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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3f17927 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #52411 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52411) diff --git a/old/52411-8.txt b/old/52411-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 1a76339..0000000 --- a/old/52411-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4503 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., -No. 2, October, 1834, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 2, October, 1834 - -Author: Various - -Editor: James E. Heath - -Release Date: June 25, 2016 [EBook #52411] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER *** - - - - -Produced by Ron Swanson - - - - - -THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER: - -DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS. - - -Au gré de nos desirs bien plus qu'au gré des vents. - _Crebillon's Electre_. - -As _we_ will, and not as the winds will. - - -RICHMOND: -T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR. -1834-5. - - - - -SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER. - -VOL. I.] RICHMOND, OCTOBER 15, 1834. [NO. 2. - -T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM. - - - - -TO THE PUBLIC, AND ESPECIALLY THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTHERN STATES. - - -The favorable reception of the first number of the Messenger has been a -source of no small gratification. Letters have been received by the -publisher from various quarters, approving the plan of the publication, -and strongly commendatory of the work. The appeal to the citizens of -the south for support of a substantial kind, was not in vain. Already -enough have come forward as subscribers, to defray the necessary -expense of publication; and contributions to the columns of the paper -have been liberally offered from different quarters. The publisher -doubts not that with his present support, he will be enabled to furnish -a periodical replete with matter of an acceptable kind. The useful and -agreeable--the grave and gay--will be mingled in each number, so as to -give it a pleasing variety, and enable every reader to find something -to his taste. Thus will the paper become a source of innocent -amusement, and at the same time a vehicle of valuable information. - -That such a paper is to be desired in the southern states no one will -controvert, and all must be sensible that an increase of public -patronage will furnish the most effectual means of having what is -wanted. An enlarged subscription list would put it in the power of the -publisher to cater in the literary world on a more liberal scale; and -the extended circulation of the paper, which would be a consequence of -that subscription, would furnish a yet stronger inducement to many to -make valuable contributions. - -The publisher also makes his grateful acknowledgements for the friendly -and liberal support received from various gentlemen residing in the -states north of the Potomac. Many in that quarter, of literary and -professional distinction, have kindly extended their patronage. - -Already the number of contributions received, has greatly exceeded the -most sanguine expectations of the publisher. Still he would earnestly -invite the gifted pens of the country to repeat their favors, and unite -in extending the INFLUENCE OF LITERATURE. - - - - -LETTER FROM MR. WIRT TO A LAW STUDENT. - - -The countrymen of WILLIAM WIRT hold his memory in respect, not more for -his mental powers than for his pure morality. Every thing which comes -to light in regard to him, tends to show that his character has not -been too highly appreciated. The letter which occupies a portion of -this number, and which is now for the first time published, exhibits -him in a way strongly calculated to arrest attention. A young gentleman -who is about to leave the walls of a university, and looks to the law -as his profession, who is not related to or connected with Mr. Wirt, -nor even acquainted with him, and knows him only as an ornament to his -profession and his country, is induced by the high estimate which he -has formed of his character, and the great confidence that might be -reposed in any advice that he would give, to ask at his hands some -instruction as to the course of study best to be pursued. Mr. Wirt, -with constant occupation even at ordinary times, is, at the period when -this letter is received, busily employed in preparing for the supreme -court of the confederacy, then shortly to commence its session. Yet -notwithstanding the extent of his engagements, he hastily prepares a -long letter replete with advice, and of a nature to excite the student -to reach, if possible, the very pinnacle of his profession. What can be -better calculated to increase our esteem for those who have attained -the highest distinction themselves, than to see them submit to personal -trouble and inconvenience, for the purpose of encouraging the young to -come forward and cope with them? It would seem as if there were -something in the profession of the law which tends to produce such -liberality of feeling. We find strong evidence of this, if we look to -the course of the two men who are generally regarded as at the head of -the Virginia bar. How utterly destitute are they of that close and -narrow feeling which, in other pursuits of life, not unfrequently leads -the successful man to depress others that his own advantages may with -greater certainty be retained. - -A few remarks will now be made upon the contents of the letter. The -student, says Mr. Wirt, must cultivate most assiduously the habits of -reading, observing, above all of thinking: must make himself a master -in every branch of the science that belongs to the profession; acquire -a mastery of his own language, and when he comes to the bar speak to -the purpose and to the point. He is not merely to make himself a great -lawyer. General science must not be overlooked. History and politics, -statistics and political economy, are all to receive a share of -attention. - -Much of this advice may well be followed by minds of every description, -but some portion of it seems better fitted for an intellect of the -highest order than for the great mass of those who come to the bar. -Lord _Mansfield_ could be a statesman and a jurist, an orator of -persuasive eloquence and acute reasoning, and a judge "whose opinions -may be studied as models." And Sir _William Jones_ has shown that it -was possible for the same individual to be a most extensive linguist, -an historian of great research, a person of information upon matters -the most varied, an author in poetry as well as prose, and a writer of -equal elegance upon legal and miscellaneous subjects. - -But these were men whose extraordinary endowments have caused the world -to admire their strength of understanding and their great attainments. -Mr. Wirt seems to think it best to open a field the whole extent of -which could only be reached by such minds as these, and excite others -to occupy as large a portion of it as practicable, by inculcating the -belief that "to unceasing diligence there is scarcely any thing -impossible." - -That much may be effected by labor and perseverance, no one will -controvert. Mr. Butler is an example. He states, in his reminiscences, -that he was enabled to accomplish what he did, by never allowing -himself to be unemployed for a moment; rising early; dividing his time -systematically; and abstaining in a great degree from company and other -amusements. Yet while the student is exhorted thus to persevere, some -caution may be requisite lest his time be lost amid the variety of -subjects that are laid before him in the extensive course which Mr. -Wirt has prescribed. - -Generally speaking, the student of law will fail to attain the highest -point in his profession, unless the principal portion of his time be -given to that profession. While travelling the road to professional -distinction, he may, without greatly impeding his course, for the sake -of variety, occasionally wander to the right or to the left, provided -he will speedily return to his proper track. But if he open to himself -a variety of paths, walking alternately in them, and spending in one as -much time as in another, he will find that he can never travel far in -any. In _England_ the lawyer commonly devotes himself with great -constancy to his profession, and suffers his attention to be diverted -from it by nothing else. In our country, and especially in the southern -states, more politicians than lawyers are to be found at the -bar.--Hence the English lawyers are generally, as lawyers, more able -and more learned than those of our country. There, as well as here, the -lawyer who devotes a large portion of his life to politics, will become -less fit for his peculiar vocation. - -Lord _Brougham_ is mentioned by Mr. Wirt, but he constitutes no -exception to this remark. He was, it is true, at the same time an -extensive practitioner at the bar, and a leading member of the House of -Commons. He kept pace with the literature of the day, and contributed -largely to the periodical press. The wonder was how he could do all -this and go into society so much as he did; how _he_ could do it, when -so many able men found the profession of the law as much as they could -master. But his fellow practitioners could, to some extent, solve the -problem. The truth was, that Lord _Brougham_ was more remarkable as an -ingenious advocate than as an able lawyer, and made a much better -leader of the opposition than he has since made a Lord Chancellor. -There are many abler lawyers now presiding at his bar, and the decrees -of his master of the rolls are more respected than his own. - -In our country every one must, to some extent, be informed on the -subject of politics, that he may be enabled to discharge his duty as a -citizen; and history and general literature should certainly receive -from all a due share of attention. But if the student of law remember -what has oft been said of his profession, that the studies of even -twenty years will leave much behind that is yet to be grappled with and -mastered, he will perceive the necessity, if he desire to become a -profound jurist, of making all general studies ancillary and -subordinate to that which is his especial object. If he would know to -what extent his attention may be divided, he may take Mr. Wirt himself -as an example. In him extensive legal attainments were happily blended -with general knowledge; powers of argument and eloquence were well -combined; and in the forcible speaker was seen the accomplished -gentleman. His good taste and sense of propriety would never allow him -to descend to that low personality which has now become so common a -fault among the debaters of the day. - -A word to the gentleman who forwarded the letter. His reasons for -transmitting it are not inserted, because it is believed that no -relative or friend of Mr. Wirt can possibly object to the publication -of _such_ a letter. - -C. - - -BALTIMORE, DECEMBER 20, 1833. - -_My dear sir:_ - -Your letter, dated "University of ----, December 12," was received on -yesterday morning--and although it finds me extremely busy in preparing -for the Supreme Court of the United States, I am so much pleased with -its spirit, that I cannot reconcile it to myself to let it pass -unanswered. If I were ever so well qualified to advise you, to which I -do not pretend, but little good could be done by a single letter, and I -have not time for more. Knowing nothing of the peculiarities of your -mental character, I can give no advice adapted to your peculiar case. I -am persuaded that education may be so directed by a sagacious and -skilful teacher, as to prune and repress those faculties of the pupil -which are too prone to luxuriance, and to train and invigorate those -which are disproportionately weak or slow; so as to create a just -balance among the powers, and enable the mind to act with the highest -effect of which it is capable. But it requires a previous acquaintance -with the student, to ascertain the natural condition of his various -powers, in order to know which requires the spur and which the rein. In -some minds, imagination overpowers and smothers all the other -faculties: in others, reason, like a sturdy oak, throws all the rest -into a sickly shade. Some men have a morbid passion for the study of -poetry--others, of mathematics, &c. &c. All this may be corrected by -discipline, so far as it may be judicious to correct it. But the -physician must understand the disease, and become acquainted with all -the idiosyncracies of the patient, before he can prescribe. I have no -advantage of this kind with regard to you; and to prescribe by -conjecture, would require me to conjecture every possible case that -_may_ be yours, and to prescribe for each, which would call for a -ponderous volume, instead of a letter. I believe that in all sound -minds, the germ of all the faculties exists, and may, by skilful -management, be wooed into expansion: but they exist, naturally, in -different degrees of health and strength, and as this matter is -generally left to the impulses of nature in each individual, the -healthiest and strongest germs get the start--give impulse and -direction to the efforts of each mind--stamp its character and shape -its destiny. As education, therefore, now stands among us, each man -must be his own preceptor in this respect, and by turning in his eyes -upon himself, and descrying the comparative action of his own powers, -discover which of them requires more tone--which, if any, less. We must -take care, however, not to make an erroneous estimate of the relative -value of the faculties, and thus commit the sad mistake of cultivating -the showy at the expense of the solid. With these preliminary remarks, -by way of explaining why I cannot be more particular in regard to your -case, permit me, instead of chalking out a course of study by -furnishing you with lists of books and the order in which they should -be read, (and no list of books and course of study would be equally -proper for all minds,) to close this letter with a few general remarks. - -If your _spirit_ be as stout and pure as your letter indicates, you -require little advice beyond that which you will find within the walls -of your University. A brave and pure spirit is more than "_half the -battle,_" not only in preparing for life, but in all its conflicts. -_Take it for granted, that there is no excellence without great labor._ -No mere aspirations for eminence, however ardent, will do the business. -Wishing, and sighing, and imagining, and dreaming of greatness, will -never make you great. If you would get to the mountain's top on which -the temple of fame stands, it will not do _to stand still_, looking, -admiring, and wishing you were there. You must gird up your loins, and -go to work with all the indomitable energy of Hannibal scaling the -Alps. Laborious study, and diligent observation of the world, are both -indispensable to the attainment of eminence. By the former, you must -make yourself master of all that is known of science and letters; by -the latter, you must know _man_, at large, and particularly the -character and genius of your own countrymen. You must cultivate -assiduously the habits of _reading_, _thinking_, and _observing_. -Understand your own language grammatically, critically, thoroughly: -learn its origin, or rather its various origins, which you may learn -from Johnson's and Webster's prefaces to their large dictionaries. -Learn all that is delicate and beautiful, as well as strong, in the -language, and master all its stores of opulence. You will find a rich -mine of instruction in the splendid language of Burke. His diction is -frequently magnificent; sometimes too gorgeous, I think, for a chaste -and correct taste; but he will show you all the wealth of your -language. You must, by ardent study and practice, acquire for yourself -a _mastery_ of the language, and be able both to speak and to write it, -promptly, easily, elegantly, and with that variety of style which -different subjects, different hearers, and different readers are -continually requiring. You must have such a command of it as to be able -to adapt yourself, with intuitive quickness and ease, to every -situation in which you may chance to be placed--and you will find no -great difficulty in this, if you have the _copia verborum_ and a -correct taste. With this study of the language you must take care to -unite the habits already mentioned--the diligent observation of all -that is passing around you; and _active_, _close_ and _useful -thinking_. If you have access to Franklin's works, read them carefully, -particularly his third volume, and you will know what I mean by _the -habits of observing and thinking_. We cannot all be _Franklins_, it is -true; but, by imitating his mental habits and unwearied industry, we -may reach an eminence we should never otherwise attain. Nor would he -have been _the Franklin_ he was, if he had permitted himself to be -discouraged by the reflection that we cannot all be _Newtons_. It is -our business to make the most of our own talents and opportunities, and -instead of discouraging ourselves by comparisons and imaginary -impossibilities, to believe all things possible--as indeed almost all -things are, to a spirit bravely and firmly resolved. Franklin was a -fine model of _a practical man_ as contradistinguished from a -_visionary theorist_, as men of genius are very apt to be. He was great -in that greatest of all good qualities, _sound, strong, common sense_. -A mere book-worm is a miserable driveller; and a mere genius, a thing -of gossamer fit only for the winds to sport with. Direct your -intellectual efforts, principally, to the cultivation of the strong, -masculine qualities of the mind. Learn (I repeat it) _to think_--_to -think deeply, comprehensibly, powerfully_--and learn the simple, -nervous language which is appropriate to that kind of thinking. Read -the legal and political arguments of Chief Justice Marshall, and those -of Alexander Hamilton, which are coming out. Read them, _study them_; -and observe with what an omnipotent sweep of thought they range over -the whole field of every subject they take in hand--and _that_ with a -scythe so ample, and so keen, that not a straw is left standing behind -them. Brace yourself up to these great efforts. Strike for this giant -character of mind, and leave prettiness and frivolity for triflers. -There is nothing in your letter that suggests the necessity of this -admonition; I make it merely with reference to that tendency to -efflorescence which I have occasionally heard charged to southern -genius. It is perfectly consistent with these herculean habits of -thinking, to be a laborious student, and to know all that books can -teach. This extensive acquisition is necessary, not only to teach you -how far science has advanced in every direction, and where the _terra -incognita_ begins, into which genius is to direct its future -discoveries, but to teach you also the strength and the weakness of the -human intellect--how far it is permitted us to go, and where the -penetration of man is forced, by its own impotence and the nature of -the subject, to give up the pursuit;--and when you have mastered all -the past conquests of science, you will understand what Socrates meant -by saying, that he knew only enough to be sure that _he knew -nothing--nothing, compared with that illimitable tract that lies beyond -the reach of our faculties_. You must never be satisfied with the -surface of things: probe them to the bottom, and let nothing go 'till -you understand it as thoroughly as your powers will enable you. Seize -the moment of excited curiosity on any subject to solve your doubts; -for if you let it pass, the desire may never return, and you may remain -in ignorance. The habits which I have been recommending are not merely -for college, but for life. Franklin's habits of constant and deep -excogitation clung to him to his latest hour. Form these habits now: -learn all that may be learned at your University, and bring all your -acquisitions and your habits to the study of the law, which you say is -to be your profession;--and when you come to this study, come resolved -to master it--not to play in its shallows, but to sound all its depths. -There is no knowing what a mind greatly and firmly resolved, may -achieve in this department of science, as well as every other. Resolve -to be the first lawyer of your age, in the depth, extent, variety and -accuracy of your legal learning. Master the science of pleading--master -Coke upon Littleton--and Coke's and Plowden's Reports--master Fearne on -Contingent Remainders and Executory Devises, 'till you can sport and -play familiarly with its most subtle distinctions. Lay your foundation -deep, and broad, and strong, and you will find the superstructure -comparatively light work. It is not by shrinking from the difficult -parts of the science, but by courting them, grappling with them, and -overcoming them, that a man rises to professional greatness. There is a -great deal of law learning that is dry, dark, cold, revolting--but it -is an old feudal castle, in perfect preservation, which the legal -architect, who aspires to the first honors of his profession, will -delight to explore, and learn all the uses to which its various parts -used to be put: and he will the better understand, enjoy and relish the -progressive improvements of the science in modern times. You must be a -master in every branch of the science that belongs to your -profession--the law of nature and of nations, the civil law, the law -merchant, the maritime law, &c. the chart and outline of all which you -will see in Blackstone's Commentaries. Thus covered with the panoply of -professional learning, a master of the pleadings, practice and cases, -and at the same time a _great constitutional and philosophic lawyer_, -you must keep way, also, with the march of general science. Do you -think this requiring too much? Look at Brougham, and see what man can -do if well armed and well resolved. With a load of _professional -duties_ that would, _of themselves_, have been appalling to the most of -_our_ countrymen, he _stood, nevertheless, at the head of his party in -the House of Commons_, and, _at the same time, set in motion and -superintended various primary schools and various periodical works, the -most instructive and useful that ever issued from the British press, to -which he furnished, with his own pen, some of the most masterly -contributions_, and yet found time _not only to keep pace_ with the -progress of the _arts and sciences_, but _to keep at the head of those -whose peculiar and exclusive occupations these arts and sciences were_. -_There_ is a model of _industry and usefulness_ worthy of all your -emulation. You must, indeed, be a great lawyer; but it will not do to -be a mere lawyer--more especially as you are very properly turning your -mind, also, to the political service of your country, and to the study -and practice of eloquence. You must, therefore, be a political lawyer -and historian; thoroughly versed in the constitution and laws of your -country, and fully acquainted with _all its statistics_, and the -history of all the leading measures which have distinguished the -several administrations. You must study the debates in congress, and -observe what have been the actual effects upon the country of the -various measures that have been most strenuously contested in their -origin. You must be a master of the science of political economy, and -especially of _financiering_, of which so few of our young countrymen -know any thing. The habit of observing all that is passing, and -thinking closely and deeply upon them, demands pre-eminently an -attention to the political course of your country. But it is time to -close this letter. You ask for instructions adapted to improvement in -eloquence. This is a subject for a treatise, not for a letter. Cicero, -however, has summed up the whole art in a few words: it -is--"_apte--distincte--ornate dicere_"--to speak _to the purpose_--to -speak _clearly and distinctly_--to speak _gracefully_:--to be able _to -speak to the purpose_, you must understand your subject and all that -belongs to it:--and then your _thoughts and method_ must be _clear in -themselves_ and _clearly and distinctly enunciated_:--and lastly, your -voice, style, delivery and gesture, must be _graceful and delightfully -impressive_. In relation to this subject, I would strenuously advise -you to two things: _Compose much, and often, and carefully, with -reference to this same rule of apte, distincte, ornate;_ and let your -_conversation_ have reference to the same objects. I do not mean that -you should be _elaborate and formal_ in your ordinary conversation. Let -it be _perfectly simple and natural_, but _always, in good time_, (to -speak as the musician) and well enunciated. - -With regard to the style of eloquence that you shall adopt, that must -depend very much on your own taste and genius. You are not disposed, I -presume, to be an humble imitator of any man? If you are, you may bid -farewell to the hope of eminence in this walk. None are mere imitators -to whom nature has given original powers. The ape alone is content with -mere imitation. If nature has bestowed such a portion of the spirit of -oratory as can advance you to a high rank in this walk, your manner -_will be_ your own. In what style of eloquence you are best fitted to -excel, you, yourself, if destined to excellence, are the best judge. I -can only tell you that the _florid and Asiatic style_ is not the taste -of the age. The _strong_, and even the _rugged and abrupt_, are far -more successful. Bold propositions, boldly and briefly expressed--pithy -sentences--nervous common sense--strong phrases--the _felicitè audax_ -both in language and conception--well compacted periods--sudden and -strong masses of light--an apt adage in English or Latin--a keen -sarcasm--a merciless personality--a mortal thrust--these are the -beauties and deformities that now make a speaker the most interesting. -A gentleman and a christian will conform to the reigning taste so far -only as his principles and habits of _decorum_ will permit. The florid -and Asiatic was never a good style either for a European or an American -taste. We require that a man should _speak to the purpose_ and _come to -the point_--that he should _instruct and convince_. To do this, his -mind must move with great strength and power: reason should be -manifestly his master faculty--argument should predominate throughout; -but these great points secured, wit and fancy may cast their lights -around his path, provided the wit be courteous as well as brilliant, -and the fancy chaste and modest. But they must be kept well in the back -ground, for they are dangerous allies; and a man had better be without -them, than to show them in front, or to show them too often. - -But I am wearying you, my dear sir, as well as myself. If these few -imperfect hints, on subjects so extended and diversified, can be of any -service to you, I shall be gratified. They may, at least, convince you -that your letter has interested me in your behalf, and that I shall be -happy to hear of your future fame and prosperity. I offer you my -respects, and tender the compliments of the season. - -WM. WIRT. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -MISFORTUNE AND GENIUS: A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT. - - "You have seen - Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears - Were like a better day: Those happy smiles - That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know - What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence - As pearls from diamonds dropp'd."--_King Lear_. - - -In a late excursion through the western districts of Virginia, having -been detained at the picturesque village of F----, I took a seat in the -stage coach, intending to visit some of the neighboring springs. The -usually delightful temperature and clear sky of the mountain summer, -had been suddenly changed into a cold misty atmosphere; and as I stept -into the coach, the curtains of which had been let down for greater -comfort, I found a solitary female passenger sitting in one corner of -the carriage, and apparently absorbed in deep contemplation. She was -plainly but genteely dressed, in a suit of mourning; and there was -something in her whole appearance, which would have immediately struck -the eye of the most careless observer. Her face, and such parts of her -head as were unconcealed by her bonnet, seemed to me, at a single -glance, to present a fine study for the disciples of Lavater and -Spurzheim--or at least to furnish a model which a painter would have -loved to transfer to his canvass. Her features were not what are -usually termed beautiful; that is, there was not that exquisite -symmetry in them, nor that brilliant contrast between the delicate -white skin and raven hair, or between the coral lip and the lustrous -dark eye, which with some constitute the perfection of female beauty; -but there was something beyond and superior to all these:--There was a -fine intellectual expression which could not be mistaken. I do not even -recollect the color of her eyes: I only remember that those "windows of -the soul" revealed a whole volume of thought and feeling--and that -there was cast over her countenance an inexpressible veil of sadness, -which instantly seized upon my sympathies. As the stage drove off, the -crack of the coachman's whip, and the lumbering of the wheels, seemed -to rouse her from her reverie, and I remarked a deeper tinge of -melancholy pass over her features. It was to her like the sound of a -funeral knell! She was about to bid adieu, perhaps forever, to the -scenes of her infancy--to scenes which were endeared by the remembrance -of departed joys, and even consecrated by bitter inconsolable sorrows! - -After the customary salutation, I determined to engage my interesting -fellow-traveller in conversation; and I at once perceived by the modest -blush which suffused her cheek, and by the timid responses she made to -my inquiries, that she was conscious of appearing in the somewhat -embarrassing situation of an unattended and unprotected female. I -studied therefore to put her mind at ease, by a delicate pledge of my -protection as far as my journey extended. Words of kindness and respect -seemed to fall upon her ear, as if she had been unused to them. Her -countenance, which had sunk in gloom, was lighted up by a mild -expression of tranquillity. I saw that I had somewhat won upon her -confidence, and I determined to improve the advantage, by affording her -an opportunity of narrating her story--a story which I was curious to -know, and which I had already half learned in her care-worn visage, her -garments of woe, and her apparently forlorn and unbefriended condition. - -Such are the mysterious sympathies of our nature, that whilst the -sorrowing heart experiences a transient relief in pouring its griefs -into another's ear, there is a no less melancholy pleasure in listening -to the tale of misfortune, and participating in the misery of its -victim. My companion did not hesitate, in her own peculiar and artless -manner, to relate her story. It was brief, simple and affecting. - -Maria (for that was her name,) was now in her sixteenth year, and was -one of several children, born not to affluence, but to comparative -independence. A doating grandmother adopted her, when not two years -old, with the free consent of her parents. They had other offspring to -provide for; and their residence was not so remote, but that occasional -visits might preserve unbroken the ties of filial and parental love. -The venerable grandmother devoted her humble means to the maintenance -and education of her charge. Her aged bosom rejoiced in beholding -herself, as it were, perpetuated in this blooming scion from her own -stock. She spared neither pains nor expense, consistent with her -limited fortune, in preparing her young descendant for a life of -usefulness, piety and virtue. In truth, her dutiful grandchild was so -"garnered up in her heart," that she became the only worldly hope of -her declining years. Maria was her earthly solace--the tie which bound -her to life when all its charms had faded--the being who made it -desirable to linger yet a little longer on the confines of the grave. -But how fleeting and unsubstantial is human hope! Scarcely a fortnight -had elapsed since this venerated lady had been called to realize -another state of being. When Maria touched upon this part of her -narrative, I could perceive the agony of her soul. I could see the -tearful and uplifted eye as she exclaimed, "Yes, sir! it has pleased -Providence to deprive me of my only earthly benefactress!" - -I was troubled at the misery I had occasioned, and I hastened, if -possible, to administer such consolation as seemed to me proper. "But -you have parents," I replied, "who will take you to their home, and -gladly receive you in their arms?" Little did I think that the wound -which I thus attempted to heal, would bleed afresh at my remark. The -afflicted girl appeared to be deprived, for a moment, of utterance. Her -heart seemed to swell almost to bursting, with the strength and -intensity of her feelings. "My friend," she at length replied, in a -tone of comparative calmness, "for by that name permit me to call you, -even on so short an acquaintance,--you have touched a theme upon which -I would gladly have avoided explanation. The interest you have already -shown, however, in my unhappy story, entitles you to still more of my -confidence. You shall know the whole of my cruel fortune. Though my -father and mother are both still living, they are no longer parents to -me. My father _might have been_ all which a friendless and unprotected -daughter could desire; but alas! for years and years past, he has lost -the 'moral image' which God originally stamped upon his nature. The -DEMON OF INTEMPERANCE has long--long possessed him. His feelings and -affections are no longer those of an intelligent and rational creature. -He scarcely knows me as his offspring; but turns from me with sullen -indifference, if not disgust. My mother!"---- - -At the mention of that hallowed name, the fair narrator seemed to be -almost choked by the violence of her emotions. She stopped an instant -as if to respire more freely. - -"My mother," she continued, "cannot extend to me her arm. She is -herself broken-hearted and friendless; she is wasting away under the -chastening rod of Providence!"