--and seeing the approach of evil, be better able to avert or mitigate it. It is in this spirit that all history must now be written, to be approved or even read.

In the study of language, we perceive the same evidences of our intellectual advancement. By arranging the elements of speech according to the physical organs employed in their utterance, great light has been thrown on etymology, and in this way, affinities have been traced, first among languages, and through them among nations apparently unconnected. And as all language consists of signs of our mental operations, the general principles of grammar have been sought in the laws of the mind; while language in turn, has been sometimes successfully invoked to explain those laws; and thus philology and mental philosophy have assisted in elucidating each other.

This branch of philosophy (which treats of our {409} mental faculties) has not indeed made as much progress as many others; for it admits not the discovery of new facts. But neither has this been stationary. Great improvements have been made in analyzing its compound states; in separating its original from its derivative properties; in tracing many seemingly diverse operations to one simple principle. To be convinced of this improvement, we have only to regard the theory of associations as it now is, compared with the slight and vague notice of it by Locke; or advert to the opinions of the same eminent man on the foundation of morals. He maintained that there was no original propensity in mankind to approve one action as virtuous, and another as vicious; and that there was no practical principle which was approved or condemned by all nations. He even denied that parental affection, the strongest feeling in the maternal bosom, was an original feeling. He refers to the inventions of travellers in support of his theory, and was as credulous of the anomalous facts they related, as he was skeptical of innate propensities. Thus he says: "It is familiar among the Mingrelians, a people professing christianity, to bury their children alive without scruple; he asserts that the Caribbees were wont to fat and eat their own children;" and that a people of Peru who followed this practice, used, when by the course of nature they no longer had a prospect of more children to eat, "to kill and eat the mothers."

A more intimate acquaintance with the people of this globe, and juster modes of reasoning, have dissipated these illusions; and if I mistake not, the laws of the mind will, in no distant day, be traced with an accuracy and precision little inferior to those which prevail in most branches of physics.

In the science of political economy too, we see the advance of the light of philosophy. The errors which were the result of general and deep-rooted prejudices, have yielded to the force of reason; and all enlightened men now agree that nothing is so injurious to national prosperity as too much regulation; and that the desire which mankind have to increase their means of enjoyment, operates more unceasingly, and sagaciously, and beneficially, than any schemes of the government, however vigilant, intelligent and free from bias; since governments at best can operate only by general rules, which injure some in benefiting others,--while the sagacity of individuals, with few exceptions, devises the best rules for each particular case.

It was for philosophy also to discover the connection between good government and the national prosperity, and that a community will have the most industry, skill and thrift, where property is best protected--where every one can freely exercise his talents or his capital, and securely enjoy the fruits they have yielded. Philosophy, or unprejudiced reason, if you prefer it, also refuted an error once prevalent, that one country, or one part of a country, was injured by another's welfare; and proved both by reasoning and example, that every accession of wealth or prosperity, experienced by one portion, radiates light and heat to all around it.

If the progress of philosophy, or human reason, has done so much in the moral sciences, it has done yet more in the physical branches of knowledge for the material world--more invites our attention and speculation--is more within the reach of experiment, and the benefits it confers are more direct and obvious. It would be foreign to my purpose, if I were competent to the task, to mark the steps by which man has passed from conjecture to certainly--from rash hypothesis to theories founded on cautious observation and experiment--from inquiries which, if successful, had only gratified curiosity, to discoveries and improvements immediately conducive to the benefits of society. To enable us to appreciate the advance of science, it is sufficient for us to look at what the condition of man now is, compared with what it was.

In whatever direction we turn our eyes, we behold some triumph of mind over matter. We cannot see a ship, a book, a gun, a watch--scarcely the commonest implement or utensil--without being made sensible of the wonders achieved by human science and art,--the result of the combined efforts of a thousand minds and ten thousand hands, embodied in a form that has added incalculably to man's power and enjoyment. If we take the departments of knowledge separately, we are filled with admiration at the labor by which it has climbed, and the elevation it has attained. Astronomy, not content with teaching us the motions of the planets and moons of our system, and by them, enabling us to traverse the pathless ocean with the certainty with which we travel by land--of itself a glorious achievement of science--now undertakes to estimate the weight and density of these bodies--their influence on one another--of the smallest on the largest--the flight of comets, and even some of the changes of position in the stars themselves. Optics has taught us new laws of light, and has subjected the most subtle and the most rapid body in nature to measurements, of as much certainty as the gross portions of matter. We now know the weight, density, motions, elasticity of the air we breathe, and which encompasses the earth; the laws of sound--its velocity, force, repercussion, musical tone. By electricity, magnetism, galvanism, are revealed to us new fluids of the existence of which we did not formerly dream. Their laws have been investigated with all the accuracy, acuteness and unwearied diligence which belongs to modern science; and though this branch of physics is every day {410} receiving new accessions, it already forms a copious science of itself. While yet in the full career of discovery, it affords persuasive evidence of the close affinity if not identity of light, heat, magnetism, electricity and galvanism.

The progress of chemistry, shows us the growth of the human intellect in its numerous useful results. In the power it has acquired over brute matter, it has added infinitely to our means of comfort or enjoyment, by improving the useful arts of husbandry, metallurgy, dying, bleaching, tanning, brewing and medicine. Some of these improvements have, indeed, been the effect of accident; but many, nay the most of them, have been the result of human inquiry and sagacity. And the atomic theory, which gives us an insight into some of the primary laws of matter, is a pure deduction of reason.

By chemical discoveries, useful processes which once required months, or even years, are now effected in a few days. The chemist has found means to separate one of several properties from a drug, so that its medicinal effect may be undiminished and unaffected by other combined properties originally with it. Light, which formerly was furnished only by the valuable substances of wax, tallow, spermaceti or oil, has been supplied of a better quality, from the cheapest and most abundant objects in nature; and these improvements are but the precursors of the more splendid retinue which are hereafter destined to make their appearance. This science gives us assurance that all those substances which are most indispensable to man, because they repair the waste which is unceasingly going on in his bodily frame, are dispersed in boundless profusion throughout the universe, but under forms and combinations which conceal them from our unassisted senses; and that it may be within the scope of human art to separate those which are nutritious, and assimilate with our system, from those that are of a noxious or neutral character, and thus to modify the law which has hitherto limited the numbers of mankind. It is now thought whatever vegetable substances can be made soluble can be made digestible, in proof of which, a German chemist[3] has already succeeded in converting ligneous substances into wholesome aliment; and it has long been known that sugar may be made by a similar chemical conversion. What would have been the transmutation for which the alchemist of former days consumed so many anxious days and sleepless nights, compared with these? Gold owes its extraordinary value to its scarcity, and had the adept succeeded in making it at pleasure, he would have lessened its value in the same proportion as he increased the quantity. If he could have converted copper into gold, the gold would have been worth no more than the copper, except for the expense of the transmutation. And if society had gained some advantage in being able to substitute it for metals that are liable to rust, yet it would have lost as much by the destruction of its property of containing great value in a small bulk, and its consequent unfitness to perform the functions of money.

[Footnote 3: Professor Autenrieth of Tubingen.]

It is not improbable that some of these splendid visions of science may never be realized: but then other discoveries and improvements may take place of equal and greater importance; and should those hopes be verified, would they exhibit a greater triumph of art than has been witnessed in our day? they are certainly not more beyond the bounds of seeming probability than balloons, and diving bells, and rail roads, would have appeared to a former age.

The most extravagant fancy in which the man of science has indulged would scarcely exceed the wonders now wrought by steam, whether we consider the simplicity of the means, or the magnitude of the results. When in every vessel of heated water mankind had always seen a vapor arise, who could have supposed that in this simple fact, nature had furnished an agent, which by skilfully managing, he could multiply his natural strength a thousand fold, and move from place to place with the swiftness of a bird? By the alternate production and condensation of this vapor, which he is able to do by the very common agents of fire and water, he is able to extract the ponderous minerals from the bowels of the earth, having made it previously drain off the water which put them out of his reach. By the same power he fashions the metal he has made, into bars, or sheets, or rods, according to his various purposes. By it he performs all those operations which require incessant action as well as preterhuman strength; and thus it is made to spin and weave, to saw and bore and plane. By this he grinds his flour, cuts and polishes marble, prints newspapers, and transfers both himself and his commodities from place to place, by land or by water, with a rapidity which had existed only in the creations of an eastern imagination; and what is no less admirable, with a diminution of fatigue equal to the increase of speed.

The kindred sciences of geology and mineralogy have undergone the same improvements as that of chemistry. And by a course of inductive reasoning, founded on careful observation, the changes which the outer crust of our earth, to the small comparative extent that we are able to penetrate it, have been most satisfactorily shown, and referred to their several chemical or mechanical agents. It has also afforded data from which important facts in the history of organized beings have been deduced, and thus it has shed a light on a branch of knowledge from which it seemed most remote. The notion which once prevailed, that no species {411} of animals is extinct, has been incontestibly disproved; and it has shown not only that there were many species which not only do not now exist, but which could not subsist in the present state of the world. Where important facts have not been discovered by human reason, we see its power exerted in profiting by those which accident has suggested; as in Galvani's discovery and that of Haüy in crystallography, of vaccination and many others.

Of all the branches of human knowledge there is no one which sooner exercised the understandings of men than that of medicine, first as a practical art, and then as a science, as there is none to which he is impelled by stronger motives; and accordingly we find it practised by a separate clan, in some of the rudest nations. Yet long and diligently as it has been cultivated, it has made prodigious advances of late years, and human reason has here too achieved its accustomed triumphs. In the surgical branch diseases are cured every day, often too by young and inexperienced operators, that were once deemed immedicable, and often proved fatal. The materia medica has been improved both by happy accidents, and the scientific labors of the chemist--and the science, trusting only to cautious observation and experiment, has profited as much by what it has rejected from the catalogue of sanative remedies, as what it has added. Reason has here taken the place of superstition and blind credulity, and few prescriptions are now made on purely empirical grounds. We have the most conclusive evidence of the advance of the medical science, in the greater average length of life now, compared with former periods. It has in England increased in 31 years from 1 in 33 to 1 in 58. A similar increase has been found to have taken place in every nation of Europe. In Great Britain, France and Germany, the average increase has been from 1 in 30 to 1 in 38 in less than two generations. And if a part of this melioration may be attributed to the moral improvement of men, to the greater wealth and comfort of a greater number, the diminution of intemperance and other vices, a part also seems fairly attributable to the medical science; but in either way it attests the progress of reason and philosophy.

The progress of those sciences which exercise no other faculty but the reason, also attest the increase and vigor of the human faculties. Algebra is not only more generally cultivated than in a former age, but it is now applied to every species of regular form and motion that matter can assume, and has thus reached conclusions which seemed unattainable by human skill; and the calculus which one generation readily performs, was scarcely intelligible to that which preceded it.

Even our most familiar and household concerns show the increased influence of reason over our actions. The dress of both sexes is more conformable to nature than formerly, and less biassed by caprice and arbitrary or accidental forms. I need only, by way of proof, refer to hair powder and buckles, and the tight ligatures which once bound our limbs or bodies, but bind them no longer. Forms have been discarded or abridged and made subservient to convenience--our modes of eating, drinking and sleeping--all the ordinary habits of social life prove the growing ascendancy of reason over habit and prejudice. Though in all of these we may occasionally see some retrograde steps.

The more philosophical spirit of modern, compared with ancient times, is illustrated by what was then considered as the seven wonders of the world. They boasted of magnitude or costliness--of some enormous expenditure of human labor in a pyramid, a statue or temple, which was fitted to make a strong impression on the senses. But what are the objects which now fill men's minds with admiration and astonishment? They are such as are addressed to their powers of reflection--great moral changes like the American or French revolutions; the liberation of Greece or of Spanish America; or if they be of a physical character, then they are of some successful effort of science and art which directly conduces to the benefit of mankind; such, for instance, as the application of steam to manufactures and navigation--the New York Canal, the Manchester Rail Road, and the Thames Tunnel. These, and such as these, are the world's wonders in our day.

Such then, Mr. President, is the character of the changes which the mind of man has wrought on physical nature, as well as in the improvement of his own condition; and these in turn have effected an immense change in the character of his mind. He has become less subjected to the dominion of his senses and more to that of his reason. He is necessarily made to perceive an infinite number of new and intricate relations, which the progress of knowledge and civilization are ever adding to those which previously existed, and his reasoning faculties have acquired strength in proportion to their exercise. From particular facts he is continually deducing general laws; and from those general laws, laws still more comprehensive. The consequence of which is, that the elaborate deductions of one age become the obvious truths of that which succeeds it, and each succeeding generation is more capable of intricate processes of reasoning than its predecessor.

In the same proportion too, as reason acquires strength, the dominion of the passions becomes weaker. They are less likely to be excited by unworthy causes, and less violent when excited. Reason obviously tends to prevent those mental perturbations which arise from false views of things, as from mistaken notions of right--from the exaggerations of future good or evil, and {412} wrong estimates of their probability. Many objects which a more ignorant age has deemed important, the light of philosophy exhibits in their real insignificance. And in addition to all these direct causes, it seems not improbable that our minds being now so much more occupied in noticing causes and effects, and other important relations, will be less prone to strong emotions, except so far as they may have the sanction of reason. Let me not be understood to favor the dream of some speculatists, that philosophy will ever eradicate the passions. This result is neither possible nor desirable. It is in their proper indulgence that consists all that is called either happiness or virtue, and all that deserves to be so considered by a moral and intellectual being. They are

"The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife Gives all the strength and color of our life."

The passions have been aptly compared to the winds which impel the ship on the ocean of life,[4] but reason performs higher functions than "the card." It sits at the helm, and guides the course of the bark when the gale is not too strong, and takes in sail when it is.

[Footnote 4: On life's vast ocean diversely we sail, Reason the card, but passion is the gale.--Pope.]

One of the consequences of this growing ascendancy of reason is, that there will be less inequality in the civil condition of mankind; and happy are they whose political institutions enable them to accommodate themselves to the change, without going through the process of blood and violence. Whatever may be the advantages, real or supposed, of a difference of ranks, the institution originated in accident, and is supported by illusions, which natural enough in a certain stage of society, the light of philosophy tends to dissipate; and as ghosts, witches and other shadows of the night have vanished at the approaching dawn of reason, the further progress of day will extinguish hereditary rank, which, when it does not, like faux-fire, shine by its own corruption, emits an ineffectual ray at best.

If the preceding views are correct, it would follow that in our reasonings from the past to the future we must take these changes of the human character into account, and if we do, that they would sometimes lead us to expect different results hereafter from those which formerly took place under similar circumstances. The failure to make allowance for these changes, has produced much groundless apprehension, much mistaken confidence, and much false vaticination.

In thus speaking of the gradual progress of reason and philosophy, I do not mean to say that the advancement is uninterrupted. Far from it. Though the tide may be rising, each individual wave does not always reach as far as that which preceded it: so man, in his onward progress to a higher state of existence, does occasionally make oblique and even retrograde steps. By the influence of those prejudices which have not yet been dislodged from their strong holds--under the sway of our passions, which indeed may be regulated, but can never be extinguished, reason for awhile succumbs and philosophy disappears. Thus, in the Reformation, the struggle between those who sought to get rid of the ancient abuses, and those who endeavored to maintain them, was accompanied with ferocity, cruelty and injustice; and men were often hated and persecuted in proportion to their sincerity in avowing their real sentiments, and their firmness in maintaining them. Then too, we beheld those who had been the victims of oppression, when power changed hands, becoming persecutors in turn; and this, not on the principle of retaliation, but because the new persecutors were impelled by the same blind fury as their predecessors, in regarding a mere difference of opinion as synonymous with crime.

Philosophy had not then advanced far enough to teach them that men were responsible only to their own conscience and their God for their modes of faith; and that punishment tended to make hypocrites of the bad and martyrs of the good, but converts of none. They had yet to learn that the unadulterated common sense of that portion of mankind, who were less frenzied by zeal, revolted at such injustice; and that their sympathies acted more powerfully in favor of the sufferer, than their fears in favor of their persecutors; a truth which has suggested the maxim that "the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church."

The French revolution also furnished a signal instance of the retrograde steps of philosophy. The oppressions, the injustice, the absurdities of the French monarchy, and above all, the incongruities of many of its institutions with the state of knowledge and of private society in France, could not be corrected without calling forth all the strongest impulses of our nature--the worst passions of the worst men, as well as the nobler feelings of the best. The advanced state of reason and philosophy among the educated classes, acting on the sense of justice, indelibly stamped on the heart of man, made the mass of the nation see and feel the odium of their civil institutions, and determined them to attempt a remedy. They were prompted in their schemes, and quickened in their sensibility by the superior social condition of their neighbors, the English, and yet more by the American revolution and its happy issue. Before this great event, their notice of the defects or abuses of their government was confined to philosophical speculatists--to rhetorical declaimers--or to those who wielded the lighter, but no less efficient weapons of ridicule--to all of whom many of those classes who most profited by the existing {413} abuses, bowing to the resistless force of truth, and not foreseeing the danger to themselves, gave their cordial support. Public opinion was thus gradually gaining strength and unanimity; and when accident afforded a favorable occasion for the reformers to act, every one was astonished at the rapidity and force with which they acted. But there were strong interests and passions arrayed on the other side, and the shock of the conflict was violent in proportion.

As soon as the cry of reform and change was sounded, every furious and ignoble passion--every sordid and profligate and depraved motive, hoping to profit by the confusion, entered into the strife, and corrupted the whole mass. Then it was that in the heart of Christendom, we saw a city, associated in our minds with every refinement of civilization--the emporium of science, literature and the arts--suddenly transformed into a moral desert. The annals of mankind had recorded no such metamorphosis. To the senses indeed, all the monuments of science and art and social improvement remained, but they seemed to belong to other times. Every thing relative to the human character was forcibly overturned, or wrested from its natural position. Women without humanity or timidity, at one moment braving death, and at another thirsting for blood. Science and practical art employed in devising new modes of taking away life. Statesmen and legislators engrossed by the one great subject of how they might exterminate citizens no less than foreign enemies. Speculative minds racking their inventions to frame excuses for these enormities, or in making frivolous changes in the names of streets and provinces--of the months and days--while Religion, finding nothing congenial to her own mildness and purity, fled from the country, and the infuriated multitude hallooed and exulted in her retreat: and in the metropolis of fashion, which had given the laws of dress to all Europe, and one of whose most distinguished literati[5] had asserted that the apparel was a part of the man, an attention to outward appearance was deemed presumptive evidence of aristocracy. Nor was there a more certain mode of awakening suspicion of incivism, than to seem to be devout, or moral, or gentlemanly, unless these obnoxious qualities were redeemed by some accompaniment of crime.

[Footnote 5: The Count de Buffon.]

There have been those who would make philosophy responsible for these extravagances and excesses, because it had been assiduously cultivated in Paris, just before the Revolution, and some of its maxims were appealed to in justification of the excesses. But nothing can be more unjust. There was mingled with the enlightened part of the Paris population, a far larger portion which was immersed in the grossest ignorance. They had been brought up as it were in a prison house, into which the surrounding light of heaven could never penetrate; and, when set free from the restraints of law, they were powerful instruments of mischief in the hands of those who were at once skilful and unscrupulous in using them. There were also those who partook of the intellectual light of the age, but who from a faulty education, or accident, or the unjust institutions of society had not proportional moral improvement--men who saw the inequality with which the goods of life were distributed; that those who had the smallest share were the most numerous; and that they might be prompted to the inclination, as they already had the ability, to be their own carvers. An alliance was thus formed between cunning and ignorance--the cunning few and ignorant many--and no wonder that in a short time, all that was venerable and virtuous and generous, as well as all that had been tyrannical and oppressive, were furiously assailed and beaten to the ground. The progress of knowledge had no other agency in producing this result, than that a portion of society borrowed its intellectual light without approaching near enough to profit by its moral warmth: and it is as unreasonable to blame philosophy for these outrages, as to blame religion for the bloody massacres and merciless persecutions which were perpetrated in her name. With far greater reason may the moderation observed by the mob of Paris, in the three day revolution of 1830, be ascribed to the influence of the liberal and philosophical spirit, which had been gaining ground throughout the civilized world, and particularly in France for twenty years before: and it deserves notice, that this moderation, as well as the occasion on which it would be exercised, was confidently predicted in this country, by a French gentleman,[6] now enjoying an elevated rank in France; and he founded his prediction on the improved character of the population of Paris.

[Footnote 6: General Bernard, whose anticipations of the leading events of that revolution, in a conversation with the author, had all the accuracy of history.]

Having thus taken a view of the past effects of the progress of philosophy, let us now look before us, and endeavoring to scan the future, learn what are hereafter to be its effects on the world, especially on that portion of it, in which we are most interested.

We are sometimes reproached with being more disposed to look at what our country will be, than at what it is; but when the changes are so rapid and great, we should not only betray a strange insensibility to our future destiny, but be grossly wanting in prudence, not to keep the fact constantly present to our minds. It should affect our policy, legislation, and even our individual contracts and schemes of profit; and while we do not object to other nations seeing, in the {414} mirror of the past, interesting memorials of their former glory, they may suffer us to look at ours, through the prism of hope, in which objects are a little distorted without being exaggerated, and appear in hues delightfully gay and diversified. Let us see then how the certain progress of population, and the probable progress of reason and philosophy are likely to affect us.