---- - -"Heavens!" I inwardly exclaimed, "what havoc--what torture have I not -inflicted upon this innocent bosom! Why did I officiously intermeddle -in things which did not concern me--things too, which I could only know -by tearing open the yet unhealed wounds of an anguished heart." I was -at the point of offering some atonement for the mischief I had done. I -saw the whole picture of wretchedness as it was presented to Maria's -mind. I even shared, or thought that I shared, in the sorrows which -overwhelmed her. My imagination conjured up before me the churlish and -miserable wretch who was then wallowing in the stye of brutal -sensuality--and in whose bosom all holy and natural affection had been -drowned by the fatal Circean cup. I beheld his pale and neglected -partner, writhing under that immedicable sickness of the heart--not of -hope deferred, but of dark, absolute despair. I turned to the object -before me. I saw how those affections which clung around her beloved -protectress, as the tendrils of the vine cling around the aged tree, -were in one evil hour withered forever. She, an unprotected destitute -orphan--worse than an orphan--thrown upon the wide, cold and unfeeling -world--perhaps seeking an asylum in the house of some half welcoming -and distant relative. What a throng of perplexing--might I not say, -distracting reflections, at that moment rushed upon me! I endeavored to -change the subject, but at first without success. I experienced some -relief, however, by being assured, that the relative to whose house she -was now hastening, had offered his aid and protection, in the spirit of -kindness and sincerity. - -The most wonderful part of my story is yet to be told. When Maria was -sufficiently composed, I resolved to divert the conversation into more -agreeable channels. I was struck with the delicacy and propriety of her -speech--with the simple, correct, and even elegant language which she -used. Another and a quite unexpected source of admiration was yet in -reserve for me. I touched upon the topic of her education--upon the -books she had learned--the seminaries she had attended--and the -teachers by whom she was instructed. Even here methought I might be -officious and imprudent. What could be expected from a girl of -sixteen--from one who had been born to humble fortune--from one who had -had no one at home except an unlettered grandmother, to stir up within -her the noble spirit of emulation, and to fan the divine sparks of -genius and knowledge. Might she not suppose that I intended to deride -the ignorance of youth, and expose the deficiency of her acquirements! -Not so! At the bare mention of her books and instructers, I saw for the -first time, the clouds which had gathered around her brow begin to -disperse. There was evidently something like a smile which played upon -her features. It looked like the rainbow of peace, which denoted that -the storm of passion was passing away. Oh, how eloquently did she -discourse upon the beauties and delights of learning! Next to the star -of Bethlehem, which gilded her sorrowing path, and which for two years -had attracted her devotional spirit,--knowledge was the luminary which -she worshipped with more than Persian idolatry. The reader shall judge -of my surprise and admiration, when he is informed, that this artless -girl of sixteen--this youthful prodigy--had already amassed a richer -intellectual treasure, than often falls to the lot of men of superior -minds, even at the age of maturity. The great masters of Roman and -classical antiquity she had read in their original tongue--the Georgics -and Æneid of Virgil--the Commentaries of Cæsar--Selections from -Horace--and the matchless orations of Tully, were as familiar to her, -as household words. She was also conversant with the French, and -thoroughly grounded in her own vernacular. Besides the usual elements -of mathematics, she had even encountered the forbidding subtleties of -algebra; and although mistress of the pleasing study of geography, -there was nothing which had so filled her mind with delight as the -sublime researches of astronomy. She loved to contemplate the harmony -and beauty of the planetary system,--and to soar still further on the -wings of thought, into that vast and illimitable firmament where each -twinkling luminary is itself the centre of a similar system. She had -watched too the fiery and eccentric track of the comet, "brandishing -its crystal tresses in the sky;" and from all the wonderful movements -and harmonious action of the heavenly bodies, she had realized the -impressive sentiment of Young, that - - "An undevout astronomer is mad." - -From the marvellous works of creation as revealed in that most sublime -of all human sciences, her soul had been transported to the Creator -himself, whom she worshipped in adoring humility. - -But why enumerate--why speak of her varied and almost numberless -acquirements? There was scarcely a branch of learning with which she -did not manifest at least some acquaintance. Even the popular and -somewhat pleasing science of phrenology had not escaped her attention. -In the theories and conclusions of its ardent disciples however, she -was reluctant to concur. The moral and intellectual character did not, -in her opinion, depend on the position of the brain, or the -conformation of the skull. It squinted at the hateful doctrine of -materialism; at least she thought so, and until better satisfied, she -would not believe. Though closely engaged for years in her regular -scholastic studies, this extraordinary female had found leisure to -stray occasionally into the paths of polite and elegant literature. She -had culled from the most illustrious of the British bards, some of -their choicest and sweetest flowers; and the beautiful fictions of -Scott were faithfully stored in her memory. - -Deeply interested as I felt in this young and highly gifted girl, the -hour of separation was at hand. The journey before her was -comparatively long and tedious; mine would speedily terminate. When -about to bid her adieu, I fancied that I saw regret painted in her -countenance. Her solitude would bring back some of those gloomy -reflections, which society and conversation had in some measure -dissipated. I handed her a literary work which I had with me, to -beguile the loneliness and misery of her journey. She accepted it with -eagerness and gratitude. A new current of joy sprung up in her bosom. -Commending her to the protection of heaven, I pressed her hand, and -left my seat in the coach. - -My sensations, when the vehicle swiftly departed, were of a mixed -character. There was a strange combination of pleasure and pain. Poor -Maria, I thought, we may never again meet in this world of sorrow; but -if ever a pure aspiration was breathed for thy happiness, it is that -which I now offer. I know that there is something within me which -borders on romance; and perhaps many will suppose that my imagination -has thrown over this adventure an illusive coloring. It may be so; but -even after an interval of composed reflection, I have not been able to -discover any thing in the foregoing sketch which does not substantially -conform to truth. I have often moralized on Maria's story, and in my -blind distrust of the dealings of an all wise Providence, have wished -that human blessings could be sometimes more equally distributed. I -have thought of the hundreds and thousands of the gay, simple, -fluttering insects, dignified with the name of fashionable -belles,--born and reared in the lap of luxury,--reposing in moral and -intellectual sloth, and quaffing the delicious but fatal poison of -adulation,--how inferior, how immeasurably inferior, most, if not all -of them were, to this poor, neglected, deserted orphan. I have thought -how hard was that decree, by which the light, trifling and glittering -things of creation should be buoyed up to the surface by their own -levity--whilst modest merit and suffering virtue were doomed to sink -into obscurity, and perhaps into wretchedness. On the other hand, I -have loved to look at the sunny smiles which Hope, in spite of us, will -sprinkle over the chequered landscape of life. It is impossible! I have -exclaimed, that one so young, yet so unfortunate--so highly improved by -moral and mental culture--so worthy of admiration and esteem, should -live and die unknown and unregretted. She surely was not - - --------"born to blush unseen, - And waste her sweetness in the desert air"-- - -at least such is my hope, and such is doubtless the prayer of every -generous reader. - -H. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -EXAMPLE IS BETTER THAN PRECEPT. - - -I never read Jeremy Bentham's 'Book of Fallacies:' it is known to me -only through the Edinburgh Review. I am uncertain whether it _gibbets_ -the above saying, or not; but no fallacy of them all better deserves to -be hung up on high, for the admonition of mankind. There is none more -mischievous, in the best filled pack of the largest wholesale -proverb-pedler. - -"_Example is better than precept!_"--is the constant plea, the -invariable subterfuge, of those who do not want to follow good counsel. -Be the counsel ever so sage--be the propriety and expediency of -following it ever so manifest--if it perchance do not square to a T -with the adviser's own practice, he is twitted with this sapient -apothegm; and the advised party wends his way of folly as completely -self-satisfied, as if he had demonstrated it to be the way of wisdom by -an argument clearly pertinent, and mathematically unanswerable. Yet how -is his argument more to the purpose--how is he more rational--than if -he should refuse to take a road pointed out by a sign-board, because -the board itself did not run along before him? May I not correctly show -to others a way, which it is not convenient or agreeable for me to -travel myself? - -I could fill a book with the instances I have known, of people who have -deluded themselves to their own hurt, by relying upon this same -proverb. - -For years, I have been a little given to drinking: not to excess, 'tis -true--but more than is good for me. A sprightly younker, whose thirst -appeared likely to become inordinate, being counselled by me to abstain -altogether from strong waters, as the only sure resource of those -afflicted with that propensity--told me, "_example was better than -precept,_" and refused to heed the one, because he could not have the -other also. He has since died a sot. The last three years of his -existence were, to his wife, years of shame, terror, and misery, from -which widowhood and the poor-house were a welcome refuge. His children -are schooled and maintained by the parish. - -My appetite is better than ordinary. It is, in truth, too much -indulged, and not a few head-aches and nightmares have been the -consequence. Venturing once, on the score of my woful experience, to -admonish a young friend whom I saw entering the habit in which I was -confirmed, he confuted me with the accustomed logical -reply--"_example,_" and so forth. Seven years afterwards saw him -tottering on the grave's brink, with an incurable _dyspepsia_, the -fruit of gluttony, and of gluttony's usual attendant, indolence. - -When a boy, I was a famous _climber_. Perched in a cherry tree one day, -I saw a lad, clumsier than I was, going far out upon a slender branch. -I cautioned him that it would break. "Didn't I see you on it just now?" -said he: "and there you are now, further out on a smaller limb! -_Example's better_"--but before he could end the saying, his bough -snapped, and he fell twenty feet, breaking a leg and dislocating a -shoulder by the fall. - -Another time, as I and a smaller boy were hunting, he walked over a -creek upon a log, which he saw was just able to bear his weight, -through rottenness. "You had better not venture," said he to me. But I -said, I had always heard, _example was better than precept_, and -following him, was soused by the breaking of the log, in six feet -water. Being a good swimmer, I escaped with a ducking, (it was near -Christmas,) and with wetting my gun, lock, priming, and all: so that it -cost me a full hour to refit for sport. - -It is not, however, commonly, either _immediate_ or _bodily_ harm that -we incur by means of this Jack-o'lantern proverb. Our faith in it is -not sufficient to lead us into instant and obvious danger: it is in -general the opiate with which we lull ourselves, only when the evil we -are warned against is of the _moral_ kind, or likely to occur at a -remote period. - -In my youth, I read novels to a pernicious excess. They enfeebled my -memory; unfixed my power of attention and my habits of thought; blunted -my zest for history; dimmed my perception of reasoning; gave me the -most illusory ideas of human life and character; and filled my brain -with fantastic visions. A passion for learning, and the timely counsels -of a sensible friend, subsequently won me so far from this career of -dissipation, that I surmounted in some degree its evil effects, and -acquired a moderate stock of solid knowledge: but to my dying day I -shall feel its cloying, _unhinging_, debilitating influence upon my -mental constitution. Still, even latterly, I have continued to indulge -myself with the best novels, as they appeared. My weakness in this -respect unluckily became known to a young girl, who seemed to be -exactly treading in my footsteps; and whom I earnestly warned of the -dangers besetting that path. "Now, cousin L., how can you talk so, when -I have seen you _devouring_ the _Antiquary_, and _Guy Mannering_, and -_Patronage_, and I don't know how many besides! You need not preach to -me: _example is better than precept._" _Therefore_--for the reasoning -seemed to her as conclusive as Euclids--_therefore_ she went on, with -undistinguishing voracity, through all the spawn of the novel press: -and there is not now a sadder instance of the effects of novel-reading. -After rejecting with disdain three suitors every way her equals, (and -in real merit her superiors,) because they were so unlike her favorite -novel heroes--did not woo on their knees or in blank verse--and had -'such shocking, vulgar names'--she, at three and twenty, married a -coxcomb, formed precisely after the model upon which her 'mind's eye' -had so long dwelt. He was gaudy, flippant, and specious; knew a dozen -of Moore's Melodies by rote; could softly discourse of _the heart_ and -its _affections_, as if he really possessed the one, and had actually -felt the other; and, most irresistible of all, his name was EDWIN -MORTIMER FITZGERALD. The result may be imagined. The society of such a -being could not long please. Their conversation was a routine of -insipid frivolity and angry disputes. With no definite principles of -economy or of morals, he wasted his fortune and wrecked his health over -the bottle and at cards--excitements, the usual resource of a weak, -ill-cultivated understanding. She is now a widow, scantily endowed, at -the age of twenty-seven. Her mind, too much engrossed by her darling -pursuit to have learned, even in the impressive school of adversity, is -nearly a blank as to all useful knowledge: imagination, paramount there -over every other faculty, is prolific of innumerable fooleries; she can -do no work beyond crimping a ruff or making a frill: and her nerves, -_shattered_ by tea, late hours, and sentimental emotion at fictitious -scenes, threaten a disordered intellect and a premature grave. - -To this impertinent adage, about _example_ and _precept_, is it chiefly -owing that I am at this moment a bachelor, aged fifty. I used it to -parry the repeated instances made me by a friendly senior bachelor, to -be "up and a doing," in the journey towards matrimony. As the proverb -commonly silenced him, it appeared to me at last, as it does to most -people, a satisfactory answer; it was the lullaby, with which I hushed -into repose every transient qualm that his expostulations excited. My -friend at length, in reasonable time, took me at my word, and added -example to precept: he married, well and happily. But one obstacle or -other, real or imaginary, had by this time confirmed me in my -inactivity. Business occupied my time: chimerical visions of female -excellence, in spite of my better reason, haunted me from the regions -of romance, and made me hard to be pleased, even by merits which I was -obliged to confess were superior to my own: courtship, by being long in -view yet long deferred, came at length to appear clothed in -embarrassment and terror: a failure, resulting (as vanity whispered,) -purely from the awkwardness produced by embarrassment and terror, -finally crushed all matrimonial aspirations: and, as it is now absurd -to hope for a _love-match_, (a genuine novel-reader can brook no other) -I am e'en trying to resign myself to the doom of perpetual celibacy. - -'Twere needless to multiply examples. These suffice to shew, not only -how absurd in reasoning, but how hurtful often in practice it is, to -consider advice as at all the _less good_, for not being enforced by -the giver's example. That proverb has done as much harm in the world as -the doctrine of the Pope's infallibility, or of the divine right of -kings; or as the silly saying, "_stuff a cold, and starve a fever;_" -or, as (by its perversion) that unfortunate one, "_spare the rod, and -spoil the child._" - -Yet, after all, the maxim I have been exposing is not _untrue_. -_Example_ IS better than _precept_: DOES more effectually shew _the -right way_. But it is _fallacious_, and _mischievous_, by being -misapplied. Instead of being regarded merely as a rebuke to the -adviser, it is absurdly taken by the _advised_ as a justication to -himself in persisting in error. In most cases it is not even a _just_ -rebuke to the _adviser_: because ten to one there is _some -dissimilarity of situation or of circumstances_, which makes it not -expedient or proper for him to do what he nevertheless _properly_ -recommends to another. While I shew you your road--and shew it with -perfect correctness--my own duty or pleasure may call me another way, -or may bid me remain where I am. But the adage is _never_ an apology -for the advised party's neglect of advice: and whensoever he attempts -to use it as such, his plea, though abstractly true, is impertinent--is -nothing to the purpose. - -M. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -THE POWER OF FAITH. - - "Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, in the - "days of Herod the King, behold there came wise men from the - "east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born king of the - "Jews? for we have seen his star in the east and have come to - "worship him." - - - Pleasure! thou cheat of a world's dim night, - What shadows pass over thy disk of light! - To follow thy flitting and quivering flame, - Is to die in the depths of despair and shame; - 'Tis to perish afar on a lone wild moor, - Or the wreck of a ship on a hopeless shore. - Come listen, ye gay! I will tell of a star - Whose beaming is brighter and steadier far; - It rose in the East, and the wise men came - To see if its light were indeed the same - Which their old books said would be seen to rest - On Bethlehem's plains, in its silver vest, - To point to the spot where a Saviour lay, - Who would gather his flock, all gone astray; - Would frighten the wolf from his helpless fold, - And loosen the grasp of his demon hold; - And lead them away to his pastures green, - Where all is so verdant and fadeless seen, - Where the river of life is a ceaseless stream, - And the light of his love is the sweetest beam - That ever shone out on benighted eyes, - And brighter the face of those lovely skies, - Than ever was seen in the softest sleep - When the senses are hushed in calmness deep; - And spirits are thought, with their gentle breath, - To breathe on the lids of a seeming death, - And whisper such things in the ear of wo, - As the waking sinner must never know. - Oh, what doth he ask in return for this, - The light of his love, and such draughts of bliss? - What doth he ask for the boon thus given?-- - Faith in the blood of the Son of Heaven. - - A cry was heard in Rama!--and so wild-- - 'Twas Rachel weeping for her murder'd child:-- - She would not be consoled--her youngest pride - Was torn in terror from her sheltering side; - At one dread blow her infant joy was gone - To glut the rage of Herod's heart of stone; - What drave the tyrant in his wrathful mood, - To bathe her lovely innocents in blood? - Why stoop'd the savage from his kingly throne, - To fill Judea with a mother's moan?-- - Weak wretch! he idly sought in his alarm, - To stay the purpose of Jehovah's arm; - The creature, crawling on his kindred dust, - Would stay the bolt, descending on his lust; - The crafty counsel of his finite mind - Would thwart the God, who rides upon the wind; - Yea, "rides upon a Cherub," and doth fly, - Scatt'ring his lightnings through the lurid sky. - Vain hope! the purpose of his heart, foreknown, - Ere yet the falcon swoops, the prey is flown; - On Egypt's all unconscious breast is laid - Another babe, like him whom erst the maid - Daughter of Pharaoh on the wave espied - In bark of bulrush, floating o'er the tide - Where 'twas her wont her virgin limbs to lave, - And snatched in pity from a watery grave; - True to the chord that wakes in woman's heart, - True to the pulse which bids her promptly start - To shield defenceless childhood in her arms, - And hush the plaining of its young alarms. - - Infant adored! I dare not here essay - To paint the lustre of thy glorious way:-- - Let earth attend, while holy tongue recount - Thy hallow'd lessons from the Olive Mount, - While Heaven proclaims its messenger of love - On Jordan's banks descending as a dove, - While grateful multitudes in plaudits vie, - And Zion shouts hosannah to the High! - O'er famed Gethsemane, I must not tread. - Sad o'er its memory let tears be shed; - From bloody Calvary, the soul recoils - From impious murderers, sharing in thy spoils; - From thy dread agony, and bosom wrung, - A world in awful darkness, sably hung, - When earth was shook, the vail was rent in twain - And yawning graves gave forth their dead again. - - From theme too great, too sad, I turn away, - From strain too lofty for a feeble lay-- - They sought to quench in blood thy hallow'd light, - To stay, the foolish ones! thy stayless flight; - They did indeed thy breast of meekness wring, - Which would have gathered them beneath its wing; - Infuriate Jacob trampled on thy cross, - Thy loved ones mourned in bitterness, thy loss, - When suddenly is heard the earthquake shock, - The sepulchre repels its closing rock, - The grave is tenantless!--the body gone, - The trembling guards in speechless terror thrown; - Th' attending angel comes with lightning brow - And raiment whiter than the dazzling snow, - Comes to attest with his eternal breath, - Our God triumphant over sin and death. - - Here let me pause and fix my ardent gaze-- - Faith is my star, whose ever-during rays - Can guide my steps through life's surrounding gloom - And cheer the paths which lie beyond the tomb; - How was I lost in earth's bewildering vale - When first I turned and saw that silver sail - Above my dim horizon, breaking slow, - When all of peace for me seem'd gone below; - My world was sad and comfortless and drear - Or cross'd by lights that glance and disappear; - Look back, my soul, on scenes which long have passed, - Think on the thousand phantoms I have chased; - Count o'er the bubbles whose delusive dyes - Have danced in emptiness before mine eyes; - How were they followed,--won--and heedless clasp'd - How fled their hues! evanished as I grasp'd!-- - That last and loveliest one, whose rainbow light - Will break at times on memory so bright, - How did it fleet with all its fairy fires, - Fanned by the breath of young and soft desires! - Caught by its tinsel shine, deceptive shed, - I flew, with throbbing heart and dizzied head, - A giddy round, where all beneath were flowers, - Where sped, with "flying feet," the laughing hours: - Dissolved the charm--dispelled the brilliant dream-- - Why changed to baleful shadow did it seem? - What roused the madman from his trance, and left - His heart a waste--of love--of joy bereft? - What woke the foolish one?--unmanned his heart? - Death, mid the treach'rous scene, did sudden start, - And o'er my light of love his breath expires, - It pales--it fades--extinguish'd are its fires! - - But now, how blest the change! there is a power - Can foil e'en death--can rob his only hour - Of half its sting--can even deck with charms - The cold embrace of his sepulchral arms: - 'Tis but the transient sinful passport this, - To "joys unspeakable and full of bliss;" - 'Tis but a short,--convulsive,--fitful thrill,-- - A momentary pang,--a sudden chill;-- - When free, the disembodied spirit flies - Where, incorruptible, it never dies; - To scenes the Patmos prophet, glowing paints, - Where near the jasper seat adore the saints, - Where bow of emerald circles round a throne - In glory brighter than the sardine stone! - Yet hold!--nor thus as if in scorn my soul - Still break from earth and spurn its dull control; - Why wilt thou bound away through paths of ether, - Swift as "young roes upon thy mountains, Bether?" - Turn--turn to earth, the blinded vision fails,-- - We must not look beyond those sapphire veils, - Which mercy spreads in beauty o'er the skies, - To spare the weakness of unhallow'd eyes; - Oh, check the thought which soars, presumptuous man! - Nor dare the heights that thou must never scan. - - But though shut out from that all radiant goal - While "this corruptible" enchains the soul, - He whom a gracious God hath given to see - Yon light which burst on darkened Galilee, - Will find a charm in that clear steady ray - Which sweetens life and sanctifies decay; - All changed the face of this dark prison, earth, - It seems to spring as from a second birth; - Chaos is gone,--as first it fled the sight - Of Him who spake, and sudden there was light! - Sweet flowers now spring upon the pris'ners path, - Where once but thorns beset the child of wrath; - A balm for wounds that once could rack the frame, - Such monitory thoughts the fondest wish to tame. - Such hope to cheer and stay the sinking breast, - A prize so noble,--and so calm a rest! - Such alter'd views!--new heavens!--and other skies! - Some veil before was bound upon his eyes, - Thus sudden loosed, as if angelic hands, - Invisible, unbound his fettering bands. - Where now the cold and soul revolting gloom - That hung its shadows o'er the yawning tomb? - Where gone the grief that with o'erwhelming load - Press'd down the heart and crush'd it on its road? - Lost in the hope of those prospective joys - Where sorrow enters not, nor death annoys. - -S. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -THE SWEET SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA, AND THE VALLEY WHICH CONTAINS THEM. - -BY W. BYRD POWELL, M.D. - - -Mr. Jefferson has said, and we admit it, that a sight of the Natural -Bridge is worth a trip across the Atlantic. But as this does not -preclude the possibility of greater curiosities existing, we are -allowed the privilege of expressing the belief, that the Sweet Springs, -inclusive of the entire valley which contains them, present to a -philosophical mind, a scene of incalculably greater interest. The -bridge, by one mental effort, is comprehended, and speculation put at -rest. Not so with this valley; but like the bridge, the first -impressions produced by it create amazement, but as soon as this state -of feeling is displaced by further observation, a train of thought -succeeds, of unceasing interest, upon the character and variety of the -causes which could have produced such a pleasing variety of effects. - -In the first place, the several springs, bubbling forth immense volumes -of water, highly charged with lime, carbonic acid gas, free caloric, -and in some instances iron, are objects of peculiar interest to the -philosopher, and so they will remain, more especially, until more facts -in relation to them are discovered, and the laws of chemical affinity -are better understood. - -In the second place, the great fertility of the valley, even to a -common observer, will be remarked as a matter of very uncommon -occurrence. - -In the third place, those elevations which cross the Valley, five in -number, popularly known as the Beaver Dams, are marvellous matters, -transcending even the Natural Bridge; and that they were constructed by -beavers, cannot admit of a doubt. But then the mind is lost in -amazement at the probable number of the animals that inhabited the -valley, and the immensity of their labor. - -The valley is bounded by high hills, perhaps mountains, and the one -that terminates its lower extremity consists of slate, and is separated -from the lateral ones by a stream of small magnitude above its junction -with the valley branch, which is made up measurably of the mineral -waters. The lateral mountains, at their lower extremity are slate; at -the other, sandstone; and in the middle, limestone. - -From the upper spring, or the one now in use, to the junction of its -branch with the mountain stream above treated of, is three miles, and -the fall in that distance was originally about one hundred and fifty -feet. Then there was between these lateral hills no valley or flat -land--this has been produced by the Beaver Dams which divided the -original declination into five perpendicular _falls_, measuring each -from twenty to thirty-eight feet--thus producing out of one mountain -gutter, five beautiful tables of the richest soil in the world. And -this too, simply by retaining the _debris_ from the surrounding hills, -as it was annually washed in, and also the lime from the mineral -waters, which, since the production of the fountains has been -constantly depositing. It is furthermore evident that no one of these -dams was the work of one season, but of many, just as the necessity for -elevation was produced by the filling up of the artificial basin. - -As a description of one of those dams will serve for all, we will take -the largest, and the one which bounds the lower extremity of the -valley. - -This dam constitutes one bank of the stream which receives the valley -waters, and is about thirty-eight feet high, and half a mile in length; -the elevation, however, gradually diminishes from the centre to the -extremities. The mineral waters of the valley contain, as we have -intimated, an immense quantity of lime, which is deposited with -astonishing rapidity in the state of a simple carbonate, (especially in -those places where the water has much motion,) producing those mineral -forms called _stalactites_ and _stalagmites_. With this knowledge it is -easy to comprehend how these imperishable monuments of beaver labor and -economy were produced.--For instance, these animals, according to their -manner of building, felled trees across the mouth of the branch, and -filled smaller interstices with brush, which would cause motion in the -water and serve as nuclei for its mineral depositions. Consequently, in -this dam may be seen immense incrustations of logs, brush, roots and -moss. In many instances, the ligneous matter, not being able to resist -the decomposing effects of time and moisture, is entirely removed, -leaving petrous tubes, resembling, in the larger specimens, cannon -barrels. These calcareous deposites not only cemented the timber -together, but secured the entire work against the smallest percolation, -prevented the escape of mountain _debris_, and rendered permanent a -labor, which under other circumstances, would little more than have -survived the duration of the timber, or the life of the industrious -artificer. - -The outside of the dam is stalactical in its whole length, which -resulted from the beaver's keeping its summit level, and thus causing -the water to flow over every point of it. This circumstance, in -connexion with the stream that washes its outer base, has caused large -and over hanging projections of the stalactical deposites, and -cavernous excavations; attached to the roofs of which is to be seen a -great variety of small and beautiful spars. At the point over which the -water at present is precipitated, the dam, is a bold and interesting -spectacle. Add to this a large descending column of white spray, into -which the water is converted by obstacles opposing its march over the -dam, and the scene is rendered truly sublime. - -The soil of the several basins seems to rest on stalagmite, and the -channel of the branch is worn out of it. - -In many places, far above the present level of the basins or dams, may -be seen large rocks of this stalagmite: thus proving incontestibly, -that this water occupied a position, two hundred feet at least above -what it did at the time the beavers commenced their labor, and before -the deep excavation was effected between the mountains. - -Finally, we deem it proper to make a few more remarks upon the first -topic we introduced,--namely, the waters themselves. As to the agents -concerned, and the play of affinities between them, it is useless for -us to hazard an opinion, more especially as we have not made ourselves -analytically acquainted with them. Let it suffice to point out the -several springs, and those sensible properties and qualities which will -necessarily be observed by every visiter; and first of the spring now -in use. - -As soon as this beautiful fountain is brought within the compass of -vision, attention will be arrested by the constant and copious escape -of fixed air, and the boldness of the stream. As soon as it is -introduced to the mouth, its sweetish taste and warmth are -discovered--and then its stimulating effect upon the system will be -perceived; and finally, if the visiter will walk below the spring, five -or six rods, he will discover the stalagmitic rocks of limestone which -have been formed by successive depositions from this water. - -The next spring below, is popularly called the Red Spring. It is -characterized by a red deposite, which we regard as the carbonate of -iron, by a strong sweetish calybiate taste, by its warmth, by the -boldness of the stream, and by the absence of any fixed air escaping. - -The two springs below this, resemble the first in every respect, so far -as the unaided senses can discover. We feel called upon to add, that no -one should venture a free use, as a drink, of the Red Spring water, -unadvised by an intelligent physician. It is a powerful water, and can -never prove an indifferent agent in any constitution. - -And finally, we beg leave to advise every visiter, whose soul is warmed -by a scientific love of natural phenomena, not to leave the ground till -he shall have seen the major part, at least, of what we have feebly -attempted to describe. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -RECOLLECTIONS OF "CHOTANK." - - _Olim meminisse juvabit._--VIRGIL. - - -Blessed, yea thrice blessed, be the hills and flats, the "forests" and -swamps of Old Chotank! Prosperous, yea doubly prosperous be their -generous cultivators--worthy descendants of worthy sires--VIRGINIANS -all over, in heart and feeling, soul and body. From the Paspatansy -swells to the Neck levels, may they have peace and happiness in "all -their borders." - -How often do I turn over memory's volume and linger upon the page which -tells of my first visits to "Chotank"--so full of almost unalloyed -pleasure. The recollection steals upon the mind like soft strains of -music over the senses, giving the same chastened satisfaction. - -Can I ever forget the happy days and nights there spent: The ardent fox -hunt with whoop and hallo and winding horn: And would even TEMPERANCE -blush to look, after the fatigues of the chase, at the old family bowl -of mint julep, with its tuft of green peering above the inspiring -liquid--an emerald isle in a sea of amber--the dewy drops, cool and -sparkling, standing out upon its sides--all, all balmy and inviting? -And then, the morning over and the noon passed, the business of the day -accomplished, the social board is spread, loaded with flesh and fowl -and the products of the garden and the orchard! Come let us regale the -now lively senses and satisfy the excited appetite! What care we for -ragouts and fricassee's, and olla podrida's, and all the foreign -flummery that fashion and folly have brought into use? The juicy ham, -the rich surloin, the fat saddle, make the _substantials_ of a VIRGINIA -dinner, and "lily-livered" he, who would want a better. But when -friends and strangers come--and welcome are they always! nature's -watery store house is at hand, and windy must be the day indeed, when -the Potomac cannot furnish a dish of chowder or crabs, to be added to -the feast. How I have luxuriated at a Chotank dinner! Nor let pleasures -of the table in this intellectual age be despised? Goddess of -Hospitality forbid it! And well may I address thee in the _feminine_ -gender, thou dispenser of heartfelt mirth! 'Tis WOMAN'S smile enlivens -the feast--'tis WOMAN'S handy care that has so well provided it--'tis -WOMAN'S kind encouragement that adds a charm to all you see around you. - -And now let us loll in the cool portico, shaded with the Lombardy -poplar--the proper tree, let them say what they will, to surround a -gentleman's mansion--so tall and stately, and therefore so appropriate. -How delightful is the breeze on this height! See the white sails of the -vessels, through the trees on the bank of the river, spread out to -catch it, and how gracefully and even majestically they glide along. -You can trace them up and down as far as the eye can reach, following -their quiet courses. The beautiful slopes of the fields in Maryland, -cultivated to the water's edge, fill up a picture surpassingly -beautiful--not grand, but beautiful; for what can please more than the -calm sunshine shed upon upland and lowland, with the glad waters -glistening in its rays, and just enough of man's works on both "flood -and field" to give life and motion to the scene! Surrounded with such a -prospect as this, let the old folks discuss their crops, talk of their -wheat and corn, and prognosticate the changes of the weather--or, as -times now go, settle first the affairs of the county, then of the -state, and lastly of the nation, while we steal away to the parlor. - -DAUGHTERS OF VIRGINIA! always fair, always lovely, how much fairer and -lovelier than ever, do you appear in your own homes, surrounded by your -fathers, your brothers and your kinsmen. How it has delighted me to -watch the overflowings of your innocent hearts, to enjoy your winning -smiles--to listen to the music of your voices! I see in you no -hypocrisy and deceit, the moral contagious diseases caught by -intercourse with corrupt society--I find no "town-bred" arts, mocking -the modesty of nature--I discover no cunning devices to attract that -attention which merit alone ought to command. May this be written of -you always! May the land which produces noble, generous sons, ever have -for its boast and pride, THE MOST VIRTUOUS DAUGHTERS. - -And now having seen the young men _fairly_ "paired," if not matched, -let us leave them with a blessing, and look after our more aged -friends. - -Politics have run high since we left them, but the "cool of the -evening" is cooling the blood, and "a drink" settles the controversy. -Friends and neighbors cannot afford to quarrel even about what concerns -themselves, much less about things so far off as at Washington. With -Virginia gentlemen there is always a courtesy and kindness even in -heated argument which precludes the possibility of offence. - -Ah! did I not see a sly wink? And is there not a touch of the elbow, -and then a low whisper, and by and by a buzz--and then an open proposal -for a sociable game at CARDS. Presently, presently, good friends, we -will have our tea and biscuit, and then for loo or whist! - -Let not starched propriety look prim, nor prudery shake her head, nor -jealous caution hold up her finger. Our fathers did the same before us, -and "be we wiser or better than they?" Call in the "womankind," as -Oldbuck of Monkbarns ungallantly styled the better part of creation, -and let us have fair friends and foes to join us round the table. Trim -the lights, roll from your purses just enough of silver to give an -interest to our play. Avaunt! spirits of gaming and avarice from this -circle--and here's at you till weariness or inclination calls us to -seek - - "Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep." - -And thus ends a day in Chotank: A day!--yes many, many days. In these -"our latter times," and this "our age of improvement," all this may be -thought wrong! Perhaps it is so. I will not dispute with stern morality -and strict philosophy. Their counsels are doubtless more worthy to be -followed than the maxim which - - "Holds it one of the wisest things - To drive dull care away." - -But for "my single self" I can say that after a day spent in Chotank I -never had reason to exclaim, following the fashion of the Roman -Emperor, "_Diem Perdidi!_" - -But Chotank, like many other parts of the Old Dominion, is not now in -its "high and palmy state." Some fifteen or twenty years ago it -obtained that celebrity which makes it famous now. The ancient seats of -generous hospitality are still there, but their _former_ possessors, so -free of heart, so liberal, and blessed withal with the means of being -free and liberal, where are _they_? "And echo alone answers, where are -they." Their sons can only hope to keep alive the old spirit by the -exercise of more prudence and economy than their fathers possessed. -Otherwise here too, as alas! in some cases is too true, the families -that once and now own the soil, are destined to be rudely pushed from -their places by grasping money lenders! Altered as the times are -however, and changed as is the condition of many of the inhabitants, -the life that I have attempted faintly to sketch, is the life yet led -by the merry Chotankers. With the remembrance of the "olden time" -strongly impressed on their minds, and tradition to strengthen the -ideas formed by their own recollections, they _will_ have their fun and -their frolics--their barbecues and their fish frys. There are fewer -"roystering blades" than there used to be, and much less drinking than -formerly--but the court house now and then brings up a round dozen of -"good men and true," who will not disgrace their ancestors: men who -will make the "welkin ring" again with uprorarious mirth, and part as -they met in all that high flow of spirits which results from good -eating and drinking, and freedom, at least for the present, from care. - -Let us, however, close. There is that in the place and the people of -whom I am writing to induce me to continue: but enough for this -"Recollection." If the eye of a Chotanker should meet this page and -read what is written, he will know without looking at the signature -that he has met with a FRIEND to him and 'all his neighborhood.' - -_Alexandria, D. C., Sept. 13, 1834._ E. S. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -IMPORTANT LAW CASE IN A SISTER STATE, INVOLVING QUESTIONS OF SCIENCE. - -[Communicated by P. A. Browne, Esq. of Philadelphia.] - - -On the Easterly side of the beautiful river Schuylkill, about seven -miles north of the city of Philadelphia, stands the flourishing town of -MANYUNK. Only a few years ago there was not a house to be seen there, -and nothing disturbed the stillness of nature but the singing of the -birds, the lowing of the herds, and the gentle ripling of the river as -its waters glided towards the ocean; but now it has become the -habitation of thousands of human beings, the seat of numerous -manufactories, and a striking example of the rapid improvements in -American industry and the arts. The whole of this change has been -wrought by improving the navigation of the Schuylkill: by raising the -Fairmount and other dams, sufficient water has been provided, not only -for all the purposes of canaling and watering the city of Philadelphia, -but the company, incorporated by law for that purpose, have found at -their disposal an immense water power, which they sell and rent to the -best advantage. - -Among the number of enterprising citizens who availed themselves of -these advantages was Mr. Mark Richards, a gentleman advantageously -known and esteemed in the mercantile as well as the manufacturing -world. - -On the 1st of February, 1830, the Schuylkill navigation company made a -deed to John Moore, in which it was recited that on the 3d day of -November, 1827, Mark Richards had agreed with the company for the -purchase of a lot of ground at Manyunk therein described; that on the -25th of January, 1828, he, the said Mark, had agreed to purchase of the -company 100 _inches of water power_ at flat-rock canal, at the annual -rent of $6 per inch; and on the 13th of March, 1828, 200 inches of -water power at the same rate, which water power was to be granted on -the _usual conditions_, and subject to the former grants by the company -of water power. That on the 4th of June, 1830, Richards and wife had -granted the said lot and "_the aforesaid water power of 300 inches of -water_" to Moore. It further recited that Richards had requested the -grant of the company to be made to Moore, he Richards having paid the -whole rent, amounting to $1840 per annum up to that time. Then follows -the grant of the lot, together with the privilege of drawing from the -canal through the forebay, at all times thereafter forever, "SO MUCH -WATER AS CAN PASS through two metalic apertures, one of 50, and the -other of 250 square inches, under a head of three feet." To have and to -hold "the quantity of 300 SQUARE INCHES OF WATER," in manner aforesaid. -Moore covenanted at his expense to erect and support the two metalic -apertures, one of 50, and the other of 250 _square inches_, through -which the said 300 _inches_ of _water_, under a three feet head, "_is -to pass_." The company reserving to themselves the right to enter upon -the premises for the purpose of examining "the _size_ of the -apertures." - -Mr. Moore having ascertained that by applying two plain simple metalic -apertures of the given sizes, he was not able to draw the same quantity -in square inches of water, but only 65 and 2/3d per cent. of the -amount, he therefore applied the adjutages described by Professor -Venturi; and for these applications, which were alleged to be a breach -of the contract, an action was instituted in the Supreme Court of -Pennsylvania. - -It will be perceived that this case involved not only important -principles of law, but interesting inquiries in hydrodynamics, to aid -in the discussion of which, large draughts were made upon the -scientific attainments of the accomplished bar of Philadelphia. For the -plaintiff were engaged John Sergeant and Horace Binney, Esquires; but -the absence of the latter gentleman at Congress, occasioned the -retaining of C. Chauncey, Esquire; for the defendants were Joseph R. -Ingersol and Peter A. Browne, Esquires. - -The cause occupied several days, during which time the court house was -continually crowded with an intelligent audience. - -The questions were, first, whether the granter was confined to the use -of _simple_ apertures of the dimensions mentioned in the deed, when it -was apparent from the opinions of men of science, and from the -experiments made before the jury, that through such openings it was not -possible for him to draw more than 65 and 2/3d per cent. of the water -contracted for, (it being a law of nature that when a fluid is drawn -from a simple aperture or opening, the stream or vein is contracted so -as to form the figure of a cone;) or whether the grantee was entitled, -at all events, to his 300 inches of water, and had a right to affix -adjutages to overcome this law of nature, and restore things to the -state they were supposed to be in by the parties, if, when they -contracted, they were ignorant of this principle. Second. The defendant -having contracted for as much water as "_can pass_" through metalic -apertures of given sizes, whether he was entitled, provided he did not -increase the size of the openings, nor increase the head, so to adjust -the adjutages as to draw _more_ water than 300 square inches; for it -was proved by another set of experiments that, by reason of the -adjutages at the defendant's mill, he had contrived, not only to -overcome the _vena contracta_ or contracted vein, but to draw off more -water than would have passed through a plain opening if the vena -contracta did not exist. - -When a vessel is filled with a homogeneous fluid, and it is in -equilibrium, all the particles of the fluid are pressed equally in all -directions. This law was known to Archimedes, and its knowledge enabled -him to detect the fraud committed by the gold smith upon Hiero, King of -Syracuse. The first regular work upon Hisdrodynamics was written by -Sextus Julius Frentinus, inspector of the public fountains at Rome -under the Emperors Nerva and Trajan. He laid down the law, that water -which flows in a given time, from a given orifice, does not depend -_merely_ upon the magnitude of the orifice, but upon the _head_ or -height of the fluid in the vessel. From that period until the 17th -century none of the principles upon which this cause depends, were much -studied, nor the doctrine of fluids much known. At length Gallileo the -astronomer, by his discovery of the uniform acceleration of gravity, -paved the way for a rapid improvement in hydrodynamics. Gallileo was -acquainted with the fact that water could not be made to rise more than -a certain height in a common pump; but he was entirely unacquainted -with the reason. His pupil, Torricelli, and his friend, Viviani, -discovered that it was owing to the pressure of the external air, and -thus the problem was solved. Mariotte, who introduced experimental -philosophy into France, was the first who announced that fluids suffer -a retardation from the friction of their particles against the sides of -tubes; and he shewed that this was the case even though the tubes were -made of the _smoothest glass_. From his works, which were published -after his death, in 1684, it appears that though he was thus acquainted -with the principle upon which it is explained, he was unacquainted with -the _vena contracta_. About that time this subject began to be much -more studied in Italy. Dominic Guglielmini, a celebrated engineer, in -1697, published a very learned work upon the friction and resistance of -fluids; and from that period to this the learned of all nations have -admitted, that this resistance and retardation of fluids, owing to -their friction, did take place in a moving fluid. This work, as -connected with the motion of rivers and water in open canals, is one of -deep interest in natural philosophy; and it is one, which in this age -of improvements, should not be neglected in this country. Sir Isaac -Newton, whose capacious mind grasped at every kind of knowledge, -struggled hard to detect the reason of this resistance. In his 2nd book -of his "Principia," propositions 51, 52 and 53, he lays down certain -hypotheses, from which it results, that the filaments (as he calls -them,) of a fluid, in a pipe, will be kept back by their adhesion to -the sides of the tube, and that the next filaments will be kept back, -though in a less degree, by their adhesion to the first filaments, and -so on, until the velocity of the fluid will be greatest at the centre. -Now if we apply this principle to the discharge of a fluid through a -plain aperture, we will perceive that the parts of the water next to -the sides of the opening, being liable to the greatest friction, will -be the most retarded; and that those in the centre, being liable to the -least friction, will be most in advance; and that the friction -decreasing gradually from the extremities to the centre, the water will -be always flowing in the form of a cone, with the smallest end in -advance. This is the exact form of the vena contracta or contracted -vein! - -When the pipes are very small, this attraction of the sides of the -pipes to the fluid operates so as to suspend the whole mass, when it is -called capillary attraction. This appears to be the extent to which -Newton was acquainted with the laws that govern the vena contracta, at -the time he published the first edition of his Principia; but in his -second edition, published in 1714, he discloses the doctrine of the -contracted vein with his usual intelligence. - -Every body is acquainted with the splendid experiments of the Abbe -Bossut, which were published successively in 1771, 1786 and 1796, and -any one desirous of examining this interesting subject will consult -them at large. - -Poleni first discovered, that by applying an additional cylindrical -pipe to the orifice, of the same diameter, the _expenditure_ of the -fluid was increased. This discovery was followed up, first, by Mr. -Vince; secondly, by Doctor Matthew Young; and lastly, by Venturi. This -last named gentleman published his work on hydraulics in 1798; it was -immediately translated and published in Nicholson's Journal of Natural -Philosophy, where all the different adjutages, including the one used -by the defendant in this action, are accurately drawn and described. -They are also noticed, though not in as ample a manner, in Gregory's -Mechanics, pages 438, 445 and 447. - -From all which it was contended, that every one making a contract, must -be _presumed_ to be acquainted with the principles of the vena -contracta, and of the methods used to overcome it, and that this party -had a right to use these adjutages without incurring the risk of a -suit. - -[We understand that the suit, the foregoing interesting sketch of which -has been obligingly furnished by one of the counsel, is still, in the -language of the lawyers, _sub judice_; the jury having found a verdict -subject to the opinion of the court. We are promised a full report of -the trial and decision, for a subsequent number.]--ED. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -MR. WHITE,--The following sketch was given me by one of those mail -stage story-tellers, who abound on our roads, and enliven the drowsy -passengers by their narratives. It is founded on fact, and may not be -unacceptable to such of your readers as are fond of the delineation of -human character in all its variety of phases. - -NUGATOR. - - -SALLY SINGLETON. - - Who thundering comes on blackest steed, - With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed?--_Byron_. - - -A horseman passed us at full speed, whose wild and haggard look -arrested the attention of my friend. In the name of all that is -singular, said he, who can that be, and whither is he posting with such -rapidity? His garb seems of the last century, and his grizzled locks -stream on the wind like those of some ancient bard. - -That man, replied I, is a lover, and is hurrying away to pay his -devoirs to his mistress, who married another, and has been dead for -many years. - -Indeed! you surprize me, he rejoined. He has, it is true, the "_lean -look_" of Shakspeare's lover; the "_blue eye and sunken_;" the -"_unquestionable spirit_," and "every thing about him demonstrates a -careless desolation"--yet I should have imagined, that the snows of so -many winters had extinguished all the fires of that frosty carcase; but -tell me who he is, and what is his story. - -His name is Wilson; and that of the lady whom he loved, was Sally -Singleton. I would that I had the graphic power of Scott to sketch a -tale of so much interest. If Sir Walter has immortalized an old man, -mounted on his white pony, and going in quest of the tombstomes, how -much is it to be regretted that the same master hand cannot be employed -to perpetuate the memory of yonder eccentric being, whose love lives -on, after the lapse of twenty years, in spite of the marriage and death -of his mistress--in spite of the evidence of his own senses, and -notwithstanding every human effort to dispel his delusion. Regularly -every morning, for the last twenty years, no matter what the state of -the weather, (alike to him the hail, the rain, and the sunshine,) has -he mounted his horse, and travelled a distance of ten miles, to see his -beloved Sally Singleton. His custom is, to ride directly up to the -window of her former apartment, and in a courteous manner, to bow to -his mistress in token of his continued attachment. Having performed -this act of gallantry, he waves with his hand a fond adieu, and -immediately gallops back with a triumphant air, as if perfectly -satisfied with having set his enemies at defiance. "The course of true -love never did run smooth," and in this case, whether "_misgrafted in -respect of years_," or "_different in blood_," or "_standing on the -choice of friends_," is not exactly known; but the lady was wedded to -another, and died soon after. Her lover would never believe in her -marriage or her death. His mind unhinged by the severity of his -disappointment, seems to have retained nothing but the single image of -her he loved, shut up in that apartment; and he resolved to brave every -difficulty, to testify his unchanging devotion. Obstacles were -purposely built across his path--the bridges were broken down--the idle -boys would gather around him, and assail him in their cruel folly--guns -even, were fired at him,--all in vain! The elements could not quench -the fervor of his love--obstacles were overleaped--he swam the -rivers--the boys were disregarded--balls could not harm him. He held a -charmed life; like young Lochinvar, - - "He staid not for brake, - And he stop'd not for stone;" - -but dashed onward to his beloved window, and then, contented with this -public attestation of his unalterable love, returned with a look of -triumphant satisfaction, to his joyless home. As a last effort to -remove the veil from his eyes, a suit was instituted, in which he was -made a party, and proof of the lady's marriage and death was purposely -introduced to undeceive him. He listened with cold incredulity to the -witnesses; smiled derisively at that part of their testimony which -regarded her marriage and death; and the next morning was seen mounted -as usual, and bowing beneath the window of his adored Sally Singleton. - - - - - From the Petersburg Intelligencer. - -EXTRACT FROM A NOVEL - -THAT NEVER WILL BE PUBLISHED. - - -We had all assembled round the cheerful fire, that cracked and blazed -in the wide old-fashioned hearth. The labor of the day was over. My -father, snugly placed in his great easy chair, with his spectacles on -his nose, had been for some time studying the last long winded and very -patriotic speech of our representative in Congress, until his senses, -gradually yielding to its soothing eloquence, had sunk into a calm -slumber.--My mother sat in the corner knitting with all her might, and -every now and then expressing her wonder (for she always wondered) how -Patsy Woods could marry such a lazy, poor, good-for-nothing fellow as -Henry Pate. Sister was leaning with both elbows on the table, -devouring, as she termed it, the last most exquisite romance. Puss was -squatted on Mother's cricket, licking her paws with indefatigable -industry; and old Carlo, the pointer, lay grunting on the hearth rug, -sadly incommoded by the heat of the fire, but much too lazy to remove -from before it. And where was I? Oh! there was another corner to the -fire place. In its extremest nook sat cousin Caroline, and next to -her,--always next to her when I could get there, was I. Now this was -what I call a right comfortable family party; and not the least -comfortable of that party was myself. Cousin Caroline; dear, dear -cousin! Many a year has rolled over me since the scene I describe; many -a cold blast of the world's breath has blown on my heart and chilled, -one by one, the spring flowers of hope that grew there; but the -blossoms of love thy image nurtured, were gathered into a garland to -hang on thy tomb, and the tears of memory have preserved its freshness. -Cousin Caroline!--she was the loveliest creature on whom beauty ever -set its seal. Reader, my feeling towards her was not what is called -love; at least, not what I have since felt for another. My judgment of -her excellence was not biassed by passion. She was most beautiful. I -cannot describe her. - - "Who has not proved how feebly words essay, - To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray." - -It were vain to talk of her "hyacinthine curls," her "ruby lips," her -"pearly teeth," her "gazelle eye." These, and all the etceteras of -description, define not beauty. It belongs to the pencil and not to the -pen, to give us a faint idea of its living richness. But had your eyes -glanced round a crowded room, crowded with beauty too, they would have -rested in amazement there; amazement, that one so lovely should be on -earth, and breathe among the creatures of common clay. Alas! it could -not be so long. No, I did not love her in manhood's sense of love; for, -at the time I speak of, I was but fourteen, and Caroline was in her -eighteenth year; but I loved her as all created things that could love, -loved her; from the highest to the lowest, she was the darling of the -household. The servants, indoor and outdoor, young and old, and the -crossest of the old, loved her. None so crabbed her smile would not -soften; none so stern her mildness would not subdue. Oh, what a -creature she was. I never saw Caroline angry, though I have seen her -repel, with dignity, intrusion or impertinence. I never saw her cross. -But this theme will lead me too far; and, perhaps the reader thinks I -might sum up my estimate of her qualities in one word--perfection. Not -so; but as near to it as the Creator ever suffered his creature to -attain. Well, we were sitting round the fire in the manner I have -described. Caroline was amusing me with a description of the pleasures -of the town, for she had just returned from a visit to a relation -residing in the city of ----, when the sound was heard of a carriage -coming up the avenue. What a bustle! Father bounced up, dropping the -paper and his spectacles; Mother stopped wondering about Patsy Woods, -to wonder still more who this could be. Pussy remained quiet, but Carlo -prevailed upon himself to stretch and yawn, and totter to the door, to -satisfy his curiosity. Sister looked up. Caroline looked down; and then -sister looked at her very archly, though I could not tell why, and -said, "go brother Harry, ask the gentleman in." - -"Why do you know who it is, my dear, that is coming to see us at this -late hour?" said my father. It was but eight o'clock; but remember we -were in the country. I went out of the room, and did not hear the -answer. I was met at the hall door by a gentleman, whom I ushered in. -My father accosted him, and was very proud and very happy to see Col. -H----d. He was then introduced to the members of the family; "and this -lady I think you are already acquainted with," continued my father, as -he presented cousin Caroline, who had hung back. The Colonel -smiled,--Caroline blushed, but she smiled too. What is all this about, -thought I. "Come, sir, be seated," quoth my father. The Colonel bowed, -thanked him, and placed himself forthwith in my chair, right beside -Caroline. Now it is true Caroline had two sides, and her left side was -as dear to me as her right; but then that side was next to the wall, -and she sat so near to it that there was no edging a chair in without -incommoding her. So I was fain to look out for other quarters, and -found them next to my mother, whence I looked the colonel right in the -face. He was not a handsome man, but a very noble looking one. He was -rather above the common height, somewhat thin, but his carriage very -erect. His complexion was dark, but ruddy dark, the hue of health and -manliness; his forehead broad; so much so as to make the lower part of -his visage appear contracted, and rather long. The expression of his -features when at rest, was stern, and even haughty; perhaps from the -habit of command, for his _had_ been a soldier's life, and his title -was won on the battle field; but when in conversation, there was an air -of great good nature over his whole countenance, and his smile was very -winning. Cousin Caroline thought it so. - -"The road to your farm is rather intricate, my good sir," said the -colonel, as he took his seat, "and though I had a pretty good chart of -the country, (here he looked at Caroline and smiled one of those -winning smiles, but Caroline did not, or would not see him,) I was so -stupid as to miss the way, for when I reached the cross roads, instead -of taking the right I directed the servant to the left, and moved on -some time in the wrong direction without meeting a human being of whom -to make inquiry. At length I had the good fortune to encounter a -gentleman on horseback, who corrected my error, adding the satisfactory -assurance, that I had gone at least four miles in the opposite -direction to that which I desired to go; so that, though I set out -betimes, it was thus late before I reached here." - -"Well, I wonder!" cried my mother. - -"Then colonel you must be sadly in want of refreshment," said my -father. "My dear"-- - -"Not at all so, my dear sir. I beg you will give yourselves no trouble -on my account. I assure you"-- - -"Sit still, colonel, I beg of you," interrupted my father, as the -former rose to urge his remonstrance.--"Sit still, sir; trouble indeed; -we'll have supper directly, and I don't care if I nibble a little -myself." - -So the colonel gave up the contest, but when he reseated himself, he -perceived Caroline was gone; she had slipped out of the room with my -mother. The colonel had a very nice supper that night, and he did it -justice. Who prepared it, think you? my mother? No, for she returned to -the room in two minutes after she left it. I knew who prepared it, and -so did the colonel, or he made a shrewd guess; for, when Caroline -returned, he gave her a look that spoke volumes of thankfulness, and of -such exquisite fondness that it made the blood mount to her very -forehead. - -A week passed away, and colonel H----d remained a constant guest at my -father's; and though I could not but like and admire him, his conduct -was a source of great annoyance to me, for no sooner did Caroline make -her appearance in the breakfast room in the morning than he posted -himself next to her; and then they took such long walks together, and -would spend so many hours in riding about the country, and they never -asked me to accompany them, so that Caroline had as well have been in -town again, for the opportunity I had of conversing with her. The -result of all this is, of course, plain to the reader; and it was soon -formally announced that on the third day of the succeeding month -Caroline was to become the bride of the wealthy and gallant Colonel -H----d, and accompany him forthwith to his distant home, for his -residence was in the state of Georgia. I wept bitter tears, and sobbed -as if my heart would break as I laid all lonely in my bed that night on -which this latter piece of intelligence had been communicated by my -father, until sleep, the comforter of the wretched, extended to me the -bliss of oblivion. "Blessings on the man who invented sleep," says -friend Sancho--blessings, aye blessings indeed, on all bountiful nature -who, while she gives rest to the wearied body bestows consolation on -the grieving heart, lulls into gentle calm the storm of the passions, -plucks from power its ability and even its wish to oppress, and hushes -in poverty the sense of its weakness and its degradation. My fate has -not been more adverse than that of the generality of men, but "take it -all in all," the happiest portion of my existence has been spent in -sleep. Why did I weep? The being whom I loved best on earth was about -to be wedded to the worthy object of her choice,--a choice that -affection sanctioned and reason might well approve; and even to my -young observation it was apparent that while she gave, she was enjoying -happiness. There was pleasure in the beaming of her sparkling eyes, -there was joy in the dimples of her rosy smile. The very earth on which -she trod seemed springing to her step, and the air she breathed to be -pure and balmy. Could she be happy and I feel miserable? and that -misery growing too, out of the very source of her happiness. Yes; even -so unmixed, so absorbing was my selfishness. _My_ selfishness! the -selfishness of humanity; for even as the rest of my fellow men so was, -and so am I. I thought of the many hours of delight I had enjoyed in -her presence, of the thousand daily kindnesses I had experienced at her -hand. She alone was wont to partake of my youthful joys, to sympathize -with my boyish griefs; it was her praise that urged me to exertion, the -fear of her censure that restrained me from mischief. And all this was -to pass away, and to pass with her presence too. Never more was my -heart to drink in the sweet light of her eyes; never more would her -soft voice breathe its music in my ear. I felt that I dwelt no longer -in her thoughts; I believed my very image would soon perish from her -memory. Such were the bitter thoughts that weighed down my mind. - -I go on spinning out this portion of my tale, no doubt very tediously, -and my readers will perhaps despair of my ever arriving at the end; but -patience, I shall get there by and by. "Bear with me yet a little -while." It is that I shrink from what I have undertaken to narrate, -that I wander into digression; for whatever effect it may have on -others, whose only interest in it will arise from momentary excitement, -on me the fearful casualty I shall describe, has imposed "the grief of -years." Many a pang has my heart experienced in my pilgrimage through -this weary world, and some grievous enough to sustain; time and -occupation, however, have afforded their accustomed remedy, and scars -only are left to mark where the wounds have been. But this, though -inflicted in boyhood's springy days, is festering now; aye now, when -the very autumn of manhood is passed, and the winter of age is -congealing the sources of feeling and of life. - -The wedding day was drawing nigh. One little week remained of the -appointed time; and a joyous man, no doubt, was colonel H----d, as hour -after hour winged its flight, and each diminished the space that lay -betwixt him and his assured felicity. Poor weak creatures that we are, -whose brief history is but a record of hope and disappointment, ever -deceived by the mirage of happiness that glitters afar in the desert of -life, and recedes from before us as we pursue, till outworn, we sink -into death with our thirst unslaked, our desires ungratified. One -little week remained. What matters the brevity of time when a moment is -fraught with power to destroy. Behold the gallant ship with tightened -cordage and outspread sails, dashing from her prow the glittering spray -as she dances on the leaping wave to the music of the breeze; cheerful -faces crowd her deck, for she is homeward bound from a distant land; -and now her port is almost reached, a hidden rock has pierced her side, -the eternal sea rolls over the sunken wreck. The warrior has charged -and broken the foe; the shout of victory rings in his ears, and fancy -twines the laurel round his brow; but treachery lurks in his armed -array, and the clarion of conquest sounds the note of defeat. The -mighty city with its thousand domes, its marble palaces, and its -crowded marts, over which ages have urged their onward flight, and -still it grew in wealth and strength, has felt the earthquake's shock. -Black mouldering ruins and a sullen sulphurous lake are left to mark -the spot where once its "splendors shone." And the heart, the human -heart, with its high aspirations, and its treacherous whisperings of -unmixed joys, its blindness of trust in coming events, its strange -forgetfulness of the hours gone by, its sunny morning of boundless -hope, its stormy night of dark despair. - -My father's house was situated on an elevated spot, commanding an -extensive view of the broad Potomac; from its front to the bank of the -river, a distance of some hundred yards, the ground descended in a -gentle slope terminating in a sheer precipice, and down, down "a -fearful depth below," rolled on the rapid waters. The bank was composed -of vast masses of rock, between the crevices of which pushed forth -gnarled and jagged trees of various kinds, shooting their moss-covered -branches in every direction, and hugged in strict and stifling embrace -by huge vines, that looked like the monster boas, of a preadamate -world. The summit was lined with a dense growth of underwood, that hid -from the passer by the awful chasm upon whose very margin he might be -unconciously standing. As the main road (which ran parallel to the -course of the river) laid upwards of a mile from the rear of the -dwelling house, and was, besides being generally in very bad order, -very uninteresting in its character, we were in the habit of using for -the purpose of visiting some of our neighbors, a path that ran along -and was dangerously near to the verge of the precipice, but which had -been travelled so long and so often without accident, that we had -ceased to think of even the possibility of any occurring. It was a -bright sunshiny morning, the blue sky studded with those massy rolling -clouds whose purple shades give such strong relief to the fleecy white, -and cheat the fancy into portraying a thousand resemblances; ancient -castles with frowning battlements, mighty ships resting beneath their -crowded canvass, bright fairy isles, where a poet's soul would delight -to wander, dark yawning caverns, in whose undreamt of depths the pent -up spirits of the damned might be "imagined howling." Pardon, pardon! -but sea and sky have always set me raving. It was at the breakfast -table that I informed my father I would ride over to aunt Diana's and -see if they were all well.