Of the rapid advancement of the United States in numbers, powers and wealth, we have now a moral certainty. After the lapse of forty years, we have seen that their population continues to double at the rate which Franklin long ago assumed, and we have full confirmation of the views taken by Malthus more than thirty years ago, and by Franklin long before him, that mankind continue thus to increase where the means of subsistence are easy. There will hardly be any change in this particular here, before our numbers have reached 60 persons to a square mile. Perhaps when we consider the remarkable fertility of the larger part, not before we have reached 100: but with the former limit, our country would contain 100 millions of inhabitants, in three periods of doubling, or in 75 years. Some doubts have been entertained whether our future increase will not diminish in an increasing ratio; and a very general error as to the rate of increase, exhibited at the last census, has favored that opinion. But in point of fact, the increase for the ten years ending in 1830, was a fraction more than 34 per cent., instead of a fraction more than 33 per cent., as our almanacs and other periodicals have stated, because they did not attend to the fact, that the last census shewed the increase only for nine years and ten months. This result is so unexampled and so great, that it requires an effort for us to conceive its reality; yet it rests upon as satisfactory grounds as any future event whatever: and it is not a remote improbability, that some who now hear me will live to see our population amount to 100 millions.

For our political organization we have nothing to desire, if our present government continues. The self-healing power, which more or less pervades all bodies, politic as well as natural, has unrestricted vigor here, and may be expected to bring an adequate remedy for every political disease likely to arise.

But one of the evils apprehended by some, is a dissolution of the Union; and it is asked, if this has already been seriously threatened, how will it be when the sources of collision and rivalship shall be multiplied--when all fear of foreign aggression, which now operates as a band to keep us together, shall be removed--when personal ambition shall seek, by a separation, that field for its enterprises which the Union does not afford--and the natural increase of an indigent and ignorant class shall furnish him with ready tools for his selfish projects?

But I do not see the probability that the proud hopes, which dictated a perpetual league among the states, are to be disappointed. It seems to me that the occasions in which their interests clash are few, compared with those in which they coincide, and that one of the strongest ligaments of union is the diversity of pursuits among the states, by which they are all benefited by a free commercial intercourse. Thus, some produce grain and cattle, others, fish, or sugar, or rice and cotton: some are exclusively agricultural in their pursuits, and are of course venders of raw produce, whilst others are manufacturing states, and purchasers of raw produce: some are largely concerned in navigation, whilst others are inland. Thus all are gainers by an interchange of their respective commodities and species of industry; and this mutual commerce, founded in mutual interests, will less and less require aid from the government.

We may, moreover, reasonably expect, that these sources of mutual benefit and intercourse will increase, and that new products of agriculture and manufactures will arise under some propitious accident or kindness of nature, will extend the mutual dependence of the states, and proportionally multiply the bonds of union. Each state will be important to the rest for its useful products, and they in turn will be valuable to it, both for affording a market, and for the products they give in exchange. The commerce, too, will be the more profitable, and likely to be the more extensive, by its being free from imposts or vexatious restrictions. Under the fostering care of this freedom, we may expect that wine, and silk, and the olive may be added to the products of the south--and that whenever labor shall fall to the point of merely earning a subsistence, tea may be also cultivated; as no doubt some part of our country is similar in climate to China, since it is not only in a correspondent latitude, but on the same side of its continent.

The time will come when most of our manufactures can be procured from the northern or middle states cheaper than from Europe, and when those states will also furnish a larger market for the products of the south. The time has already come when cotton, and rice, and tobacco, if that pernicious weed shall always constitute one of man's artificial wants, can be procured more cheaply from the southern states than elsewhere; and though there is not, within the present limits of the United States, as much land adapted to the cane as will supply its future inhabitants with sugar, without that increase of price which must greatly diminish its rate of consumption, yet the trade in this useful commodity will not therefore be less important, either to the states which sell, or those which purchase it.

This commercial intercourse will be greatly extended by the numerous canals and rail roads, {415} which are destined to intersect our country in every direction. By the greater cheapness of transportation, the commerce will be extended, not only because more distant points will be brought into connection, but also because there will be a greater number of articles which may be advantageously transported. All the canals and rail roads from one state to another, which shall be sufficiently used to compensate for their construction, will be so many sinews to knit together our wide spread and diversified republic. New York and Pennsylvania have already thus bound themselves to the west. Maryland and Virginia, and, without doubt, Georgia and the Carolinas, will follow the example.

When we shall be thus connected by the golden chain of mutual interests instead of the iron fetters of power, and by that homogeneousness of manners which an increased intercourse will produce, what will be likely to effect a separation? Let us suppose any state, considering itself aggrieved by some measure of the federal government, was to withdraw herself from the confederacy, and that the other states were to acquiesce in her course, either because they felt no interest in the matter, or because they were willing to surrender up those interests to a claim of right. It can scarcely be doubted that such seceding state would find the disadvantages of its new situation so great, surrounded by rival and hostile and taunting neighbors--attended with so much contingent danger and certain expense, that after the first irritation had passed away, it would sue to be re-admitted.

But when it is recollected that, in no distant day, every state will either be an outlet for other states to the ocean, or the medium of communication for those lying on each side of it, it would be according to all experience to presume that they will not regard a question thus directly affecting their interests, as one also affecting their rights, and will vindicate both, by an appeal to force, if necessary: and thus the question of separation will always be a question of war. The constitutional question, which may have been previously agitated, will be drowned in the din and tumult of arms, and finally decided by the issue of the war. Victory is the great arbiter of right in national disputes, and that scale of justice on which she happens to light, is almost sure to preponderate.

I have been supposing the case of a single state, or even a small section of states to desire a separation. But it may be asked whether all the states may not voluntarily consent to a dissolution; or at least so large a portion as to make resistance on the part of the rest hopeless. I answer that I am not able to conceive any such general and powerful cause, nor do I know of any example of a similar voluntary disseverance in history. In every case in which an integral community, whether consolidated or confederate, has been separated, it has been by violence, and commonly external violence--either by one nation, subjugating another, or by some successful leader succeeding by his arts and talents in arraying one part against the rest: or the parts of a great empire have been partitioned among the descendants or legatees of the last occupant--none of which causes of separation can be expected to operate here. It is indeed a conceivable thing for some prominent and popular individual to excite a particular state to discontent, and finally to civil war; and although we have happily had no example of such flagitiousness, we have seen enough to make us think it possible: yet whatever may be the supposed success of such men at home, there will always be many counteractions to their influence in the adjoining states, and in the same degree that the agitator is a popular idol in his own state, he will be an object of suspicion in the adjoining states, who will judge of him by his actions, unaffected by his arts or the imposing lustre of his personal qualities.

Our own past history affords some confirmation of these views. It is, for example, now seen, since the veil which once concealed the acts of the Hartford Convention, has been partially raised, that the power of the agents in that combination to separate the union was far less than had been supposed, and that they could not have led on the states there represented to make that shew of resistance to the general government which excited apprehensions for the union, if they had professed any other than the moderate and legitimate objects of making their peculiar interests more respected, and of providing additional guards against the invasion of those interests in the time to come. It now appears, that however we may disapprove the means used to effectuate their objects, the ends were blameless; and there is much reason to believe that the moment the separation of the states had shewn itself to be the ultimate object of their leaders, that moment they would have been deserted by the larger part of their followers.

The case of him whose history has been so pregnant of instruction to lawless ambition, and who eighteen years ago was arraigned in this very capitol for the highest of all crimes, affords another instructive example. So long as his object was believed to be the settlement of the Washita lands, he may have ranked among his followers the most honest and patriotic of the land. So long as he merely proposed to emancipate the Mexicans from the Spanish yoke, the generous and enterprising youth of the west, as unsuspicious of guile in others as they were incapable of it themselves, might have flocked to his standard, and even gloried in the act of self-devotion: but no sooner was it known that the infatuated man was pursuing the phantom of individual aggrandizement, at the expense of his country's peace and in violation of her laws, than he was "left alone in his glory." {416} Most of his followers abandoned him from principle, and the few who were without principle, deserted him from cowardice. It is peculiarly gratifying that both of these examples so strikingly exhibit the attachment of the American people to the union, as it will probably be only in one or the other of these modes that its integrity will ever be assailed.

The event by which the union was still more seriously threatened, has been too recent for me to say much of it on the present occasion. Yet I may be permitted to remark, without opening wounds hardly yet cicatrized, that both those who apprehend disunion and those who dread consolidation may draw salutary lessons from that event; and that each party may, by a course of imprudence, promote the very evil of which it is most apprehensive. I will add, that it affords additional evidence of the strength of the ligaments which bind us together, for if those who felt themselves aggrieved by the general government, had been less sensible of the value--of the necessity of the union--then the master pilot,[7] who at the critical moment seized the helm, and steered the ship of state through the breakers that threatened her on either side, had interposed his consummate skill in vain.

[Footnote 7: Henry Clay, who was thus thrice mainly instrumental in giving peace to his country.]

But when it is considered that the continuance of the union is indispensable to our peace, prosperity, and civil liberty--that on it rest our hopes of national greatness, it would hardly seem consistent with prudence to rely altogether on the natural securities I have mentioned. We should also sedulously guard against whatever may tend to weaken our attachment to it; and should therefore confine the functions of the general government to those objects which are most indispensable to the prosperity of the whole, and to which the powers of the separate governments are incompetent. And while it should exercise no power which was not clearly beneficial, as well as constitutional, it should forbear to exercise such powers as come under this description, when they may prove sources of discontent, or of collision with local feelings and interests. The advantages of such a course will be to give the federal government greater efficacy in the execution of its remaining powers, and especially in our foreign concerns; and it will afford us the best security, not only against disunion, but the opposite danger of consolidation. The continuance of our present complex system of government--the only one in which the highest degree of civil liberty can be reconciled with the greatest extent of territory--depends on its maintaining a just equipoise between the general government and the governments of the separate states; and that equipoise may be disturbed no less by enlarging the capacity of conferring favors than that of doing mischief--of appealing to the hopes no less than to the fears of the community.

There is another safeguard against both disunion and consolidation, to be found in the diffusion of instruction among all classes of people; to which object all the states have given encouragement. Besides the general moral effects which such mental culture is found to produce, wherever it has been tried, it will make the mischiefs of a single national government or of several disunited governments, which are already so obvious to those who have reflection and forecast, intelligible to all. The diffusion of intelligence will operate advantageously to the same end in another way. It will raise the self-respect and honest pride of the indigent classes, and these sentiments afford the best security against an over-crowded population and its deleterious consequences, for they naturally tend to raise the ordinary standard of comfort, and the higher that is, the sooner do the checks to improvident marriages begin to operate.

Supposing our federal union to be thus enduring, the progress of philosophy may be expected to continue with our advancement in numbers and wealth, and to exhibit itself in the increased vigor of the reasoning faculties; the greater purity of religion; the better government of the passions; an enlarged dominion over physical nature; a deeper insight into the multifarious laws of mind and matter; and a general amelioration of our condition, social, intellectual, and moral. But dangers and evils are apprehended by some, when we shall have a large class of manufacturers. This must eventually be the condition of the greater part of the population of every civilized country, since in no other way can the greater part of a dense population find employment. A small proportion of the community is sufficient to cultivate the soil, especially with so fertile a territory as the greater part of the United States; and the rest must be employed in manufactures, or starve. Besides, the products of this species of industry are as essential to our comfort and enjoyment, if not to our subsistence, as raw produce. We must have clothes, furniture, utensils, and books, as well as food: and when our numbers shall be sufficiently great to consume the whole of our raw produce, as in time it certainly will be, we shall cease to export; and the great mass of its consumers here, must fulfil the inevitable ultimate destiny of man--he must labor for his subsistence, either in tilling the earth, or in giving to its products some new form, which by ministering to the wants of others, may enable him to satisfy his own. The people of the United States must therefore become a manufacturing people, as well as their progenitors, and that too at no very remote period. At present, most of our citizens are agriculturists, {417} because they find a ready sale for their redundant products; but while it may be easy to obtain a market for the surplus produce of fourteen millions of people, it may not be equally easy to find a vent abroad for the products of the one hundred millions before spoken of; or even of the fifty millions which our numbers will certainly reach in less than another half century. It must be recollected that while we increase at the rate of three per cent. per annum, our customers do not increase beyond the rate of one per cent., and some scarcely increase at all. Those therefore, who will be thus spared from agriculture, must be employed in manufactures.

The political effects of so large a class of manufacturers in our country, has suggested two very opposite theories. According to one, the influence of property will be increased by the change; according to the other, its rights will be endangered. The advocates of the first opinion say, that capital has the same relation to manufactures that land has to agricultural labor; for it is only large capitals that can be advantageously employed in the principal manufactures; and that the laborers in both species of industry, will feel their dependence on their employers. It will therefore happen that the votes given immediately by the laboring class, will be substantially the votes of the rich landlord or capitalist.

But on the other hand, it has been apprehended, and not without some show of reason, that the working class, having the power in their own hands, by the preponderance of numbers, need only to act in concert, to control the course of legislation. It is further urged, that if the means of popular instruction can become general, or though that should be found impracticable, if the intelligence of the community should increase with the progress of society, that this class will more readily feel its power, have stronger inducements to exercise it, and be better able to devise the means. Admitting concerted action practicable, as it would be obviously desirable, what, it is asked, is to hinder these men from ridding themselves of their proportion of the taxes?--of appropriating to themselves the property of the rich by various legislative devices, as in limiting the prices of provisions, in planning expensive schemes in which the utility would be exclusively to themselves, or not in proportion to the cost,--or even in some moment of madness and reckless injustice, of passing an Agrarian law? It is vain to urge that as such a violation of the rights of property would have the ultimate effect of injuring all classes, or at least a far greater number than it would benefit, it is contrary to the general instinct of self interest to suppose the greater portion of the community would pursue it; for these remote interests might not be perceived, and though they were, they would not prevail against the force of present temptation.

But the argument assumes that there will be a majority of the community who will feel a present interest in such violations of the rights of property, and this proposition may well be questioned. In our country, where industry and capital are free to exercise themselves in any way, there will always be a gradation of classes from the richest to the poorest, so as to make the line which separates them an imperceptible one. We have no political institutions, and few prejudices to make such a separation. Every one is estimated according to his individual merits, little affected by those of his ancestors: and although somewhat of the honor or discredit of parents attaches to the child, yet it is probably little more than is warranted by the presumption that there is a resemblance between them. We are not distinguished into castes as in India, where one portion of society engrosses all the more honorable and agreeable employments of life, and the other is allotted to its most irksome and debasing offices; nor into Patrician and Plebeian, as in Rome; nor into lords and commons, as in England; nor noblesse and canaille, as formerly in France and the rest of Europe; distinctions which at once provoke combination and make it more practicable.

Nor is the indigent class likely to be as large in this country as in most others. Our institutions, in many ways, favor both the acquisition and the diffusion of property. In the first place, by their being more exempt from restrictions. No trade or occupation is fettered by monopolies or corporation laws, or laws of apprenticeship, so that industry and talent being free to act, wherever and however they please, are likely to find the situations in which they can be most profitably exerted.

In the next place, all offices and professions which are means of acquiring property, or are of themselves a valuable property, while they last, are thrown open to the competition of all; and we see them as often, or more often, won by those who were born in poverty, and who have been accustomed to rely on their own resources, than by the pampered sons of wealth and luxury.

And lastly, the diffusion of property is the greater by the practice of dividing an estate among all the children of a family; which, either by the act of law, or the will of the deceased proprietor, has become almost universal. The law of primogeniture, by artificially damming up property to prevent its natural diffusion, must increase the number of the poor in the same degree that it increases the number of the rich. The estate which remains in the same family in England for three generations, and continues throughout the property of a single individual, is here distributed among twenty or thirty, and often a far greater number. This single change in our municipal law, would necessarily have the effect of converting the {418} property holders into a majority of the community.

Whenever, then, the line between the rich and the poor is drawn in this country, it will always comprehend a far smaller proportion of the last class than in any other, so long as our civil institutions retain their present character; and the number of people who have property to some amount, and who have the hope of acquiring it, will always be much greater than those who have none. When it is further recollected that those who have made their own fortunes--a very numerous class in all free countries--are likely to possess energy and intelligence; they may also be expected to possess an influence more than proportionate to their numbers. To these considerations we may add the connections which arise from favors received or expected, by the poor from the rich; the influence of habit; the protection of the laws; the restraints of morality, of indolence, and fear, and they seem sufficient to assure us that apprehensions of a mischievous combination of the poor against the rich, are groundless; and that all which the indigent class can effect for their own advantage by combination, may not prove a sufficient antagonist to the influence the rich will be able to exert over them.

I know of no instance of a successful combination of the indigent classes, except in the case of the Agrarian laws at Rome. But this subject has been greatly misunderstood, and there never was a more well founded complaint than that which the poor made against the rich, on that occasion. Modern historians seem to have followed up the injustice, by misrepresenting the facts, and assailing the character of those who had been previously defrauded of their property. The diligent researches of German scholars[8] have shewn incontestibly that the Agrarian laws, for which the Gracchi lost their lives, concerned only the public lands, which had been obtained by conquest, and not those which formed part of the territory of the ancient republic. As these public lands were charged with a very moderate,--merely nominal rent,--it was necessary to impose some limit upon the portion which a single individual could obtain, which was accordingly fixed at 500 jugera--equal to about 312 of our acres. But the Patrician class soon found means to evade this law, and having engrossed these lands, the purposes for which they were set apart--of affording the means of support to the poor, and of rewarding those by whose bravery and toils they had been won--was thus completely defeated: and the redundant population, unprovided with the means of subsistence, were obliged to become the bondsmen of the rich. Tiberius Gracchus endeavored to have this flagrant wrong, which was a political mischief, as well as a moral injustice, corrected: and whatever may have been his motives, he so evidently had right on his side, that he finally prevailed. But because he succeeded in defending the unquestioned rights of the injured party, does it follow that he would have had equal success in defending injustice? Because he was able to sustain the violated rights of property, would he have been also able to destroy them? Certainly not: For he with difficulty succeeded, even at the cost of his life: and success would have been impossible but for the dauntless intrepidity and the zealous support which the goodness of his cause inspired.

[Footnote 8: Heeren and Niebuhr.]

To the progress of our literature and science we may look with unalloyed hopes. In many branches, both ornamental and useful, we are still behind the country from which we are descended; and we fall as far short of her in the quantity of original productions as in the quality. But this, we confidently trust, is but a temporary inferiority. Our whole faculties are now engaged in cultivating the choicest fruits of civilization, and by and by we shall turn our attention to its flowers. Our late rapid advancement in letters affords a sure presage of future excellence, and symptoms of this gratifying change gladden our eyes in every direction. As soon as the more imperious wants of the country shall be satisfied, and men of superior powers and attainments shall have filled the learned professions, and offices requiring science and talent, then we shall begin to form a class of men of letters, who will devote their leisure and genius to minister to our intellectual wants: And they will find here a wide field both for speculation and description, political, physical and moral. We are justified in pronouncing that our literature will have freshness, boldness, richness and variety, and I would fain hope, the crowning grace of simplicity. Poetry, though not destined again to receive divine honors, or even the same profound homage as in a later day, will always occupy a high place in the world of letters: for the pleasure which can be conveyed to the mind by rhythm, imagery and fervid sentiment combined, are immutable; but the higher province of intellect will be to instruct and convince; to aid us in the arduous duties of life--whether as members of a profession, as citizens of the state, or as moral and responsible beings. Until that day arrives, let us cherish those institutions which best serve to preserve and diffuse a knowledge of science and letters, as well as to increase a taste for them; and never relax in our exertions until we are at least upon a level with the highest. Next to an elevated moral character, this is the most proper object of national ambition: and while I should be content that this country may never give birth to a Phidias, or Canova, a Raphael or Titian--that it should not produce as good musicians as Italy or Germany--as beautiful millinery as Paris--as cheap or good cutlery as {419} Sheffield--I should be mortified to think that we should never be able to boast of such poets as Byron or Pope, such historians as Hume or Gibbon, such moralists as Johnson, such novelists as Walter Scott, or such mathematicians as La Place.

In looking into our future destiny, I have not allowed myself to travel into the regions of fancy, but have confined my attention to those results which seemed fairly deducible from causes now visibly operating; and which are in conformity with the past experience of mankind. I have not indulged in those overstrained speculations with which some have contemplated the future progress of philosophy, but have endeavored to avoid on the one hand, those views of future evil, which it is the nature of gloomy tempers to entertain, and on the other, those visions of future excellence or perfection incompatible with our past experience; such, for example, as the dreams, first of Condorcet, and afterwards of Godwin. Of a similar character, I fear, are the predictions of those who think that war may be banished from the civilized world. Without doubt it is the tendency of the progress of reason and philosophy, to lessen the chances of war: in the same way as refinement of manners checks personal conflicts among individuals. But it will, probably, no more put an end to them in one case, than in the other; and the time may never come, when the interests of nations will not clash, when they will not differ in opinion about their respective rights; when they will not be willing to resent supposed injustice, and hazard their lives to gratify their resentment. Nor can occasions be wanting at any time to call forth these motives to war. Nations may have rivalship in trade; rivalship in fisheries; they may differ about boundaries, or the construction of treaties; or they may be involved in the disputes of others. These causes must be regarded as inseparable from the condition of man, even if he should no longer be exposed to the danger of war, from mere differences of opinion on some speculative points in religion, politics or morals. It may then prove in all future time, as it has proved in all time past, that it is man's nature to quarrel and fight, no less than to love or to hate, and the only difference may be as to the occasions of war, and the mode of carrying it on: in short, that this ultimate argument of republics as well as kings, will continue to be appealed to, as it always has been, when all others have failed.

If this is to be regarded as a part of man's inevitable destiny, let us not indulge in vain repinings at it--but endeavor to prevent it as far as we can, by a course of justice, and moderation, and forbearance: and if, nevertheless, our efforts should be unavailing, let the philosophic and patriotic mind find consolation in the fact, that though war is the cause of much human misery, it calls forth many virtues, and affords occasion for the display of some of the noblest traits of our character--courage, patriotism, generosity, disinterestedness and every form of virtuous self-denial. It gives a stimulus to all the more elevated and severer virtues. It breaks up the icy frost of selfishness, which in the still times of peace may congeal about the heart. The love of country never burns with a purer or stronger flame than in the bosom of the patriotic soldier: nor can any thing but war enable a citizen to make the same sacrifices, or so prove his self devotion to his country. It may then be among the dispensations of the ruler of the universe, that war, as well as peace, is necessary for the development and the preservation of some of our highest qualities, and to fulfil our destiny. Nor let us vainly hope to extinguish national more than individual resentment, but merely to regulate it--to reserve it for those occasions which a sense of justice prompts and reason sanctions: and although it is but a blind arbiter of disputes, it is the only one, in some circumstances, that can be appealed to.

Having thus, Mr. President, brought to your notice, with less of condensation than I could have wished, the great and rapid strides which human reason is now making in the civilized world, as exhibited in every field of intellectual exercise: having noticed the unequivocal signs that this progress will yet continue, that we cannot assign to it any precise limits, and that in all estimates of the future, we must take it into consideration: having endeavored to infer its probable effects on our condition, taken in connection with the other changes to which we are destined, I have discharged my main purpose. Yet I do not feel that I have entirely fulfilled my duty as a member of the Society, unless I say something of its particular objects.

One of these objects was to collect and preserve the perishable memorials of the past history of Virginia, from the time it was a colony to the present day. While this is a subject which must always be one of lively interest to her citizens, it is also one in which diligence will be amply rewarded. Our early colonial history more abounds in events of a striking and diversified character, than that of any of the other colonies; and this state, moreover, has a sort of parental relation to nearly all the states to the south and west. Full justice has never yet been done to this subject. There are indeed points in the history of the settlement of the colony, which require elucidation, and for which the materials are to be found, if at all, only in the archives of England. But on our later history much light has been thrown by a diligent examination of the laws of the colony; and somewhat may be further gleaned from a search into those records of the county courts, which have yet escaped the ravages of war and time. The records of these courts, whose duties were always of a very miscellaneous character, may communicate much information {420} concerning the state of society, the habits, manners and ways of thinking of the people. The authentic details of the public offences and their punishment, is no insignificant portion of a nation's history. Much has been done in this way by Hening's Collection of the Statutes at Large; and though a large portion of the treasure has already been drawn from this mine, it has not been exhausted. After paying a just tribute to the industry and general accuracy of that work, it also suggests a caution to future inquirers against a spirit of skepticism towards preceding narratives, merely because some inaccuracies have been discovered. Of this I may be allowed to mention one or two examples, as in the endeavor to shew (in which Burke concurs,) that the account of all preceding historians of the loyalty of Virginia towards the House of Stuart, immediately before and after the Commonwealth, was erroneous--and that because Robertson in his posthumous historical sketch was plainly mistaken in saying that no man suffered capitally "for his participation in Bacon's rebellion," he is not entitled to credit: or, when Bacon, according to all previous accounts, had, during a wet spell, at the most sickly season of the year, in the county of Gloucester, been seized with a dysentery which proved mortal, to suggest that a death so little violating probability, should be deemed mysterious, and warranted the suspicion of poison by his enemies.

The history of the settlements of the west exists only in tradition or family letters, and its materials ought to be collected and preserved, while it is not too late. The contest between the pioneer of civilization and the native savage, is full of daring adventure and romantic interest. If the command of gunpowder, and the use of iron ultimately gave victory to the former, it was one always dearly bought. The Indians defended their native rights with desperate valor and consummate address, and it was only inch by inch that they yielded their native soil to the invaders.

The origin of some anomalous enactments in the statute book, also invite inquiry. Thus in the year 1647, lawyers were forbidden to take any fees whatever, and in 1658 they were excluded from the legislature. For this uncourteous act, it must be confessed that their descendants have made the amende honorable. The medical profession seemed also an object of jealousy with the planter; as by another law,[9] physicians were required to swear to the value of their drugs.

[Footnote 9: Passed in 1646.]

There is too, a good deal of uncertainty and inconsistency in the statistical accounts of the state. On the duty of the present generation to collect and preserve every thing relative to the revolution, I need not lay any stress. There are still numerous papers in many families, of no sort of value to them, that may yet shed light on that interesting era.

In all that concerns the other object of this Society, the physical history of the state, every thing is yet to be done. The records here are before us, and are indestructible in any reasonable term of time; but we must first labor to remove the rubbish which conceals them, and then study to decipher them. This is a tempting field of research, as it may not only add to our stock of information, but also to our store of worldly wealth. The great Appalachian chain of mountains, which traverses the United States from Maine to Alabama, is broader no where than in Virginia, or consists of a greater number of distinct ridges, and no where has it given as clear indications of abounding in mineral wealth. We have found in it already gold, copper, lead, iron, manganese, gypsum, salt, coal, nitre, alum, marble in great variety, besides other minerals that are useful in the arts; and a more diligent and scientific search than has yet been made, may by increasing their number increase the profit of those canals and roads that are now projected, and give rise to others not yet contemplated. Our demand for fossil coal is of growing importance; for our increasing population at once increases the demand for fuel, and diminishes the supply of wood. I was happy to see last evening, the specimen of anthracite coal from the county of Augusta; and the value of that mineral deserved the high eulogy it received. We may form some idea of the importance of fossil coal, from the fact that steam engines in England are now computed to perform annually, the work of four hundred millions of men! a number nearly double to that now living on the whole globe.

Nor is the geology of the state to be disregarded. Ever since a careful examination of the materials of the earth's surface has been found to afford indications of its past changes, this science has been diligently and successfully cultivated in Europe, and has not been neglected in some parts of the United States. It is high time that Virginia should contribute her quota to its researches. We should be the more stimulated to cultivate this branch of science in the United States, in consequence of the remarkable regularity of the different formations on this continent. Thus along the coast below the falls, we have south of Long Island the tertiary formation; between the falls and the Blue Ridge, the primitive; and the great Mississippi Valley, from the Alleghany to the Rocky Mountains, if principally secondary. There are however, occasional exceptions to these general rules, and they should be noticed with care. As our useful minerals lie near the surface, our observations will, for a long time to come, be principally confined to that; but as there are instances of shafts being sunk in search of salt water or gold, the strata should be carefully noted; and where any pit of unusual depth is sunk, {421} it would be well to make experiments on the heat of the earth, before the admission of the ordinary air has altered its temperature. It has long been asserted that there was an internal heat in the interior of the earth, and further observation seems to confirm it. This fact has lately had a seemingly conclusive verification in England. A shaft had been sunk there in pursuit of coal, to the extraordinary depth of nearly fifteen hundred feet; and by a number of careful experiments, the heat at the bottom was found to be 28° hotter than the average heat of the earth in this latitude, which would seem to show an increase at the rate of a degree of Fahrenheit for every sixty feet.[10] Should this correctly indicate the measure of the earth's internal heat, then at the depth of something less than two miles, we should come to the temperature of boiling water. When we recollect that this heat is not farther removed from us than a two thousandth part of the distance to the centre, (bearing about the same proportion to the earth as the parchment stretched over it, does to an ordinary globe,) it seems to afford a ready solution for volcanoes, earthquakes, and many geological phenomena; and may even excite our wonder, that some of these results of so mighty an agent are not more frequent and terrible than they are. And when we recollect that the confines between organized matter, and that form of it which is inconsistent with animal or vegetable life, approach so near each other, it is calculated to humble the pride of man, that he has been upon this globe all but six thousand years without a suspicion of the fact.

[Footnote 10: See London and Edinburgh Philosophical Magazine for December 1834. This experiment coincides with the theory regarding the internal heat of the earth, promulgated by a member of the French Institute (Mons. Cordier,) in a memoir presented to that association about six years since, in which he gives a detail of numerous observations and experiments on which he founded his theory, now fully confirmed by the more decisive experiment in England.]

There are also problems concerning our climate which well deserve solution. The acknowledged difference between the eastern and western coasts of climates, has been attributed, with a great show of reason, to the prevalence of the westerly winds; and of the fact of their greater prevalence there, is the most satisfactory general evidence--but it is discreditable that the amount of the difference should not be as well ascertained as the fact itself. The average difference can be ascertained only by repeated and accurate observations.

It has also been asserted that the temperature of the Mississippi Valley is higher than that of the Atlantic coast. Mr. Jefferson long ago advanced this opinion, and it was adopted by Volney; but there is strong reason to believe that the direct contrary is the fact. It is, however, high time that this question should be settled by a series of thermometrical observations, and a comparison of facts derived from the vegetable world.

We have, Mr. President, been three years in existence, and as yet have done little. Let us bestir ourselves in the cause of science and of our country; and endeavor, under some disadvantages, to give Virginia the same rank in science and literature that she has always maintained in her devotion to civil liberty and political integrity. Though borne along with the rest of the world, by the great current of philosophy of which I have been speaking, we should not fold our arms in listless apathy, but diligently ply our oars, lest we should be left further behind by those in advance of us, and be overtaken by those now in our rear.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND--NO. 5.

BY A VIRGINIAN.

Scholars in Virginia are not generally aware, that the classical Greek pronunciation is thought to exist still in Greece; and that (connecting this fact with the close resemblance of the ancient, to some of the modern dialects as written) that rich and elegant language is no longer to be regarded as dead. Thus confidently think two intelligent and accomplished natives of Greece, now in Connecticut, who are reputed (no doubt deservedly) to be thorough masters of both the ancient and the modern tongue. In a gratifying interview with one of them (Mr. Perdicaris at New Haven), being curious to hear Homer in his native melody, I prevailed on Mr. P. to read me a few lines of the Illiad. They were by no means musical to my ear--vitiated, doubtless, by the faulty pronunciation to which I had been accustomed, and destitute of those associated ideas, which conduce so largely to the beauty of poetry. He sounds oi dipthong, like e; d like TH soft; g like a mere aspiration, as our h. The word poluphloisboio ([Greek: poluphloisboio]) so expressively sonorous to our ears when pronounced with the full, swelling roll of the dipthong, he would attenuate into poluphleesbeeo--to me much more like the whistling of the wind through a key-hole, than the hoarse, multitudinous roar of an agitated ocean. I spare you, here, a speculation that is passing in my mind, as to how far this diversity between different ears, proves the notion of the sound's echoing to the sense to be merely fanciful; and as to the influence of previous association upon our relish of poetical, and of other beauty--how much, for example, of the native Greek's rapture at Homer, is owing to love of country, and how much of an American's ecstacies to classical enthusiasm, the pride of learning, or the influence of names. Yes, I spare you--partly, because I have not much that is new to say upon the subject; and partly because, if I had, it would be wholly out of season.

By special invitation, I attended a lecture (one of a series) delivered by Mr. Perdicaris, upon the literary and political history of modern Greece. It was marked by a rich yet chaste imagination, a generous glow of patriotic enthusiasm, and the eloquence which they naturally inspire. You may feel a curiosity, as I did, {422} to know somewhat of the outer man of a modern Greek. Mr. P. is about the middle height, or five feet nine; shoulders broad, and a stout frame; black hair, disposed to curl; large black whiskers, flanking a broad oval face, the complexion whereof is a darkish olive--as dark, at least, as Mr. Webster's. Having been eleven years in this country, he speaks our language fluently and intelligibly: indeed, as is usual with those who learn a foreign tongue from books, and from enlightened native speakers, his English is remarkably pure. A few rhetorical and grammatical faults there were--for instance, "he left Athens" was curtailed (a la Yankee) to "he left." This is a New England-ism not confined to the vulgar: neither is the phrase "he conducted well," for "he conducts himself well;" nor "considerable of a place," for "a considerable place." We hear Yankees of respectable literary pretensions, too, saying shall, where the English idiom certainly requires will; as, "shall you visit Boston during your tour?"[1]--and clipping the infinitive mood, in a way equally contrary to the good customs of the realm--thus--"I have not written yet, but to-day I intend to." But I am chasing game that is hardly worth the powder.

[Footnote 1: If I mistake not, I have heard Mr. Webster himself use shall in this manner. It is an innovation, sustained by no eminent authority or precedent in England; and is confined, in America, to the north side of the Potomac, if not to the east of the Hudson. With that still grosser affectation, "the house is being built," "a war is being waged," it should be promptly arrested, before it shall have become inseparably mingled in the "well of English undefiled." By the way, this latter refinement prevails more in the south than in the north.]

I owe to Mr. P. another intellectual treat: the inspection of an Illiad, edited by Mr. Felton, Professor of Greek at Harvard. Of all the editions that I have examined, this is by far the best adapted to schools; and the most likely to gratify the taste, or to aid the study, of a retired scholar. The character is a fac simile of Porson's M.S. Greek--surpassingly neat, simple, and distinct. The text seems to be given with exemplary fidelity. And it is interspersed with Flaxman's Illustrations; engraved cuts, of all the principal scenes: which, though mere hints of incidents, and too meager outlines of persons, greatly heighten the interest of the work. But its crowning merits, are the Editor's English Preface and Notes. I read the former, and most of the latter--much more, I dare say, than is usually deemed needful for a reviewer. They do Mr. F.'s learning, judgment, taste, feeling, and eloquence, very high honor. He does not make much ado about the trivialities of dialect, quantity, and various readings, like the cumbersome annotators upon the classicks, criticised in the Spectator; nor does he, like "piddling Tibbald," 'celebrate himself for achieving the restoration of a comma,'[2] or the correction of an accent. But beauties are pointed out and commented on, with a critical taste and elegance, calculated to make the learner's task a luxury; while difficulties are cleared up with a fulness that leaves little need for oral instruction. The edition is in one volume; and I hope soon to see it supersede the clumsy affair of the too learned Samuel Clarke, which now has such fast foot-hold in our schools.

[Footnote 2: Johnson's Preface to Shakspeare.]

You perhaps think it odd, that I have said nothing of the judicial systems of New England; and ascribe it either to my acting on Young Rapid's maxim--"sink the shop, Dad!"--or to my being cloyed with courts at home, and so, loathing them amid the countless attractions of my journey. Neither, neither--be assured. 'Though last, not least'--they have formed a leading subject of my inquiries: and to judge speculatively, as well as from what is told me of their practical operation (which I have had no opportunity to witness) they have some points worth considering, if not imitating.

The judiciary power of Rhode Island is vested in a supreme court, consisting of a chief and two associate justices; and a court of common pleas (composed of five judges) for each of the five counties. All the judges are appointed annually by the legislature. This feature alone suffices to stamp the whole system with insignificance: for what skill in jurisprudence--what independence of popular excitements and party influences--could be expected from judges whom the breath of a party leader can make and unmake, at each year's end? When to this we add, that the chief justice of the supreme court receives a salary of $650, and each associate $550, we need not wonder that no decision of the Rhode Island bench is ever quoted in other states. The governor's salary is $400; the lieutenant governor's, $200. But if, in scantiness of territory and a corresponding scantiness of means, this state is ordained by nature to be the San Marino of America, yet it is purely her own fault if, by the precarious tenure of her judicial offices, she reduces one of the most important departments of mind to the same diminutive scale, and goes far to make herself morally and intellectually also, the insignificant miniature of a commonwealth.

In Connecticut, justice is administered in causes of small amount by county courts, whose judges are chosen annually: and in larger causes, by superior courts. The latter are held semi-annually in each county by one of five judges, who also form the supreme court. They hold office during good behavior, or until seventy years of age: and have both law and chancery jurisdiction. The supreme court sits once a year in each county. I do not know what actual loss of valuable services Connecticut has suffered, by her rule which drives judges from the bench just at the juncture when their faculties are in many instances the most happily ripe for its functions: but, that she has lost and will lose, no one can doubt who remembers, that thirteen of the best years of Mansfield's judicial life, and fourteen or fifteen of Wythe's and Pendleton's, were after the age of seventy; and that such a rule would have deprived the United States' judiciary, ten years ago, of its present gigantic Coryphæus--confessedly one of the purest and most powerful minds that ever filled any judgment seat. But what heightened or adequate terms of censure can be found for the New York rule, which displaces every judge at sixty? A rule which prematurely discarded Spencer and Lansing; and which, for more than ten years, has made Kent employ the full vigor and maturity of his intellect in writing abstract treatises, and selling chamber opinions, instead of going on as he had begun, to build up for his state a system of jurisprudence hardly inferior to that which Mansfield reared for England?

In Massachusetts, are some very striking peculiarities. The supreme court, consisting of four judges, sits {423} once a year in each county, to decide questions of law, in the last resort. Some one of these judges, besides, holds annually a Nisi Prius term in each county, to try appeals from an inferior grade called "courts of common pleas," original suits in chancery, and upon the bonds of executors and administrators. The appeals to them from the common pleas, are as to both law and fact: a jury being empanneled, witnesses examined, &c., as if it were an original proceeding. The latter courts are held twice a year in each county, by some one of four judges; who hold office (like those of the supreme court) during good behavior. They have cognizance of all causes, except what I shall designate as vested elsewhere.

Presentments and indictments for all offences, are found only in the common pleas; where, also, they are tried--except in capital cases. These, after the indictment is found, are certified and removed from the common pleas to the supreme court; at whose bar the culprit is tried by a jury: a special term being held on purpose, in any county where the judges are notified that a prisoner awaits trial for life or death. En passant--though eight crimes are, by the laws of Massachusetts, punishable with death, only twenty-six persons in the whole state have been capitally convicted, in thirty years! The number of trials (I do not exactly remember it) bears an immense disproportion to the number of convictions: so immense, as to prove that either an undue severity in the laws, or the unreasonable and too common lenity of juries, aided by the overwhelming superiority of defending advocates--or (what is most probable) all three causes together--have well nigh made those laws a dead letter. Prosecutions are conducted by district attorneys, of whom there are four in the state; each prosecuting within his allotted district. In the supreme court, however, the attorney general is counsel for the commonwealth.

Chancery, or equitable relief, is rarely sought in the Massachusetts courts. Indeed it was unknown, until, within a comparatively recent period, two or three statutes empowered the supreme court to administer it, in a very few specified cases--mortgages, trusts, accounts between partners and co-executors, waste, nuisance, and two or three others: omitting the fruitful subjects of fraud, accident, dower, et cetera--and especially the sweeping power to relieve wherever there is no remedy at law--subjects which, by the multiplication of cases, have made our chancery, like that of England, the dormitory if not the grave of justice. And even as to the few specified subjects of jurisdiction, those statutes rigidly restrict the relief to cases in which there is not a plain and complete remedy at law. Before these enactments (and since, too, in cases without their scope,) the rigor of the law was mitigated only by the sense of justice in juries; and by sundry expedients--curious enough, to Virginian eyes--which seem to have left few wrongs unremedied. For instance--if I am unjustly cast in a trial at law, by accident or surprise, or for want of testimony which I did not know of till the term was over; not a bill of injunction, but a petition to the judge in vacation, within a limited time, will procure me a new trial. If my debtor fraudulently dispose of his property; instead of a bill in chancery to ferret out the fraud, I may have, along with my execution (if I have obtained judgment) a summons to the colluding purchaser as garnishee, to disclose orally on oath, in open court, what effects he has, of the debtor.

Roads are laid off by a board of commissioners, established for that purpose in each county; and invested with judicial powers, in controversies on the subject.

The probat of wills, the granting of administrations, the appointment of guardians, and the supervision of the accounts and conduct of guardians, executors, and administrators, are confided to an officer, called the Judge of Probat, appointed in each county for those purposes only; and holding his court monthly, in several convenient places of the county, to hear motions and decide disputes on those subjects. His records and proceedings are kept by a distinct clerk, called the Register of Probat; and an appeal lies from his decisions immediately to the supreme court. We, in Virginia, sorely need some tribunal like this; specially charged with the interests of widows and orphans.

Equally worthy to be copied, is the Massachusetts mode of constituting juries. Lists of all persons qualified to serve, are kept by the town-clerks; from which, just before a court, the town quota of jurors is drawn by lot: and no one is compellable to serve oftener than once in three years. They are paid for their service. Against juries thus formed, I heard no complaints, of partiality, corruption, or undue ignorance. They receive a compensation, which at least defrays their reasonable expenses; and if there be still some burthen, it is borne equally by all, and recurs at such long intervals, as to be absolutely unfelt. How different is our plan, of sending out the sheriff just before a trial, to gather in the sweepings of the court-yard! Suitors and witnesses, attending perhaps for the tenth time, in hopes of having their causes determined--strangers from other counties, nay, travellers from other states--tipplers from the tavern porch--the nearest merchants, mechanics, and farmers, torn suddenly and capriciously from their employments--such is the medley, produced by a system as oppressive to most of the jurors themselves, as it is subversive of the important ends for which they are empanneled. One is really tempted to believe, that in adhering so pertinaciously to a system so obviously defective and so easily remedied, our statesmen have been governed by a fixed design to bring jury-trial itself into disrepute.

Wiser in another respect also than we, these "Bay folk" have no courts (except for cases of twenty dollars or less) held by men who have not themselves studied the science they are to expound: no parallel to our county courts--those crack tribunals of some great men, whose admiration arises either from the want of intimate knowledge--they having ranged generally in a higher sphere--or from their enjoying over that bench an influence, flattering to their vanity, and blinding to their judgments. How long will the public attention sleep--how long will the hand of reform be palsied--when will an attempt be made to cure the unfitness of these courts for the weighty, multifarious, and difficult functions entrusted to them?--the ludicrous, if it were a less mischievous, uncertainty of their decisions, owing to their ignorance of any fixed rules by which to decide?--the delays, so fatal to justice, that attend their unsteady ministration?--the ruinous accumulation of costs, besides harassment and loss of time in dancing attendance upon them through years of litigation?