--"The weather is so fine, and I have not -seen our good aunt for some time. I will ride with you; that is, if -you'll let me, cousin Harry," said Caroline, as if it were not a -delight to me to have her company. The colonel, too, proposed to join -us, and we went to get ourselves in readiness. We were soon on the -road, and away we cantered, full of health and youth and spirits. The -breeze came fresh and soft from the surface of the waters, and played -among Caroline's curls and revelled on her cheek, as if to gather the -odors of the rose, where its beauteous hue was so richly spread. We -paid our visit, partook of aunt Diana's good things, and set off on our -return, amid her protestations against our hurry. Caroline was riding -on a nice little mare that had been bred on the farm, and had always -been the pet of the family; as gentle and as playful as a lamb, but at -the same time full of spirit. We had arrived at a part of the road -where the precipice (now on our right hand) was highest. I was in -front, Caroline next to and behind me; a hare crossed my path: "take -care my boy," cried Colonel H----d, "that, you know, is said to be a -bad omen." Scarcely had he spoken when my horse started, and wheeled -short round; the mare partook of his fright, swerved half to the left, -and reared bolt upright. "Slack your rein and seize the mane, -Caroline," I screamed in agony. It was too late; the mare struggled, -and fell backwards. Oh, God! A shriek, a rushing sound - - * * * * * - -I entered the chamber where innocence and beauty had been wont to -repose; around me were the trappings of the grave; the cold white -curtains with their black crape knots, the shrouded mirror, the -scattered herbs--and stretched upon the bed motionless, lay a form--the -form of her whose living excellence was unsurpassed. My father came in; -he took my hand, led me to the bed, and gently removed the sheet from -the marble face. Oh, death, thou art indeed a conqueror! - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -SONNET, - -WRITTEN ON THE BLUE RIDGE IN VIRGINIA. - - - Gigantic sov'reign of this mountain-chain, - Proud Otter Peak! as gazing on thee now - I mark the sun its parting splendor throw - Athwart thy summit hoar--I sigh with pain - To think thus soon I needs must turn again - And seek man's bustling haunts! What if my brow - No longer wear the signs of sorrow's plough, - Doth not my heart its traces still retain, - And I still hate the crowd?--Yes! it is so, - And scenes alone such as surround me here-- - These deep'ning shades--thy torrents loud and clear-- - Yon half-hid cot--the cattle's plaintive low-- - The raven's cry, and the soft whispering breeze, - Have now the pow'r this aching breast to please. - -* * * - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -STANZAS, - -WRITTEN AT THE WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA. - - - With spirits like the slacken'd strings - Of some neglected instrument-- - Or rather like the wearied wings - Of a lone bird by travel spent; - Ah! how should I expect to find - Midst scenes of constant revelry, - A solace for a troubled mind, - A cure for my despondency?-- - - There was a time when mirth's glad tone - And pleasure's smile had charms for me-- - But disappointment had not strown - My pathway then with misery: - Health then was mine--and friends sincere-- - Requited love--and prospects bright-- - Nor dreamt I that a day so clear - Could ever set in such a night! - -* * * - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -TO ---- ---- OF THE U. S. NAVY. - - - Tell me--for thou hast stood on classic ground, - If there the waters flow more bright and clear, - And if the trees with thicker foliage crowned, - Are lovelier far than those which blossom here? - - Say is it true, in green unfading bowers, - That there the wild bird sings her sweetest lay? - And that a light, more beautiful than ours, - Lends richer glories to expiring day? - - Wooed by Italian airs, does woman's cheek - With purer color glow, than in our land? - Or does her eye more eloquently speak, - Or with a softer grace her form expand? - - Does music there, with power to us unknown, - Breathe o'er the heart a far diviner spell? - And with a sweeter, more entrancing tone, - The thrilling strains of love and glory swell? - - Tell me if thou in thought didst dearer prize - Thy home, than all that Italy could give? - Didst thou regret that her resplendent skies - Should smile on men as slaves content to live? - - Didst thou, when straying in her cities fair, - Or in her groves of bloom, regret that here - No perfumes mingle with the passing air? - And was thine own, thy native land, less dear? - - Or didst thou turn where proudly in the breeze - America's star-spangled flag was flying? - The flag that o'er thee waved on the high seas; - With conscious heart exultingly replying, - - "No slothful land of dreaming ease is ours, - Her soil is only trodden by the free-- - Less rich in music, poetry, and flowers, - Still, still she is the land of all for me!" - -E. A. S. - -_Lombardy, Va._ - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -MUSINGS II--_By the Author of Vyvyan_. - - The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets - Ebbing and flowing.--------_Rogers_. - - I loved her from my boyhood--she to me - Was as a fairy city of the heart, - Rising like water columns from the sea. - _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. Stanza xviii. - - - There is, far in a foreign clime, - Alas! no longer free-- - A city famed in olden time - As queen of all the sea; - Still fair but fallen from her prime-- - For such is destiny. - - There motley masque and princely ball - Make gay the merry carnival, - And all the night some serenade - Steals sweetly from the calm Lagune, - While many a dark eyed loving maid - Is wooed in secret neath the moon. - - And swiftly o'er the noiseless tide - Gondolas dark, like spectres, glide - Neath archways deep and bridges fair, - Temples and marble palaces, - Adorned with jutting balconies, - And dim arcades of beauty rare. - - There's naught that meets the wondering eye, - From the wave that kisses the landing stair - To the sculptured range in the azure sky,[1] - But wears a wild unearthly air, - And every voice that echoes among - Those phantomlike halls, breathes the spell of song. - - The rudest Barcarolli's cry, - Heard faint and far o'er Adria's waves, - Might cheat the listener of a sigh-- - So sad the farewell which it leaves, - When sinking on the ear it dies - Along the borders of the skies. - - Oh! Venice! Venice! couldst thou be - Still wond'rous fair and even as free! - How peerless were thy regal halls!-- - How glorious were thy seagirt walls!-- - But foreign banners flaunt thy tide, - And chains have tamed thy lion's pride. - - Thy flag is furled upon the sea, - Thy sceptre shivered on the land, - And many a spirit mourns for thee - Beyond the Lido's barren strand: - Better thy towers were sunk below - The level of Old Ocean's flow. - - Fair city of the fairest clime, - Sad change hath come o'er thee-- - The spirit voice of olden time - Is wailing o'er thy sea; - And matin bell and vesper chime - Seem knelling for the free - Who reared thy standard o'er the wave - And spurned the chains that now enslave. - -[Footnote 1: The tops of many of the buildings are ornamented with a -range of statues.] - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -THE GENIUS OF COLUMBIA TO HER NATIVE MUSE. - - - A parent's eye, sweet mountain maid, - Hath seen thee rise in Sylvan shade; - And patient, lent attentive ear - Thy first, wild minstrelsy to hear: - And thou hast breathed some artless lays, - That well deserve the meed of praise; - For, nursed by spirits bold and free, - Thy notes should breathe of Liberty. - Yet some who scan thy numbers wild, - Inquire if thou art Fancy's child, - Or some impostor, duly taught - To weave with skill the borrow'd thought. - Then list, my child! Experience sage - May well direct thy guileless age. - - Breathe not thy notes with spirit tame, - Nor pilfer, from an honor'd name, - The praise that crowns the sons of fame. - Be not by imitation taught, - To blend with thine, the vagrant thought, - From Britain's polish'd minstrels caught. - Full oft my mountain echoes tell, - How Byron's genius fram'd a spell, - Which reason vainly seeks to quell: - Did not his spirit cast a gloom - On all who shared his adverse doom, - E'en from the cradle to the tomb? - With intellectual treasures bless'd, - With misanthropic thoughts possess'd, - Their sway alternate fired his breast. - He pour'd the lava stream alone, - In torrents from that burning zone, - Which girt his bosom's fiery throne. - Enough! on his untimely bier - Affection shed no hallow'd tear-- - He claim'd no love--he own'd no fear. - - And she,[1] whose light poetic tread - Scarce sways the dewdrop newly shed - Upon the rose-bud's infant head; - Most meet to be the tender nurse - Of virtue, wounded by the curse - Of passion's fierce and lawless verse, - Whose dulcet strain, with soothing pow'r, - Can calm the soul in sorrow's hour, - And scatter many a thornless flow'r: - The thoughts that breathe in each soft line, - Seem spirits from a purer shrine - Than earth can in her realms confine. - Yet mayst thou not, in mimic lay, - Such lofty arts of verse essay? - 'Twere but a vain and weak display. - Be Freedom's bold, unfetter'd child, - And roam thy native forests wild, - Where, on thy birth, all nature smil'd; - Dwell on the mountain's sylvan crest, - Where fair Hygeia roams confest, - Bright Fancy's ever honor'd guest: - Mark the proud streams that onward sweep, - And to old Ocean's bosom leap-- - Majestic offspring of the deep. - Their inspiration shall be thine, - And nature, from that mighty shrine, - Shall prompt thee with a voice divine! - When thy free spirit is reveal'd, - The spells within its depths conceal'd - Will soon a golden tribute yield. - In numbers free, by nature taught, - Breathe forth the wild poetic thought, - And let thy strains be Fancy fraught. - - Enough! my child! a parent's voice - Would fain direct thy youthful choice - To themes, majestic and sublime, - The fruits of Freedom's favor'd clime. - Enough! For thee has nature thrown - O'er the wild stream a curb of stone, - Whose pendant arch in verdure dress'd, - Binds the tall mountain's cloven crest.[2] - For thee the volum'd waters sweep - Through riven mountains to the deep.[3] - For thee the mighty cataract pours - In thunder, through opposing shores; - And rushing with delirious leap, - Bursts the full fountains of the deep; - A billowy phlegethon--whose waves - Rend the strong walls of Ocean's caves. - -C. - -[Footnote 1: Mrs. Hemans.] - -[Footnote 2: The Natural Bridge.] - -[Footnote 3: Harper's Ferry.] - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -DEATH AMONG THE TREES. - - - Death walketh in the forest. The tall Pines - Do woo the lightning-flash,--and thro' their veins - The fire-cup darting, leaves their blacken'd trunks - A tablet, where Ambition's sons may read - Their destiny. The Oak that centuries spar'd, - Grows grey at last, and like some time-scath'd man - Stretching out palsied arms, doth feebly cope - With the destroyer, while its gnarled roots - Betray their trust. The towering Elm turns pale, - And faintly strews the sere and yellow leaf, - While from its dead arms falls the wedded vine. - The Sycamore uplifts a beacon-brow, - Denuded of its honors,--while the blast - That sways the wither'd Willow, rudely asks - For its lost grace, and for its tissued leaf - Of silvery hue. - - I knew that blight might check - The sapling, ere kind nature's hand could weave - Its first spring-coronal, and that the worm - Coiling itself amid our garden-plants - Did make their unborn buds its sepulchre. - And well I knew, how wild and wrecking winds - May take the forest-monarchs by the crown, - And lay them with the lowliest vassal-herb; - And that the axe, with its sharp ministry, - Might in one hour, such revolution work, - That all earth's boasted power could never hope - To reinstate. And I had seen the flame - Go crackling up, amid yon verdant boughs, - And with a tyrant's insolence dissolve - Their interlacing,--and I felt that man - For sordid gain, would make the forest's pomp - Its heaven-rear'd arch, and living tracery - A funeral pyre. But yet I did not deem - That pale disease amid those shades would steal - As to a sickly maiden's cheek, and waste - The plenitude of those majestic ranks, - Which in their peerage and nobility, - Unrivall'd and unchronicled, had reign'd. - And then I said, if in this world of knells, - And open graves, there lingereth one, whose dream - Is of aught permanent below the skies, - Even let him come, and muse among the trees, - For they shall be his teachers,--they shall bow - To their meek lessons his forgetful ear, - And by the whispering of their faded leaves, - Soften to his sad heart, the thought of death. - -L. H. S. - -_Hartford, Con. Sept. 10, 1834_. - - - - -ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES. - - -AMIR KHAN, AND OTHER POEMS: the remains of Lucretia Maria Davidson, who -died at Plattsburg, N. Y. August 27, 1825, aged 16 years and 11 months. -With a Biographical Sketch, by Samuel F. B. Morse, A. M. _New York: G. -& C. & H. Carvill_--1829. - - -We believe that this little volume, although published several years -since, has but recently found its way to this side of the Potomac. Our -attention has been attracted towards it by some notice of its contents -in the Richmond Enquirer, whose principal editor we will do him the -justice to say, has always manifested a lively interest in the -productions of American genius. Mr. Ritchie is entitled to the more -praise for his efforts in behalf of domestic literature, not only on -account of his active and absorbing labors as a political writer, but -because, also, we are sorry to add, the subject is one in which -southern taste and intelligence have, for the most part, evinced but -little concern. It is but too common for our leading men, professional -as well as others, to affect something like a sneer at every native -attempt in the walks of polite literature. Their example, we fear, has -imparted a tone to the reading circles generally, and has served to -beget that inordinate appetite for every thing _foreign_ which has -either obtained a fashionable currency abroad--or occasioned some -_excitement_ in that busy, noisy, gossipping class of society, whose -merit is so vastly disproportioned to its influence. We have often -known the sentimental trash and profane ribaldry of some popular -Englishman eagerly sought after, and as eagerly devoured, whilst the -pure and genuine productions of native genius have remained neglected -on the bookseller's shelf, and quietly surrendered to oblivion. That -this does, in some measure, proceed from an unenlightened and -uncultivated public taste, we do not doubt; but it is much more the -fruit of a slavish and inglorious dependence upon accidental -circumstances,--a spiritless, and we might add, a cowardly apprehension -of appearing _singular_--that is, of not chiming in with the shallow, -vain and heartless tittle-tattle of the self-styled _beau monde_ and -_corps elite_ of society. It is not the fault of the bookseller. The -undertaker, who prepares the coffin and shroud, has as little -participation in the death of the person for whom they are intended. -The bookseller is but the caterer of the public palate; and if that -palate is diseased, he is no more answerable for it, than the milliners -and mantuamakers who are busily occupied in deforming the fairest part -of creation, are censurable for the false taste of their customers. - -We did not intend by the foregoing observations, to bespeak any -extraordinary share of public favor towards the poems of Miss Davidson. -What we have said in relation to the neglect of American talent, was -designed to have a general and not particular application. -Notwithstanding we hear that the poems before us have been -extravagantly praised beyond the Atlantic, we are not so intoxicated by -a little foreign flattery as to believe that they are destined to -immortality. Some may console themselves, if they please, for the whole -ocean of obloquy and contempt cast upon us from the British press, by -regarding with favorable eyes this little rivulet of praise bestowed -upon the juvenile efforts of a lovely and interesting girl. We are not -of that number; we shall endeavor to decide upon the work before us, -unbiassed by trans-atlantic opinion--and we shall render precisely that -judgment which we would have done if that opinion had been pronounced -in the usual tone of British arrogance and contumely. - -Regarding the volume before us as a literary production merely, and -supposing it to have been the offspring of a matured mind, we do not -think that it possesses any considerable merit. Estimating its -contents, however, as the first lispings of a child of genius,--as -furnishing proofs of the existence of that ethereal spark which, under -favorable circumstances, might have been kindled into a brilliant -flame, we do consider it as altogether extraordinary. We do not say -that these poems are equal to the early productions of Chatterton, -Henry Kirke White, or Dermody, those prodigies of precocious -talent,--but we entertain not a shadow of doubt if Miss Davidson had -lived, that she would have ranked among the highest of her own sex in -poetical excellence. In forming a correct judgment upon the offspring -of her muse, her youth is not alone to be considered. She had also to -contend with those remorseless enemies of mental effort,--poverty, -sorrow, and ill health; and it is, perhaps, a circumstance in her -history not unworthy of notice, that possessing a high degree of -personal beauty, and being on that account the object of much -admiration and attention, she did not suffer herself to be withdrawn -from the purer sources of intellectual enjoyment. Love indeed, seems to -have found no permanent lodgment in her heart. It might have stolen to -the threshold and infused some of its gentle influences, but she seems -to have been resolved to cast off the silken cord before it was too -firmly bound around her. Thus in the piece which bears the title of -_Cupid's Bower_, written in her fifteenth year. - - "Am I in fairy land?--or tell me, pray, - To what love-lighted bower I've found my way? - Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled - In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild. - - And is this Cupid's realm?--if so, good by! - Cupid, and Cupid's votaries, I fly; - No offering to his altar do I bring, - No bleeding heart--or hymeneal ring." - -The longest, most elaborate, and perhaps best of her poems, is that -which gives the principal title to the volume. _Amir Khan_ is a simple -oriental tale, written in her sixteenth year, and is worked up with -surprising power of imagery for one so young. The most fastidious and -critical reader could not fail to be struck with its resemblance to the -gorgeous magnificence of Lalla Rookh; a resemblance, to be sure, which -no more implies equality of merit than does the brilliancy of the mock -diamond establish its value with that of the real gem. We give the -opening passage from the poem as a fair specimen of the rest, and from -which the reader may form a correct opinion of the style and -composition. - - "Brightly o'er spire, and dome, and tower, - The pale moon shone at midnight hour, - While all beneath her smile of light - Was resting there in calm delight; - Evening with robe of stars appears, - Bright as repentant Peri's tears, - And o'er her turban's fleecy fold - Night's crescent streamed its rays of gold, - While every chrystal cloud of heaven, - Bowed as it passed the queen of even. - Beneath--calm Cashmere's lovely vale - Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale; - The amaranth and tuberose, - Convolvulus in deep repose, - Bent to each breeze which swept their bed, - Or scarcely kissed the dew and fled; - The bulbul, with his lay of love; - Sang mid the stillness of the grove; - The gulnare blushed a deeper hue, - And trembling shed a shower of dew, - Which perfumed e'er it kiss'd the ground, - Each zephyr's pinion hovering round. - The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow - Glitter'd beneath the moon's pale glow; - And wide the plantain's arms were spread, - The guardian of its native bed." - -We venture to assert that if Thomas Moore had written Amir Khan at the -age of sixteen, there are thousands by whom it would be read and -admired who would hardly condescend to open Miss Davidson's volume; and -that too, without being able to assign any other or better reason than -that Moore is a distinguished and popular British bard, whereas the -other was an obscure country girl, who lived and died in the state of -New York. - -The lines to the memory of Henry Kirk White, which were composed at -thirteen, are much superior to many elegiac stanzas written by poets of -some reputation at twenty-five or thirty. Of all her minor pieces -however, those which were written at fifteen seem to us to possess the -greatest merit, if we except the _Coquette_, a very spirited production -in imitation of the Scottish dialect, composed in her fourteenth year. -The following are the two first stanzas: - - "I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest, - My Ellen's lost for aye; - My heart is sair and much distressed, - I surely soon must die. - - I canna think o' wark at a', - My eyes still wander far, - _I see her neck like driven snaw, - I see her flaxen hair._" - -The image of the snowy neck and flaxen hair of the beautiful but unkind -fair one, presented so strongly to the rejected lover, as to prevent -his performing his daily work, strikes us as highly poetical and true -to nature, as we doubt not all genuine lovers will testify. Burns wrote -many, very many verses, which were much superior, but Burns wrote some -also, which were not so good. _Ruth's answer to Naomi_, must be -allowed, we think, to be a good paraphrase of that most affecting -passage of scripture. We must give the whole to the reader. - - "Entreat me not, I must not hear, - Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear; - Thy answer's written deeply now - On this warm cheek and clouded brow; - 'Tis gleaming o'er this eye of sadness - Which only near _thee_ sparkles gladness. - - The hearts _most_ dear to us are gone, - And _thou_ and _I_ are left alone; - Where'er thou wanderest, I will go, - I'll follow thee through joy or wo; - Shouldst thou to other countries fly, - Where'er thou lodgest, there will I. - - Thy people shall my people be, - And to thy God, I'll bend the knee; - Whither thou fliest, will I fly, - And where thou diest, I will die; - And the same sod which pillows thee - Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me."[1] - -[Footnote 1: We subjoin the passage of scripture paraphrased by Miss -Davidson, and also another paraphrase which has been ascribed to the -Hon. R. H. Wilde of Georgia. Our readers can compare and decide between -them. - -"And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from -following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go: and where thou -lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my -God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried." - - Nay, do not ask!--entreat not--no! - O no! I will not leave thy side, - Whither thou goest--I will go-- - Where thou abidest--I'll abide. - - Through life--in death--my soul to thine - Shall cleave as fond, as first it clave-- - Thy home--thy people--shall be mine-- - Thy God my God--thy grave my grave.] - -We present an extract from a piece called "_Woman's Love_," as a -specimen of Miss Davidson's management of blank verse, a form of poetic -diction which Montgomery thinks the most unmanageable of any. The fair -authoress might not herself have experienced that holy passion, but she -certainly knew how deep and imperishable it is when once planted in the -female bosom. - - "Love is - A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart, - When felt, as only woman love _can_ feel! - _Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower_ - _Sinks on spring-flowers; deep, as a cave-locked fountain;_ - _And changeless as the cypress' green leaves;_ - _And like them, sad!_--She nourished - Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed - A passion unconfessed, till he she loved - Was wedded to another. Then she grew - Moody and melancholy; one alone - Had power to soothe her in her wanderings, - Her gentle sister;--but that sister died, - And the unhappy girl was left alone, - A _maniac_. She would wander far, and shunned - Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt - Was that dead sister's grave: and that to her - Was as a home." - -We have italicised such of the lines as we think breathe the air and -spirit of genuine poetry. The snow flake has often been used as the -emblem of purity; but the snow flake reposing on beds of vernal -blossoms, is to us original as well as highly poetical. The -"cave-locked fountain" too, with its lone, deep, and quiet waters, -seems to us to express with force that profound and melancholy -sentiment which the writer intended to illustrate. - -We shall conclude our selections with the one addressed _to a lady -whose singing resembled that of an absent sister_. - - "Oh! touch the chord yet once again, - Nor chide me, though I weep the while; - Believe me, that deep, seraph strain - Bore with it memory's moonlight smile. - - It murmured of an absent friend; - The voice, the air, 'twas all her own; - And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend - In one mild, murmuring, touching tone. - - And days and months have darkly passed, - Since last I listened to her lay; - And sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast, - Since then, across my weary way. - - Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear, - Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathing; - Hush, busy memory,--sorrow's tear - Will blight the garland thou art wreathing. - - 'Tis sweet, though sad--yes, I will stay, - I cannot tear myself away. - I thank thee, lady, for the strain, - The tempest of my soul is still; - Then touch the chord yet once again, - For thou canst calm the storm at will." - -We beg the reader to bear it in mind that these are the productions of -a young, inexperienced, and almost uneducated girl, and that they are -not to be tried by the tests which are usually applied to more matured -efforts. In conclusion, we will say in the language of Dr. Morse, her -biographer, "that her defects will be perceived to be those of youth -and inexperience, while in invention, and in that mysterious power of -exciting deep interest, of enchaining the attention, and keeping it -alive to the end of the story; in that adaptation of the measure to the -sentiment, and in the sudden change of measure to suit a sudden change -of sentiment, in wild and romantic description, and in the congruity of -the accompaniments to her characters, all conceived with great purity -and delicacy, she will be allowed to have discovered uncommon maturity -of mind; and her friends to have been warranted in forming very high -expectations of her future distinction." - -We are pleased to learn that it is in contemplation by Miss Davidson's -friends, to publish a new and improved edition of her works, with -various additions from her unpublished manuscripts. - - - - -THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE; by the author of Pelham, Eugene Aram, &c. -_New York: Published by Harper & Brothers_--1834. - - -Mr. Bulwer's novels have acquired no inconsiderable degree of -popularity in the circles of fashionable literature. Whether they are -destined to survive the temporary admiration bestowed on them, is at -this time a subject of speculation; but in the next generation, will -become matter of fact. We are among those who think that they will -quietly glide into that oblivious ocean, which is destined to receive a -large proportion of the ever multiplying productions of this prolific -age. We do not say this either, in disparagement of many of those -labors of the mind which even intrinsic excellence cannot save from -perishing. Great and valuable as some of them undoubtedly are, such is -the onward march of intellect, and such the endless creations which -fancy and genius are continually rearing for man's gratification and -improvement,--to say nothing of the almost illimitable progress of -science, that posterity will find no room for the thousandth part of -our present stock of literature. We do not anticipate that Mr. Bulwer's -writings will be among the select few which will outlive the general -wreck; because, unless we are much mistaken, he is one of those authors -who write more for present than permanent fame. This is emphatically -the age of great moral and mental excitability. It is a period of -incessant restlessness and activity; and he who would expect to command -much attention, must seek to gratify the appetite for novelty and -variety, even at the expense of good sense, sound morality and correct -taste. We incline to the opinion that Mr. Bulwer has forgotten, that -society in the aggregate, frequently resembles the individual man; and -that whilst it often experiences paroxysms of unnatural excitement, -there are long lucid intervals of returning reason and sober -simplicity. The volume before us is not calculated, we think, to leave -any lasting impression, either of good or evil. Whilst it certainly -abounds in felicitous language, and contains passages of fine -sentiment, it is grossly defective both in plot and machinery; and if -it were worth while to descend to minute criticism, it would be easy to -point out many examples of false morality as well as false taste. Mr. -Bulwer seems to have been aware, in his preface, that he was making a -bold experiment upon popular favor, and accordingly he claims the -reader's "indulgence for the superstitions he has incorporated with his -tale--for the floridity of his style, and the redundance of his -descriptions." As if somewhat apprehensive, however, that that -indulgence might not possibly be granted, he assures the public that -"various reasons have conspired to make this the work, above all others -that he has written, which has given him the most delight (though not -unmixed with melancholy,) in producing, and in which his mind, for the -time, has been the most completely absorbed." A popular writer, thus -bespeaking the public approbation in advance, by stamping his last -production with his own decided preference, could not expect to be -treated uncourteously by his readers. In the first sentence of the -second chapter too, the author declares as follows: "I wish only for -such readers as give themselves heart and soul up to me: if they begin -to cavil, I have done with them; their fancy should put itself entirely -under my management." Now whether it proceeded from a spirit of -perverseness or not, we cannot tell; but we resolved when we read this -passage, neither to surrender our heart, fancy or judgment to Mr. -Bulwer's guidance. On the contrary, we determined to read the book and -decide on its merits, in the spirit of perfect impartiality and entire -independence. The story upon which the work is founded--at least