{424} The Massachusetts and Connecticut plan, of an itinerant supreme court, cannot be commended to imitation. The common arguments, of bringing justice home to the people, and enabling suitors to see in person to their causes, are not pertinent, where the whole case is contained in the record; where no witnesses are to be summoned or examined--no counsel to be instructed in the cause. Then, the loss of time in travelling, and the want of so extensive a library and so able a bar, as would be formed if the court sat always in one place, must essentially impair the correctness of its decisions, and lower the superiority of its intellect.

The common-law of England is made the basis of Massachusetts law, not, as in Virginia, by a legislative declaration that it shall be so, but by adjudications of the courts, recognizing and adopting it as such. By a still bolder stretch, the courts have acknowledged as generally binding, English statutes made in amendment of the common-law--not only before, but since the foundation of the colony: nay, the terms of the decision do not exclude English statutes subsequent to the American revolution. This comprehensive grafting of a foreign code upon the domestic, not by professed and authorised law-givers, but by mere judges, is perhaps one of the most remarkable instances of judicial legislation, any where to be found: and must have arisen from a licentious spirit of construction, which, when it acts upon written laws, may naturally be expected to make them mean almost any thing that the interpreters choose.[3] The admirers of an unwritten law, reposited in the breasts of judges and to be sought only in precedents and decisions, may vaunt, if they will, its happy elasticity, dilating and contracting to fit every conceivable emergency: but I doubt if (among other evils) it does not nurture habits of latitudinous interpretation, destined to be well nigh fatal to one of the great boasts of modern times--written forms of government. Minds accustomed always to make the law adapt itself to the particular occasion; to regard that as law, which the immediate case requires; naturally fritter away constitutions with as little ceremony, as children demolish or alter their sand houses and dirt pies.

[Footnote 3: Hardly less startling an exercise of legislative power by the judiciary, was in the abolition of slavery. The Bill of Rights prefixed to the constitution of Massachusetts, adopted in 1780, asserts, as most of our state constitutions do--substantially copying the Declaration of Independence--"that all men are born free and equal, and have certain natural and unalienable rights;" namely, the right of enjoying their lives and liberties, &c. On this, some masters spontaneously yielded freedom to their slaves; others, on its being demanded of them. In 1781, a master who refused, was sued by his slave for a trespass, assault and battery, and false imprisonment; and pleaded, that the plaintiff, being his slave, had no right to sue him. The court held, that slavery was contrary to the first article of the Bill of Rights; and that therefore the plea was bad, and the plaintiff was free. This decision virtually abolished slavery in Massachusetts, without any legislative act for doing so. Some other suits were brought; but in most cases, masters yielded at once. There were then not quite five thousand slaves in the state. Abolition was similarly effected in New Hampshire. It was by legislation in New York, where there were twenty-one thousand slaves, in a whole population of three hundred and forty thousand.]

The chief court of Massachusetts has tasked the readers of law-books, as heavily as our's has done. Its decisions fill twenty-seven or twenty-eight octavo volumes--about our number. The supreme court of New York has issued more than thirty; the supreme court at Washington eighteen or twenty; Pennsylvania, Connecticut, South Carolina--but I forbear the appalling list. Every good law library, however, should have at least the five sets first named; and they are as yet but just begun. If the monstrous increase be not checked, what purse can buy, what head can read (much less remember,) nay what room can hold them, a century hence? Already, indeed, we are grievously over-tasked: for besides the thousands of tomes, English and American, now accumulated,[4] it is impossible to keep pace with the daily accessions, poured forth from a hundred manufactories of legal oracles. Some powerful condenser, or another Caliph Omar, is our only hope. The oppressive bulkiness of law-reports is owing partly to the reporters; but more, to the judges--who, apparently more intent on the display of learning and ingenuity, than upon adjusting the rights of the parties, often swell the simple and clear page or two, which the case requires, into a rambling and voluminous disquisition of twenty pages. Nay, not content with one such disquisition in each case, each judge presents his own; and the reporter spreads them all at length in his next volume. I wish that both judges and reporters could be obliged to study, as models of lucid brevity, Yelverton's Reports, and the still more admirable decisions of Chief Justice Tindal, of the English Common-Pleas[5]--who frequently compresses into half a page or less, what our American judges would wire-draw into half a dozen pages.

[Footnote 4: "Immenso aliarum super alias acervatarum legum cumulo."]

[Footnote 5: In the late "English Common-Law Reports."]

Lawyers are very numerous in Massachusetts--somewhere about seven hundred; of whom one hundred and sixty or one hundred and eighty are in Boston. Their intercourse appears to be marked by the same fraternal spirit, which strews the toilsome path of the profession in the south with so many sweets and flowers. Admission to the bar is procured, not by examination, but by leave of court, on recommendation of those who are already practising there; provided the candidate have studied five years in some lawyer's office; or have so studied three years, and be a graduate of some college. He has, besides, to pay for admission into the supreme court, a fee of thirty dollars, and for the common-pleas, twenty dollars; to be expended towards a joint library, for the use of the bar in each county. These libraries are sometimes large, and well selected. The emoluments of practice, except to the very leaders of the profession, seem far inferior to those of practisers occupying correspondent grades of talent and fame in Virginia: indeed, I doubt whether any but Mr. Webster receives an amount comparable to the incomes of several there, whom I could name. Yet the life of a lawyer is probably more pleasant in Massachusetts. From the pre-requisites to admission, you may infer that well-stored minds abound more with the fraternity: at least it was so, till our university, and our several excellent law-schools, began to give a clearer and more expanded ken to the mental optics of our young lawyers. Then, in society at large--certainly in the towns and villages--there is more literature afloat in Massachusetts: amusements are of a more rational cast. Where we have a horse-race, a barbecue, a whist-party, or a pool at back-gammon, our Yankee brethren have a meeting of some lyceum, or other society for mutual {425} improvement, at which a lecture is given or a debate held, upon some interesting subject, of economy or morals: or an unceremonious evening visit is dedicated to conversation, in which politics engross no unreasonable share. The newspapers--even the most violent political ones--at once attest and foster the prevalent taste for general knowledge, by devoting a considerable part of their sheets to literary and useful matter: unlike the two giants of the press in Virginia, that can hardly ever spare a column, and never a page, from the embittering--aye, the brutalizing--themes of party strife, to topics which might exalt, enlighten, purify, innocently amuse, and humanize the public mind. There is less locomotion in the practice of a Massachusetts lawyer: he rarely attends more than two counties; for the most part, only one. This, if he loves domestic life, is a great point for him. And in the ordering of a New England home-stead, there is a quiet, smooth despatch--a neatness--a happy fitting of means to ends--a nicety of contrivances for comfort--an economy of trouble in every thing--all calculated doubly to endear it to a home-loving man. When to all this we add, that though the prime necessaries of life are cheaper with us, those elegancies and luxuries which as the world goes have become necessaries, are so much more accessible in New England, as to make a smaller income yield a larger store of comfort; it will not seem wonderful, that the balance of enjoyment is on the Massachusetts lawyer's side. I take for granted, you see, that he is not insensible to intellectual pleasures; and that they conduce the most of all to happiness.

This is probably the last time you will hear from me before we meet; as my tour is drawing near its close. The six weeks it has occupied, have been crowded with more mind-stirring incident, than any six months of my previous life. Vivid indeed is the contrast, between the plodding, eventless tenor of the preceding eight years, and the exciting, the feverish interest of these six weeks. Yet they have afforded scarcely a describable adventure; nothing, at all calculated to make an auditor's eyes stretch wide, or his hair stand on end. In truth, the interest is explicable in great part by the simple case of a plough-horse, turned loose to kick up his heels for an hour. He enjoys the recreation (if his spirit is not broken by excessive work,) five fold more than a daily roamer of the pasture could do. Judge how the sport has kept my faculties aroused, by the fact, that though habitually a great sleeper, requiring seven or eight hours in the twenty-four, my sleep, since leaving Virginia, would hardly average five hours. Even while on foot--walking from twenty to thirty miles a day--my nightly allowance was sometimes less than five, never more than six hours.

Let me commend to tourists, foot-travelling--if they wish to see a country thoroughly: I do not mean its rivers and mountains, cities, forests, and churches, but its MEN and WOMEN. These "constitute a State." Whoever would see them in their truest, every-day garb--of dress and manners--upon occasions and amid scenes, where refined disguises are laid aside, and life appears with the least sophistication possible in our state of society; should walk among them without equipage and in very plain clothes; call in at their houses--partake of their meals--nay, find some excuse for tarrying a day or two at one place--enter their schools, and their public meetings--see them at their work--and hold "various talk" with them. In two or three weeks thus employed, he will obtain a deeper insight into their customs, character and institutions, than from months spent in whirling along the highways, and attending formal dinner parties. Unless he is a hardened pedestrian, he should take care to begin by short journies, of only eight, ten, or fifteen miles a day; and not till after five or six days, stretch away at thirty miles daily. Otherwise he may cripple himself, so as greatly to mar the pleasure of his jaunt. I speak from sore experience on this point.

Though I have been obliged to concede to the Yankees, a superiority in some respects over ourselves, you will not suspect me of having over-colored my limnings, or of having wantonly--much less ill-naturedly--disparaged our good old commonwealth. Without wishing to lower the generally just and salutary, (though sometimes amusing) pride her children feel at the bare mention of her honored name, I have aimed to draw their attention to some traits of Yankee life and character, which we may advantageously copy--nay, the want of which is the main cause of our lagging march in the numberless improvements, that distinguish this age, and appear so fruitful of blessings to mankind. My aim too has been, to disabuse them of a few of the prejudices, which ignorance and misrepresentation have fostered against our Northern brethren. Let any one who thinks I have exaggerated their excellencies, only come among them, and see for himself; bringing to the scrutiny a candid mind, prepared to allow for unavoidable differences.--Indeed our people ought to travel northward oftener. It would be a good thing, if exploring parties were frequently sent hither, (as to a moral terra incognita,) to observe and report the particulars deserving of our imitation. Our independent planters, and shrewd, notable housewives, could not make such an excursion, without carrying home a hundred notions, for which they and their neighbors would be the richer and better all their days. Nor might they profit less, by sending their statesmen and law-givers, to take lessons in civil polity. There are admirable things of every magnitude; from TOWNSHIP GOVERNMENTS, COMMON SCHOOLS, and COURTS OF PROBAT, down to closed doors, splayed and rumfordized fire-places,[6] seasoned wood,[7] {426} and cold light-bread.[8] Some things, too, they would see, to be shunned: I need only name excessive banking,--enormously multiplied corporations, for manufacturing, and other purposes--and, what strikes yet more fatally at the foundation of popular government, the caucus system. But the strongest reason for a more frequent intercourse, is the liberalizing of mind that would result; the unlearning of our long cherished prejudices, from seeing the Yankees at home--that place, where human character may always be the most accurately judged. They too, have some (though fewer and less bitter,) reciprocal prejudices, to be cured by a more intimate acquaintance. No mind but must see the unspeakable importance of weeding away these mutual and groundless dislikes. The perpetuity of our union--and the liberty, the peace, the happiness of its members--in a great degree depend upon the accomplishment of that expurgation. There cannot be a simpler recipe. The North and the South need only know each other better, to love each other more.

[Footnote 6: When the sides of a fire-place are slanting, instead of being square with the back, they are said to be splayed. When the back leans forward at top, approaching the inner side of the arch or front top, so as to make the flue only six or eight inches wide, it is said to be Rumford-ized, If my readers pardon me for being thus elementary, I will presume further upon it, and add, that the latter term comes from Count Rumford, who invented that improvement. The sides of a New England fire-place often slope at an angle of 120 or 130 degrees with the back; so as to make the width behind, not more than half the width in front. The wood is usually sawed, to fit the hinder part of the fire-place.]

[Footnote 7: The wood is cut 12, sometimes 15 or 18 months, before it is burned. If cut in the summer, it is suffered to lie out for a few months, and then put away till the second winter, in the wood-house; a constant and close appendage to every dwelling. Southrons have no idea, though Yankees have experimental knowledge, of the saving and comfort there is in using this, instead of green wood--how vastly further any given quantity of the former will go, in producing heat. It has been satisfactorily shewn, that in a cord of green wood, there are about 140 or 150 gallons of water; all of which must be changed to steam--that is, evaporated--before the particles of the wood in which it is lodged can burn: and in doing this, just so much heat is expended, which would otherwise be employed in warming the room. The time spent in this process, makes our people fancy that green wood actually burns longer than dry: and because a dozen billets of green, when the water is entirely evaporated, give out more heat than four dry ones, they think that hotter fires can be made of green wood!]

[Footnote 8: The bread should not be eaten till it is cured, or stale; i.e., at least twenty-four hours old; and it is good, for several days more. The superior wholesomeness of cured bread is explained by the fact, that on coming out of the oven, it has an over-proportion of carbonic acid gas--well known to be poisonous when unmixed; but by lying in the open air, the bread parts with most of this noxious gas, and imbibes instead of it, oxygen gas--the wholesome, vital principle in the atmosphere.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE WALTZ AND THE GALLOPADE.

MR. WHITE,--Although a short time only has passed since I wrote you a long letter, partly to fulfil a promise made before your Messenger began to perform his most welcome peregrinations, yet the spirit moveth me irresistibly to address you again. The immediate cause of this second tax upon your patience being so soon levied, is the perusal of an article published some time ago in that spirited paper, the "Constitutional Whig" of your city,--wherein, to my great gratification, its talented editor has lashed in well merited style, that outrage upon the yet unsophisticated manners and customs of our country, seen, I believe, for the first time in the city of Washington last winter, as if in mockery of the character and memory of its illustrious founder. I mean the "Fancy Ball," as it is styled by those who have undertaken to describe it; although with all due deference to their superior taste and knowledge, I would venture to suggest "the frantic hurlyburly" as a more appropriate term. I do this from having some reason to believe, that a more deplorable caricature of what was designed to be represented, was never perpetrated by the would-be fashionables in any country--either in or out of Christendom. This foreign and apish intruder has not yet, thank heaven, gained such footing among us, as altogether to preclude the hope of extirpating it from the land, if a few such pens as that wielded by the editor of the Whig, could be exerted for so laudable a purpose; and therefore it is that I venture to cry--"to the rescue," in the hope that several others will obey the call. Let it once be deemed "the fashion" to have "Fancy Balls," and even the greatest clodhoppers among us are sufficiently acquainted with the despotism of this tyrant, to know that his behests will bid defiance alike to reason, ridicule, and reproof--to good sense, good manners, and good principles.

I am much gratified, Mr. Editor, at another circumstance brought to my notice incidentally by this article in the "Whig." It is, that our language, copious as it certainly is, does not yet afford terms of its own to express several of the foreign fooleries and attempts to corrupt our yet simple, unaffected character, described as a part of this extraordinary exhibition, "the Fancy Ball;" such, for example, as the waltz and the gallopade. For the benefit of those who may wish to know the literal meaning of these outlandish terms, without the means of gratifying such wish, I beg leave to offer the fruit of my researches--aided, as I confess myself to have been, by far better scholars than I am.

The first term--"waltz," is evidently of German extraction, being plainly derived from the verb "walzen" which, with the adjunct "sich," means to roll, welter, or wallow oneself; and with the prefix "das" becomes the participle rolling, weltering, wallowing; from which selfish process the transition is quite easy, to roll, or welter, or wallow another. In either case the predominant idea is, that the term describes some action natural to an animal of the order Belluæ; for our English correlative terms are never applied to human beings, but by way of derision or contempt expressed in figurative language. Quere: how does it accord with human pride and vanity--how far is it reconcileable to the lowest aspirations that we are ever willing to acknowledge ourselves capable of feeling, to be ambitious of imitating either hogs, horses, or monkies in our actions?

If there could be any doubt in regard to the derivation of the first term "waltz," or the object of the practice of waltzing, the etymology of the second term "gallopade," must settle the question beyond farther controversy; and must prove that an imitation of certain belluine gambols and gesticulations most be the grand desideratum in adopting these exotic fashions. "Gallopade" is manifestly from the French word "galloper," and that again from the Greek "kalpazein" to gallop like a horse. From all this it seems perfectly clear, that this latter dance at least, (if it may be so called,) in order to honor its Greek Etymon, should be performed on all fours; since for a biped successfully to imitate any action of a quadruped, in which all its limbs are used, the biped must make its arms, if it has any, execute the function of legs. The quadruped resemblance then, which seems to be the thing coveted, would be brought as near to perfection as the nature of the case could possibly admit. Add to this, it is the best imaginable expedient for working off that dissatisfaction at the ways of Providence which these gallopading or galloping gentry appear to feel, at perceiving that all the genera of the Belluæ order, (unless, perhaps, the Kangaroo may be excepted,) have been so much more liberally dealt with, as to be provided with one more pair of legs than they have. It may however be well questioned, how far it is good policy (to say no worse of it,) to encourage this downward tendency, since the natural proclivity of our species to indulge brute appetites and passions is generally allowed to {427} be already much greater than becomes us who claim to be the only rational part of God's visible creation. Heaven knows that we even now approximate far too closely to the lower order of animals in many of our propensities and practices, not to take any particular pains, nor to use any extraordinary exertions to render this approximation still more striking. If we can not prevail upon ourselves to cherish higher aspirations, to act in a manner more worthy of our exalted station among living and sentient beings, let us at least strive hard not to retrograde.

So much, Mr. Editor, for the degradation of these foreign fooleries. But their demoralizing tendencies are matters of much higher concern--of infinitely deeper interest. Let me endeavor to point them out. The perfection of the "waltz" consists in exhibiting to the gaze of a numerous company of both sexes, the female form in every variety of position and attitude into which activity of body and suppleness of limb can throw it--short of what all would exclaim against as absolutely indecent, continually however verging to that point. No modest woman ever beheld it for the first time, without the burning blush of shame and confusion. As to the horse galloping dance, I know not what allurement that may in time be capable of producing, since it is not yet sufficiently domesticated to be well understood, nor very skilfully executed--to say nothing of the very reasonable doubts yet entertained by many nice calculators on such intricate subjects, whether such a thing be possible as either an alluring or graceful gallop performed by horse, man, or woman. But that which I have said of the "waltz," none can deny, however some may be disposed to palliate it, by alleging that all its numerous postures and gyrations are still practised under that powerful sense of decorum which the ladies of our country, (God bless them,) who venture to indulge in it, have not yet been able entirely to subdue. But the anxious question is,--can this always last? Can a sense of decorum or of any thing else continue under the constant operation of causes tending powerfully, nay, inevitably, to annihilate it? There is nothing so great that time cannot destroy--nothing so small that it may not increase to an almost inconceivable magnitude. Thus it is, comparatively speaking, with our best principles--our most approved manners. Injuries too slight at first to be regarded or feared, accumulate by unperceived or neglected degrees, until at last they grow past remedy, and all is lost that was worthy of preservation. Can our beloved wives and daughters--beloved, because still uncontaminated by foreign corruptions--can they suffer themselves to be continually whirled about in all the giddy, exciting mazes of the licentious waltz, like so many French or Italian Opera girls, without impairing or losing all self-respect--all that most lovely and endearing modesty for which they have ever been so justly celebrated, so highly prized? Can not polished manners, easy carriage, graceful deportment, be taught at less sacrifice, less risk, than by calling in for the purpose these deleterious foreign auxiliaries? Surely--most surely they may; for all, I think, will admit, that no more admirable and perfect examples of these qualities can, or probably ever will be found, than among the ladies of what may be called the old school, many of whom to our own great happiness, are yet spared to teach their daughters, among numerous useful lessons, that neither waltzing nor horse-like-galloping is at all necessary to gain for them all the esteem, regard, and devoted love which they can possibly deem essential to their happiness in the present life. Thoughtless as too many of our young men are, and desirous as they may often be to choose waltzing and gallopading young ladies for partners in a dance, most rarely do they yet commit the egregious folly of seeking them as partners for life. However giddy, rash, and improvident some of them may be in other respects, they are too well aware that a fondness for these indecorous displays of the person--these ridiculous, antic gambols, will do any thing rather than fit their practitioners for the various, complicated, and arduous duties of the married state--through not one of which can either a waltz or a gallopade carry them with the least credit to themselves or benefit to their families. Better--far better would it be for these daughters to live and die utterly ignorant of what dancing is, than to be qualified to participate in its pleasures, at the hazard of soiling, in the slightest degree, that spotless purity of feelings and character, which we men rank (and long, very long may we have a right to do so,) as the richest, the most precious by far of all our moral possessions. Deprive us of these, and we shall be poor--miserably poor indeed! Rather let our beloved girls be subject forever to the ridicule and contempt of all the infatuated votaries of these modern and foreign[1] corruptions, both of our manners and principles, than to be longer exposed to their deeply pernicious influence.

[Footnote 1: That your readers may know what our English friends think of waltzing and gallopading, I take the liberty to add the following extract from an article in the New Monthly Magazine, "on the Revolutions of the 19th century." Here it is--

"Look at our balls: In 1800, modest woman danced modestly; and let the conversation which passed between two partners, standing as far distant from each other as people ordinarily do in a drawing room, be what it might, it could do no harm in the way of example. Within this century it has become the fashion for a delicate girl, who would, as Fielding's 'Huncamunca' says--'shudder at the gross idea' of man's advance, to permit herself, and be permitted by her mother--aye, or her husband, to flourish about a room to a wriggling German air, with a strange man's arm round her waist, and her delicate hand upon his brawny shoulder. This thing is called--a waltz: there is another of the same character, called--a gallopade, where the same operations are performed, and in which, instead of turning the woman about until she gets giddy, the fellow makes no more ado, but claps her up in his paws, and hurries right on end from one corner of the room to another."

Thus speaks one of the most popular periodicals in England of these foreign abominations; and it is for Virginia parents and heads of families to say, whether they shall be naturalized among us, or banished from our society as a moral pestilence.]

I am no enemy, sir, to dancing; for I believe it to be not only an exhilirating, healthful, and joyous amusement, but also entirely innocent, when not carried to excess: quite as innocent as any other imaginable thing that can properly be called amusement, in which the two sexes participate together. But at every hazard of incurring the ridicule and scorn of our American exquisites, I denounce waltzing and gallopading, because, from my inmost soul, I dread any thing and every thing that threatens, in the slightest degree, to change, for the worse, the character of the Virginia lady; for upon that character I most conscientiously believe, the happiness both of ourselves and our children--aye, and of our children's children, vitally depends. I cling to it {428} therefore as our best, our last hope, to guard us against all corrupting innovations. Those upon which I have ventured to address you, will probably be deemed very trivial matters, I dare say, by thousands; but many of our ladies, I trust, whose opinions have still much influence in all our social circles; many who will acknowledge me for their true, devoted friend, although quite too old to be their beau, will decide, that I have not ascribed too much power to these exotic fashions. Like all other corrupting influences, they have gradually insinuated themselves into favor; their approach has not been so sudden and violent as to excite alarm. Of this fact, there is no stronger evidence, than that which is furnished by the history of the waltz itself, which, trifling as it may seem, will and must have a powerfully demoralizing effect, especially when followed up by its congenial ally, Masquerades,--of which the fancy-ball-folly is the certain precursor. Mark the prediction, sir, for I know it will be laughed to scorn by all the fashionables of the present day, although I ask only two years for its fulfilment, but expect it much sooner.

When the waltz first made its appearance in this country, it was exhibited only on the public stage, and even there met with almost universal reprobation, except from a few reckless profligates, whose sole object in life is mere sensual indulgence. None so much as surmised that such a dance could ever be introduced into private society. At last, a few adventurous foreigners succeeded in introducing it into private parties: but, for a considerable time, they themselves were the only performers. It was long before our country-women could so far forget the early lessons of decorum, self respect, and modesty, taught them by their mothers, as to make that public display and spectacle of their persons, which must unavoidably be made, in waltzing at all, if executed as the fashion required. But these most natural and laudable feelings, which caused them to revolt at such an innovation, such an outrage against all their preconceived notions of propriety, have gradually yielded to the almost resistless force of example "in high places," until the waltz has not only domiciliated itself permanently in nearly all our towns and cities, but has enlisted in its defence many bold country advocates. The few ladies, (comparatively speaking,) among us, who yet have firmness and moral courage enough, to resist what they deem a very pernicious example, cannot, I fear, long maintain their most laudable opposition, against such a host of assailants. Even you, Mr. Editor, (if you will pardon my freedom in making the remark,) seem a little inclined--judging by some late comments of your's upon waltzing--to submit to the practice without further resistance.

Having made up my mind, Mr. Editor, to meet as I can, for this attack upon foreign fashions, the sneers and scoffs of all our American exquisites, should any condescend to notice me--a class of bipeds (by the way,) who bear the same sort of resemblance to their European prototypes, that the buffoon does to the head performer in a company of tumblers and rope dancers--I shall say nothing to deprecate their displeasure. But I must still beg leave to assign a few of my chief reasons for addressing you on this occasion, lest that numerous and highly respectable portion of your readers, whose good opinion I am anxious to retain, may mistake my motives. Without some satisfactory explanation, some of them might even be tempted to exclaim at me, as old Edie Ochiltree did at the Antiquary--"Lordsake! he's gaun gyte!"--"he has run crazy, to venture upon taking by the horns this mad creature, Fashion, as if his feeble arm could at all check the wild headlong course of such an animal." To prevent such comments, if possible, I will urge in my own justification, should any be necessary, that I have done this deed, because I deem it an essential part of every aged person's obligations to his fellow men, as long as life lasts, to oppose either orally or in print, for the benefit of the youth of our country, every innovation, be it what it may, which threatens to affect them injuriously. Whether they will listen to him or not, depends upon themselves; his duty in this behalf will have been fulfilled. I have done it too, because I believe, that the most feeble laborer with honest intentions, in a good cause, may accomplish some good which will amply compensate him for his efforts. I have done it, because apparent trifles are rarely noticed in books, although many of these trifles have a most powerful and deleterious influence, not only on our principles of action, but over our manners and conduct. And lastly, I have done it, because I believe, without the most remote possibility of this conviction ever being changed, that the happiness of the present, as well as of every future generation, depends upon preserving unsullied the purity of the female character. The matrons of our country are the first, the most watchful, the best guardians of our children, where they themselves have been virtuously educated. They form the manners and character of these children: they sow the seeds of all their good qualities: they first discover and cherish with boundless affection and solicitude, the earliest dawnings of each amiable disposition; and never relax while life lasts, their anxious efforts to fit them both for their present and future state of existence. How momentous then! how vitally important it is! that, when the mothers depart hence to another and a happier world, their surviving daughters should be qualified to take their places, with equal capacity to fulfil all their duties. But this, alas, cannot possibly be, without the most zealous, unremitting and assiduous care, to guard them, as we would the most inestimable of our possessions, against all demoralizing influences whatever. Corrupt the source, and what will be the effect of its streams? Poison the fountain, and who can drink of its waters without death--death, both in a figurative and literal sense? An atom of dust in itself is unworthy of notice; but in reference to the great planet we inhabit, it is a constituent and essential part. A drop of water alone, is apparently valueless; yet the mighty ocean itself is composed of individual drops, without which its bed would be an arid desert.

The application of these general remarks to our subject, is too manifest, I hope, to be mistaken. Let nothing, therefore, however trivial it may appear on a cursory view, be deemed unworthy of serious attention, which either directly or indirectly, can injuriously affect the yet distinctive, still unsullied character of our justly and dearly beloved country-women.

Having thus thought and felt, as long as I have been at all capable of serious reflection, it is quite too late to change: I am consequently prepared to submit unmoved to whatever sentence may be pronounced against this second communication, from your friend, and constant reader,

OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.

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[The following amusing incident, is related in the lively manner for which its author is much celebrated. The moral predicated upon the bashfulness of his visiter, seems however disproportionably serious. There are few cases of such extreme mauvaise honte in the present day, when an excess of modest assurance (by some denominated impudence,) is rather to be complained of.]

From the New York Mirror.

A BASHFUL GENTLEMAN.

BY M. M. NOAH.

Modesty, diffidence, and a proper humility, are jewels in the cap of merit; but downright bashfulness, your real mauvaise honte is terrible, and is a distinct mark of ill-breeding, or rather of no breeding at all. Your dashing impudent fops, who say a thousand silly things to the ladies, and flutter around them like butterflies, are yet more endurable than your bashful fellow who sneaks into a corner, terrified to catch a look, or exchange a word with a pretty woman.

Such an identical person paid me a visit on one of the cold days last week, and broke in upon me with a thousand bows and apologies, while busily engaged with pen in hand, thinking of a whig candidate for president, who would not run the risk of being knocked on the head by our friends the moment his name was announced.

"Sit down, sir, if you please; make no more apologies; sit down and tell me your business." "Well, sir, I'm come for a curious business, quite an intrusion, I'm sure, but so it is; necessity knows no ceremony. Some time ago I read in your paper a description of the miseries of an old bachelor, and it was so to the life--so true, and so exactly my condition, that I have made bold to call on you for advice; for misery, they say, loves company, and one wretched bachelor may be able to counsel another--thus it is.--" "Stop, stop, my friend; before you proceed, let me correct an error in which you have, no doubt, inadvertently fallen. Though I may be able from memory to describe the misery of single wretchedness, I had not the courage constantly to face it. You must not be deceived, I am no longer a bachelor; do you want the proofs, look there; that black-eyed, ruddy cheeked fellow on the carpet, employed in cutting out ships and houses from old newspapers, is my oldest; he designs himself to be an editor, for he contends that nothing is easier; it is only, he says, cutting out slips from one paper and putting them into another. That little one who struts about in a paper cocked-hat and wooden sword, with which, ever and anon, he pokes at my ribs, while deeply engaged in considering how the nation is to be saved, is my second hopeful; he is a Jackson man; all children, sir, are Jackson men; he goes for a soldier if there be wars. That little golden-haired urchin, with a melting blue eye, who is sure to ask me for candy, while I am describing, in bitter terms, the tyranny of the Albany regency, is my youngest; and there, with a basket of stockings near her, sits my better half; there is the sparkling fire, and here are my slippers: does all this look like the miseries of a bachelor?" "Well, I beg your pardon, sir, for believing that you were as wretched as I am; but still when you hear my story you may possibly advise me what is best to be done." "Go on, sir." "Well, sir, thus it is: My father realized a handsome property by his industry, which he left to me; but such were his rigid notions of the necessity of constant occupation to prevent idleness and other evils, that my time was employed, after I had left school, which was at an early age, from sunrise to bed-time. It was an incessant round of occupation--labor, keeping books, and making out bills. Behold me now, at the age of twenty-three, with a good constitution, correct principles, and a handsome income. I have lost my parents--am alone in the world. I wish to marry, but really, sir, to my shame I confess it, I have no acquaintance among young ladies. I do not know any. My secluded manner of living has prevented my cultivating their acquaintance; and if by accident I am thrown into their society, my tongue is literally tied. I do not know how to address them--I am not conversant with the topics which are usually discussed. In short, sir, I wish to advertise for a wife, and not knowing how to draw up such an advertisement, I came to beg that favor at your hands."

"So, so," said I to myself, "here's a little modesty tumbled into decay--'Coelebs in search of a wife.'" He was a good-looking young fellow, and had a quick eye, which led me very much to doubt his reserved, retired and abashed condition before the ladies.

"Have you, sir, considered the risk in taking a wife in this strange way? How very liable you may be to gross imposition? What lady of delicacy or reputation would venture to contract an alliance so very solemn and obligatory, through the channel of a newspaper advertisement?" "Very probably, sir; but a poor honest girl might be struck with it; a clever, well-educated daughter, ill-treated by a fiery step-mother, might, in despair, change her condition for a better one; nay, a spirited girl might admire the novelty, and boldly make the experiment." "Well, sir, and how are you to conduct the negotiation with your native bashfulness? You have no superannuated grandmother or old maiden aunt to arrange preliminaries." "That's very true; but, sir, necessity will give me confidence, and despair afford me courage."

I wrote the advertisement for him, which he thankfully and carefully placed in his pocket-book, and bade us good morning. "Poor devil," said I, "here's a condition--here's a novelty--here's a rara avis! a fellow of twenty-three, with a good character and income, and not sufficient impudence to ask for a wife. I know lots of young ladies who would have sufficient charity to break him of his bashfulness in a few lessons."

However, his case is not a novel one. It shows the necessity of parents accustoming their sons in early life to cultivate the society of respectable females. They should be encouraged in any disposition they may manifest for good female society, although they may incur the charge of being either a beau or a dandy. Boys should go to dancing-school, not only because it teaches them grace, but it accustoms them in early life to the society of women. They dance with those girls, whom, in later periods, they may admire and respect as ladies. The lives of children should be checkered with innocent amusements--study and labor require such relief; and they should not be brought up in close confinement, in a doggerel way which unfits them for society when they are men; nor be driven to the dire necessity of advertising for a wife, and taking the risk of such a desperate adventure.

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From the Knickerbocker.

A SCENE IN REAL LIFE.

'The facts not otherwise than here set down.' Wife of Mantua.

Amidst the exaggerations of modern literature, and the fictions of that exuberant fancy, which in these latter days is tasked to gratify a public taste somewhat vitiated, it is useful to present occasional views of actual existence. Such are contained in the following sketch, which is studiously simple in its language, and every event of which is strictly true. We have this assurance from a source entitled to implicit credit.

Editors Knickerbocker.

There is a vast amount of suffering in the world that escapes general observation. In the lanes and alleys of our populous cities, in the garrets and cellars of dilapidated buildings, there are pregnant cases of misery, degradation, and crime, of which those who live in comfortable houses, and pursue the ordinary duties of life, have neither knowledge nor conception. By mere chance, occasionally, a solitary instance of depravity and awful death is exposed, but the startling details which are placed before the community, are regarded as gross exaggerations. It is difficult for those who are unacquainted with human nature in its darkest aspects, to conceive the immeasurable depth to which crime may sink a human being,--and the task of attempting to delineate a faithful picture of such depravity, though it might interest the philosopher, would be revolting to the general reader. There are, however, cases of folly and error, which should be promulgated as warnings, and the incidents of the annexed sketch are of this character. Mysterious are the ways of Providence in punishing the transgressions of men,--and indisputable is the truth, that Death is the wages of Sin.

* * * * *

Twenty years ago, no family in the fashionable circles of Philadelphia was more distinguished than that of Mr. L----: no lady was more admired and esteemed than his lovely and accomplished wife. They had married in early life, with the sanction of relations and friends, and under a conviction that each was obtaining a treasure above all price. They loved devotedly and with enthusiasm, and their bridal day was a day of pure and unadulterated happiness to themselves, and of pleasure to those who were present to offer their congratulations on the joyous event. The happy pair were the delight of a large circle of acquaintances. In her own parlor, or in the drawing-rooms of her friends, the lady was ever the admiration of those who crowded around her, to listen to the rich melody of her voice, or to enjoy the flashes of wit and intelligence which characterized her conversation.

Without the egotism and vanity which sometimes distinguish those to whom society pays adulation, and too prudent and careful in her conduct to excite any feeling of jealousy in the breast of her confiding husband, Mrs. L----'s deportment was in all respects becoming a woman of mind, taste, and polished education. Her chosen companion noticed her career with no feelings of distrust, but with pride and satisfaction. He was happy in the enjoyment of her undivided love and affection, and happy in witnessing the evidences of esteem which her worth and accomplishments elicited. Peace and prosperity smiled on his domestic circle, and his offspring grew up in loveliness, to add new pleasures to his career.

The youngest of his children was a daughter, named Letitia, after her mother, whom, in many respects, she promised to resemble. She had the same laughing blue eyes, the same innocent and pure expression of countenance, and the same general outline of feature. At an early age her sprightliness, acute observation, and aptitude in acquiring information, furnished sure evidences of intelligence, and extraordinary pains were taken to rear her in such a manner as to develope, advantageously, her natural powers. The care of her education devolved principally upon her mother, and the task was assumed with a full consciousness of its responsibility.

With the virtuous mother, whose mind is unshackled by the absurdities of extreme fashionable life, there are no duties so weighty, and at the same time so pleasing, as those connected with the education of an only daughter. The weight of responsibility involves not only the formation of an amiable disposition and correct principles, but in a great measure, the degree of happiness which the child may subsequently enjoy. Errors of education are the fruitful source of misery, and to guard against these is a task which requires judgment, and unremitting diligence. But for this labor, does not the mother receive a rich reward? Who may tell the gladness of her heart, when the infant cherub first articulates her name? Who can describe the delightful emotions elicited by the early development of her genius,--the expansion of the intellect when it first receives and treasures with eagerness, the seeds of knowledge? These are joys known only to mothers, and they are joys which fill the soul with rapture.

Letitia was eight years old, when a person of genteel address and fashionable appearance, named Duval, was introduced to her mother by her father, with whom he had been intimate when a youth, and between whom a strong friendship had existed from that period. Duval had recently returned from Europe, where he had resided a number of years. He was charmed with the family, and soon became a constant visitor. Having the entire confidence of his old friend and companion, all formality in reference to intercourse was laid aside, and he was heartily welcomed at all hours, and under all circumstances. He formed one in all parties of pleasure, and in the absence of his friend, accompanied his lady on her visits of amusement and pleasure,--a privilege which he sedulously improved whenever opportunity offered.

Duval, notwithstanding his personal attractions and high character as a 'gentleman,' belonged to a class of men which has existed more or less in all ages, to disgrace humanity. He professed to be a philosopher, but was in reality a libertine. He lived for his own gratification. It monopolized all his thoughts, and directed all his actions. He belonged to the school of Voltaire, and recognized no feeling of the heart as pure, no tie of duty or affection as sacred. No consideration of suffering, of heart-rending grief, on the part of his victim, were sufficient to intimidate his purpose, or check his career of infamy. Schooled in hypocrisy, dissimulation was his business: and he regarded the whole world as the sphere of his operations,--the whole human family as legitimate subjects for his villainous depravity.

That such characters,--so base, so despicable, so lost to all feelings of true honor,--can force their way into respectable society, and poison the minds of the unsullied {431} and virtuous, may well be a matter of astonishment to those unacquainted with the desperate artfulness of human hearts. But these monsters appear not in their true character: they assume the garb and deportment of gentlemen, of philosophers, of men of education and refinement, and by their accomplishments, the suavity of their manners, their sprightliness of conversation, bewilder before they poison, and fascinate before they destroy.

If there be, in the long catalogue of guile, one character more hatefully despicable than another, it is the libertine. Time corrects the tongue of slander, and the generosity of friends makes atonement for the depredations of the midnight robber. Sufferings and calamities may be assuaged or mitigated by the sympathies of kindred hearts, and the tear of affection is sufficient to wash out the remembrance of many of the sorrows to which flesh is heir. But for the venom of the libertine, there is no remedy,--of its fatal consequences, there is no mitigation. His victims, blasted in reputation, are forever excluded from the pale of virtuous society. No sacrifice can atone for their degradation, for the unrelenting and inexorable finger of scorn obstructs their progress at every step. The visitation of death, appalling as is his approach to the unprepared, were a mercy, compared with the extent and permanency of this evil.

Duval's insidious arts were not unobserved by his intended victim. She noticed the gradual development of his pernicious principles, and shrunk with horror from their contaminating influence. She did not hesitate to communicate her observations to her husband,--but he, blinded by prejudice in favor of his friend, laughed at her scruples. Without a word of caution, therefore, his intercourse was continued,--and such was the weight of his ascendant power,--such the perfection of his deep laid scheme, and such his facility in glossing over what he termed pardonable, but which, in reality, were grossly licentious, indiscretions of language and conduct,--that even the lady herself was induced, in time, to believe that she had treated him unjustly. The gradual progress of licentiousness is almost imperceptible, and before she was aware of her error, she had drunk deeply of the intoxicating draught, and had well nigh become a convert to Duval's system of philosophy. Few who approach this fearful precipice are able to retrace their steps. The senses are bewildered,--reason loses its sway,--and a whirlpool of maddening emotions takes possession of the heart, and hurries the infatuated victim to irretrievable death. Before her suspicions were awakened, the purity of her family circle was destroyed. Duval enrolled on his list of conquests a new name,--the wife of his bosom friend!

An immediate divorce was the consequence. The misguided woman, who but late had been the ornament of society and the pride of her family, was cast out upon the world, unprotected, and without the smallest resource. The heart of the husband was broken by the calamity which rendered this step necessary, and he retired, with his children, to the obscurity of humble life.

* * * * *

At a late hour on one of those bitter cold evenings experienced in the early part of January, of the present year, two females, a mother and daughter, both wretchedly clad, stood shivering at the entrance of a cellar, in the lower part of the city, occupied by two persons of color. The daughter appeared to be laboring under severe indisposition, and leaned for support on the arm of her mother, who, knocking at the door, craved shelter and warmth for the night. The door was half opened in answer to the summons, but the black who appeared on the stairs, declared that it was out of his power to comply with the request, as he had neither fire,--except that which was furnished by a handful of tan,--nor covering for himself and wife. The mother, however, too much inured to suffering to be easily rebuked, declared that herself and daughter were likely to perish from cold, and that even permission to rest on the floor of the cellar, where they would be protected, in some degree, from the 'nipping and eager air,' would be a charity for which they would ever be grateful. She alleged, as an excuse for the claim to shelter, that she had been ejected, a few minutes before, from a small room which, with her daughter, she had occupied in a neighboring alley, and for which she had stipulated to pay fifty cents per week, because she had found herself unable to meet the demand,--every resource for obtaining money having been cut off by the severity of the season. The black, more generous than many who are more ambitious of a reputation for benevolence, admitted the shivering applicants, and at once resigned, for their accommodation for the night, the only two seats in the cellar, and cast a fresh handful of tan upon the ashes in the fire place.

It was a scene of wretchedness, want, and misery, calculated to soften the hardest heart, and to enlist the feelings and sympathies of the most selfish. The regular tenants of the cellar were the colored man and his wife, who gained a scanty and precarious subsistence, as they were able, by casual employment in the streets, or in neighboring houses. Having in summer made no provision for the inclemencies of winter, they were then utterly destitute. They had sold their articles of clothing and furniture, one by one, to provide themselves with bread, until all were disposed of, but two broken chairs, a box that served for a table, and a small piece of carpeting, which answered the double purpose of a bed and covering. Into this department of poverty were the mother and daughter,--lately ejected from a place equally destitute of the comforts of life,--introduced. The former was a woman of about fifty years, but the deep furrows on her face, and her debilitated frame, betokened a more advanced age. Her face was wan and pale, and her haggard countenance and tattered dress, indicated a full measure of wretchedness. Her daughter sat beside her, and rested her head on her mother's lap. She was about twenty-five years of age, and might once have been handsome,--but a life of debauchery had thus early robbed her cheeks of their roses and prostrated her constitution. The pallidness of disease was on her face,--anguish was in her heart.

Hours passed on. In the gloom of midnight, the girl awoke from a disturbed and unrefreshing slumber. She was suffering from acute pain, and in the almost total darkness which pervaded the apartment, raised her hand to her mother's face. 'Mother,' said she, in faltering accents, 'are you here?'

'Yes, child: are you better?'