that -part of it which treats of mortal affairs, consists of the simplest -materials. Trevylyan, a gentleman of "a wild, resolute and active -nature, who had been thrown upon the world at the age of sixteen, and -had passed his youth in alternate pleasure, travel and solitary study," -falls in love with Gertrude Vane, a young girl, described as "the -loveliest person that ever dawned upon a poet's vision." A fatal -disease, "consumption in its most beautiful shape," had set its seal -upon her, and yet Trevylyan loved with an irresistible passion. With -the consent, rather than by the advice of the faculty and her friends, -the young and interesting invalid, attended by her father and lover, -goes upon a pilgrimage up the beautiful and romantic Rhine. From that -pilgrimage she never returned; but in one of those wild and legendary -spots which impart such interest to that celebrated stream--a spot -selected by herself as her last grassy couch, she breathed out her -gentle spirit, and quietly sunk to her lasting repose. Such is the -simple thread upon which Mr. Bulwer has contrived to weave a variety of -German legends and fairy fictions, having no necessary connection with -the main story, except that the principal episodes were suggested by -some remarkable scenery or some castellated ruin on the banks of the -Rhine. The _underplot_, if it may be so called, or the adventures of -Nymphalin, queen of the fairies, and her Elfin court, is altogether -unworthy of Mr. Bulwer's genius. It is rather a bungling attempt to -revive the exploded machinery of supernatural agency; and we moreover -do not perceive any possible connection or sympathy between these -imaginary beings and the principal personages of the tale. Apart from -other considerations, the actions and conversations of these roving -elves are destitute of all interest and attraction; and nothing in our -eyes appears more preposterous than the introduction of the Lord -Treasurer into Queen Nymphalin's train. We always thought that the -fairies were mischievous spirits--sometimes a little wicked, and often -very benevolent; but never before did we suspect that this ideal -population of the world of fancy, manifested any concern in the dry -subject of finance, or in the _unfairy-like_ establishment of a regular -exchequer. The story of "The Wooing of Master Fox," related for the -amusement of Queen Nymphalin, making every allowance for the author's -design in introducing it, is to our taste unutterably disgusting and -ridiculous. - -We have no objection to the occasional use of the fairy superstition in -tales of fancy; no more than we have to the frequent classical -allusions to heathen mythology which distinguish the best writers. They -are pleasing and beautiful illustrations, when happily introduced. But -we do protest against lifting the veil from the world of imagination, -and investing its shadowy beings with the common place attributes, the -vulgar actions and frivolous dialogue of mere mortals. It is in truth -dispelling the illusion in which the spirit of poetry delights to -indulge. It takes away the most powerful charm from the cool and -sequestered grotto, the shady grove or moonlit bower. It vulgarises the -world of romance, and reduces the region of mind to a level with brute -sense, or even coarser matter. - -Condemning as we do, in perfect good faith, these exceptionable -portions of Mr. Bulwer's volume, we take pleasure in awarding due -praise to some of the legends and stories introduced into the work, and -which are for the most part related by Trevylyan for the amusement of -Gertrude. Of these, we give the decided preference to "The Brothers" -and "The Maid of Malines." The latter indeed, strikes us as so finished -an illustration of some of the noble qualities of woman kind, that we -have determined to present it entire for the benefit of our readers. - - -THE MAID OF MALINES. - -It was noonday in the town of Malines, or Mechlin, as the English -usually term it: the Sabbath bell had summoned the inhabitants to -divine worship; and the crowd that had loitered round the Church of St. -Rembauld, had gradually emptied itself within the spacious aisles of -the sacred edifice. - -A young man was standing in the street, with his eyes bent on the -ground, and apparently listening for some sound; for, without raising -his looks from the rude pavement, he turned to every corner of it with -an intent and anxious expression of countenance; he held in one hand a -staff, in the other a long slender cord, the end of which trailed on -the ground; every now and then he called, with a plaintive voice, -"Fido, Fido, come back! Why hast thou deserted me?" Fido returned not: -the dog, wearied of confinement, had slipped from the string, and was -at play with his kind in a distant quarter of the town, leaving the -blind man to seek his way as he might to his solitary inn. - -By and by a light step passed through the street, and the young -stranger's face brightened-- - -"Pardon me," said he, turning to the spot where his quick ear had -caught the sound, "and direct me, if you are not by chance much pressed -for a few moment's time, to the hotel _Mortier d'or_." - -It was a young woman, whose dress betokened that she belonged to the -middling class of life, whom he thus addressed. "It is some distance -hence, sir," said she, "but if you continue your way straight on for -about a hundred yards, and then take the second turn to your right -hand--" - -"Alas!" interrupted the stranger, with a melancholy smile, "your -direction will avail me little; my dog has deserted me, and I am -blind!" - -There was something in these words, and in the stranger's voice, which -went irresistibly to the heart of the young woman. "Pray forgive me," -she said, almost with tears in her eyes, "I did not perceive your--" -misfortune, she was about to say, but she checked herself with an -instinctive delicacy. "Lean upon me, I will conduct you to the door; -nay, sir," observing that he hesitated, "I have time enough to spare, I -assure you." - -The stranger placed his hand on the young woman's arm, and though -Lucille was naturally so bashful that even her mother would laughingly -reproach her for the excess of a maiden virtue, she felt not the least -pang of shame, as she found herself thus suddenly walking through the -streets of Malines, alone with a young stranger, whose dress and air -betokened him of a rank superior to her own. - -"Your voice is very gentle," said he, after a pause, "and that," he -added, with a slight sigh, "is the criterion by which I only know the -young and the beautiful." Lucille now blushed, and with a slight -mixture of pain in the blush, for she knew well that to beauty she had -no pretension. "Are you a native of this town?" continued he. "Yes, -sir; my father holds a small office in the customs, and my mother and I -eke out his salary by making lace. We are called poor, but we do not -feel it, sir." - -"You are fortunate: there is no wealth like the heart's wealth, -content," answered the blind man mournfully. - -"And Monsieur," said Lucille, feeling angry with herself that she had -awakened a natural envy in the stranger's mind, and anxious to change -the subject--"and Monsieur, has he been long at Malines?" - -"But yesterday. I am passing through the Low Countries on a tour; -perhaps you smile at the tour of a blind man--but it is wearisome even -to the blind to rest always in the same place. I thought during church -time, when the streets were empty, that I might, by the help of my dog, -enjoy safely, at least the air, if not the sight of the town; but there -are some persons, methinks, who cannot even have a dog for a friend." - -The blind man spoke bitterly,--the desertion of his dog had touched him -to the core. Lucille wiped her eyes. "And does Monsieur travel then -alone?" said she; and looking at his face more attentively than she had -yet ventured to do, she saw that he was scarcely above two-and-twenty. -"His father, his _mother_," she added, with an emphasis on the last -word, "are they not with him?" - -"I am an orphan," answered the stranger; "and I have neither brother -nor sister." - -The desolate condition of the blind man quite melted Lucille; never had -she been so strongly affected. She felt a strange flutter at the -heart--a secret and earnest sympathy, that attracted her at once -towards him. She wished that heaven had suffered her to be his sister. - -The contrast between the youth and the form of the stranger, and the -affliction which took hope from the one, and activity from the other, -increased the compassion he excited. His features were remarkably -regular, and had a certain nobleness in their outline; and his frame -was gracefully and firmly knit, though he moved cautiously and with no -cheerful step. - -They had now passed into a narrow street leading towards the hotel, -when they heard behind them the clatter of hoofs; and Lucille, looking -hastily back, saw that a troop of the Belgian horse was passing thro' -town. - -She drew her charge close by the wall, and trembling with fear for him, -she stationed herself by his side. The troop passed at a full trot -through the street; and at the sound of their clanging arms, and the -ringing hoofs of their heavy chargers, Lucille might have seen, had she -looked at the blind man's face, that its sad features kindled with -enthusiasm, and his head was raised proudly from its wonted and -melancholy bend. "Thank heaven," she said, as the troop had nearly -passed them, "the danger is over!" Not so. One of the last two soldiers -who rode abreast, was unfortunately mounted on a young and unmanageable -horse. The rider's oaths and digging spur only increased the fire and -impatience of the charger; he plunged from side to side of the narrow -street. - -"_Gardez vous_," cried the horseman, as he was borne on to the place -where Lucille and the stranger stood against the wall; "are ye mad--why -do you not run?" - -"For heaven's sake, for mercy sake, he is blind!" cried Lucille, -clinging to the stranger's side. - -"Save yourself, my kind guide!" said the stranger. But Lucille dreamt -not of such desertion. The trooper wrested the horse's head from the -spot where they stood; with a snort, as he felt the spur, the enraged -animal lashed out with its hind legs; and Lucille, unable to save -_both_, threw herself before the blind man, and received the shock -directed against him; her slight and delicate arm fell shattered by her -side--the horseman was borne onward. "Thank God, _you_ are saved!" was -poor Lucille's exclamation; and she fell, overcome with pain and -terror, into the arms which the stranger mechanically opened to receive -her. - -"My guide, my friend!" cried he, "you are hurt, you--" - -"No, sir," interrupted Lucille, faintly, "I am better, I am well. -_This_ arm, if you please--we are not far from your hotel now." - -But the stranger's ear, tutored to every inflection of voice, told him -at once of the pain she suffered; he drew from her by degrees the -confession of the injury she had sustained; but the generous girl did -not tell him it had been incurred solely in his protection. He now -insisted on reversing their duties, and accompanying _her_ to her home; -and Lucille, almost fainting with pain, and hardly able to move, was -forced to consent. But a few steps down the next turning stood the -humble mansion of her father--they reached it--and Lucille scarcely -crossed the threshold, before she sank down, and for some minutes was -insensible to pain. It was left to the stranger to explain, and to -beseech them immediately to send for a surgeon, "the most skilful--the -most practised in town," said he. "See, I am rich, and this is the -least I can do to atone to your generous daughter for not forsaking -even a stranger in peril." - -He held out his purse as he spoke, but the father refused the offer; -and it saved the blind man some shame that he could not see the blush -of honest resentment with which so poor a species of remuneration was -put aside. - -The young man staid till the surgeon arrived, till the arm was set; nor -did he depart until he had obtained a promise from the mother, that he -should learn the next morning how the sufferer had passed the night. - -The next morning, indeed, he had intended to quit a town that offers -but little temptation to the traveller; but he tarried day after day, -until Lucille herself accompanied her mother to assure him of her -recovery. - -You know, or at least I do, dearest Gertrude, that there _is_ such a -thing as love at the first meeting--a secret and unaccountable affinity -between persons (strangers before,) which draws them irresistibly -together. If there were truth in Plato's beautiful phantasy, that our -souls were a portion of the stars, it might be, that spirits thus -attracted to each other, have drawn their original light from the same -orb; and they thus but yearn for a renewal of their former union. Yet, -without recurring to such ideal solutions of a daily mystery, it was -but natural that one in the forlorn and desolate condition of Eugene -St. Amand, should have felt a certain tenderness for a person who had -so generously suffered for his sake. - -The darkness to which he was condemned did not shut from his mind's eye -the haunting images of ideal beauty; rather, on the contrary, in his -perpetual and unoccupied solitude, he fed the reveries of an -imagination naturally warm, and a heart eager for sympathy. - -He had said rightly that his only test of beauty was in the melody of -voice; and never had a softer or a more thrilling tone than that of the -young maiden touched upon his ear. Her exclamation, so beautifully -denying self, so devoted in its charity, "Thank God, _you_ are saved!" -uttered too, in the moment of her own suffering, rang constantly upon -his soul, and he yielded, without precisely defining their nature, to -vague and delicious sentiments, that his youth had never awakened to -till then. And Lucille--the very accident that had happened to her on -his behalf, only deepened the interest she had already conceived for -one who, in the first flush of youth, was thus cut off from the glad -objects of life, and led to a night of years, desolate and alone. There -is, to your beautiful and kindly sex, a perpetual and gushing -_lovingness to protect_. This makes them the angels of sickness, the -comforters of age, the fosterers of childhood; and this feeling, in -Lucille peculiarly developed, had already inexpressibly linked her -compassionate nature to the lot of the unfortunate traveller. With -ardent affections, and with thoughts beyond her station and her years, -she was not without that modest vanity which made her painfully -susceptible to her own deficiencies in beauty. Instinctively conscious -of how deeply she herself could love, she believed it impossible that -she could ever be so loved in return. This stranger, so superior in her -eyes to all she had yet seen, was the first out of her own household -who had ever addressed her in that voice, which by tones, not words, -speaks that admiration most dear to a woman's heart. To _him_ she was -beautiful, and her lovely mind spoke out undimmed by the imperfections -of her face. Not, indeed, that Lucille was wholly without personal -attraction; her light step and graceful form were elastic with the -freshness of youth, and her mouth and smile had so gentle and tender an -expression, that there were moments when it would not have been the -blind only who would have mistaken her to be beautiful. Her early -childhood had indeed given the promise of attractions, which the -small-pox, that then fearful malady, had inexorably marred. It had not -only seared the smooth skin and the brilliant hues, but utterly changed -even the character of the features. It so happened that Lucille's -family were celebrated for beauty, and vain of that celebrity; and so -bitterly had her parents deplored the effects of the cruel malady, that -poor Lucille had been early taught to consider them far more grievous -than they really were, and to exaggerate the advantages of that beauty, -the loss of which was considered by her parents so heavy a misfortune. -Lucille too, had a cousin named Julie, who was the wonder of all -Malines for her personal perfections; and as the cousins were much -together, the contrast was too striking not to occasion frequent -mortification to Lucille. But every misfortune has something of a -counterpoise; and the consciousness of personal inferiority, had -meekened, without souring, her temper--had given gentleness to a spirit -that otherwise might have been too high, and humility to a mind that -was naturally strong, impassioned, and energetic. - -And yet Lucille had long conquered the one disadvantage she most -dreaded in the want of beauty. Lucille was never known but to be loved. -Wherever came her presence, her bright and soft mind diffused a certain -inexpressible charm; and where she was not, a something was missing -from the scene which not even Julie's beauty could replace. - -"I propose," said St. Amand to Madame le Tisseur, Lucille's mother, as -he sat in her little salon,--for he had already contracted that -acquaintance with the family which permitted him to be led to their -house, to return the visits Madame le Tisseur had made him, and his -dog, once more returned a penitent to his master, always conducted his -steps to the humble abode, and stopped instinctively at the door,--"I -propose," said St. Amand, after a pause, and with some embarrassment, -"to stay a little while longer at Malines; the air agrees with me, and -I like the quiet of the place; but you are aware, Madame, that at a -hotel among strangers, I feel my situation somewhat cheerless. I have -been thinking"--St. Amand paused again--"I have been thinking that if I -could persuade some agreeable family to receive me as a lodger, I would -fix myself here for some weeks. I am easily pleased." - -"Doubtless there are many in Malines who would be too happy to receive -such a lodger." - -"Will you receive me?" said St. Amand, abruptly. "It was of your family -I thought." - -"Of us? Monsieur is too flattering, but we have scarcely a room good -enough for you." - -"What difference between one room and another can there be to me? That -is the best apartment to my choice in which the human voice sounds most -kindly." - -The arrangement was made, and St. Amand came now to reside beneath the -same roof as Lucille. And was she not happy that _he_ wanted so -constant an attendance? was she not happy that she was ever of use? St. -Amand was passionately fond of music: he played himself with a skill -that was only surpassed by the exquisite melody of his voice; and was -not Lucille happy when she sat mute and listening to such sounds as at -Malines were never heard before? Was she not happy in gazing on a face -to whose melancholy aspect her voice instantly summoned the smile? Was -she not happy when the music ceased, and St. Amand called "Lucille?" -Did not her own name uttered by that voice, seem to her even sweeter -than the music? Was she not happy when they walked out in the still -evenings of summer, and her arm thrilled beneath the light touch of one -to whom she was so necessary? Was she not proud in her happiness, and -was there not something like worship in the gratitude she felt to him, -for raising her humble spirit to the luxury of feeling herself loved? - -St. Amand's parents were French; they had resided in the neighborhood -of Amiens, where they had inherited a competent property, to which he -had succeeded about two years previous to the date of my story. - -He had been blind from the age of three years. "I know not," said he, -as he related these particulars to Lucille one evening when they were -alone; "I know not what the earth may be like, or the heaven, or the -rivers whose voice at least I can hear, for I have no recollection -beyond that of a confused, but delicious blending of a thousand -glorious colors--a bright and quick sense of joy--A VISIBLE MUSIC. But -it is only since my childhood closed that I have mourned, as I now -unceasingly mourn, for the light of day. My boyhood passed in a quiet -cheerfulness; the least trifle then could please and occupy the -vacancies of my mind; but it was as I took delight in being read -to,--as I listened to the vivid descriptions of poetry,--as I glowed at -the recital of great deeds,--as I was made acquainted by books, with -the energy, the action, the heat, the fervor, the pomp, the enthusiasm -of life, that I gradually opened to the sense of all I was forever -denied. I felt that I existed, not lived; and that, in the midst of the -Universal Liberty, I was sentenced to a prison, from whose blank walls -there was no escape. Still, however, while my parents lived, I had -something of consolation; at least I was not alone. They died, and a -sudden and dread solitude--a vast and empty dreariness settled upon my -dungeon. One old servant only, who had nursed me from my childhood, who -had known me in my short privilege of light, by whose recollections my -mind could grope back its way through the dark and narrow passages of -memory, to faint glimpses of the sun, was all that remained to me of -human sympathies. It did not suffice, however, to content me with a -home where my father and my mother's kind voice were _not_. A restless -impatience, an anxiety to move, possessed me; and I set out from my -home, journeying whither I cared not, so that at least I could change -an air that weighed upon me like a palpable burthen. I took only this -old attendant as my companion; he too died three months since at -Bruxelles, worn out with years. Alas! I had forgotten that he was old, -for I saw not his progress to decay; and now, save my faithless dog, I -was utterly alone, till I came hither and found _thee_." - -Lucille stooped down to caress the dog; she blest the desertion that -had led to a friend who never could desert. - -But however much and however gratefully St. Amand loved Lucille, her -power availed not to chase the melancholy from his brow, and to -reconcile him to his forlorn condition. - -"Ah, would that I could see thee! Would that I could look upon a face -that my heart vainly endeavors to delineate." - -"If thou couldst," sighed Lucille, "thou wouldst cease to love me." - -"Impossible!" cried St. Amand, passionately; "however the world may -find thee, _thou_ wouldst become my standard of beauty, and I should -judge not of thee by others, but of others by thee." - -He loved to hear Lucille read to him; and mostly he loved the -descriptions of war, of travel, of wild adventure, and yet they -occasioned him the most pain. Often she paused from the page as she -heard him sigh, and felt that she would even have renounced the bliss -of being loved by him, if she could have restored to him that blessing, -the desire for which haunted him as a spectre. - -Lucille's family were Catholic, and, like most in their station, they -possessed the superstitions, as well as the devotion of the faith. -Sometimes they amused themselves of an evening by the various legends -and imaginary miracles of their calendar: and once, as they were thus -conversing with two or three of their neighbors, "The Tomb of the Three -Kings of Cologne" became the main topic of their wandering recitals. -However strong was the sense of Lucille, she was, as you will readily -conceive, naturally influenced by the belief of those with whom she had -been brought up from her cradle, and she listened to tale after tale of -the miracles wrought at the consecrated tomb, as earnestly and -undoubtingly as the rest. - -And the Kings of the East were no ordinary saints; to the relics of the -Three Magi, who followed the Star of Bethlehem, and were the first -potentates of the earth who adored its Saviour, well might the pious -Catholic suppose that a peculiar power and a healing sanctity would -belong. Each of the circle (St. Amand, who had been more than usually -silent, and even gloomy during the day, had retired to his apartment, -for there were some moments, when in the sadness of his thoughts, he -sought that solitude which he so impatiently fled from at others)--each -of the circle had some story to relate equally veracious and -indisputable, of an infirmity cured, or a prayer accorded, or a sin -atoned for at the foot of the holy tomb. One story peculiarly affected -Lucille; the narrator, a venerable old man with gray locks, solemnly -declared himself a witness of its truth. - -A woman at Anvers had given birth to a son, the offspring of an illicit -connexion, who came into the world deaf and dumb. The unfortunate -mother believed the calamity a punishment for her own sin. "Ah, would," -said she, "that the affliction had fallen only upon me! Wretch that I -am, my innocent child is punished for my offence!" This idea haunted -her night and day: she pined and could not be comforted. As the child -grew up, and wound himself more and more round her heart, its caresses -added new pangs to her remorse; and at length (continued the narrator) -hearing perpetually of the holy fame of the Tomb of Cologne, she -resolved upon a pilgrimage barefoot to the shrine. "God is merciful," -said she, "and he who called Magdaline his sister, may take the -mother's curse from the child." She then went to Cologne; she poured -her tears, her penitence, and her prayers, at the sacred tomb. When she -returned to her native town, what was her dismay as she approached her -cottage to behold it a heap of ruins!--its blackened rafters and -yawning casements betokened the ravages of fire. The poor woman sunk -upon the ground utterly overpowered. Had her son perished? At that -moment she heard the cry of a child's voice, and, lo! her child rushed -to her arms, and called her "mother!" - -He had been saved from the fire which had broken out seven days before; -but in the terror he had suffered, the string that tied his tongue had -been loosened; he had uttered articulate sounds of distress; the curse -was removed, and one word at least the kind neighbors had already -taught him, to welcome his mother's return. What cared she now that her -substance was gone, that her roof was ashes; she bowed in grateful -submission to so mild a stroke; her prayer had been heard, and the sin -of the mother was visited no longer on the child. - -I have said, dear Gertrude, that this story made a deep impression upon -Lucille. A misfortune so nearly akin to that of St. Amand, removed by -the prayer of another, filled her with devoted thoughts, and a -beautiful hope. "Is not the tomb still standing?" thought she; "is not -God still in heaven? He who heard the guilty, may he not hear the -guiltless? Is he not the God of love? Are not the affections the -offerings that please him best? and what though the child's mediator -was his mother, can even a mother love her child more tenderly than I -love Eugene? But if, Lucille, thy prayer be granted, if he recover his -sight, _thy_ charm is gone, he will love thee no longer. No matter! be -it so; I shall at least have made him happy!" - -Such were the thoughts that filled the mind of Lucille; she cherished -them till they settled into resolution, and she secretly vowed to -perform her pilgrimage of love. She told neither St. Amand nor her -parents of her intention; she knew the obstacles such an annunciation -would create. Fortunately, she had an aunt settled at Bruxelles, to -whom she had been accustomed, once in every year, to pay a month's -visit, and at that time she generally took with her the work of a -twelve-month's industry, which found a readier sale at Bruxelles than -Malines. Lucille and St. Amand were already betrothed; their wedding -was shortly to take place; and the custom of the country leading -parents, however poor, to nourish the honorable ambition of giving some -dowry with their daughters, Lucille found it easy to hide the object of -her departure, under the pretence of taking the lace to Bruxelles, -which had been the year's labor of her mother and herself; it would -sell for sufficient at least to defray the preparations for the -wedding. - -"Thou art ever right, child," said Madame Le Tisseur; "the richer St. -Amand is, why the less oughtest thou to go a beggar to his house." - -In fact, the honest ambition of the good people was excited; their -pride had been hurt by the envy of the town and the current -congratulations on so advantageous a marriage; and they employed -themselves in counting up the fortune they should be able to give to -their only child, and flattering their pardonable vanity with the -notion that there would be no such great disproportion in the connexion -after all. They were right, but not in their own view of the estimate; -the wealth that Lucille brought was what fate could not -lessen,--reverse could not reach,--the ungracious seasons could not -blight its sweet harvest,--imprudence could not dissipate,--fraud could -not steal one grain from its abundant coffers! Like the purse in the -fairy tale, its use was hourly, its treasure inexhaustible! - -St. Amand alone was not to be won to her departure; he chafed at the -notion of a dowry: he was not appeased even by Lucille's -representation, that it was only to gratify and not to impoverish her -parents. "And _thou_, too, canst leave me!" he said, in that plaintive -voice which had made his first charm to Lucille's heart. "It is a -second blindness." - -"But for a few days; a fortnight at most, dearest Eugene!" - -"A fortnight! you do not reckon time as the blind do," said St. Amand, -bitterly. - -"But listen, listen, dear Eugene," said Lucille, weeping. The sound of -her sobs restored him to a sense of his ingratitude. Alas, he knew not -how much he had to be grateful for. He held out his arms to her; -"Forgive me," said he. "Those who can see nature know not how terrible -it is to be alone." - -"But my mother will not leave you." - -"She is not you!" - -"And Julie," said Lucille, hesitatingly. - -"What is Julie to me?" - -"Ah, you are the only one, save my parents, who could think of me in -her presence." - -"And why, Lucille?" - -"Why! She is more beautiful than a dream." - -"Say not so. Would I could see, that I might prove to the world how -much more beautiful thou art. There is no music in _her_ voice." - -The evening before Lucille departed, she sat up late with St. Amand and -her mother. They conversed on the future; they made plans; in the wide -sterility of the world, they laid out the garden of household love, and -filled it with flowers, forgetful of the wind that scatters and the -frost that kills. And when, leaning on Lucille's arm, St. Amand sought -his chamber, and they parted at his door, which closed upon her, she -fell down on her knees at the threshold, and poured out the fulness of -her heart in a prayer for his safety, and the fulfilment of her timid -hope. - -At daybreak she was consigned to the conveyance that performed the -short journey from Malines to Bruxelles. When she entered the town, -instead of seeking her aunt, she rested at an auberge in the suburbs, -and confiding her little basket of lace to the care of its hostess, she -set out alone, and on foot, upon the errand of her heart's lovely -superstition. And erring though it was, her faith redeemed its -weakness--her affection made it even sacred. And well may we believe, -that the eye which reads all secrets scarce looked reprovingly on that -fanaticism, whose only infirmity was love. - -So fearful was she, lest, by rendering the task too easy, she might -impair the effect, that she scarcely allowed herself rest or food. -Sometimes, in the heat of noon, she wandered a little from the -road-side, and under the spreading lime-tree surrendered her mind to -its sweet and bitter thoughts; but ever the restlessness of her -enterprise urged her on, and faint, weary, and with bleeding feet, she -started up and continued her way. At length she reached the ancient -city, where a holier age has scarce worn from the habits and aspects of -men the Roman trace. She prostrated herself at the tomb of the Magi: -she proffered her ardent but humble prayer to Him before whose son -those fleshless heads (yet to faith at least preserved) had, nearly -eighteen centuries ago, bowed in adoration. Twice every day, for a -whole week, she sought the same spot, and poured forth the same prayer. -The last day an old priest, who, hovering in the church, had observed -her constantly at devotion, with that fatherly interest which the -better ministers of the Catholic sect (that sect which has covered the -earth with the mansions of charity) feel for the unhappy, approached -her as she was retiring with moist and downcast eyes, and saluting her, -assumed the privilege of his order, to inquire if there was aught in -which his advice or aid could serve. There was something in the -venerable air of the old man which encouraged Lucille; she opened her -heart to him; she told him all. The good priest was much moved by her -simplicity and earnestness. He questioned her minutely as to the -peculiar species of blindness with which St. Amand was afflicted; and -after musing a little while, he said, "Daughter, God is great and -merciful, we must trust in his power, but we must not forget that he -mostly works by mortal agents. As you pass through Louvain in your way -home, fail not to see there a certain physician, named Le Kain. He is -celebrated through Flanders for the cures he has wrought among the -blind, and his advice is sought by all classes from far and near. He -lives hard by the Hotel de Ville, but any one will inform you of his -residence. Stay, my child, you shall take him a note from me; he is a -benevolent and kindly man, and you shall tell him exactly the same -story (and with the same voice) you have told to me." - -So saying the priest made Lucille accompany him to his home, and -forcing her to refresh herself less sparingly than she had yet done -since she had left Malines, he gave her his blessing, and a letter to -Le Kain, which he rightly judged would insure her a patient hearing -from the physician. Well known among all men of science was the name of -the priest, and a word of recommendation from him went farther, where -virtue and wisdom were honored, than the longest letter from the -haughtiest Sieur in Flanders. - -With a patient and hopeful spirit, the young pilgrim turned her back on -the Roman Cologne, and now about to rejoin St. Amand, she felt neither -the heat of the sun nor the weariness of the road. It was one day at -noon that she again passed through LOUVAIN, and she soon found herself -by the noble edifice of the HOTEL DE VILLE. Proud rose its Gothic -spires against the sky, and the sun shone bright on its rich tracery -and Gothic casements; the broad open street was crowded with persons of -all classes, and it was with some modest alarm that Lucille lowered her -veil and mingled with the throng. It was easy, as the priest had said, -to find the house of Le Kain; she bade the servant take the priest's -letter to his master, and she was not long kept waiting before she was -admitted to the physician's presence. He was a spare, tall man, with a -bald front, and a calm and friendly countenance. He was not less -touched than the priest had been by the manner in which she narrated -her story, described the affliction of her betrothed, and the hope that -had inspired the pilgrimage she had just made. - -"Well," said he, encouragingly, "we must see our patient. You can bring -him hither to me." - -"Ah, sir, I had hoped--" Lucille stopped suddenly. - -"What, my young friend?" - -"That I might have had the triumph of bringing you to Malines. I know, -sir, what you are about to say; and I know, sir, your time must be very -valuable; but I am not so poor as I seem, and Eugene, that is Monsieur -St. Amand, is very rich, and--and I have at Bruxelles what I am sure is -a large sum; it was to have provided for the wedding, but it is most -heartily at your service, sir." - -Le Kain smiled; he was one of those men who love to read the human -heart when its leaves are fair and undefiled; and, in the benevolence -of science, he would have gone a longer journey than from Louvain to -Malines to give sight to the blind, even had St. Amand been a beggar. - -"Well, well," said he, "but you forget that Monsieur St. Amand is not -the only one in the world who wants me. I must look at my note-book, -and see if I can be spared for a day or two." - -So saying he glanced at his memoranda; every thing smiled on Lucille: -he had no engagements that his partner could not fulfil, for some days; -he consented to accompany Lucille to Malines. - -Meanwhile cheerless and dull had passed the time to St. Amand; he was -perpetually asking Madame Le Tisseur what hour it was; it was almost -his only question. There seemed to him no sun in the heavens, no -freshness in the air, and he even forbore his favorite music; the -instrument had lost its sweetness since Lucille was not by to listen. - -It was natural that the gossips of Malines should feel some envy at the -marriage Lucille was about to make with one whose competence report had -exaggerated into prodigal wealth, whose birth had been elevated from -the respectable to the noble, and whose handsome person was clothed, by -the interest excited by his misfortune, with the beauty of Antinous. -Even that misfortune, which ought to have levelled all distinctions, -was not sufficient to check the general envy; perhaps to some of the -dames of Malines blindness in a husband was indeed not the least -agreeable of all qualifications! But there was one in whom this envy -rankled with a peculiar sting; it was the beautiful, the all-conquering -Julie. That the humble, the neglected Lucille should be preferred to -her; that Lucille, whose existence was well-nigh forgot beside Julie's, -should become thus suddenly of importance; that there should be one -person in the world, and that person young, rich, handsome, to whom she -was less than nothing, when weighed in the balance with Lucille, -mortified to the quick a vanity that had never till then received a -wound. "It is well," she would say, with a bitter jest, "that Lucille's -lover is blind. To be the one it is necessary to be the other!" - -During Lucille's absence she had been constantly in Madame Le Tisseur's -house--indeed Lucille had prayed her to be so. She had sought, with an -industry that astonished herself, to supply Lucille's place, and among -the strange contradictions of human nature, she had learned, during her -efforts to please, to love the object of those efforts,--as much at -least as she was capable of loving. - -She conceived a positive hatred to Lucille; she persisted in imagining -that nothing but the accident of first acquaintance had deprived her of -a conquest with which she persuaded herself her happiness had become -connected. Had St. Amand never loved Lucille, and proposed to Julie, -his misfortune would have made her reject him, despite his wealth and -his youth; but to be Lucille's lover, and a conquest to be won from -Lucille, raised him instantly to an importance not his own. Safe, -however, in his affliction, the arts and beauty of Julie fell harmless -on the fidelity of St. Amand. Nay, he liked her less than ever, for it -seemed an impertinence in any one to counterfeit the anxiety and -watchfulness of Lucille. - -"It is time, surely it is time, Madame Le Tisseur, that Lucille should -return. She might have sold all the lace in Malines by this time," said -St. Amand one day, peevishly. - -"Patience, my dear friend; patience, perhaps she may return to-morrow." - -"To-morrow! let me see, it is only six o'clock, only six, you are -sure?" - -"Just five, dear Eugene shall I read to you? this is a new book from -Paris, it has made a great noise," said Julie. - -"You are very kind, but I will not trouble you." - -"It is any thing but trouble." - -"In a word, then, I would rather not." - -"Oh! that he could see," thought Julie; "would I not punish him for -this!" - -"I hear carriage-wheels; who can be passing this way? Surely it is the -voiturier from Bruxelles," said St. Amand, starting up, "it is his day, -his hour, too. No, no, it is a lighter vehicle," and he sank down -listlessly on his seat. - -Nearer and nearer rolled the wheels; they turned the corner; they -stopped at the lowly door; and--overcome,--overjoyed, Lucille was -clasped to the bosom of St. Amand. - -"Stay," said she, blushing, as she recovered her self-possession, and -turned to Le Kain, "pray pardon me, sir. Dear Eugene, I have brought -with me one who, by God's blessing, may yet restore you to sight." - -"We must not be sanguine, my child," said Le Kain; "any thing is better -than disappointment." - -To close this part of my story, dear Gertrude, Le Kain examined St. -Amand, and the result of the examination was a confident belief in the -probability of a cure. St. Amand gladly consented to the experiment of -an operation; it succeeded--the blind man saw! Oh! what were Lucille's -feelings, what her emotion, what her joy, when she found the object of -her pilgrimage--of her prayers--fulfilled! That joy was so intense, -that in the eternal alterations of human life she might have foretold -from its excess how bitter the sorrows fated to ensue. - -As soon as by degrees the patient's new sense became reconciled to the -light, his first, his only demand was for Lucille. "No, let me not see -her alone, let me see her in the midst of you all, that I may convince -you that the heart never is mistaken in its instincts." With a fearful, -a sinking presentiment, Lucille yielded to the request to which the -impetuous St. Amand would hear indeed no denial. The father, the -mother, Julie, Lucille, Julie's younger sisters assembled in the little -parlor; the door opened, and St. Amand stood hesitating on the -threshold. One look around sufficed to him; his face brightened, he -uttered a cry of joy. "Lucille! Lucille!" he exclaimed, "It is you, I -know it, _you_ only!" He sprang forward, _and fell at the feet of -Julie!_ - -Flushed, elated, triumphant, Julie bent upon him her sparkling eyes; -_she_ did not undeceive him. - -"You are wrong, you mistake," said Madame Le Tisseur, in confusion; -"that is her cousin Julie, this is your Lucille." - -St. Amand rose, turned, saw Lucille, and at that moment she wished -herself in her grave. Surprise, mortification, disappointment, almost -dismay, were depicted in his gaze. He had been haunting his -prison-house with dreams, and, now set free, he felt how unlike they -were to the truth. Too new to observation to read the wo, the despair, -the lapse and shrinking of the whole frame, that his look occasioned -Lucille, he yet felt, when the first shock of his surprise was over, -that it was not thus he should thank her who had restored him to sight. -He hastened to redeem his error; ah! how could it be redeemed? - -From that hour all Lucille's happiness was at an end; her fairy palace -was shattered in the dust; the magician's wand was broken up; the Ariel -was given to the winds; and the bright enchantment no longer -distinguished the land she lived in from the rest of the barren world. -It was true that St. Amand's words were kind; it is true that he -remembered with the deepest gratitude all she had done in his behalf; -it is true that he forced himself again and again to say, "She is my -betrothed--my benefactress!" and he cursed himself to think that the -feelings he had entertained for her were fled. Where was the passion of -his words? where the ardor of his tone? where that play and light of -countenance which her step, _her_ voice could formerly call forth? When -they were alone he was embarrassed and constrained, and almost cold; -his hand no longer sought hers; his soul no longer missed her if she -was absent a moment from his side. When in their household circle, he -seemed visibly more at ease; but did his eyes fasten upon her who had -opened them to the day? did they not wander at every interval with a -too eloquent admiration to the blushing and radiant face of the -exulting Julie? This was not, you will believe, suddenly perceptible in -one day or one week, but every day it was perceptible more and more. -Yet still--bewitched, ensnared as St. Amand was--he never perhaps would -have been guilty of an infidelity that he strove with the keenest -remorse to wrestle against, had it not been for the fatal contrast, at -the first moment of his gushing enthusiasm, which Julie had presented -to Lucille; but for that he would have formed no previous idea of real -and living beauty to aid the disappointment of his imaginings and his -dreams. He would have seen Lucille young and graceful, and with eyes -beaming affection, contrasted only by the wrinkled countenance and -bended frame of her parents, and she would have completed her conquest -over him before he had discovered that she was less beautiful than -others; nay more--that infidelity never could have lasted above the -first few days, if the vain and heartless object of it had not exerted -every art, all the power and witchery of her beauty, to cement and -continue it. The unfortunate Lucille--so susceptible to the slightest -change in those she loved, so diffident of herself, so proud too in -that diffidence--no longer necessary, no longer missed, no longer -loved--could not bear to endure the galling comparison of the past and -present. She fled uncomplainingly to her chamber to indulge her tears, -and thus, unhappily, absent as her father generally was during the day, -and busied as her mother was either at work or in household matters, -she left Julie a thousand opportunities to complete the power she had -begun to wield over--no, not the heart!--the _senses_ of St. Amand! -Yet, still not suspecting, in the open generosity of her mind, the -whole extent of her affliction, poor Lucille buoyed herself at times -with the hope that when once married, when once in that intimacy of -friendship, the unspeakable love she felt for him could disclose itself -with less restraint than at present,--she should perhaps regain a heart -which had been so devotedly hers, that she could not think that without -a fault it was irrevocably gone: on that hope she anchored all the -little happiness that remained to her. And still St. Amand pressed -their marriage, but in what different tones! In fact, he wished to -preclude from himself the possibility of a deeper ingratitude than that -which he had incurred already. He vainly thought that the broken reed -of love might be bound up and strengthened by the ties of duty; and at -least he was anxious that his hand, his fortune, his esteem, his -gratitude, should give to Lucille the only recompense it was now in his -power to bestow. Meanwhile, left alone so often with Julie, and Julie -bent on achieving the last triumph over his heart, St. Amand was -gradually preparing a far different reward, a far different return for -her to whom he owed so incalculable a debt. - -There was a garden behind the house, in which there was a small arbor, -where often in the summer evenings Eugene and Lucille had sat -together--hours never to return! One day she heard from her own -chamber, where she sat mourning, the sound of St. Amand's flute -swelling gently from that beloved and consecrated bower. She wept as -she heard it, and the memories that the music bore softening and -endearing his image, she began to reproach herself that she had yielded -so often to the impulse of her wounded feelings; that, chilled by _his_ -coldness, she had left him so often to himself, and had not -sufficiently dared to tell him of that affection which, in her modest -self-depreciation, constituted her only pretension to his love. -"Perhaps he is alone now," she thought; "the tune too is one which he -knew that I loved:" and with her heart on her step, she stole from the -house and sought the arbor. She had scarce turned from her chamber when -the flute ceased; as she neared the arbor she heard voices--Julie's -voice in grief, St. Amand's in consolation. A dread foreboding seized -her; her feet clung rooted to the earth. - -"Yes, marry her--forget me," said Julie; "in a few days you will be -another's and I, I--forgive me, Eugene, forgive me that I have -disturbed your happiness. I am punished sufficiently--my heart will -break, but it will break loving you"--sobs choked Julie's voice. - -"Oh, speak not thus," said St. Amand. "I, _I_ only am to blame; I, -false to both, to both ungrateful. Oh, from the hour that these eyes -opened upon you I drank in a new life; the sun itself to me was less -wonderful than your beauty. But--but--let me forget that hour. What do -I not owe to Lucille? I shall be wretched--I shall deserve to be so; -for shall I not think, Julie, that I have imbittered our life with your -ill-fated love? But all that I can give--my hand--my home--my plighted -faith--must be hers. Nay, Julie, nay--why that look? could I act -otherwise? can I dream otherwise? Whatever the sacrifice, _must_ I not -render it? Ah, what do I owe to Lucille, were it only for the thought -that but for her I might never have seen thee." - -Lucille staid to hear no more; with the same soft step as that which -had borne her within hearing of these fatal words, she turned back once -more to her desolate chamber. - -That evening, as St. Amand was sitting alone in his apartment, he heard -a gentle knock at the door. "Come in," he said, and Lucille entered. He -started in some confusion, and would have taken her hand, but she -gently repulsed him. She took a seat opposite to him, and looking down, -thus addressed him:-- - -"My dear Eugene, that is, Monsieur St. Amand, I have something on my -mind that I think it better to speak at once; and if I do not exactly -express what I would wish to say, you must not be offended at Lucille; -it is not an easy matter to put into words what one feels deeply." -Coloring, and suspecting something of the truth, St. Amand would have -broken in upon her here; but she, with a gentle impatience, waved him -to be silent, and continued:-- - -"You know that when you once loved me, I used to tell you, that you -would cease to do so, could you see how undeserving I was of your -attachment? I did not deceive myself, Eugene; I always felt assured -that such would be the case, that your love for me necessarily rested -on your affliction: but, for all that, I never at least had a dream, or -a desire, but for your happiness; and God knows, that if again, by -walking bare-footed, not to Cologne, but to Rome--to the end of the -world, I could save you from a much less misfortune than that of -blindness, I would cheerfully do it; yes, even though I might foretel -all the while that, on my return, you would speak to me coldly, think -of me lightly, and that the penalty to me would--would be--what it has -been!" Here Lucille wiped a few natural tears from her eyes; St. Amand, -struck to the heart, covered his face with his hands, without the -courage to interrupt her. Lucille continued:-- - -"That which I foresaw has come to pass: I am no longer to you what I -once was, when you could clothe this poor form and this homely face -with a beauty they did not possess; you would wed me still, it is true; -but I am proud, Eugene, and cannot stoop to gratitude where I once had -love. I am not so unjust as to blame you; the change was natural, was -inevitable. I should have steeled myself more against it; but I am now -resigned; we must part; you love Julie--that too is natural--and _she_ -loves you; ah! what also more probable in the course of events? Julie -loves you, not yet, perhaps, so much as I did, but then she has not -known you as I have, and she, whose whole life has been triumph, cannot -feel the gratitude I felt at fancying myself loved; but this will come; -God grant it! Farewell, then, for ever, dear Eugene; I leave you when -you no longer want me; you are now independent of Lucille; wherever you -go, a thousand hereafter can supply my place;--farewell!" - -She rose, as she said this, to leave the room; but St. Amand seizing -her hand, which she in vain endeavored to withdraw from his clasp, -poured forth incoherently, passionately, his reproaches on himself, his -eloquent persuasions against her resolution. - -"I confess," said he, "that I have been allured for a moment; I confess -that Julie's beauty made me less sensible to your stronger, your -holier, oh! far, far holier title to my love! But forgive me, dearest -Lucille; already I return to you, to all I once felt for you; make me -not curse the blessing of sight that I owe to you. You must not leave -me; never can we two part; try me, only try me, and if ever, hereafter, -my heart wander from you, _then_, Lucille, leave me to my remorse!" - -Even at that moment Lucille did not yield; she felt that his prayer was -but the enthusiasm of the hour; she felt that there was a virtue in her -pride; that to leave him was a duty to herself. In vain he pleaded; in -vain were his embraces, his prayers; in vain he reminded her of their -plighted troth, of her aged parents, whose happiness had become wrapped -in her union with him; "How, even were it as you wrongly believe, how -in honor to them can I desert you, can I wed another?" - -"Trust that, trust all to me," answered Lucille; "your honor shall be -my care, none shall blame _you_; only do not let your marriage with -Julie be celebrated here before their eyes; that is all I ask, all they -can expect. God bless you! do not fancy I shall be unhappy, for -whatever happiness the world gives you, shall I not have contributed to -bestow it?--and with that thought, I am above compassion." - -She glided from his arms, and left him to a solitude more bitter even -than that of blindness; that very night Lucille sought her mother; to -her she confided all. I pass over the reasons she urged, the arguments -she overcame; she conquered rather than convinced, and leaving to -Madame Le Tisseur the painful task of breaking to her father her -unalterable resolution, she quitted Malines the next morning, and with -a heart too honest to be utterly without comfort, paid that visit to -her aunt which had been so long deferred. - -The pride of Lucille's parents prevented them from reproaching St. -Amand. He did not bear, however, their cold and altered looks; he left -their house; and though for several days he would not even see Julie, -yet her beauty and her art gradually resumed their empire over him. -They were married at Courtroi, and, to the joy of the vain Julie, -departed to the gay metropolis of France. But before their departure, -before his marriage, St. Amand endeavored to appease his conscience, by -purchasing for Monsieur Le Tisseur, a much more lucrative and honorable -office than that he now held. Rightly judging that Malines could no -longer be a pleasant residence for them, and much less for Lucille, the -duties of the post were to be fulfilled in another town; and knowing -that Monsieur Le Tisseur's delicacy would revolt at receiving such a -favor from his hands, he kept the nature of his negociation a close -secret, and suffered the honest citizen to believe that his own merits -alone had entitled him to so unexpected a promotion. - -Time went on. This quiet and simple history of humble affections took -its date in a stormy epoch of the world--the dawning Revolution of -France. The family of Lucille had been little more than a year settled -in their new residence, when Dumouriez led his army into the -Netherlands. But how meanwhile had that year passed for Lucille? I have -said that her spirit was naturally high; that, though so tender, she -was not weak; her very pilgrimage to Cologne alone, and at the timid -age of seventeen, proved that there was a strength in her nature no -less than a devotion in her love. The sacrifice she had made brought -its own reward. She believed St. Amand was happy, and she would not -give way to the selfishness of grief; she had still duties to perform; -she could still comfort her parents, and cheer their age; she could -still be all the world to them; she felt this, and was consoled. Only -once during the year had she heard of Julie; she had been seen by a -mutual friend at Paris, gay, brilliant, courted, and admired; of St. -Amand she heard nothing. - -My tale, dear Gertrude, does not lead me through the harsh scenes of -war. I do not tell you of the slaughter and the siege, and the blood -that inundated those fair lands, the great battle-field of Europe. The -people of the Netherlands in general were with the cause of Dumouriez, -but the town in which Le Tisseur dwelt offered some faint resistance to -his arms. Le Tisseur himself, despite his age, girded on his sword; the -town was carried, and the fierce and licentious troops of the conqueror -poured, flushed with their easy victory, through its streets. Le -Tisseur's house was filled with drunken and rude troopers; Lucille -herself trembled in the fierce gripe of one of those dissolute -soldiers, more bandit than soldier, whom the subtle Dumouriez had -united to his army, and by whose blood he so often saved that of his -nobler band; her shrieks, her cries were vain, when suddenly the -reeking troopers gave way; "the Captain! brave Captain!" was shouted -forth; the insolent soldier, felled by a powerful arm, sank senseless -at the feet of Lucille; and a glorious form, towering above its -fellows, even through its glittering garb, even in that dreadful hour -remembered at a glance by Lucille, stood at her side; her protector, -her guardian! thus once more she beheld St. Amand! - -The house was cleared in an instant, the door barred. Shouts, groans, -wild snatches of exulting song, the clang of arms, the tramp of horses, -the hurrying footsteps, the deep music, sounded loud, and blended -terribly without; Lucille heard them not; she was on that breast which -never should have deserted her. - -Effectually to protect his friends, St. Amand took up his quarters at -their house; and for two days he was once more under the same roof as -Lucille. He never recurred voluntarily to Julie; he answered Lucille's -timid inquiry after her health briefly, and with coldness, but he spoke -with all the enthusiasm of a long pent and ardent spirit of the new -profession he had embraced. Glory seemed now to be his only mistress, -and the vivid delusion of the first bright dreams of the revolution -filled his mind, broke from his tongue, and lighted up those dark eyes -which Lucille had redeemed to day. - -She saw him depart at the head of his troop; she saw his proud crest -glancing in the sun; she saw that his last glance reverted to her, -where she stood at the door; and as he waved his adieu, she fancied -that there was on his face that look of deep and grateful tenderness -which reminded her of the one bright epoch of her life. - -She was right; St. Amand had long since in bitterness repented of a -transient infatuation, had long since discovered the true Florimel from -the false, and felt that, in Julie, Lucille's wrongs were avenged. But -in the hurry and heat of war he plunged that regret--the keenest of -all--which imbodies the bitter words, "TOO LATE!" - -Years passed away, and in the resumed tranquillity of Lucille's life -the brilliant apparition of St. Amand appeared as something dreamt of, -not seen. The star of Napoleon had risen above the horizon; the romance -of his early career had commenced; and the campaign of Egypt had been -the herald of those brilliant and meteoric successes which flashed -forth from the gloom of the Revolution of France. - -You are aware, dear Gertrude, how many in the French as well as the -English troops returned home from Egypt, blinded with the ophthalmia of -that arid soil. Some of the young men in Lucille's town, who had joined -Napoleon's army, came back, darkened by that fearful affliction, and -Lucille's alms, and Lucille's aid, and Lucille's sweet voice were ever -at hand for those poor sufferers, whose common misfortune touched so -thrilling a cord of her heart. - -Her father was now dead, and she had only her mother to cheer amid the -ills of age. As one evening they sat at work together, Madame Le -Tisseur said, after a pause-- - -"I wish, dear Lucille, thou couldst be persuaded to marry Justin; he -loves thee well, and now that thou art yet young, and hast many years -before thee, thou shouldst remember that when I die thou wilt be -alone." - -"Ah cease, dearest mother, I never can marry now, and as for love--once -taught in the bitter school in which I have learned the knowledge of -myself--I cannot be deceived again." - -"My Lucille, you do not know yourself; never was woman loved, if Justin -does not love you; and never did lover feel with more real warmth how -worthily he loved." - -And this was true; and not of Justin alone, for Lucille's modest -virtues, her kindly temper, and a certain undulating and feminine -grace, which accompanied all her movements, had secured her as many -conquests as if she had been beautiful. She had rejected all offers of -marriage with a shudder; without even the throb of a flattered vanity. -One memory, sadder, was also dearer to her than all things; and -something sacred in its recollections made her deem it even a crime to -think of effacing the past by a new affection. - -"I believe," continued Madame Le Tisseur, angrily, "that thou still -thinkest fondly of him from whom only in the world thou couldst have -experienced ingratitude." - -"Nay mother," said Lucille, with a blush and a slight sigh, "Eugene is -married to another." - -While thus conversing, they heard a gentle and timid knock at the -door--the latch was lifted. "This" said the rough voice of a -commissaire of the town--"this, monsieur, is the house of _Madame Le -Tisseur_, and--_voila mademoiselle!_" A tall figure, with a shade over -his eyes, and wrapped in a long military cloak, stood in the room. A -thrill shot across Lucille's heart. He stretched out his arms; -"Lucille," said that melancholy voice, which had made the music of her -first youth--"where art thou, Lucille; alas! she does not recognize St. -Amand." - -Thus was it, indeed. By a singular fatality, the burning suns and the -sharp dust of the plains of Egypt had smitten the young soldier, in the -flush of his career, with a second--and this time, with an -irremediable--blindness! He had returned to France to find his hearth -lonely; Julie was no more--a sudden fever had cut her off in the midst -of youth; and he had sought his way to Lucille's house, to see if one -hope yet remained to him in the world! - -And when, days afterward, humbly and sadly he re-urged a former suit, -did Lucille shut her heart to its prayer? Did her pride remember its -wound--did she revert to his desertion--did she say to the whisper of -her yearning love--_"thou hast been before forsaken?"_ That voice and -those darkened eyes pleaded to her with a pathos not to be resisted; "I -am once more necessary to him," was all her thought--"if I reject him, -who will tend him?" In that thought was the motive of her conduct; in -that thought gushed back upon her soul all the springs of checked, but -unconquered, unconquerable love! In that thought she stood beside him -at the altar, and pledged, with a yet holier devotion than she might -have felt of yore, the vow of her imperishable truth. - -And Lucille found, in the future, a reward which the common world could -never comprehend. With his blindness returned all the feelings she had -first awakened in St. Amand's solitary heart; again he yearned for her -step--again he missed even a moment's absence from his side--again her -voice chased the shadow from his brow--and in her presence was a sense -of shelter and of sunshine. He no longer sighed for the blessing he had -lost; he reconciled himself to fate, and entered into that serenity of -mood which mostly characterizes the blind. Perhaps, after we have seen -the actual world, and experienced its hollow pleasures, we can resign -ourselves the better to its exclusion; and as the cloister which repels -the ardor of our hope is sweet to our remembrance, so the darkness -loses its terror when experience has wearied us with the glare and -travail of the day. It was something, too, as they advanced in life, to -feel the chains that bound him to Lucille strengthening daily, and to -cherish in his overflowing heart the sweetness of increasing gratitude; -it was something that he could not see years wrinkle that open brow, or -dim the tenderness of that touching smile; it was something that to him -she was beyond the reach of time, and preserved to the verge of a grave -(which received them both within a few days of each other,) in all the -bloom of her unwithering affection--in all the freshness of a heart -that never could grow old! - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -SONG--_By the Author of Vyvyan_. - - - On the brow of the mountain - The grey mists darkle-- - On the wave of the fountain - Star images sparkle-- - Wild lights o'er the meadow - Are fitfully gleaming-- - In the hill's dark shadow - A spirit is dreaming. - The birds and the flowers - With closed eyes are sleeping, - All hushed are the bowers - Where glow-worms are creeping-- - There's quiet in heaven, - There's peace to the billow-- - A blessing seems given - To all--save my pillow. - Alas! do I wonder - I too cannot sleep, - Like the calm waves yonder, - And dream all as deep?-- - There's beauty beside me, - A love-heaving breast-- - Ah! my very joys chide me, - And rob me of rest. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -LINES ON FINDING A BILLET FROM AN EARLY FRIEND AMONG SOME OLD PAPERS. - - - I gaze on this discolored sheet - Which time has tinged with many a stain, - And sigh to think his course should bring - To nought, that friendship nursed in vain. - Here in your well known hand I see - My name, with terms endearing traced, - And vows of firm fidelity, - Which other objects soon effaced. - Strange does it seem, that in these words - A dead affection I should find, - As if some early buried friend - Resumed his place among his kind. - Yes--after many a chilling year - Of coldness and of alter'd feeling, - This tatter'd messenger is here, - Worlds of forgotten thought revealing. - As once my faith was purely thine, - For thee my blood I would have pour'd - As freely as the rich red wine - We pledged around the jovial board. - It seem'd that thou wert thus to me, - Loyal and true as thou didst swear: - I knew not then, as now I know, - That oaths are but impassion'd air. - And even now, a doubt that they - Were falsehoods all, will cross my brain: - That thought alone I seek to quell, - That thought alone could give me pain. - To be forgotten has no sting-- - For friendships every day grow cold; - But 'tis a wounding thought, that I - Have purchased dross, and paid in gold. - Tho' thou hast changed, as worldlings change - Amid the haunts of sordid men, - I cannot bid my feelings range-- - But cling to what I deem'd thee _then_. - -S. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -THE CEMETERY.