'No, mother,--I am sick,--sick unto death! There is a canker at my heart,--my blood grows cold,--the torpor of mortality is stealing upon me!'

{432} 'In the morning, my dear, we shall be better provided for. Bless Heaven, there is still one place which, thanks to the benevolent, will afford us sustenance and shelter.'

'Do not thank Heaven, mother: you and I are outcasts from that place of peace and rest. We have spurned Providence from our hearts, and need not now call it to our aid. Wretches, wretches that we are!'

'Be composed, daughter,--you need rest.'

'Mother, there is a weight of woe upon my breast, that sinks me to the earth. My brief career of folly is almost at an end. I have erred,--oh God! fatally erred,--and the consciousness of my wickedness now overwhelms me. I will not reproach you, mother, for laying the snare by which I fell,--for enticing me from the house of virtue,--the home of my heart-broken father,--to the house of infamy and death: but oh, I implore you, repent: be warned, and let penitence be the business of your days.'

The hardened heart of the mother melted at this touching appeal, and she answered with a half-stifled sigh:

'Promise me then, ere I die, that you will abandon your ways of iniquity, and endeavor to make peace with Heaven.'

'I do,--I do! But, alas my child, what hope is there for me?'

'God is merciful to all who ----'

The last word was inaudible. A few respirations, at long intervals, were heard, and the penitent girl sunk into the quiet slumber of death. Still did the mother remain in her seat, with a heart harrowed by the smitings of an awakened conscience. Until the glare of daylight was visible through the crevices of the door, and the noise of the foot passengers and the rumbling of vehicles in the street had aroused the occupants of the cellar, she continued motionless, pressing to her bosom the lifeless form of her injured child. When addressed by the colored woman, she answered with an idiot stare. Sensibility had fled,--the energies of her mind had relaxed, and reason deserted its throne. The awful incidents of that night had prostrated her intellect, and she was conveyed from the gloomy place, A MANIAC!

The Coroner was summoned, and an inquest held over the body of the daughter. In the books of that humane and estimable officer, the name of the deceased is recorded,--'LETITIA L----.'

B. M.

Philadelphia.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CHRISTIAN EDUCATION.

It is a grand desideratum in all the affairs of life, to hold fast what we get. The business of evangelizing the world, is like the stone of Sisyphus, continually recoiling upon each successive generation. We want something like what the sailors call a Paul to the Capstan,--a sort of Ratchet. This is the business of Christian Education, and the problem is to devise such a system of religious training and instruction, as shall be best adapted to that end.

It must be admitted that hitherto but little has been done, notwithstanding that the blessings of the gospel are promised to believers and to their children also. It is not found that the care of pious parents, to infuse religious sentiments into the hearts of their children, is attended with any remarkable success. Indeed, there is often found a prejudice against religion, which seems to have grown up with them, and is eradicated with the more difficulty, because it has sprung up and rooted itself in a soil cleared from the rank weeds of vicious indulgence, and prepared to receive the seed of the spirit of God. This seed the enemy snatches away, and scatters the tares of enmity and rebellion in the place of it. They spring up in the night. They grow in darkness, shaded by the pall of a staid demeanor and assumed sobriety of deportment.

The promise is nevertheless often fulfilled in a remarkable manner, long after the anxious parent has gone to his rest, and the child, grown up to manhood, has taken his station among his fellows, in the affairs of life. Then it is, that the recollections of his youth, of the discipline and habits of his childhood come upon him, like a confused and troubled dream. Softened by time, as by distance, objects lose their asperities; any harshness which had once estranged him is forgotten, and he now comes to dwell, with sad and self-reproachful feelings, on his departure from the example of strictness, sobriety and gravity, which he had once renounced:--

"How gladly would the man recall to life The boy's neglected sire, whose sternest frown Was but the graver countenance of love."

Under the influence of such feelings, he often turns back into the path from which he strayed. But how much better never to have left it! How many sorrows has he in the mean time brought upon himself, by vicious self-indulgence! How much matter of repentance has he provided for his future life! How many has he led astray by evil counsels and evil example, who are still wandering in the mazy wilderness of sin, and may never recover the way that leads to heaven!

It is surely well to consider, whether there is no remedy for these evils. Every man is a priest in his own house, and is not only charged with the care of the souls of his children; but is bound also, as far as possible, to make them instruments of good to others. What should we say to him who should make his house a menagerie of ravenous and destructive beasts, to be turned out as they grow up to prey upon the flocks and herds of his neighbors? And what better is he who carefully adorns and accomplishes the persons and minds of his children, with all the graces of manners, intelligence and address, which give them so much power over the principles and conduct, and happiness, of their associates, without guarding against the abuse of this power, by impressing their hearts with the love of religion and virtue, and a sense of the value of the souls of others? They go forth as fiends of darkness, in the garb of angels of light, and contamination, and misery, and death, are the fruits of their intercourse with the children of men.

Of this fault, it is not pretended that christian parents are willingly guilty. They are not even careful in many instances, to impart the ornamental parts of education, which so much enhance the power of seduction, but they innocently supply an instrument hardly less powerful, in the familiarity with the language of the Bible, which is often acquired by those who have no taste for its doctrines. When the devil cannot robe himself in the rainbow garment of Ithuriel, he can, at {433} least, "quote scripture for his purpose," and many a heart has been corrupted, and many a mind confounded by scraps and ends of texts, torn from their connexion, and uttered in derision by those who have been taught to get verses by rote--but not, as the good old phrase is, by heart. O! ever while we live, let us make our children learn the Bible BY HEART, or not at all, that when they speak its language, they may speak as one whose "mouth speaketh out of the fulness of his own HEART."

This is the great point to be accomplished. How is it to be effected? The answer is plain. By addressing the gospel to the HEART. By the same means which a judicious and affectionate parent uses to infuse into the bosom of his child, the spirit of cheerful and willing obedience to himself. Let him carefully show both himself and his Maker to the infant's mind, as the personification of love. While he anxiously contrives to make him feel that to the love of his earthly parent, he owes all the benefits that he receives, let him point his attention also to that Father who is in heaven, and from whom he himself derives all the means of ministering to the wants and pleasures of the child. When he gives a bit of bread to the hungry urchin, and asking if it is good, receives an answer which shows that the little fellow's heart is full of grateful love, let him tell him what it is made of, and while he shews him the green blade from which, by a wonderful and mysterious contrivance, the grain is to be elaborated, and marks the half-incredulous wonder with which the information is received, let him tell him that this is the work of God, who causes the rain to fall, and the sun to shine, and matures the fruits of the earth for the benefit of his children. Such occasions of calling the attention of a child to the goodness, and bounty, and love of God, are continually recurring. He is never too young to receive impressions of love. Before he knows the meaning of the word, he takes them from his experience of the care and fondness of his mother; and long after he has begun to prattle, this feeling thus early implanted, continues to flourish alone, and affords the only sanction of parental authority. How happy is he, and how sweet to behold his happiness, while in the pursuit of his little foolish joys, the "todlin wee thing" needs no restraint from mischief, but the playful look, half-smile, half-frown, and the admonishing voice which warns without alarming. Well might our Saviour say, "that of such is the kingdom of heaven," where love is the only law, and love the only duty, and love the only sanction. Under this sweet engaging discipline, love becomes the habit of his mind, and long before he is capable of comprehending any but the simplest ideas, the foundation is laid in his heart, of those affections, by means of which he is to be formed to virtue, honor and happiness. What idea (next after those derived from things present, to the senses,)--what idea is more simple, more easily apprehended, than this; that while he receives all good things from the hands of his parents, they are sent to him by a friend he has never seen, whose name is God. What occasion for telling him who God is, or where he dwells, or any thing more than that he is good, and loves good boys, and will continue to love him and send him good things as long as he is good? Is it not easy to impress his mind with the same feeling which is cherished towards his dear Aunt or kind Grandmama, of whom he is reminded every morning, when he drinks his milk out of a pretty cup, on which he is taught to read, "a present for my dear boy?" There is no time lost. The idea of the spiritual nature of God cannot be communicated until the mind is ready to receive it, and then it is uttered in one word, and comprehended in one moment. The vanity of a parent may be mortified, that his child does not know any thing of these high mysteries, at an age when other children of whom we read in good books, have been found disputing with the doctors about the trinity and the compound nature of the Redeemer. But this vanity, like many other human errors, needs the restraint of reason. For if it be asked, how long should this state of things be kept up? I would answer, as long as possible. If man is never to enter into the kingdom of heaven but as a little child, I would gladly keep him as a little child to the day of his death. But as this is not possible, I would apply my answer to the actual state of facts, and say that the discipline of love should be continued as long as love continues to supply the necessary motives to necessary restraint.

I would therefore venture to recommend the imposition of no restraints, and no tasks, but such as are necessary; and if possible, I would impose only such upon an infant as are obviously necessary, and, on an older child, such as he can be clearly made to see the necessity of. Such a system not only prolongs the reign, and confirms the habit of love, but prepares the mind to acquiesce with entire confidence in the wisdom and discretion of the parent. Let care therefore supply, as much as possible, the place of authority. Let the mother's eye be on her child, and then, instead of turning him loose with a code of unexplained laws upon his back, she will have it in her power to draw his attention from unlawful to lawful objects, and to lead him away unconsciously from forbidden places. The beautiful story of the mother who bared her bosom to draw away her child from the edge of the cliff, illustrates this idea.

I would say then to christian parents, prolong as much as possible the season of childhood--the empire of endearment and love; prolong that season when the hearts of your children are all your own, and divide them with God. Let their heads alone. No one ever teaches a child to talk. He learns it of himself more readily and more perfectly, than he can ever afterwards acquire a new language under the most skilful instructor. He has enough to do in acquiring those ideas which are necessary to him, and are suggested by the objects around him. He learns a great deal, and it is easy to help him to learn, without giving him lessons. He may have nothing of what we would dignify by the names of knowledge and wisdom, but he will acquire a great deal of sense, and may have very just notions of what it is to be a good boy, without having his mind perplexed with definitions of sin. The spirit of imitation will keep him busy. Teach him to love you, and he will need no command to make him try to do what he sees you do. Let him crawl. He will not long be content to go on all fours, when he sees his beloved and honored father walking erect. Curiosity will make him eager enough to know the meaning of letters, and he will esteem it a privilege to be allowed to look at round O, and crooked S, and to be taught to read for {434} himself in the pretty picture books, out of which his dear mother is in the habit of reading entertaining stories to him. Keep bad examples from before his eyes, and the opportunities of mischief out of his way, and keep his heart alive to a sense of the love of his parents and the love of God, until his mind has time to settle into a HABIT of love, obedience and virtue.

For reasons of the same sort, I would refrain from presenting in the second stage of education, any views of religion that to the literal and unpractised mind of a child, might seem at variance with his earlier conceptions of the divine character. I am very sure that any doctrines actually at variance with them must be false; and though I believe that none such may be entertained by any sincere and intelligent christian, yet it has somehow so happened, that many modes of expression have obtained currency in the world, which a novice would be startled at. I should therefore be careful, not to go beyond the plain letter of scripture in explaining to him religious truth.

The well digested form of sound doctrine as it is there set forth, would be almost my sole reliance. I would be careful to accompany this with appeals to his own experience and observation for the truth, that, as a general rule, it is our own fault if we are not happy. That occasionally, indeed, we receive injury at the hands of others, and that therefore it is that we are so often led to fall into pits of our own digging, that we may be not so fond of digging them in future. I would endeavor thus to familiarize him with a sense of the necessity of punishment, as the preventive of evil, and to enable him to comprehend to what lengths of mischief the simple principle of self-love would impel the best imaginable finite being, if he could feel perfectly sure that no manner of harm to himself could possibly arise from the indulgence of any desire. This idea, as it seems to me, is capable of being placed in plain colloquial language, in so clear a light, that any ingenuous mind would be readily brought to acquiesce in the necessity of God's moral government of the moral universe, in the necessity of punishing sin in order to prevent it, and the true benevolence of resolutely inflicting the necessary punishment, as the preventive of the far greater sum of suffering which the impurity of sin would produce. I should not fear that a mind habituated throughout to cherish the sentiments of gratitude and love, would be slow to understand, or reluctant to believe a plan of comprehensive and general utility devised by the spirit of universal benevolence for the greatest possible good of the whole, or impatient to endure such portion of evil, as, in the execution of such a plan, it might be called to bear.

I should anxiously endeavor to make my pupil sensible, that a plan of coercion, intended to procure a cheerful, affectionate and happy obedience, (and no other obedience can be happy,) must be understood by those who are made subject to it, to be so intended, and to explain to him the decisive proof of such intention which is afforded, when the ruler himself condescends to endure a portion of the punishment due to the sins of his people, and graciously pardons all whom this exhibition of his goodness brings to sincere repentance.

With these suggestions, gently insinuated from time to time, and containing as I verily believe the pure milk of the word, the best aliment for youthful minds, I should content myself, and leave him to seek the confirmation of these ideas in the Bible; nor would I suffer him, until on the verge of manhood, to puzzle his understanding and afflict his spirit with the perusal of works of theology.

In confirmation of the ideas I have suggested, let me beg the reader to observe how much more readily, and more frequently, the principles of religion take root in female minds, than in those of men. How many examples do we see among them of the most tender and fervent piety, and how seldom do we find it incumbered with the heavy lumber of theological learning, or frittered down into nice and shadowy distinctions. Yet are they wise unto salvation, possessing that faith by which the heart believeth unto righteousness, though perhaps unable to give any other reason for their faith, than that God is love, and in proof of his love gave himself to die for the sins of the world. Whence comes this tendency among them to imbibe this simple and saving faith, unless it be from the peculiarities of their education? The discipline of infancy is prolonged with them. They are kept under the eye of the mother, whose unsuspected vigilance supplies the place of commands, imposes an unperceived restraint, and renders the habits of decorum, propriety, meekness and obedience, a sort of second nature. Restrained only by the silken cord of love, whose weight they feel not, they never strain against it, nor try to throw it off. Their minds and tempers are formed rather by habit than precept, and their obedience is secured, not by punishment or the fear of it, but by prevention. They are accustomed to do right, because they have no opportunities of doing wrong, without violating that instinct of propriety, which makes it painful to do what we feel to be wrong in the presence of those we love. When left to themselves, they do what is right, because they have been long accustomed to do it; and they know it to be right, because thus acting, they have always lived in the enjoyment of those peaceable fruits which an upright conduct can alone produce.

It will be seen that many of my remarks on the subject of instruction, apply also to that of discipline. I have already shown that the discipline, whose purpose is to prepare the child for his duties to his parents, should be modified by a proper regard to his duties to God. In like manner, that which may be called religious discipline, should be so regulated as not to counteract what has been already done. Parental training, if I may so distinguish it, should be so managed as to cultivate the love of the child for his parents; religious training, so as to cultivate his love for God. It would be strangely inconsistent, that we should be careful not to offend and estrange a child by imposing on him, of our own authority, any harsh, unexplained and inexplicable commands, and at the same time load him, by the alleged command of God, with burthens grievous to be borne. Duties which he is not old enough to understand the nature of, are not his duties. There is no more violation of God's law in a child of a certain age playing on the Sabbath, than in the sports of a puppy. Yet long before he is old enough to be capable of a violation of this law, it is a matter of great importance that he should be gradually and carefully trained, and prepared to obey it. In this training, I would carefully avoid any thing like austerity. I would familiarize his {435} infant ear to the name of Sunday, and accustom him to regard it as a day of privileges. Put on his best clothes, caress him, praise him, warn him to keep himself sweet and clean, make him take notice that every body else is so, and that nobody is made to do any work, and all because it is Sunday; make him observe the staid and quiet behavior of every body about the house, and see how soon he will get his little stool, and set up with his hands before him, and try to behave pretty too. When this is done, enough is done for the beginning. When he is tired of imitating the grave demeanor of others, let him go. The spirit of imitation will return again and again; the habits it induces will make a deeper and deeper impression, and if he is carefully imbued with a love for his parents, and a love for God, without being taught to dread and hate the Sabbath, he will be thus well prepared to submit cheerfully to its restraints, by the time he is old enough to know the reason of them. Let him see that you too, submit to them cheerfully. Let him miss nothing of your accustomed kindness or amenity of manner on that day. Do not let him learn to think of it as "a day for a man to afflict his soul, and hang down his head like a bull-rush," a day of fault-finding, and formal observance, and Judaical austerity. In short, let him see that you esteem the Sabbath as a day of privilege, and leave the rest as much as possible to the spirit of affectionate imitation.

I would say the same of other religious duties. Do not force the little drowsy urchin to sit up to family prayers. When he happens to do so, let him hear you thank God in simple terms for the privilege of being permitted to pray to him, and implore of him blessings whose value he feels and knows. If you find occasion to preach in your prayers, (a bad practice by the way,) do not preach about matters which none but a Doctor of Divinity can be expected to understand.

On the interesting subject of fashionable amusements, as they are called, I own I feel more difficulty. It chiefly arises from the consideration that the youth who is old enough to take an interest in such amusements, is at a more unmanageable age than formerly. It is not so easy to restrain him, without letting him be conscious of the restraint. It is not so easy to draw him off from a pernicious pursuit, to one less dangerous. He is no longer to be satisfied with those cheap equivalents for forbidden gratifications, which made it easy to command his obedience, without estranging his affections. The whole business of education at this stage, is a difficult and delicate operation. I cannot imagine any general rule for a class of cases as various as all the infinite varieties of the human character. Let us suppose some of them.

If, in spite of all the care that had been taken to soften and subdue his heart, and beguile him from self-love to the love of his friends, and of God his best friend, if in spite of all this he continued obdurate, wilful and rebellious, I am conscious that I should be at my wit's end. I do not know but that in such a case, it would be the part of wisdom to yield to those feelings which a parent would naturally experience, and, acting as in obedience to the unerring instincts of nature, to resort to severity instead of tenderness, and endeavor to bring down his heart with sorrow. As a part of such a system, it would be a matter of course, to deny him this indulgence.

A different case would be that of a youth of mercurial temper, and warm feelings, who had grown up in habitual love and reverence for his parents and his Maker, and whose buoyant spirit and restless temper, and keen appetite for enjoyment, might render him impatient of such restraint. Even in this case I should not too readily relax it. I should endeavor if possible to ascertain whether it might be enforced without impairing those tender and reverential sentiments. If so, I should enforce it. If not, I would yield with undissembled reluctance, but without reproach. I should endeavor to draw him into a contest of generosity, with a hope that he would not long consent to be outdone. But in no case would I surrender the end for the means, and do violence to the best, and kindliest, and holiest affections of the human heart, and run the risk of destroying them, by restraining a youth from things not evil in themselves, but only evil in their tendencies. The only antidote to the love of pleasure, is the love of God. In truth the great evil of the love of pleasure, is that it is an antidote to the love of God, and when the authority of God is used to force one away from a much coveted enjoyment, there is danger that it may but make him love God less, and pleasure more. But it is the saying of a wise man, that where an appetite for any thing actually exists, the best security against excess, is in a regulated indulgence; and to this indulgence I would resort with an humble hope that my pupil might find wisdom to add this too to the list of blessings experienced at the hands of his Maker, until the victory should at last result to him to whom it belongs.

For the remaining case of a young man having no taste for such pleasures, and content to spend his time in reading and meditation, I would prescribe nothing more than this; that he should not be encouraged to bless God that he was not as other men, but be kept on the alert by a warning that sin enters into the heart by more avenues than one.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

Festival of San Agustin de Las Cuevas--El Paséo de Las Vigas.

MAY 23d, 1825.--Yesterday and to-day we attended the festival at San Agustin de las Cuevas. The avenues leading to this little town, were thronged with people on foot, on asses, on mules, on horses, and in coaches drawn by six or eight mules. The whole population of Mexico seemed flocking to it and to Istapalapa, at which latter place is the feast of the Indians. Most persons take lodgings for the three or four days of the Pascua,[1] for which they pay enormous rent. From day-light until ten o'clock, these pious christians hear mass in the parish church. We had to travel four or five leagues, and, therefore, did not arrive in time to witness these religious solemnities; but at twelve, we were introduced into the cock-pit--a rough, circular building, with seats around it rising one above the other--and in the centre, an area serving as an arena for the combatants. Its roof, high and open to admit light and air, was decorated with long wide shreds of various colors--diverging from the centre--all in scenic taste. The seats were soon filled with spectators of all ages, sexes and classes. The {436} most fashionable ladies of Mexico were present, and the most distinguished men of the republic were engaged in betting heavily on the champions of the pit. The noisy clamor of fifty voices, seeking bets with stentorian cries, warned us of the approaching fight. The cocks, armed with sharp slashers, like double edged sabres, are arrayed before us--suddenly the pit is cleared--an awful silence prevails--they rush to the conflict--a few moments decide the fate of one--and all is again confusion. For three hours the sport continues, to the great diversion of the spectators, who appear to take an eager interest in the cruel scene. The women around me were betting and smoking, and two friars sat at my right hand. What a picture of Mexican customs is before us! Women--fashionable women, and priests in a cock-pit on a Sunday! 'Tis quite bad enough for us to be seen here, but we are curious travellers, and must observe every thing we can. After witnessing a few fights, we visited the gambling rooms, to see the game of monte, which resembles faro. The tables were loaded with doubloons and dollars, and surrounded by players, who, in a few minutes, won and lost many hundreds.[2] Here I saw no women betting, but there was one a looker on like myself, but I don't know if the scene was as novel to her as to me. On walking next through the plaza, I observed all species of games, at which the blanket gentry--male and female--young and old--were trying their fortune, invited in many instances by an image of the Virgin or of some patron saint. Gambling is, I may safely conclude, the general vice of this nation. Drunkenness is not common in these assemblages, and is confined chiefly to the Indians.