--_From the Russian_. - - - FIRST VOICE. - - How sad, how frightful the abode, - How dread the silence of the tomb! - There all surrounding objects speak - The haunt of terror and of gloom-- - And nought but tempests' horrid howl we hear, - And bones together rattling on the bier! - - - SECOND VOICE. - - How peaceful, tranquil is the tomb! - How calm, how deep is its repose! - There flow'rets wild more sweetly bloom, - There zephyr's breath more softly flows; - And there the nightingale and turtle-dove - Their notes pour forth of happiness and love. - - - FIRST VOICE. - - Against that dark sepulchral mound, - Funereal crows their pinions beat; - There dens of ravenous wolves are found, - And there the vulture's foul retreat; - The earth around with greedy claws they tear, - Whilst serpents hiss and poison all the air. - - - SECOND VOICE. - - There, when the shades of evening fall, - The sportive hares their gambols keep; - Or, fearless of the huntsman's call, - Upon the verdant herbage sleep; - While midst the foliage of the o'erhanging boughs - The feathered tribe in slumbers soft repose. - - - FIRST VOICE. - - Around that dank and humid spot - A noisome vapor ever clings, - Exhaled from heaps which there to rot - Death with untiring labor brings; - Devoid of leaves the trees their branches spread, - And every plant seems withering, or dead. - - - SECOND VOICE. - - In what soft accents whispers there - The evening breeze about the tomb, - Diffusing through the balmy air - Of countless flowers the rich perfume, - And speaking of a place of peace and rest, - Where e'er mid breathing fragrance dwell the blessed! - - - FIRST VOICE. - - When to this dismal vale of tears, - The pilgrim comes with weary pace, - O'erpowered by appalling fears, - In vain his steps he would retrace; - Urged onwards by a hand unseen, unknown, - He's headlong in the wreck-strewed torrent thrown. - - - SECOND VOICE. - - Worn out by life's sad pilgrimage, - Man here at length his staff lays down-- - Here feels no more the tempest's rage, - Nor dreads the heav'ns impending frown-- - Reposes from his toil in slumbers deep, - And sleeps of ages the eternal sleep! - - - - -EDITORIAL REMARKS. - - -We flatter ourselves that our patrons will not be displeased with the -feast which we have set before them in the present number of the -Messenger. We have not commenced with the egg and ended with the apple, -(_ab ovo usque ad malum_,) according to the ancient custom; nor placed -the substantials before the dessert, as in modern entertainments; but -have rather chosen to mingle them without order or arrangement,--that -our guests may partake as their respective tastes and inclinations may -dictate. The scientific reader will be attracted by the communications -of Dr. POWELL, and PETER A. BROWNE, Esq. of Philadelphia. By the former -gentleman, who is now actively engaged in geological and antiquarian -researches in the western country, we are kindly promised occasional -aid; and, to the latter distinguished individual, we owe our thanks for -the warm interest he has evinced in our infant enterprize. - -Of Mr. WIRT'S letter, it would be superfluous to speak, more especially -as it is accompanied by some excellent remarks by a highly intelligent -friend,--himself destined to become an ornament to the profession of -which he speaks. - -The general reader cannot fail to be pleased with many, if not all the -communications which are inserted. In the article headed "_Example is -better than Precept_," he will recognize an elegant and vigorous -pen;--and, in the "_Recollections of Chotank_," it will not be -difficult to perceive that the hand employed in describing the generous -customs and proverbial hospitality of that ancient portion of our -state,--is one of uncommon skill in the art and beauty of composition. -The article from the Petersburg Intelligencer, entitled an "_Extract -from a Novel that never will be published_," (but which we hope _will_ -be published)--though not expressly written for the "Messenger," will -be new to most of our readers. If we mistake not, the writer has -furnished strong evidence of talent in a particular department of -literature, which needs only to be cultivated in order to attain a high -degree of success. - -The poetical contributions, which are entirely _original_ in the -present number, whilst they do not need our eulogy, we cannot permit to -pass without some special notice at our hands. The "_Power of Faith_" -will not fail to attract the lover of genuine poetry, especially if his -heart be warmed with christian zeal. It is written by a gentleman whose -modesty is as great as his merit; and whose writings, both in prose and -verse, will do honor to his native state. The sprightly effusion among -the prose articles which is headed "_Sally Singleton_," is from the -same hand. Of "_Death among the Trees_," it would be unnecessary to -speak, as it will be readily recognized and admired, as the production -of a distinguished female writer already known to fame. We take -pleasure in placing in the same company two other charming effusions, -by writers of the same gentle sex, whose assistance in our literary -labors we shall always be proud to receive. We allude to the "_Address -of the Genius of Columbia to her Native Muse_," and the "_Lines to an -Officer of the United States Navy, by E. A. S._" The "_Sonnet, written -on the Blue Ridge_," and the "_Stanzas, composed at the White Sulphur -Springs of Virginia_," are both the productions of the same superior -mind. There is not only decided power, but a most attractive pathos and -bewitching melancholy in the two productions referred to. We hope that -the author will continue to adorn our columns with the offspring of his -gifted muse. The author of "_Lines on a Billet from an Early Friend_," -will always be a welcome guest at our literary table. We know him as a -gentleman of fine taste and varied endowments. The "_Cemetery_" is from -the pen of a young Philadelphian of fine talents. He need not at any -time apprehend exclusion from our columns. - -If we have chosen to speak last of the author of "_Musings_," it is not -because he is least in our estimation. On the contrary, we sincerely -esteem him as among the favored few, to whom it is given,---if they -themselves will it,--to reach the highest honors, and the most enduring -rewards, in the empire of poesy. The beautiful and graceful picture of -Venice, presented in our present number,--of Venice despoiled of her -ancient glory--yet still glorious in ruin,--will command, if we mistake -not, general admiration. Successful as the author always is, in his -light and fugitive pieces, he gives evidence of a power to grasp the -highest themes, and to sport with familiar ease in the least accessible -regions of fancy. Why does he not seize the lyre at once, and pour -forth a song which shall add to his country's honor, and insure for -himself a chaplet of renown? Why does he not at once take rank with the -HALLECKS, the BRYANTS and PERCIVALS, of a colder clime? He is every way -qualified to do it. - -To our numerous correspondents and contributors, whose favors have not -yet appeared in print,--we owe our acknowledgments, and in some -instances an apology. Our space is exceedingly disproportioned to the -quantity of matter which we have on hand; and, of course, we are driven -to the painful, and rather invidious task of selection. We have many -articles actually in type, which we are necessarily obliged to exclude -from the present number. Among them may be enumerated "_A Scene in -Genoa, by an American Tourist_," the "_Grave Seekers_," and other fine -specimens of poetry. The "_Reporter's Story, or the Importance of a -Syllable_," "_The Cottage in the Glen_,"--the poems from Louisa and -Pittsylvania, and from various other quarters, shall all receive the -earliest possible attention. The high claims of our correspondents in -Mobile and Tuscaloosa in the state of Alabama, shall also be attended -to; and, we hope that others in distant states, will not deem -themselves slighted if not now particularly enumerated. - -The "_Eulogy on Lafayette_," transmitted from France, and handed over -to us by a friend, shall appear in the next number. - -We have read with pleasure, the love tale composed by an accomplished -young lady in one of the upper counties; and, whilst we do not hesitate -to render a just tribute to the delicacy of sentiment and glowing fancy -which distinguish her pages, candor compels us to urge one objection, -which we fear is insurmountable. The story is wrought up with materials -derived from English character and manners; and, we have too many -thousands of similar fictions issuing from the British press, to -authorize the belief that another of the same class will be interesting -to an American reader. We should like to see our own writers confine -their efforts to native subjects--to throw aside the trammels of -foreign reading, and to select their themes from the copious materials -which every where abound in our own magnificent country. - -For a similar reason, our friend from Caroline must excuse us for -declining to insert his sketches. We have no "_dilapidated castles_," -nor any "_last heirs of Ardendale_," in our plain republican land. - -Neither can we insert in our pages (though we should like to oblige our -Essex correspondent,) any thing which bears the slightest resemblance -to a _fairy tale_. We prefer treading upon earthly ground, and dealing -with mortal personages. - -To our highly respected correspondent, who addressed a letter to the -publisher in June last, from Prince Edward, we take this opportunity to -say, that our columns shall be freely open to discussions in behalf of -the interests of education. We conceive that the cause of literature is -intimately connected with it; and we have it in contemplation to -present ere long, to the public, some candid views, in regard to the -policy heretofore pursued in the Councils of our State, on this -interesting subject. We are enemies to every system founded upon -favoritism and monopoly; and we are advocates for the equal application -of those pecuniary resources which the bounty of the state has -dedicated to the cause of education. We have no idea that the Literary -Fund, the common property of us all, ought to be so managed as to -defeat the purposes of its founders; in other words, that it should be -so wrested from the original design of its creation, as to benefit only -two classes of society--the highest and the lowest,--the extremes of -wealth and indigence,--whilst the great mass of the community are -excluded from all advantages to be derived from it. This system may -suit particular individuals, and may subserve particular ends; but it -is at war with the best interests of the state, and ought to be -exposed, so far as the honorable weapons of truth and justice shall be -able to expose it. - -The suggestions of our highly intelligent friend from South Carolina, -who we presume is a temporary resident in one of the northern states, -are entitled to much respect and consideration. We quote the following -just sentiments from his letter: - -"American literature, although increasing, is still at an immense -distance in rear of that of England, and Germany and France. And why? -It is owing entirely to the _divided attention_ of our literary -characters. However profound and capacious their minds--and however -great their powers of thought, and brilliant and forcible those of -expression, it is impossible for them to succeed, at the same time, in -every department of knowledge. No man can distinguish himself in any -one pursuit, when his mind is applied to a dozen. Let him bend his -faculties upon a single object; and with industry and perseverance, he -will assuredly secure its attainment. Among us, we have no professed -students, whose lives are devoted to the acquisition and development of -learning. All men of talents rush early into the absorbing pursuits of -politics; and together with providing the means of support, continue in -them for life. So long as this is the case, it cannot be expected of us -to present eminent men, in any way calculated to compete with those of -the Old World. - -"It would be a useful and an ennobling task for some one, well -qualified to examine the subject in all its bearings, to offer an -expose of the various causes for the low ebb at which our national -literature now stands, and the means by which they might be subverted." - -We should be much gratified if some one of our many intelligent -subscribers would furnish us an essay upon this interesting subject. -None would be more likely to present it, in some of its strongest -lights, than the writer of the letter from which we have quoted. - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. -I., No. 2, October, 1834, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER *** - -***** This file should be named 52411-8.txt or 52411-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/4/1/52411/ - -Produced by Ron Swanson - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - diff --git a/old/52411-8.zip b/old/52411-8.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 3abf542..0000000 --- a/old/52411-8.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/52411-h.zip b/old/52411-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 3960c4b..0000000 --- a/old/52411-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/52411-h/52411-h.htm b/old/52411-h/52411-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 20e68ff..0000000 --- a/old/52411-h/52411-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4615 +0,0 @@ - -<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> - -<html> -<head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1"> - <title>The Project Gutenberg e-Book of The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 2, October 1834, by Various</title> - <style type="text/css"> - <!-- - body {margin:10%; text-align:justify} - h1 {text-align:center} - h2 {text-align:center} - h3 {text-align:center} - h4 {text-align:center} --> - </style> -</head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., -No. 2, October, 1834, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 2, October, 1834 - -Author: Various - -Editor: James E. Heath - -Release Date: June 25, 2016 [EBook #52411] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER *** - - - - -Produced by Ron Swanson - - - - - -</pre> - -<center>THE</center> -<h1>SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:</h1> -<center>DEVOTED TO</center> -<h2>EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE</h2> -<center>AND</center> -<h3>THE FINE ARTS.</h3> -<br> -<br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem1"> - <tr><td><small>Au gré de nos desirs bien plus qu'au gré des vents. </small></td></tr> - <tr><td align="right"><small><i>Crebillon's Electre</i>.</small></td></tr> - <tr><td><small> </small></td></tr> - <tr><td><small>As <i>we</i> will, and not as the winds will.</small></td></tr> -</table><br> -<br> -<center><small>RICHMOND:<br> -T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR.<br> -1834-5.</small></center> -<br><br><br><br> -<h3>CONTENTS OF VOLUME I, NUMBER 2</h3> - -<p><a href="#sect01">T<small>O THE</small> P<small>UBLIC</small>, <small>AND</small> E<small>SPECIALLY -THE</small> P<small>EOPLE OF THE</small> S<small>OUTHERN</small> S<small>TATES</small></a></p> - -<p><a href="#sect02">L<small>ETTER FROM</small> M<small>R</small>. W<small>IRT TO A</small> L<small>AW</small> S<small>TUDENT</small></a>: by C.</p> - -<p><a href="#sect03">M<small>ISFORTUNE AND</small> G<small>ENIUS</small>: A -T<small>ALE</small> F<small>OUNDED ON</small> F<small>ACT</small></a>: by H.</p> - -<p><a href="#sect04">E<small>XAMPLE IS</small> B<small>ETTER THAN</small> P<small>RECEPT</small></a>: by M.</p> - -<p><a href="#sect05">T<small>HE</small> P<small>OWER OF</small> F<small>AITH</small></a>: by S.</p> - -<p><a href="#sect06">T<small>HE</small> S<small>WEET</small> S<small>PRINGS OF</small> -V<small>IRGINIA</small>, <small>AND THE</small> V<small>ALLEY WHICH -CONTAINS</small> T<small>HEM</small></a>: by W. B<small>YRD</small> P<small>OWELL</small>, M.D.</p> - -<p><a href="#sect07">R<small>ECOLLECTIONS OF</small> "C<small>HOTANK</small>"</a>: -by E. S.</p> - -<p><a href="#sect08">I<small>MPORTANT</small> L<small>AW</small> C<small>ASE IN A</small> -S<small>ISTER</small> S<small>TATE</small>, I<small>NVOLVING</small> Q<small>UESTIONS -OF</small> S<small>CIENCE</small></a>: by P. A. B<small>ROWNE</small>, E<small>SQ</small>.</p> - -<p><a href="#sect09">S<small>ALLY</small> S<small>INGLETON</small></a>: by N<small>UGATOR</small></p> - -<p><a href="#sect10">E<small>XTRACT FROM A</small> N<small>OVEL THAT</small> -N<small>EVER WILL BE</small> P<small>UBLISHED</small></a></p> - -<p>O<small>RIGINAL</small> P<small>OETRY</small><br> - <a href="#sect11">S<small>ONNET</small>, W<small>RITTEN ON -THE</small> B<small>LUE</small> R<small>IDGE IN</small> V<small>IRGINIA</small></a><br> - <a href="#sect12">S<small>TANZAS</small>, W<small>RITTEN AT -THE</small> W<small>HITE</small> S<small>ULPHUR</small> S<small>PRINGS OF</small> -V<small>IRGINIA</small></a><br> - <a href="#sect13">T<small>O</small> —— —— <small>OF -THE</small> U. S. N<small>AVY</small></a>: by E. A. S.<br> - <a href="#sect14">M<small>USINGS</small> II</a>: by the Author of Vyvyan<br> - <a href="#sect15">T<small>HE</small> G<small>ENIUS OF</small> C<small>OLUMBIA -TO HER</small> N<small>ATIVE</small> M<small>USE</small></a>: by C.<br> - <a href="#sect16">D<small>EATH AMONG THE</small> T<small>REES</small></a>: by L. H. S.</p> - -<p>O<small>RIGINAL</small> L<small>ITERARY</small> N<small>OTICES</small><br> - <a href="#sect17">A<small>MIR</small> K<small>HAN</small>, -<small>AND OTHER POEMS</small></a>: by Samuel F. B. Morse, A. M.<br> - <a href="#sect18">T<small>HE</small> P<small>ILGRIMS OF THE</small> -R<small>HINE</small></a>: by the author of Pelham, Eugene Aram, &c.<br> - Selection: -<a href="#sect19">T<small>HE</small> M<small>AID OF</small> M<small>ALINES</small></a></p> - -<p>O<small>RIGINAL</small> P<small>OETRY</small><br> - <a href="#sect20">S<small>ONG</small></a>: by the Author of Vyvyan<br> - <a href="#sect21">L<small>INES ON</small> F<small>INDING A</small> -B<small>ILLET FROM AN</small> E<small>ARLY</small> F<small>RIEND AMONG SOME OLD</small> -P<small>APERS</small></a>: by S.<br> - <a href="#sect22">T<small>HE</small> C<small>EMETERY</small></a>: -from the Russian</p> - -<p><a href="#sect23">E<small>DITORIAL</small> R<small>EMARKS</small></a></p> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<br> -<hr> -<h3>SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.</h3> -<hr> -<center>V<small>OL</small>. I.] RICHMOND, OCTOBER 15, -1834. [N<small>O</small>. 2.</center> -<hr> -<center><small>T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE -DOLLARS PER ANNUM.</small></center> -<a name="sect01"></a> -<hr> -<h4>TO THE PUBLIC,</h4> -<center>AND ESPECIALLY THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTHERN STATES.</center> -<br> -<p>The favorable reception of the first number of the Messenger has been a -source of no small gratification. Letters have been received by the -publisher from various quarters, approving the plan of the publication, -and strongly commendatory of the work. The appeal to the citizens of -the south for support of a substantial kind, was not in vain. Already -enough have come forward as subscribers, to defray the necessary -expense of publication; and contributions to the columns of the paper -have been liberally offered from different quarters. The publisher -doubts not that with his present support, he will be enabled to furnish -a periodical replete with matter of an acceptable kind. The useful and -agreeable—the grave and gay—will be mingled in each number, so as to -give it a pleasing variety, and enable every reader to find something -to his taste. Thus will the paper become a source of innocent -amusement, and at the same time a vehicle of valuable information.</p> - -<p>That such a paper is to be desired in the southern states no one will -controvert, and all must be sensible that an increase of public -patronage will furnish the most effectual means of having what is -wanted. An enlarged subscription list would put it in the power of the -publisher to cater in the literary world on a more liberal scale; and -the extended circulation of the paper, which would be a consequence of -that subscription, would furnish a yet stronger inducement to many to -make valuable contributions.</p> - -<p>The publisher also makes his grateful acknowledgements for the friendly -and liberal support received from various gentlemen residing in the -states north of the Potomac. Many in that quarter, of literary and -professional distinction, have kindly extended their patronage.</p> - -<p>Already the number of contributions received, has greatly exceeded the -most sanguine expectations of the publisher. Still he would earnestly -invite the gifted pens of the country to repeat their favors, and unite -in extending the <small>INFLUENCE OF LITERATURE</small>.</p> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect02"></a> -<br> -<br> -<h4>LETTER FROM MR. WIRT TO A LAW STUDENT.</h4> - -<p>The countrymen of W<small>ILLIAM</small> W<small>IRT</small> hold his memory in respect, not more for -his mental powers than for his pure morality. Every thing which comes -to light in regard to him, tends to show that his character has not -been too highly appreciated. The letter which occupies a portion of -this number, and which is now for the first time published, exhibits -him in a way strongly calculated to arrest attention. A young gentleman -who is about to leave the walls of a university, and looks to the law -as his profession, who is not related to or connected with Mr. Wirt, -nor even acquainted with him, and knows him only as an ornament to his -profession and his country, is induced by the high estimate which he -has formed of his character, and the great confidence that might be -reposed in any advice that he would give, to ask at his hands some -instruction as to the course of study best to be pursued. Mr. Wirt, -with constant occupation even at ordinary times, is, at the period when -this letter is received, busily employed in preparing for the supreme -court of the confederacy, then shortly to commence its session. Yet -notwithstanding the extent of his engagements, he hastily prepares a -long letter replete with advice, and of a nature to excite the student -to reach, if possible, the very pinnacle of his profession. What can be -better calculated to increase our esteem for those who have attained -the highest distinction themselves, than to see them submit to personal -trouble and inconvenience, for the purpose of encouraging the young to -come forward and cope with them? It would seem as if there were -something in the profession of the law which tends to produce such -liberality of feeling. We find strong evidence of this, if we look to -the course of the two men who are generally regarded as at the head of -the Virginia bar. How utterly destitute are they of that close and -narrow feeling which, in other pursuits of life, not unfrequently leads -the successful man to depress others that his own advantages may with -greater certainty be retained.</p> - -<p>A few remarks will now be made upon the contents of the letter. The -student, says Mr. Wirt, must cultivate most assiduously the habits of -reading, observing, above all of thinking: must make himself a master -in every branch of the science that belongs to the profession; acquire -a mastery of his own language, and when he comes to the bar speak to -the purpose and to the point. He is not merely to make himself a great -lawyer. General science must not be overlooked. History and politics, -statistics and political economy, are all to receive a share of -attention.</p> - -<p>Much of this advice may well be followed by minds of every description, -but some portion of it seems better fitted for an intellect of the -highest order than for the great mass of those who come to the bar. -Lord <i>Mansfield</i> could be a statesman and a jurist, an orator of -persuasive eloquence and acute reasoning, and a judge "whose opinions -may be studied as models." And Sir <i>William Jones</i> has shown that it -was possible for the same individual to be a most extensive linguist, -an historian of great research, a person of information upon matters -the most varied, an author in poetry as well as prose, and a writer of -equal elegance upon legal and miscellaneous subjects.</p> - -<p>But these were men whose extraordinary endowments have caused the world -to admire their strength of understanding and their great attainments. -Mr. Wirt seems to think it best to open a field the whole extent of -which could only be reached by such minds as these, and excite others -to occupy as large a portion of it as practicable, by inculcating the -belief that "to unceasing diligence there is scarcely any thing -impossible."</p> - -<p>That much may be effected by labor and perseverance, no one will -controvert. Mr. Butler is an example. He states, in his reminiscences, -that he was enabled to accomplish what he did, by never allowing -himself to be unemployed for a moment; rising early; dividing his time -systematically; and abstaining in a great degree from company and other -amusements. Yet while the student is exhorted thus to persevere, some -caution may be requisite lest his time be lost amid the variety of -subjects that are laid before him in the extensive course which Mr. -Wirt has prescribed.</p> - -<p>Generally speaking, the student of law will fail to attain the highest -point in his profession, unless the principal portion of his time be -given to that profession. While travelling the road to professional -distinction, he may, without greatly impeding his course, for the sake -of variety, occasionally wander to the right or to the left, provided -he will speedily return to his proper track. But if he open to himself -a variety of paths, walking alternately in them, and spending in one as -much time as in another, he will find that he can never travel far in -any. In <i>England</i> the lawyer commonly devotes himself with great -constancy to his profession, and suffers his attention to be diverted -from it by nothing else. In our country, and especially in the southern -states, more politicians than lawyers are to be found at the -bar.—Hence the English lawyers are generally, as lawyers, more able -and more learned than those of our country. There, as well as here, the -lawyer who devotes a large portion of his life to politics, will become -less fit for his peculiar vocation.</p> - -<p>Lord <i>Brougham</i> is mentioned by Mr. Wirt, but he constitutes no -exception to this remark. He was, it is true, at the same time an -extensive practitioner at the bar, and a leading member of the House of -Commons. He kept pace with the literature of the day, and contributed -largely to the periodical press. The wonder was how he could do all -this and go into society so much as he did; how <i>he</i> could do it, when -so many able men found the profession of the law as much as they could -master. But his fellow practitioners could, to some extent, solve the -problem. The truth was, that Lord <i>Brougham</i> was more remarkable as an -ingenious advocate than as an able lawyer, and made a much better -leader of the opposition than he has since made a Lord Chancellor. -There are many abler lawyers now presiding at his bar, and the decrees -of his master of the rolls are more respected than his own.</p> - -<p>In our country every one must, to some extent, be informed on the -subject of politics, that he may be enabled to discharge his duty as a -citizen; and history and general literature should certainly receive -from all a due share of attention. But if the student of law remember -what has oft been said of his profession, that the studies of even -twenty years will leave much behind that is yet to be grappled with and -mastered, he will perceive the necessity, if he desire to become a -profound jurist, of making all general studies ancillary and -subordinate to that which is his especial object. If he would know to -what extent his attention may be divided, he may take Mr. Wirt himself -as an example. In him extensive legal attainments were happily blended -with general knowledge; powers of argument and eloquence were well -combined; and in the forcible speaker was seen the accomplished -gentleman. His good taste and sense of propriety would never allow him -to descend to that low personality which has now become so common a -fault among the debaters of the day.</p> - -<p>A word to the gentleman who forwarded the letter. His reasons for -transmitting it are not inserted, because it is believed that no -relative or friend of Mr. Wirt can possibly object to the publication -of <i>such</i> a letter.</p> -<div align="right">C. </div> -<br> - -<div align="right">B<small>ALTIMORE</small>, D<small>ECEMBER</small> 20, -1833. </div> - -<blockquote><i>My dear sir:</i></blockquote> - -<blockquote>Your letter, dated "University of ——, December 12," was received on -yesterday morning—and although it finds me extremely busy in preparing -for the Supreme Court of the United States, I am so much pleased with -its spirit, that I cannot reconcile it to myself to let it pass -unanswered. If I were ever so well qualified to advise you, to which I -do not pretend, but little good could be done by a single letter, and I -have not time for more. Knowing nothing of the peculiarities of your -mental character, I can give no advice adapted to your peculiar case. I -am persuaded that education may be so directed by a sagacious and -skilful teacher, as to prune and repress those faculties of the pupil -which are too prone to luxuriance, and to train and invigorate those -which are disproportionately weak or slow; so as to create a just -balance among the powers, and enable the mind to act with the highest -effect of which it is capable. But it requires a previous acquaintance -with the student, to ascertain the natural condition of his various -powers, in order to know which requires the spur and which the rein. In -some minds, imagination overpowers and smothers all the other -faculties: in others, reason, like a sturdy oak, throws all the rest -into a sickly shade. Some men have a morbid passion for the study of -poetry—others, of mathematics, &c. &c. All this may be corrected by -discipline, so far as it may be judicious to correct it. But the -physician must understand the disease, and become acquainted with all -the idiosyncracies of the patient, before he can prescribe. I have no -advantage of this kind with regard to you; and to prescribe by -conjecture, would require me to conjecture every possible case that -<i>may</i> be yours, and to prescribe for each, which would call for a -ponderous volume, instead of a letter. I believe that in all sound -minds, the germ of all the faculties exists, and may, by skilful -management, be wooed into expansion: but they exist, naturally, in -different degrees of health and strength, and as this matter is -generally left to the impulses of nature in each individual, the -healthiest and strongest germs get the start—give impulse and -direction to the efforts of each mind—stamp its character and shape -its destiny. As education, therefore, now stands among us, each man -must be his own preceptor in this respect, and by turning in his eyes -upon himself, and descrying the comparative action of his own powers, -discover which of them requires more tone—which, if any, less. We must -take care, however, not to make an erroneous estimate of the relative -value of the faculties, and thus commit the sad mistake of cultivating -the showy at the expense of the solid. With these preliminary remarks, -by way of explaining why I cannot be more particular in regard to your -case, permit me, instead of chalking out a course of study by -furnishing you with lists of books and the order in which they should -be read, (and no list of books and course of study would be equally -proper for all minds,) to close this letter with a few general remarks.</blockquote> - -<blockquote>If your <i>spirit</i> be as stout and pure as your letter indicates, you -require little advice beyond that which you will find within the walls -of your University. A brave and pure spirit is more than "<i>half the -battle,</i>" not only in preparing for life, but in all its conflicts. -<i>Take it for granted, that there is no excellence without great labor.</i> -No mere aspirations for eminence, however ardent, will do the business. -Wishing, and sighing, and imagining, and dreaming of greatness, will -never make you great. If you would get to the mountain's top on which -the temple of fame stands, it will not do <i>to stand still</i>, looking, -admiring, and wishing you were there. You must gird up your loins, and -go to work with all the indomitable energy of Hannibal scaling the -Alps. Laborious study, and diligent observation of the world, are both -indispensable to the attainment of eminence. By the former, you must -make yourself master of all that is known of science and letters; by -the latter, you must know <i>man</i>, at large, and particularly the -character and genius of your own countrymen. You must cultivate -assiduously the habits of <i>reading</i>, <i>thinking</i>, and <i>observing</i>. -Understand your own language grammatically, critically, thoroughly: -learn its origin, or rather its various origins, which you may learn -from Johnson's and Webster's prefaces to their large dictionaries. -Learn all that is delicate and beautiful, as well as strong, in the -language, and master all its stores of opulence. You will find a rich -mine of instruction in the splendid language of Burke. His diction is -frequently magnificent; sometimes too gorgeous, I think, for a chaste -and correct taste; but he will show you all the wealth of your -language. You must, by ardent study and practice, acquire for yourself -a <i>mastery</i> of the language, and be able both to speak and to write it, -promptly, easily, elegantly, and with that variety of style which -different subjects, different hearers, and different readers are -continually requiring. You must have such a command of it as to be able -to adapt yourself, with intuitive quickness and ease, to every -situation in which you may chance to be placed—and you will find no -great difficulty in this, if you have the <i>copia verborum</i> and a -correct taste. With this study of the language you must take care to -unite the habits already mentioned—the diligent observation of all -that is passing around you; and <i>active</i>, <i>close</i> and <i>useful -thinking</i>. If you have access to Franklin's works, read them carefully, -particularly his third volume, and you will know what I mean by <i>the -habits of observing and thinking</i>. We cannot all be <i>Franklins</i>, it is -true; but, by imitating his mental habits and unwearied industry, we -may reach an eminence we should never otherwise attain. Nor would he -have been <i>the Franklin</i> he was, if he had permitted himself to be -discouraged by the reflection that we cannot all be <i>Newtons</i>. It is -our business to make the most of our own talents and opportunities, and -instead of discouraging ourselves by comparisons and imaginary -impossibilities, to believe all things possible—as indeed almost all -things are, to a spirit bravely and firmly resolved. Franklin was a -fine model of <i>a practical man</i> as contradistinguished from a -<i>visionary theorist</i>, as men of genius are very apt to be. He was great -in that greatest of all good qualities, <i>sound, strong, common sense</i>. -A mere book-worm is a miserable driveller; and a mere genius, a thing -of gossamer fit only for the winds to sport with. Direct your -intellectual efforts, principally, to the cultivation of the strong, -masculine qualities of the mind. Learn (I repeat it) <i>to think</i>—<i>to -think deeply, comprehensibly, powerfully</i>—and learn the simple, -nervous language which is appropriate to that kind of thinking. Read -the legal and political arguments of Chief Justice Marshall, and those -of Alexander Hamilton, which are coming out. Read them, <i>study them;</i> -and observe with what an omnipotent sweep of thought they range over -the whole field of every subject they take in hand—and <i>that</i> with a -scythe so ample, and so keen, that not a straw is left standing behind -them. Brace yourself up to these great efforts. Strike for this giant -character of mind, and leave prettiness and frivolity for triflers. -There is nothing in your letter that suggests the necessity of this -admonition; I make it merely with reference to that tendency to -efflorescence which I have occasionally heard charged to southern -genius. It is perfectly consistent with these herculean habits of -thinking, to be a laborious student, and to know all that books can -teach. This extensive acquisition is necessary, not only to teach you -how far science has advanced in every direction, and where the <i>terra -incognita</i> begins, into which genius is to direct its future -discoveries, but to teach you also the strength and the weakness of the -human intellect—how far it is permitted us to go, and where the -penetration of man is forced, by its own impotence and the nature of -the subject, to give up the pursuit;—and when you have mastered all -the past conquests of science, you will understand what Socrates meant -by saying, that he knew only enough to be sure that <i>he knew -nothing—nothing, compared with that illimitable tract that lies -beyond the reach of our faculties</i>. You must never be satisfied with -the surface of things: probe them to the bottom, and let nothing go -'till you understand it as thoroughly as your powers will enable you. -Seize the moment of excited curiosity on any subject to solve your -doubts; for if you let it pass, the desire may never return, and you -may remain in ignorance. The habits which I have been recommending are -not merely for college, but for life. Franklin's habits of constant and -deep excogitation clung to him to his latest hour. Form these habits -now: learn all that may be learned at your University, and bring all -your acquisitions and your habits to the study of the law, which you -say is to be your profession;—and when you come to this study, come -resolved to master it—not to play in its shallows, but to sound all -its depths. There is no knowing what a mind greatly and firmly -resolved, may achieve in this department of science, as well as every -other. Resolve to be the first lawyer of your age, in the depth, -extent, variety and accuracy of your legal learning. Master the science -of pleading—master Coke upon Littleton—and Coke's and Plowden's -Reports—master Fearne on Contingent Remainders and Executory Devises, -'till you can sport and play familiarly with its most subtle -distinctions. Lay your foundation deep, and broad, and strong, and you -will find the superstructure comparatively light work. It is not by -shrinking from the difficult parts of the science, but by courting -them, grappling with them, and overcoming them, that a man rises to -professional greatness. There is a great deal of law learning that is -dry, dark, cold, revolting—but it is an old feudal castle, in perfect -preservation, which the legal architect, who aspires to the first -honors of his profession, will delight to explore, and learn all the -uses to which its various parts used to be put: and he will the better -understand, enjoy and relish the progressive improvements of the -science in modern times. You must be a master in every branch of the -science that belongs to your profession—the law of nature and of -nations, the civil law, the law merchant, the maritime law, &c. the -chart and outline of all which you will see in Blackstone's -Commentaries. Thus covered with the panoply of professional learning, a -master of the pleadings, practice and cases, and at the same time a -<i>great constitutional and philosophic lawyer</i>, you must keep way, also, -with the march of general science. Do you think this requiring too -much? Look at Brougham, and see what man can do if well armed and well -resolved. With a load of <i>professional duties</i> that would, <i>of -themselves</i>, have been appalling to the most of <i>our</i> countrymen, he -<i>stood, nevertheless, at the head of his party in the House of -Commons</i>, and, <i>at the same time, set in motion and superintended -various primary schools and various periodical works, the most -instructive and useful that ever issued from the British press, to -which he furnished, with his own pen, some of the most masterly -contributions</i>, and yet found time <i>not only to keep pace</i> with the -progress of the <i>arts and sciences</i>, but <i>to keep at the head of those -whose peculiar and exclusive occupations these arts and sciences were</i>. -<i>There</i> is a model of <i>industry and usefulness</i> worthy of all your -emulation. You must, indeed, be a great lawyer; but it will not do to -be a mere lawyer—more especially as you are very properly turning your -mind, also, to the political service of your country, and to the study -and practice of eloquence. You must, therefore, be a political lawyer -and historian; thoroughly versed in the constitution and laws of your -country, and fully acquainted with <i>all its statistics</i>, and the -history of all the leading measures which have distinguished the -several administrations. You must study the debates in congress, and -observe what have been the actual effects upon the country of the -various measures that have been most strenuously contested in their -origin. You must be a master of the science of political economy, and -especially of <i>financiering</i>, of which so few of our young countrymen -know any thing. The habit of observing all that is passing, and -thinking closely and deeply upon them, demands pre-eminently an -attention to the political course of your country. But it is time to -close this letter. You ask for instructions adapted to improvement in -eloquence. This is a subject for a treatise, not for a letter. Cicero, -however, has summed up the whole art in a few words: it -is—"<i>apte—distincte—ornate dicere</i>"—to speak <i>to the purpose</i>—to speak -<i>clearly and distinctly</i>—to speak <i>gracefully:</i>—to be able <i>to speak -to the purpose</i>, you must understand your subject and all that belongs -to it:—and then your <i>thoughts and method</i> must be <i>clear in -themselves</i> and <i>clearly and distinctly enunciated:</i>—and lastly, your -voice, style, delivery and gesture, must be <i>graceful and delightfully -impressive</i>. In relation to this subject, I would strenuously advise -you to two things: <i>Compose much, and often, and carefully, with -reference to this same rule of apte, distincte, ornate;</i> and let your -<i>conversation</i> have reference to the same objects. I do not mean that -you should be <i>elaborate and formal</i> in your ordinary conversation. Let -it be <i>perfectly simple and natural</i>, but <i>always, in good time</i>, (to -speak as the musician) and well enunciated.