[Footnote 1: Whitsuntide is the period for this festival.]

[Footnote 2: Mr. Ward, who is good authority, states that "the bank at these tables varies from 1,000 doubloons (16,000 dollars) to 3,000 doubloons, (48,000 dollars.) Fifty or sixty of these (800 or 1,000 dollars,) are an ordinary stake upon the turn of a card; but I have seen as many as six hundred and twenty, (9,920 dollars,) risked and won."--Ward's Mexico.]

After dinner, we walked to a green plot without the village, where the ladies were dancing to the music of two or three guitars. At this amusement we left them each evening, and returned to the Hacienda. At night the cock-pit is carpeted, and converted into a ball room. Thus the fashionable people of the city of Mexico, celebrate for three successive days this religious feast.

In choosing San Agustin for these amusements, the selection is certainly a good one. Conveniently situated at the edge of the plain of Mexico, about twelve miles from the city, to the south, the site is very pretty, and the scenery is extremely gay in contrast with the sterility which immediately surrounds the capital. Water is so abundant in this village, that every garden is irrigated, and the trees and plants always possess a freshness of verdure which is rarely seen upon the table land. The mountain of Ajusco[3] rises behind the town--the tallest peak of this southern ridge--its top is rugged and barren. It is sometimes sprinkled with snow during the winter. A remarkable bed of lava from an adjacent peak, overlays a large corner of the plain near San Agustin, round the point of which the road leads from Mexico--so distinctly is it defined, that it is easy to imagine the melted mass flowing from the furnace of the volcano till it gradually congealed.

[Footnote 3: The Cerro of Ajusco is, according to Humboldt, 12,119 feet above the sea--consequently 4,649 feet above the plain on which the city of Mexico is situated.]

* * * * *

FEBRUARY 26th, 1826. I have just returned from witnessing the gayest sight which Mexico ever presents. This is the promenade of Las Vigas.

El Paséo de Las Vigas is a beautiful road just without the inhabited part of the city, at its south-eastern extremity. It is bordered by double rows of aspins and willows; and upon one side of it, passes the canal which connects the lakes of Chalco and Tescuco. Though it is the month of February, nature has assumed the gay mantle of spring--all is verdant--all is smiling with luxuriant sweetness. The temperature of the shade is most delightful.

At the moment when the sun, sinking behind the mountains, has lost its oppressive warmth, the population of Mexico pours itself upon this charming spot. Hundreds of coaches roll along amid multitudes on horseback and on foot. These ponderous vehicles, uniform in shape, are various in their decorations, showing the several fashions which prevailed at the time of their construction;--some adorned with paintings commemorative either of heathen mythology or of remarkable historical events; the pannels of some tell us of sieges or of battles in days long gone by; some represent the perils of the deep; others exhibit Neptune riding gently upon his subdued waves, or perhaps the "pale Diana" or the "laughing Venus," or Calypso in her grotto using her bewitching sorceries to win the youthful hero. These, and similar devices, mark the period of vice-regal magnificence, and are now peculiar to the hackney coach. Those of modern date, are in better taste, being painted modestly, of a uniform color, but the wheels and carriage part are generally richly gilded.

The coaches are filled with well dressed women--I won't say that many of them are beautiful--who recognize their acquaintances by a coquetish quirk of the fan--(a never-failing attendant even in coldest weather)--or an active play of the fingers, at which the Mexican ladies are very dexterous, and which might be misconstrued by the uninitiated as a beckon to approach. Horsemen, in the characteristic costume of the country elsewhere described, pass and repass, exhibiting their proud and gallant steeds; and the multitude on foot display their Sunday dresses, in which there has been of late a manifest improvement.

The canal is strewed with boats, crowded with passengers of the lowest class, who are amusing themselves with guitars, to which they sing and dance. They return decorated with flowers woven into a chaplet, which, contrasted with the black hair hanging down in a single plait behind, of a pretty Mestiso girl, renders her quite interesting, notwithstanding her copperish color.

All these in themselves present a highly exhilarating picture; but added to the fine prospect of the mountain barriers of the Mexican plain, and especially of the snowy peaks of the volcanoes of Puebla which rise in full view to the south-east, this scene can scarcely be equalled.

As pleasing however, as the scene is, and though we meet none but smiling faces, yet I cannot refrain from observing that remarkable inequality so revolting to the feelings of a republican. Marchionesses and countesses with the richest jewels, are seen at one glace with the poor lepero, whose all is the single blanket which hides {437} his nakedness. Nor is it agreeable to see a strong guard of cavalry, whose attendance it must be presumed, is necessary to prevent disorder. Sentinels, indeed, are posted around and in all the public buildings of Mexico--they are posted at the entrance to the halls of Congress and to the galleries, in various parts of the palace, (a name by which the government house is still known,) where the President resides, and in which are the public offices--and they are posted even in the theatre. I am sorry thus to detract any thing from the scene which I witnessed this evening with so much pleasure, but candor requires it.

Lent has now commenced. Public amusements (except occasionally a concert at the theatre,) and large parties are suspended for a while. The ladies complain occasionally of ennui. Their present diversion is stupid enough. They assemble in small tertulias every night at each others' houses, and play an uninteresting game with cards, called lottery. The sole object achieved is to kill time, of the value of which Mexicans have no idea, for in themselves they have no resources whatever. Reading is so irksome they cannot endure it--and work of any kind costs labor. They can do naught but eat, sleep, smoke, talk, and visit the theatre.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NATURE AND ART.

There is extant a beautiful tradition relative to the visit of the Queen of Sheba to King Solomon, when she "proved him with hard questions," in order to ascertain the greatness of his wisdom and the acuteness of his ingenuity. She ordered before him two vases of elegant flowers--one natural, the other artificial, but of workmanship and colors so exquisitely beautiful, that to detect in them any unlikeness or inferiority to the genuine ones, seemed beyond the power of the human eye. They were placed in a lattice which opened on a parterre of the royal palace, the appropriated residence of swarms of bees, which were engaged in gathering their delicious food. The King ordered the lattice to be opened, and the gathering and nestling of the bees among the honied petals of the natural blossoms, developed at once the eye-defying secret and the ingenuity of the monarch.

The wily Queen at the lattice placed Twin vases, rich and rare, Each with a cluster of blossoms graced, Beautiful, bright and fair. Roses, the glory of Sharon's vale-- Lilies of thousand hues, Such as are rock'd by Judean gales And nursed by her crystal dews, Mingled in beauty their tints of light;-- "Which," said the royal dame, "Are the fresh-born buds of the day and night? And which from the artist came?" The Tyrian dyes and the Tyrian skill, Glow'd in the art-made flowers,-- Those that were nursed by the gurgling rill Or petted in Flora's bowers, No grace of fashion or shade could show With the beauteous things to vie; Alas! for him who the truth must know Alone by his own keen eye. But the lattice ope'd on a soft parterre That blushed to the sun's warm kiss, And Bees at their nectar banquet there Revelled in summer bliss. "Open the lattice," the Monarch cried-- Sweet in the melting ray The humid blossoms the Bees descried, And pilfered the sweets away. Trembled in pride on their wiry stems The flowers that the artist made, But show'd not a cup where the honied gems Or soft farina laid. Fragrance was not! oh! the blighted heart, Lured in a fatal hour, By the dazzling glow of deceptive art, Like a Bee to the scentless flower,-- How it turns in the blight of its grief away From the figure that looks so fair, But in Love's own blessed, unclouded ray, Is soulless and senseless there!

ELIZA.

Maine.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE OF THE WEST.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

The course of true love never did run smooth.--Shakspeare.

The incidents which I am about to relate, suggest some very natural reflections. He who now migrates to the mighty west, in pursuit of wealth or fame, encounters none of those innumerable hidden and open dangers which thronged the way of those who turned their faces thitherward half a century ago; he feels not, nor need he possess, the adventurous spirit, the intrepidity, and the astonishing resoluteness and daring of those brave and hardy pioneers. They ascended the lofty Alleghany, and looked off upon the ancient and almost unbroken forest, extending far beyond the Mississippi, and covering the vast valley which lay between them and the Rocky Mountains; while only here and there a small settlement, composed of a few families collected together for mutual convenience, and defence against their common enemy, disturbed its solitary reign. So soon as they entered upon it, they met with a foe the most wary and subtle, the most sleepless and untiring in his hostility, the most vigilant to seize every opportunity to satiate his bloodthirsty disposition, inflicting the most cruel and merciless tortures, and murdering indiscriminately every age and sex; the bold and dauntless husband, who met him hand to hand in murderous conflict, the helpless imploring wife, and the innocent babe sleeping upon her bosom, ruthlessly torn from her dying grasp, fell alike beneath the deadly blow of the savage, as he smiled with a fiendish satisfaction over his bloody deed. And is there no cause to mitigate our anger when contemplating such scenes? Is there no excuse for the wild, uncivilized Indian, though pursuing with a hatred the most vindictive his enemy, yet displaying towards his friend a noble and disinterested conduct which puts to blush the enlightened white man? Yes! They had discovered the designs of the whites; oppressed with a thousand wrongs, driven from their homes and the tombs of their ancestors, to which they are more fondly attached than any other people,--"hunted down like the partridge upon the mountain," they had formed a deadly hostility, an undying revenge against those, whom, when few and defenceless, they had received with open arms, and by {438} whom they were now, viper like, stung to the heart; and they had stationed themselves upon the verge, and lurked throughout what they believed to be their own possession, their own inheritance,--determined to dispute every foot of it with those who were encroaching upon them, and pursuing with a steady purpose their extermination.

Slowly would the emigrant plod his weary and fearful way, for months, before he could reach the place of his location, his thoughts frequently recurring to the peaceful and quiet abode he had left, for a home in the wilderness filled with multiplied hazards. Here a small hut was erected to shelter his family, while he labored from morn till night, with his rifle by his side to protect him from his insatiate enemies, bent upon the destruction of all who invaded their territory. Almost every day, reports of aggravated murders perpetrated by the Indians reached his ears, filling his family with alarm and terror lest they should become the next victims; and himself liable at every moment to be hurried off from them upon an expedition to drive back the enemy, and check for a while their invasion of the settlements. No one ever felt secure; and never did they retire to rest without taking all necessary precaution to repel an attack, and barring securely every entrance into the house. And even in the more dense settlements, should they collect together for the purpose of divine worship, it was necessary that every one should meet well armed, lest even there they might be attacked by their relentless and implacable enemy.

Now how changed the scene! What wonders have fifty years effected! The mighty tide of emigration has rolled on rapidly, diffusing prosperity and every convenience in its train. The vigorous and powerful arm of the government, after all other proffered terms had been rejected, has forced the savage hordes beyond the limits of the Union, or reduced them to a tame submission, and subdued their natural warlike and ferocious disposition by the introduction among them of the arts and principles of civilization. The inhabitant upon the most extreme western frontier, feels as secure in his log cabin as the wealthy farmer upon the seaboard. Under the fostering protective wing of a free constitution, the population has swelled to an astonishing amount. States have sprung up, exercising a large degree of weight and influence in the government, where but yesterday the red man, now constrained to retire, pursued through the tangled woods the wild deer, secure and undisturbed in his enjoyment by the presence of one single envious pale face. Where once the savage held his frantic revels or pitched his wigwam, now stands the populous and flourishing city, whose spires pierce the clouds, and where arts, science, and literature, flourish in all the vigor of maturity. Cultivated farms and splendid mansions, occurring at short intervals, beautify the interior, where but lately the wild beasts roamed their native forests. Upon the placid bosoms of the most noble and beautiful streams, where once naught was seen or heard but the rough hewn canoe of the Indian and the dip of his paddle, now may be constantly heard "the puff of the engine and flutter of the wheel" of that most beneficial production of Fulton's immortal genius, as it rides majestically by, wafting to a profitable market the productions of a fertile and alluvial soil. For the advantage of commerce and the facility of communication, distant waters have been united and noble thoroughfares constructed from one section of the country to the other; mountains have been levelled and plains elevated. An energetic government sends with unrivalled rapidity, and unerring certainty, intelligence of every kind from one end of the Union to the other, so that the most distant friends scarcely realize their separation. The whole region now teems with industry and enterprise. Independence, ease, contentment and hospitality characterize the inhabitants. The emigrant from the eastern states now leaves his home and his friends with a light heart, for a country where merit receives its reward, where he will meet with success in every undertaking, and where wealth or fame will crown his labors. And all this in fifty years! The valley of the Mississippi, then a wilderness, now a populous and mighty empire! What unbounded resources, what powerful energies do the people of this country possess! What glorious and encouraging fruits are these, of self government--of a republican constitution.

Among the emigrants to Ohio, just after the revolution, were a Mess. Claiborne and Newton, who removed, with their families, from one of the tide-water counties of Virginia, and settled upon the beautiful banks of the Scioto, some distance above its mouth. Mr. Newton selected as a site for his dwelling, a small hill upon the west side of the river, gently descending to the water's edge, sparsely covered with the tall majestic trees of the forest, and commanding a delightful prospect of the river, as it lay like a polished mirror reflecting the sunbeams from its smooth surface, or gently rippling as the soft breezes of evening played upon its bosom; also, of the extensive rich bottoms on either hand, and of the extensive woodland in front. Behind, the country gracefully undulated, presenting the pleasing variety of hill and dale, of wood and prairie. It was, in fact, a charming situation. And long since that time, the enterprise of another owner has made it the most handsome country seat in the state. A noble mansion now crowns the hill with every ornamental appurtenance, while the flats on each side, regularly divided, wave in golden plenty, or are clothed in living green, on which hundreds of cattle graze, or repose beneath a few of the old trees which are yet standing. It fails not to arrest the attention and call forth the admiration of the passenger along the Scioto. 'Twas here Mr. Newton built him a tolerably convenient cabin, and commenced his labors. He had taken up a large tract of country, sufficient to present each of his children with a handsome patrimony. To the bank was moored a graceful sail boat, such as had never floated on those waters before, and which glided upon their even current as "a thing of life." This was kept principally for the purpose of visiting Mr. Claiborne, who had selected a level grove about half a mile above, on the other side, in full view of Mr. Newton's. Directly to the rear, a frowning cliff reared itself to the clouds; the river laved the rocky bank in front, down which there was a descent by a flight of steps hewn out of the limestone, where also was tied a small sail boat. There was, however, a broader and better way a little above. Mr. Claiborne too, had made extensive surveys in the country, intending to divide his large possessions among his children. Modern improvements have also made this a spot upon {439} which the eye of the delighted and tasteful traveller is pleased to linger.

An undisturbed intimacy had ever existed between these two families; and now that they were separated entirely, as it were, from the rest of the world, exposed to a common danger, and were pursuing no clashing interests, it had refined into a warm and steady friendship. A constant intercourse was kept up between them, and means provided to communicate immediately the alarm, should danger threaten. These two gentlemen being in the prime and vigor of manhood, labored with untiring industry. As there was no underwood, and the trees were tall and did not grow very thick together, girdling sufficed, and they soon had a considerable farm prepared for planting Indian corn.

The woods abounded in excellent game, and they frequently accompanied each other in hunting excursions, but never venturing too far, for fear of accidents or attacks from the Indians; and always taking along their eldest sons, in order to gratify their anxiety; but principally to instil into them a bold, fearless, and adventurous spirit,--to teach them some of the rudiments of the arts and stratagems of border warfare,--and to train them to a skilful management of their rifles,--all qualifications indispensably necessary for the inhabitants of an unsettled and hostile country.

Among all the youths of these two families, Charles Claiborne had early attracted notice. He displayed indubitable evidences of a superior intellect, the most gratifying to his father, and which at the same time won for him the respect and love of his associates. No envious feelings rankled in their pure bosoms; they sincerely admired him, and felt that in hours of peril to his skill, intrepidity and bravery, they must principally look for safety. He had now nearly attained his eighteenth year, tall and erect as an Indian Chief, possessing an ease and grace the most simple and natural. No mark of effeminacy was visible about his manly frame; compact, nervous, and as active as the wild panther which he hunted. His high, broad and open forehead, over which his smooth dark locks fell in neglected richness, betokened the freeness and equability of his disposition, and at the same time his resoluteness and determination; and a slight wrinkle betrayed the existence of busy thought. Beneath an arched projecting brow, his dark gray eye shot forth the fire of youth and genius. It shone with a peculiar lustre; it would kindle with indignation or contempt, as he contemplated crime or baseness, or soften down to tenderness as a tale of woe or distress enlisted his sympathies. The whole contour of his face was of a perfect mould. Devotedly fond of intellectual culture, of acquiring information, he soon made himself master of the little library which his father had brought with him, composed of a few standard histories, Shakspeare and the Spectator; and was now, at every spare interval, drawing rich stores of legal knowledge from a musty old Coke, which he found among the rubbish brought in his father's wagon, determined to "offer his professional services" to the litigious part of the community when the country should become more densely populated.

Several other families had already settled in the neighborhood, and Charles was deservedly the favorite of them all. But there was one to whom I shrewdly suspect he was even now peculiarly agreeable, and for whom the kind and obliging neighbors,--who will have their young acquaintances in love or engaged, any how, and who arrange all such matters in their gossiping conclaves without the conusance of the parties,--had already allotted him. In this case they were not (as usual) without some ground for their suspicions.

Eliza Newton was now arrived at that most interesting period in a woman's life, just sixteen, when combined with the simplicity and coyness of the girl, she possesses many of the graces and charming attractive attributes of maturer womanhood. Like the opening rose, which displays its crimson folds at morn before one sunbeam has kissed the dew-drop from its leaves of softest texture, or dimmed its fresh rich tints, her loveliness was unfolding every day. Like the wild flowers which she loved to gather from the meadow, she had grown up without any artificial culture of fashionable hot beds, in all her native sweetness, unpretending beauty, and unaffected modesty. Roaming at will among the delightful groves around her father's dwelling, brushing the early dew with her pretty feet from the fragrant herbage, or wandering at even along the silent banks of the gentle Scioto, when each zephyr

Offered his young pinion as her fan,

she acquired all the freshness and buoyancy of perfect health. Agile as the young roe upon the mountain, she moved with the ease, elegance and elasticity of a Sylph. Not too low to want a sufficient dignity of mien, she was not so tall as to exceed the proper stature of her sex. "Her hair's long auburn waves," curbed by a silken fillet, rolled back from her small white forehead, flowed upon a chiselled neck white as an Alpine mountain top; her dark blue eyes lay sleeping behind long raven lashes, until roused, when they betrayed every sentiment of her soul, beaming with affection or melted with pity; the transcendent hue of her cheeks contrasted finely with the pure, healthful whiteness of her complexion, and her sweet moist lips, just curved out enough to bespeak her mild and even temper. In fine, she was so perfect a model that

The eye might doubt if it were well awake, She seemed so like a vision.

Amiability and kindness were the prominent traits of her character, accompanied with the other female graces. Of a most delicate and acute sensibility, she was keenly alive to the slightest insult, and would repel it in a firm and dignified manner; but was ever ready to pour the balm of reconciliation into a wound mistakenly inflicted. She carefully forebore to speak disrespectfully of any one, and always endeavored to place their conduct in the fairest light, which sprang from the pure benevolence of her heart. And yet withal, she had no little of the pride of her sex, ready to tear herself from a heart where she had reason to believe she reigned not sole empress; slightly imbued with jealousy, which is frequently a concomitant of the most ardent and devoted attachment, as the deadly viper oft lays encoiled under the bed of violets upon which we are tempted to repose. From the small stock of substantial literature which her father's poorly filled book case afforded, she had cultivated her mind to a degree which thousands fail to do who have skimmed over an Alexandrian library.

Let no one deem these portraitures exaggerated in {440} any respect, for these families were among the most respectable and intelligent on the eastern shores of the Old Dominion; but the barrenness of their sandy plains yielded them but a small quantum of what was necessary to sustain them in their high and expensive mode of living. They found that vast retrenchments were to be made, or they must experience the pinchings of poverty; and, too proud to endure the mortification of either in the midst of their old associates and visiters, they determined to emigrate to the west, where the rich soil affords, with but little labor, abundance of the necessaries of life, while the woods and rivers furnish many of its luxuries.

The parents of Charles and Eliza themselves, had marked with satisfaction and pleasure their growing attachment, and failed not by evidences of approbation to encourage it. And for once the designs of prudent parents and the inclinations of inconsiderate, confiding youths coincided, and promised to result in the happiest of consequences. Would that it could be always so! How many gray hairs would it save from going down to the grave loaded with a weight of sorrow! how many tender hearts would it preserve from an early and hopeless blight! How many lovely and interesting females would it save from tortures worse than the fabled one, of being linked to dead bodies, those of being wedded to rich fools, or sots, or knaves, upon whom they can never place their affections, and whom they frequently hate from their inmost hearts.

Though they had ever been in habits of constant intimacy, taught to view each other in the light of brother and sister, and mingling freely for years in every sport of their childhood, yet a year or two having almost magically brought Eliza to womanhood, she began to feel a strange restraint in the company of Charles, which the presence of no one else produced. As rapidly as the sweet accents might be falling from her active tongue, his entrance hushed them completely; and even he would labor for some time, through a few short sentences. Yet notwithstanding these unusual effects, each felt that the cause which produced them was not unwelcomed; and when plagued about it, (as the phrase is) the crimson blush that mantled their burning cheeks, indicated too clearly where arose this sudden alteration in their deportment towards each other,--what had put an end to all the little familiarities before so frequent. Gradually, however, would the leaden weight fall from Charles' tongue; and as he would relate to the company in most graphic and thrilling terms his dangerous pursuit of the fierce panther or infuriated wolf, following them into the most retired recesses, encountering them in their darkest caverns, and drawing them forth dead, to the astonishment of his less venturesome associates,--or his "hair breadth escapes" in wresting from the infuriated she-bear her whelps, the very great interest vividly manifest in Eliza's countenance, the breathless attention with which she hung upon every word and caught each syllable as it fell from his lips, and the quickly averted glance, her color slightly heightening as he frequently directed his eye towards her, soon convinced Charles that he was the object of something more than an ordinary regard in her bosom; nay, that he had actually won her affections. As for himself he had long since been enthralled; nor could it be otherwise. There is in every bosom, susceptibilities for all the emotions; and so soon as causes calculated to excite them are presented, quick as an electric flash the emotions succeed. Thus in love, there is a susceptibility in every mind to be pleased with certain virtues or actions; and when we perceive them, it is as impossible not to admire them as to believe that they have never existed. And when a combination of such qualities without a blemish is discovered in any person, he had as well try to drive back the current of the Mississippi as to resist the inevitable consequence. The emotion of love involuntarily arises; he must love, for such is his mental constitution; the feeling becomes a part of himself; he had no agency in effecting it; he feels not, nor can he feel a disposition to divest himself of it. Circumstances may induce him to check it, to trample it down, to clip each bud as it appears, but he can never extinguish it; he cannot destroy it. But let him give himself up to be bound in its pleasant fetters; let him suffer it to sway an undivided sceptre over him; let him give loose reins to it; let him plunge himself into its delicious tide, and drink with a quenchless thirst its intoxicating draughts; and then let him be thwarted, and no one may safely predict the consequences to even the most powerful intellect, that contemns every other loss or reverse of fortune. Until something is done to excite a contrary emotion, ages of separation cannot dim or extinguish it. For as in some fluids the application of heat may entirely alter their qualities, so in love, a deception or disappointment in some admired or prominent qualification, frequently changes every feeling of regard for the object, into the most bitter and relentless hatred.

A very short time intervened, before Charles summoned the resolution to communicate the existence of his passion. Upon a mild evening in May, as the shadows stretched their gigantic lengths across the plain, Charles moored his little boat at the foot of the hill, and ascended to Mr. Newton's. Eliza (as usual) met him at the door, and ushered him into an apartment denominated the parlor, though appropriated to various uses. They were seated by an open window toward the west, along the frames of which a honey-suckle twined its clinging tendrils; the mild, red rays of the setting sun peered through its thick foliage, and added a brighter tint to Eliza's fine complexion; the evening dews were falling upon the blooming honey-suckle, which breathed its fragrant odors upon the happy pair. She seemed to look peculiarly sweet and lovely. A few desultory remarks upon the serenity and pleasantness of the evening, and then--in language which I shall not detail--he poured out his heart's fulness into her ear. At this avowal, her face budded into a rich rubescent glow, and the veins in her clear, round neck, swelled almost to bursting. She replied not; but a yielding of her soft little hand, which be involuntarily pressed to his lips, confirmed the happiness of the enraptured swain--and blew into an inextinguishable flame, that spark of love, which he had long cherished within his heart, and fanned with a sleepless assiduity. He soon departed for his father's; he rowed slowly up the river, whose waves reflecting the moonbeams, seemed like molten gold, while the stars twinkled brightly above him: the scene was enchanting, and his already excited feelings caught the inspiration. A plunge against the bank awakened him from his reverie, and he {441} discovered that he was far above his father's. The delighted girl retired to her room, and wept herself to sleep--when she dreamed incessantly of Elysian fields, and happy islands upon the bosom of the deep blue sea, through which she and her Charles roamed happy as their fabled inhabitants. Very frequently after this, was Charles' little boat seen gliding, in the cool of the evening, towards Mr. Newton's; and he seemed much more addicted to hunting of late, particularly on the west side of the river, especially as he never failed, on his return from his fatiguing rambles, to meet at Mr. Newton's the best refreshments, prepared in Eliza's most tasty style.

Thus a year marched onward in the track of time, unmarked by any unusual incident. The parties heeded not its rapid flight, but enjoying together every amusement and innocent pleasure which their imaginations could devise, they lived in a state the nearest to bliss they ever saw on earth.

Early however, in the following summer, as Mr. Claiborne's family were sitting beneath a large oak in the yard, being refreshed by the pure, cool breezes from the river, Charles espied Eliza wandering, with a little sister, along the meadows on the opposite side, gayly and joyously taking her accustomed recreation, and plucking the innumerable wild flowers that decorated her path. So long had this settlement been undisturbed, that a dread of the savages no longer existed; both children and females walked miles unaccompanied, and without the least apprehension of danger, relaxing their precaution in many particulars. While Charles was eyeing with delight Eliza's graceful movements, he saw two Indians dart suddenly from the edge of a thick copse of pawpaw, and seizing the frantic girl and child, bear them off, shrieking, into the woods. Charles distinctly heard the screaming, which pierced his inmost soul. "My God!" he exclaimed, "she is taken;" and springing from his seat, he rushed into the house. The affrighted family followed him, to learn the cause of his conduct; but all he said was, "the Indians have taken her! have taken her!" Excited almost to madness, seizing his rifle, he flew to the stable, mounted his fleet hunter without his saddle, and calling his faithful bloodhound, went as fast as his charger, urged on by every incentive, could carry him; and at the same time crying, "Indians! Indians!" He swam the river, and the astonished family soon saw him entering the woods, his fierce dog upon the track. The alarm was soon given, and the whole neighborhood was in commotion. Charles pursued, as well as he could through the trees, the course of his unerring bloodhound. Swift as the wind, had the Indians run over hill and dale towards the lakes, until long after midnight; thinking they had not been seen, and had eluded pursuit; weary with bearing upon their backs their helpless captives, and reaching a deep ravine, they determined to kindle a fire and prepare some refreshments. They bound each of the girls to a sapling with a strip of bark, and commenced their culinary operations. Scarcely had they been seated an hour, before Charles approached, and seeing the light, called in, softly, his hound, and dismounted to reconnoitre. A moment's observation satisfied him. He could see but one of the Indians, and he sat just beyond Eliza, his head only perceptible above her's. The least tremor or precipitancy might defeat his purpose--kill the prized object which he wished to rescue, or place them both at the mercy of the savages. With deliberation, a firm and steady arm, he levelled his rifle, and fired,--the impatient dog at the same time springing forward with the fierceness of a tiger. Charles rushed to the spot, with a drawn knife. One Indian lay senseless weltering in his blood; and seizing a tomahawk, he plunged it into the head of the other, who was engaged in mortal strife with the eager hound, which clung to his throat with an iron grasp. He severed at a stroke the cursed cords that bound the pretty form of his Eliza. As the truth opened to the vision of the enraptured girl, overpowered with joy, she fell insensate into his arms: he drew her closely to his bosom, felt the wild fluttering of her little heart, and kissed to life again her bloodless lips. Gradually she revived, and in the bewildered consciousness of waking, threw her arms around his neck, calling his name in the most tender, affectionate accents. "Could all the hours of hope, joy and pleasure in Charles' previous life, have been melted down and concentrated into a single emotion, that emotion would have been tame to the rapture of Eliza's momentary embrace."[1] Upon complete restoration, she wept with real pleasure; poured out upon her benefactor, her deliverer, her own Charles, ceaseless expressions of gratitude and love--renewed her faithful vows, and "plighted them upon her heart." Ah, why not, in such a moment, let the bright spirit wing its upward flight, nor keep it here to feel the stings of remorse or pain. Day had dawned. This was the first human blood Charles had ever shed; and as he left this eventful spot, yet pointed out to the traveller, he cast an eye of pity upon the senseless corpses, and even then a sigh of regret escaped his tender bosom. Taking Eliza behind him, and her sister before, he pointed out the way to his hound, and commenced his return. He soon met with some of the party who had commenced the pursuit, and with them, returned to bear the precious, rescued captives, to their anxious, miserable parents. Such a day of rejoicing, the settlement had never seen before, when the glad tidings were made known; and the heroic adventure of Charles received the merited applause of all.

[Footnote 1: Bulwer.]

Of late years, there had been a rapid influx of emigrants from the east to this part of the Ohio; and a small village had sprung up, as a mushroom in the night, a few miles below this settlement. To this place all the produce of the country was carried, by the inhabitants, to be exchanged for such articles of necessity or luxury as they wanted. It soon became a flourishing little town. Its necessities called for a post office, to which there was a weekly mail on horseback from the East, and from Fort Washington, (now Cincinnati.) A very respectable merchant of that place was appointed, with general satisfaction, the post master. His name was Bryant, a native of Pennsylvania. He was considered a very honorable and active young gentleman--very prepossessing in his appearance, easy and agreeable in his manners, intelligent, and quite popular. His evident fondness for drinking was not then deemed a disgrace, and his tendency to extravagance was attributed to his generous and liberal disposition; and every body sagely predicted, that age would lop off these excrescences {442} from a character otherwise very good. He had seen Miss Newton several times, and had become enamored of her, and his visits to her father's became very frequent; for though he received no encouragement whatever from the daughter, he was always treated politely and respectfully, and with true old Virginia hospitality, by the parents.

The earnest efforts of the President of the United States, to give security to the northwestern frontier by pacific arrangements, having proved unavailing, it became evident that vigorous offensive operations only would bring the Indian war to a happy conclusion. Accordingly, in 1791, General Harmer was ordered to leave Fort Washington with a considerable body of troops, and to bring the Indians to an engagement, or at least to destroy totally their villages upon the Scioto and Miami rivers. A general call was made upon the militia of Ohio and the surrounding states, to join in this expedition, which if successful, would permanently secure them against the dreadful incursions of their savage foes. Fired with indignation at the late outrage committed in the neighborhood, and impelled by a noble ambition for distinction, young Claiborne commenced enlisting a company of volunteers. He soon succeeded in obtaining a hundred signatures to his list, from the extensive county of Ross, and was unanimously elected their captain. The first of October was appointed as the day for commencing their march.

As much as Eliza admired this manifestation of bravery and patriotism in Charles, and how highly soever she might be pleased to hear of his distinction, this resolve of his was a source of real pain to the affectionate and devoted girl. The innumerable dangers and hardships of Indian warfare, magnified by her attachment to him who was to be subject to them, overwhelmed her with grief and sad apprehensions. Charles' visits to Mr. Newton's were no less frequent than heretofore, and his efforts to console his weeping Eliza, and relieve her fears, were unceasing. He painted to her, her own late fortunate escape, and told her of the salutary consequences to their own security and prosperity, which must ensue from a subjugation of the enemy. She was partly reconciled and resigned. But banish she could not, her forebodings of ill, so natural. Ah! love, why

"With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers?"

Why is the brimming cup of bliss dashed down just as it touches the opening lips? Why are all our fond hopes delusions--all our realities as fruit of the dead sea, beautiful to the eye, but turning to bitter ashes on the tongue--but to loosen the already too tenacious hold with which we cling to this world, and fasten it on the skies? Who reads not this in every day's experience? Yet who, alas! obeys the warning? With painful, tortured feelings, did this devoted pair note the merciless rapidity with which time bore off the two short weeks yet remaining, before his departure. The last day of September had arrived, and to-morrow Charles must meet his company at the village. Towards evening he rowed over to Mr. Newton's, with a heavy heart; yet fearful of no consequences from his absence, but the pain of a separation from one whose being constituted a part of his own existence. Charles had given up his whole heart, and loved with an ardency stronger than death itself. A melancholy sadness sat upon Eliza's countenance, and a crystal tear-drop glistened in her pensive eye,--which made her appear peculiarly interesting to the devoted Charles. The reader must imagine the thousand mutual vows of unaltered and unalterable affection--the unreserved surrender of the whole heart--the frequent oaths by the immoveable hills--the pressing importunities never to forget or forsake--to casket in each other's heart but one jewel, each other's image--and the innumerable other such things which lovers are wont to pour forth on far less serious occasions. He promised to write frequently; and to insure her of his purpose, he said that should he not, she might properly think that he had forgotten her, and that all his vows were false; for there would be a constant intercourse between the army and Fort Washington,--to which place he could forward his letters, and thence they would certainly come safely by mail. When about to leave, he took her pretty little hand, and drawing a plain gold ring from his pocket, placed it on her slender, tapered finger; and knowing that the blood which flowed beneath his grasp, came warm from a heart that throbbed for him alone, he impressed it with a thousand kisses, and washed them off with his manly tears. Let not the callous, cold-hearted worldling, curl his worthless lip in derision--or the proud man made of sterner stuff, "blush for his sex." Unfeeling indeed, would he have been, had he done otherwise; for there stood the prettiest creature in the world, who had enriched him with an enviable affection, one arm around his neck, her aching head leaning against his breast, and her pure, innocent bosom, which never yet felt the piercings of sorrow's icy dart, heaving with the most convulsive sobs. Who has not felt that the thought of a month's separation from one we love, though conscious of its short duration, sickens the heart? But hope, the mild soother of every ill which betides us, and which brightly gilds our darkest forebodings, could here scarcely administer its delusive consolation; and they were to separate, pained and tortured by the "undying thought, that they no more might meet." He who can look with scorn or coldness on such a scene as this, or calling it weakness, laugh at it,--may keep his poor enjoyment for me, and without my envy, go along his cheerless path, unillumed by a single ray of true and warm affection, himself a stranger to one tender emotion.

The volunteers commenced their march on the morrow, intending to unite with the main body of forces on the Miami; but in a few days met General Harmer on his way to reduce the savages upon the Scioto, and did much brave service in the severe but fruitless conflict on that river,--Claiborne gallantly and heroically distinguishing himself at their head, and obtained a particular notice in the public despatches of the commanding officer. He returned with the troops to Fort Washington, and addressed a letter to his father, and one to Eliza, giving a glowing description of the deadly engagement.

In the disastrous battle upon the Miami, under General St. Clair, he was among the bravest of those who, under General Darke, so daringly charged at the point of the bayonet the concealed Indians, and drove them from their covert twice, but without material advantage; and among those who greatly distinguished themselves for fearlessly fronting the most threatening danger, was Captain Claiborne--and justice was done to {443} his intrepidity and cool bravery in the official despatches. In the glorious battle upon the Maumee, where General Wayne commanded--refusing to surrender the station of commandant of his own brave and hardy volunteers, now greatly reduced, for the office of Colonel in the regular army, he was in the front rank of that legion, which advanced with trailed arms, and hunted the Indians from their concealment, which produced the utter route of the enemy, terminated in their overthrow, and forced them to a tame submission--which eventuated in a definitive treaty of peace in 1795, and brought joy and gladness to the heart of every western citizen.

Four tedious and eventful years had Charles been absent from one, around whom his heart's tenderest affections clung with a deathless tenacity, and for whose sake not one hour in the day o'erslipped him, that he sighed not. Why he never returned while the army was stationed at its various winter quarters, I am unable to say. But unnumbered times had he written the most passionate and affectionate letters; and to them all he had never received an answer. For this he consoled himself with the thought, that they had supposed it fruitless to send letters to one whose situation was so uncertain, or to Eliza's delicacy to entrust her communications to so precarious a mode of conveyance, which was rendered probable by his father's not having written. Any excuse satisfied him, and quelled every doubt of the fidelity of one whose constancy it was painful to suspect. 'Twas the thought of her--the thought that the unyielding opposition of these savages so long detained him from her presence, that drove him upon their unshrinking ranks with a tiger-like ferocity, and nerved his arm for the resistless stroke. And now that his object was accomplished, at the head of the few remaining volunteers who started with him, he took up his line of march for the peaceful valley of the Scioto, where he flattered himself he should close his life in tranquillity and with honor, possessed of a treasure, richer far

"Than all the trophies of the victor are."

How false, alas! all human calculations! What a cheat our every hope!

After a long and painful journey, he reached a hill which overlooked his home--that silent valley, where he had enjoyed his only bliss unmixed with grief.

"He stopped. What singular emotions fill Their bosoms who have been induced to roam, With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill?"

He reached his father's house, and was received with the greatest joy by its inmates. They had almost despaired of his return, so long had they been ignorant of his very existence; and his arrival dissipated the cloud of grief which had frequently overshadowed them. The bustle of first greetings over, he had some excellent refreshments set out for his companions; and when they drank his health with repeated cheers, he addressed them for a few minutes in the most feeling strains, expressed his gratitude for the noble and faithful manner in which they had discharged their duties, and wished them years of prosperity and happiness to compensate them for their toils and dangers. When he finished, each one pressing his hand, shouldered his knapsack and left for his own home.

And now he hurried to his mother's apartment to gather some intelligence concerning his friends; and to his first inquiry about Eliza, the old lady rather pleasantly remarked, "you staid too long--she's married!" Little did she anticipate the effect this communication produced. With an incredulous air, he replied, "you jest. Eliza Newton, married! dead, rather! no, never. But to whom!" "To Mr. Bryant?" At once the fatal truth flashed upon his mind, and pierced his brain like a hot fire-brand. "Eliza Newton, so forgetful, so ungrateful, so inconstant, so deceitful!" His heart sunk within him. The object which he adored, unworthy! Suddenly his head drooped to his knee, and one convulsive groan told the anguish of his soul. His mother called to him in soothing accents. He lifted himself, deadly pale, his lips all dabbled with blood, a vein had burst, his fiery eyes gleamed with a wild and unnatural glare, and gazing with a piercing stare upon his petrified mother, he shrieked in a thrilling, fearful tone, "impossible, she, false! then where is truth?" and springing to his feet, he fell senseless on the floor. His distracted mother just recovered from her alarm, flew for assistance; he was soon consigned to a bed, and a messenger despatched to the village for a physician. He gazed on all with a vacant stare--his old broken-hearted father sat beside him, and he turned himself away. His weeping sisters sat around his pillow, but he knew them not. His temples throbbed furiously, and his blood coursed through his veins in rapid, boiling waves. All feared that his manly intellect had been shivered by this sudden and tremendous stroke. The physician arrived,--and assured them, that he had hopes that his mind was not irreparably impaired, and by keeping him still and quiet, with the help of some cooling draughts, he might yet recover, though his brain was considerably affected. He remained a while to watch the symptoms, and then leaving such directions as his skill suggested, he left this afflicted family. He returned and reported the case and its cause. The report soon reached the ears of Mrs. Bryant--when with a chilling effect, the remembrance of early affection came across her--the ghosts of by-gone joys stalked around her--but no distraction ensued--tears came to her relief, and quenched the fires that seemed to consume her heart. Frequently the stroke which crushes the stout and stubborn mind of man, only bruises the more pliable and yielding intellect of woman, as the storm before which the slender reed bows to the ground, but rises when it is past, tears up by the roots, and dashes to a thousand pieces the gnarled oak. There was one consoling thought, however, which mitigated the pains that Mrs. Bryant felt. There was another reason which calmed her troubled bosom. Whenever there appears an object of pity, or charity, every feeling of woman is enlisted to administer relief; and as the lighter bodies float upon the surface, self, with all its concerns and every other consideration, for the present, sinks to the bottom,--while tenderness, sympathy and kindness, direct every sentiment and exertion in favor of the sufferer. Such was the case in the present instance. Her husband was from home, and Mrs. Bryant loaded with every thing suited to Claiborne's situation, hastened to her father's, and then to Mr. Claiborne's. She was kindly and affectionately received by the family. Pale and agitated, she entered the apartment of her unfortunate Charles. He turned an unmeaning glance upon her, but recognised her not. {444} This she scarcely regretted, as she might administer each healing potion, or bathe his burning temples, without his knowing the hand which did it. For a week or two she remained at her father's, going over every day, and frequently sitting beside his bed through the long silent watches of the night, ruminating with a bleeding heart, upon her own unfortunate situation, all her affection revived for one she had driven to madness, and whom she could never possess--keen despair and biting remorse, her only reward for the part she had acted in this sad tragedy. As memory retraced upon her mind with a burning finger each happy moment of her youth now gone, and her fond hopes disappointed--she cursed bitterly the hour in which she first saw the light. Unspeakable anguish!--Mr. Bryant returned, and thought her presence necessary at home. Reluctantly she obeyed, she feared to see his face. She was deceived--she had never rendered him her whole heart, and even that little seemed now to quit its hold. Censure her not, but listen further. With a sharp reproof for her imprudence, Bryant suffered her no more to visit her father's. Submissively she obeyed. She endeavored to respect and appear agreeable to her husband. And by her unceasing exertion she partly succeeded, and he seemed reconciled, but from her heart of hearts, his image was excluded. 'Twas true the nuptials had been celebrated, the troth plighted, but it was all a sacrilege, they had never been united "heart in heart." Her affections had never been wholly estranged from Claiborne. Assidiously after his departure, did Bryant urge his suit, but without the least prospect of success: yet the ardency of his love, suffered no denial to frustrate his designs. He however grew apace, in favor with her father; his bland, and agreeable manners, and business habits, made him quite acceptable to the old gentleman. Two years had now gone by, and yet not one word in any shape from Charles. The defeats of Harmer and St. Clair had reached their ears, and probably he had fallen among the heroic officers, who met their fate in those calamitous engagements. So thought Mr. Newton,--if not, he had treated them very disrespectfully. Eliza was loath to think so. But we have observed that she was acutely sensible, and possessed of some of the pride of her sex. She remembered Charles' last words, and began to suspect they were designedly spoken, and that probably he had gone on this expedition for the express purpose, else why would he have staid so long unnecessarily, as she supposed; and not a syllable had he written her, though two years had elapsed. Even to a less jealous mind these incidents would have been strong confirmations. And dwelling upon them, she wrought herself into the belief that Charles had deceived her--and she determined to be independent, and to tear her affections from him, cost what it might. She sighed that it was so, but gave him up without an effort. Had he never returned, she might probably have lived at least a contented life.

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