</blockquote> - -<blockquote>With regard to the style of eloquence that you shall adopt, that must -depend very much on your own taste and genius. You are not disposed, I -presume, to be an humble imitator of any man? If you are, you may bid -farewell to the hope of eminence in this walk. None are mere imitators -to whom nature has given original powers. The ape alone is content with -mere imitation. If nature has bestowed such a portion of the spirit of -oratory as can advance you to a high rank in this walk, your manner -<i>will be</i> your own. In what style of eloquence you are best fitted to -excel, you, yourself, if destined to excellence, are the best judge. I -can only tell you that the <i>florid and Asiatic style</i> is not the taste -of the age. The <i>strong</i>, and even the <i>rugged and abrupt</i>, are far -more successful. Bold propositions, boldly and briefly expressed—pithy -sentences—nervous common sense—strong phrases—the <i>felicitè audax</i> -both in language and conception—well compacted periods—sudden and -strong masses of light—an apt adage in English or Latin—a keen -sarcasm—a merciless personality—a mortal thrust—these are the -beauties and deformities that now make a speaker the most interesting. -A gentleman and a christian will conform to the reigning taste so far -only as his principles and habits of <i>decorum</i> will permit. The florid -and Asiatic was never a good style either for a European or an American -taste. We require that a man should <i>speak to the purpose</i> and <i>come to -the point</i>—that he should <i>instruct and convince</i>. To do this, his -mind must move with great strength and power: reason should be -manifestly his master faculty—argument should predominate throughout; -but these great points secured, wit and fancy may cast their lights -around his path, provided the wit be courteous as well as brilliant, -and the fancy chaste and modest. But they must be kept well in the back -ground, for they are dangerous allies; and a man had better be without -them, than to show them in front, or to show them too often.</blockquote> - -<blockquote>But I am wearying you, my dear sir, as well as myself. If these few -imperfect hints, on subjects so extended and diversified, can be of any -service to you, I shall be gratified. They may, at least, convince you -that your letter has interested me in your behalf, and that I shall be -happy to hear of your future fame and prosperity. I offer you my -respects, and tender the compliments of the season.</blockquote> - -<div align="right"><small>WM. WIRT.</small> </div> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect03"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> - -<h4>MISFORTUNE AND GENIUS:</h4> -<center><small>A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT.</small></center> -<br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem2"> - <tr><td><small> - - "You have seen<br> - Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears<br> - Were like a better day: Those happy smiles<br> - That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know<br> - What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence<br> - As pearls from diamonds dropp'd."—<i>King Lear</i>.</small></td></tr> -</table> -<br> -<p>In a late excursion through the western districts of Virginia, having -been detained at the picturesque village of F——, I took a seat in the -stage coach, intending to visit some of the neighboring springs. The -usually delightful temperature and clear sky of the mountain summer, -had been suddenly changed into a cold misty atmosphere; and as I stept -into the coach, the curtains of which had been let down for greater -comfort, I found a solitary female passenger sitting in one corner of -the carriage, and apparently absorbed in deep contemplation. She was -plainly but genteely dressed, in a suit of mourning; and there was -something in her whole appearance, which would have immediately struck -the eye of the most careless observer. Her face, and such parts of her -head as were unconcealed by her bonnet, seemed to me, at a single -glance, to present a fine study for the disciples of Lavater and -Spurzheim—or at least to furnish a model which a painter would have -loved to transfer to his canvass. Her features were not what are -usually termed beautiful; that is, there was not that exquisite -symmetry in them, nor that brilliant contrast between the delicate -white skin and raven hair, or between the coral lip and the lustrous -dark eye, which with some constitute the perfection of female beauty; -but there was something beyond and superior to all these:—There was a -fine intellectual expression which could not be mistaken. I do not even -recollect the color of her eyes: I only remember that those "windows of -the soul" revealed a whole volume of thought and feeling—and that -there was cast over her countenance an inexpressible veil of sadness, -which instantly seized upon my sympathies. As the stage drove off, the -crack of the coachman's whip, and the lumbering of the wheels, seemed -to rouse her from her reverie, and I remarked a deeper tinge of -melancholy pass over her features. It was to her like the sound of a -funeral knell! She was about to bid adieu, perhaps forever, to the -scenes of her infancy—to scenes which were endeared by the remembrance -of departed joys, and even consecrated by bitter inconsolable sorrows!</p> - -<p>After the customary salutation, I determined to engage my interesting -fellow-traveller in conversation; and I at once perceived by the modest -blush which suffused her cheek, and by the timid responses she made to -my inquiries, that she was conscious of appearing in the somewhat -embarrassing situation of an unattended and unprotected female. I -studied therefore to put her mind at ease, by a delicate pledge of my -protection as far as my journey extended. Words of kindness and respect -seemed to fall upon her ear, as if she had been unused to them. Her -countenance, which had sunk in gloom, was lighted up by a mild -expression of tranquillity. I saw that I had somewhat won upon her -confidence, and I determined to improve the advantage, by affording her -an opportunity of narrating her story—a story which I was curious to -know, and which I had already half learned in her care-worn visage, her -garments of woe, and her apparently forlorn and unbefriended condition.</p> - -<p>Such are the mysterious sympathies of our nature, that whilst the -sorrowing heart experiences a transient relief in pouring its griefs -into another's ear, there is a no less melancholy pleasure in listening -to the tale of misfortune, and participating in the misery of its -victim. My companion did not hesitate, in her own peculiar and artless -manner, to relate her story. It was brief, simple and affecting.</p> - -<p>Maria (for that was her name,) was now in her sixteenth year, and was -one of several children, born not to affluence, but to comparative -independence. A doating grandmother adopted her, when not two years -old, with the free consent of her parents. They had other offspring to -provide for; and their residence was not so remote, but that occasional -visits might preserve unbroken the ties of filial and parental love. -The venerable grandmother devoted her humble means to the maintenance -and education of her charge. Her aged bosom rejoiced in beholding -herself, as it were, perpetuated in this blooming scion from her own -stock. She spared neither pains nor expense, consistent with her -limited fortune, in preparing her young descendant for a life of -usefulness, piety and virtue. In truth, her dutiful grandchild was so -"garnered up in her heart," that she became the only worldly hope of -her declining years. Maria was her earthly solace—the tie which bound -her to life when all its charms had faded—the being who made it -desirable to linger yet a little longer on the confines of the grave. -But how fleeting and unsubstantial is human hope! Scarcely a fortnight -had elapsed since this venerated lady had been called to realize -another state of being. When Maria touched upon this part of her -narrative, I could perceive the agony of her soul. I could see the -tearful and uplifted eye as she exclaimed, "Yes, sir! it has pleased -Providence to deprive me of my only earthly benefactress!"</p> - -<p>I was troubled at the misery I had occasioned, and I hastened, if -possible, to administer such consolation as seemed to me proper. "But -you have parents," I replied, "who will take you to their home, and -gladly receive you in their arms?" Little did I think that the wound -which I thus attempted to heal, would bleed afresh at my remark. The -afflicted girl appeared to be deprived, for a moment, of utterance. Her -heart seemed to swell almost to bursting, with the strength and -intensity of her feelings. "My friend," she at length replied, in a -tone of comparative calmness, "for by that name permit me to call you, -even on so short an acquaintance,—you have touched a theme upon which -I would gladly have avoided explanation. The interest you have already -shown, however, in my unhappy story, entitles you to still more of my -confidence. You shall know the whole of my cruel fortune. Though my -father and mother are both still living, they are no longer parents to -me. My father <i>might have been</i> all which a friendless and unprotected -daughter could desire; but alas! for years and years past, he has lost -the 'moral image' which God originally stamped upon his nature. The -<small>DEMON OF INTEMPERANCE</small> has long—long possessed him. His feelings and -affections are no longer those of an intelligent and rational creature. -He scarcely knows me as his offspring; but turns from me with sullen -indifference, if not disgust. My mother!"——</p> - -<p>At the mention of that hallowed name, the fair narrator seemed to be -almost choked by the violence of her emotions. She stopped an instant -as if to respire more freely.</p> - -<p>"My mother," she continued, "cannot extend to me her arm. She is -herself broken-hearted and friendless; she is wasting away under the -chastening rod of Providence!"——</p> - -<p>"Heavens!" I inwardly exclaimed, "what havoc—what torture have I not -inflicted upon this innocent bosom! Why did I officiously intermeddle -in things which did not concern me—things too, which I could only know -by tearing open the yet unhealed wounds of an anguished heart." I was -at the point of offering some atonement for the mischief I had done. I -saw the whole picture of wretchedness as it was presented to Maria's -mind. I even shared, or thought that I shared, in the sorrows which -overwhelmed her. My imagination conjured up before me the churlish and -miserable wretch who was then wallowing in the stye of brutal -sensuality—and in whose bosom all holy and natural affection had been -drowned by the fatal Circean cup. I beheld his pale and neglected -partner, writhing under that immedicable sickness of the heart—not of -hope deferred, but of dark, absolute despair. I turned to the object -before me. I saw how those affections which clung around her beloved -protectress, as the tendrils of the vine cling around the aged tree, -were in one evil hour withered forever. She, an unprotected destitute -orphan—worse than an orphan—thrown upon the wide, cold and unfeeling -world—perhaps seeking an asylum in the house of some half welcoming -and distant relative. What a throng of perplexing—might I not say, -distracting reflections, at that moment rushed upon me! I endeavored to -change the subject, but at first without success. I experienced some -relief, however, by being assured, that the relative to whose house she -was now hastening, had offered his aid and protection, in the spirit of -kindness and sincerity.</p> - -<p>The most wonderful part of my story is yet to be told. When Maria was -sufficiently composed, I resolved to divert the conversation into more -agreeable channels. I was struck with the delicacy and propriety of her -speech—with the simple, correct, and even elegant language which she -used. Another and a quite unexpected source of admiration was yet in -reserve for me. I touched upon the topic of her education—upon the -books she had learned—the seminaries she had attended—and the -teachers by whom she was instructed. Even here methought I might be -officious and imprudent. What could be expected from a girl of -sixteen—from one who had been born to humble fortune—from one who had -had no one at home except an unlettered grandmother, to stir up within -her the noble spirit of emulation, and to fan the divine sparks of -genius and knowledge. Might she not suppose that I intended to deride -the ignorance of youth, and expose the deficiency of her acquirements! -Not so! At the bare mention of her books and instructers, I saw for the -first time, the clouds which had gathered around her brow begin to -disperse. There was evidently something like a smile which played upon -her features. It looked like the rainbow of peace, which denoted that -the storm of passion was passing away. Oh, how eloquently did she -discourse upon the beauties and delights of learning! Next to the star -of Bethlehem, which gilded her sorrowing path, and which for two years -had attracted her devotional spirit,—knowledge was the luminary which -she worshipped with more than Persian idolatry. The reader shall judge -of my surprise and admiration, when he is informed, that this artless -girl of sixteen—this youthful prodigy—had already amassed a richer -intellectual treasure, than often falls to the lot of men of superior -minds, even at the age of maturity. The great masters of Roman and -classical antiquity she had read in their original tongue—the Georgics -and Æneid of Virgil—the Commentaries of Cæsar—Selections from -Horace—and the matchless orations of Tully, were as familiar to her, -as household words. She was also conversant with the French, and -thoroughly grounded in her own vernacular. Besides the usual elements -of mathematics, she had even encountered the forbidding subtleties of -algebra; and although mistress of the pleasing study of geography, -there was nothing which had so filled her mind with delight as the -sublime researches of astronomy. She loved to contemplate the harmony -and beauty of the planetary system,—and to soar still further on the -wings of thought, into that vast and illimitable firmament where each -twinkling luminary is itself the centre of a similar system. She had -watched too the fiery and eccentric track of the comet, "brandishing -its crystal tresses in the sky;" and from all the wonderful movements -and harmonious action of the heavenly bodies, she had realized the -impressive sentiment of Young, that</p> - -<center><small>"An undevout astronomer is mad."</small></center> - -<p>From the marvellous works of creation as revealed in that most sublime -of all human sciences, her soul had been transported to the Creator -himself, whom she worshipped in adoring humility.</p> - -<p>But why enumerate—why speak of her varied and almost numberless -acquirements? There was scarcely a branch of learning with which she -did not manifest at least some acquaintance. Even the popular and -somewhat pleasing science of phrenology had not escaped her attention. -In the theories and conclusions of its ardent disciples however, she -was reluctant to concur. The moral and intellectual character did not, -in her opinion, depend on the position of the brain, or the -conformation of the skull. It squinted at the hateful doctrine of -materialism; at least she thought so, and until better satisfied, she -would not believe. Though closely engaged for years in her regular -scholastic studies, this extraordinary female had found leisure to -stray occasionally into the paths of polite and elegant literature. She -had culled from the most illustrious of the British bards, some of -their choicest and sweetest flowers; and the beautiful fictions of -Scott were faithfully stored in her memory.</p> - -<p>Deeply interested as I felt in this young and highly gifted girl, the -hour of separation was at hand. The journey before her was -comparatively long and tedious; mine would speedily terminate. When -about to bid her adieu, I fancied that I saw regret painted in her -countenance. Her solitude would bring back some of those gloomy -reflections, which society and conversation had in some measure -dissipated. I handed her a literary work which I had with me, to -beguile the loneliness and misery of her journey. She accepted it with -eagerness and gratitude. A new current of joy sprung up in her bosom. -Commending her to the protection of heaven, I pressed her hand, and -left my seat in the coach.</p> - -<p>My sensations, when the vehicle swiftly departed, were of a mixed -character. There was a strange combination of pleasure and pain. Poor -Maria, I thought, we may never again meet in this world of sorrow; but -if ever a pure aspiration was breathed for thy happiness, it is that -which I now offer. I know that there is something within me which -borders on romance; and perhaps many will suppose that my imagination -has thrown over this adventure an illusive coloring. It may be so; but -even after an interval of composed reflection, I have not been able to -discover any thing in the foregoing sketch which does not substantially -conform to truth. I have often moralized on Maria's story, and in my -blind distrust of the dealings of an all wise Providence, have wished -that human blessings could be sometimes more equally distributed. I -have thought of the hundreds and thousands of the gay, simple, -fluttering insects, dignified with the name of fashionable -belles,—born and reared in the lap of luxury,—reposing in moral and -intellectual sloth, and quaffing the delicious but fatal poison of -adulation,—how inferior, how immeasurably inferior, most, if not all -of them were, to this poor, neglected, deserted orphan. I have thought -how hard was that decree, by which the light, trifling and glittering -things of creation should be buoyed up to the surface by their own -levity—whilst modest merit and suffering virtue were doomed to sink -into obscurity, and perhaps into wretchedness. On the other hand, I -have loved to look at the sunny smiles which Hope, in spite of us, will -sprinkle over the chequered landscape of life. It is impossible! I have -exclaimed, that one so young, yet so unfortunate—so highly improved by -moral and mental culture—so worthy of admiration and esteem, should -live and die unknown and unregretted. She surely was not</p> - -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem3"> - <tr><td><small>————"born to blush unseen,<br> - And waste her sweetness in the desert air"—</small></td></tr> -</table> - -<p>at least such is my hope, and such is doubtless the prayer of every -generous reader.</p> -<div align="right">H. </div> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect04"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> - -<h4>EXAMPLE IS BETTER THAN PRECEPT.</h4> -<br> - -<p>I never read Jeremy Bentham's 'Book of Fallacies:' it is known to me -only through the Edinburgh Review. I am uncertain whether it <i>gibbets</i> -the above saying, or not; but no fallacy of them all better deserves to -be hung up on high, for the admonition of mankind. There is none more -mischievous, in the best filled pack of the largest wholesale -proverb-pedler.</p> - -<p>"<i>Example is better than precept!</i>"—is the constant plea, the -invariable subterfuge, of those who do not want to follow good counsel. -Be the counsel ever so sage—be the propriety and expediency of -following it ever so manifest—if it perchance do not square to a T -with the adviser's own practice, he is twitted with this sapient -apothegm; and the advised party wends his way of folly as completely -self-satisfied, as if he had demonstrated it to be the way of wisdom by -an argument clearly pertinent, and mathematically unanswerable. Yet how -is his argument more to the purpose—how is he more rational—than if -he should refuse to take a road pointed out by a sign-board, because -the board itself did not run along before him? May I not correctly show -to others a way, which it is not convenient or agreeable for me to -travel myself?</p> - -<p>I could fill a book with the instances I have known, of people who have -deluded themselves to their own hurt, by relying upon this same -proverb.</p> - -<p>For years, I have been a little given to drinking: not to excess, 'tis -true—but more than is good for me. A sprightly younker, whose thirst -appeared likely to become inordinate, being counselled by me to abstain -altogether from strong waters, as the only sure resource of those -afflicted with that propensity—told me, "<i>example was better than -precept,</i>" and refused to heed the one, because he could not have the -other also. He has since died a sot. The last three years of his -existence were, to his wife, years of shame, terror, and misery, from -which widowhood and the poor-house were a welcome refuge. His children -are schooled and maintained by the parish.</p> - -<p>My appetite is better than ordinary. It is, in truth, too much -indulged, and not a few head-aches and nightmares have been the -consequence. Venturing once, on the score of my woful experience, to -admonish a young friend whom I saw entering the habit in which I was -confirmed, he confuted me with the accustomed logical -reply—"<i>example,</i>" and so forth. Seven years afterwards saw him -tottering on the grave's brink, with an incurable <i>dyspepsia</i>, the -fruit of gluttony, and of gluttony's usual attendant, indolence.</p> - -<p>When a boy, I was a famous <i>climber</i>. Perched in a cherry tree one day, -I saw a lad, clumsier than I was, going far out upon a slender branch. -I cautioned him that it would break. "Didn't I see you on it just now?" -said he: "and there you are now, further out on a smaller limb! -<i>Example's better</i>"—but before he could end the saying, his bough -snapped, and he fell twenty feet, breaking a leg and dislocating a -shoulder by the fall.</p> - -<p>Another time, as I and a smaller boy were hunting, he walked over a -creek upon a log, which he saw was just able to bear his weight, -through rottenness. "You had better not venture," said he to me. But I -said, I had always heard, <i>example was better than precept</i>, and -following him, was soused by the breaking of the log, in six feet -water. Being a good swimmer, I escaped with a ducking, (it was near -Christmas,) and with wetting my gun, lock, priming, and all: so that it -cost me a full hour to refit for sport.</p> - -<p>It is not, however, commonly, either <i>immediate</i> or <i>bodily</i> harm that -we incur by means of this Jack-o'lantern proverb. Our faith in it is -not sufficient to lead us into instant and obvious danger: it is in -general the opiate with which we lull ourselves, only when the evil we -are warned against is of the <i>moral</i> kind, or likely to occur at a -remote period.</p> - -<p>In my youth, I read novels to a pernicious excess. They enfeebled my -memory; unfixed my power of attention and my habits of thought; blunted -my zest for history; dimmed my perception of reasoning; gave me the -most illusory ideas of human life and character; and filled my brain -with fantastic visions. A passion for learning, and the timely counsels -of a sensible friend, subsequently won me so far from this career of -dissipation, that I surmounted in some degree its evil effects, and -acquired a moderate stock of solid knowledge: but to my dying day I -shall feel its cloying, <i>unhinging</i>, debilitating influence upon my -mental constitution. Still, even latterly, I have continued to indulge -myself with the best novels, as they appeared. My weakness in this -respect unluckily became known to a young girl, who seemed to be -exactly treading in my footsteps; and whom I earnestly warned of the -dangers besetting that path. "Now, cousin L., how can you talk so, when -I have seen you <i>devouring</i> the <i>Antiquary</i>, and <i>Guy Mannering</i>, and -<i>Patronage</i>, and I don't know how many besides! You need not preach to -me: <i>example is better than precept.</i>" <i>Therefore</i>—for the reasoning -seemed to her as conclusive as Euclids—<i>therefore</i> she went on, with -undistinguishing voracity, through all the spawn of the novel press: -and there is not now a sadder instance of the effects of novel-reading. -After rejecting with disdain three suitors every way her equals, (and -in real merit her superiors,) because they were so unlike her favorite -novel heroes—did not woo on their knees or in blank verse—and had -'such shocking, vulgar names'—she, at three and twenty, married a -coxcomb, formed precisely after the model upon which her 'mind's eye' -had so long dwelt. He was gaudy, flippant, and specious; knew a dozen -of Moore's Melodies by rote; could softly discourse of <i>the heart</i> and -its <i>affections</i>, as if he really possessed the one, and had actually -felt the other; and, most irresistible of all, his name was E<small>DWIN</small> -M<small>ORTIMER</small> F<small>ITZGERALD</small>. The result may be imagined. The society of such a -being could not long please. Their conversation was a routine of -insipid frivolity and angry disputes. With no definite principles of -economy or of morals, he wasted his fortune and wrecked his health over -the bottle and at cards—excitements, the usual resource of a weak, -ill-cultivated understanding. She is now a widow, scantily endowed, at -the age of twenty-seven. Her mind, too much engrossed by her darling -pursuit to have learned, even in the impressive school of adversity, is -nearly a blank as to all useful knowledge: imagination, paramount there -over every other faculty, is prolific of innumerable fooleries; she can -do no work beyond crimping a ruff or making a frill: and her nerves, -<i>shattered</i> by tea, late hours, and sentimental emotion at fictitious -scenes, threaten a disordered intellect and a premature grave.</p> - -<p>To this impertinent adage, about <i>example</i> and <i>precept</i>, is it chiefly -owing that I am at this moment a bachelor, aged fifty. I used it to -parry the repeated instances made me by a friendly senior bachelor, to -be "up and a doing," in the journey towards matrimony. As the proverb -commonly silenced him, it appeared to me at last, as it does to most -people, a satisfactory answer; it was the lullaby, with which I hushed -into repose every transient qualm that his expostulations excited. My -friend at length, in reasonable time, took me at my word, and added -example to precept: he married, well and happily. But one obstacle or -other, real or imaginary, had by this time confirmed me in my -inactivity. Business occupied my time: chimerical visions of female -excellence, in spite of my better reason, haunted me from the regions -of romance, and made me hard to be pleased, even by merits which I was -obliged to confess were superior to my own: courtship, by being long in -view yet long deferred, came at length to appear clothed in -embarrassment and terror: a failure, resulting (as vanity whispered,) -purely from the awkwardness produced by embarrassment and terror, -finally crushed all matrimonial aspirations: and, as it is now absurd -to hope for a <i>love-match</i>, (a genuine novel-reader can brook no other) -I am e'en trying to resign myself to the doom of perpetual celibacy.</p> - -<p>'Twere needless to multiply examples. These suffice to shew, not only -how absurd in reasoning, but how hurtful often in practice it is, to -consider advice as at all the <i>less good</i>, for not being enforced by -the giver's example. That proverb has done as much harm in the world as -the doctrine of the Pope's infallibility, or of the divine right of -kings; or as the silly saying, "<i>stuff a cold, and starve a fever;</i>" -or, as (by its perversion) that unfortunate one, "<i>spare the rod, and -spoil the child.</i>"</p> - -<p>Yet, after all, the maxim I have been exposing is not <i>untrue</i>. -<i>Example</i> IS better than <i>precept:</i> <small>DOES</small> more effectually shew <i>the -right way</i>. But it is <i>fallacious</i>, and <i>mischievous</i>, by being -misapplied. Instead of being regarded merely as a rebuke to the -adviser, it is absurdly taken by the <i>advised</i> as a justication to -himself in persisting in error. In most cases it is not even a <i>just</i> -rebuke to the <i>adviser:</i> because ten to one there is <i>some -dissimilarity of situation or of circumstances</i>, which makes it not -expedient or proper for him to do what he nevertheless <i>properly</i> -recommends to another. While I shew you your road—and shew it with -perfect correctness—my own duty or pleasure may call me another way, -or may bid me remain where I am. But the adage is <i>never</i> an apology -for the advised party's neglect of advice: and whensoever he attempts -to use it as such, his plea, though abstractly true, is impertinent—is -nothing to the purpose.</p> -<div align="right">M. </div> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect05"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> - -<h4>THE POWER OF FAITH.</h4> - -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem4"> - <tr><td><small>"Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, in the<br> - "days of Herod the King, behold there came wise men from the<br> - "east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born king of the<br> - "Jews? for we have seen his star in the east and have come to<br> - "worship him."</small></td></tr> -</table> -<br> -<br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem5"> - <tr><td>Pleasure! thou cheat of a world's dim night,<br> - What shadows pass over thy disk of light!<br> - To follow thy flitting and quivering flame,<br> - Is to die in the depths of despair and shame;<br> - 'Tis to perish afar on a lone wild moor,<br> - Or the wreck of a ship on a hopeless shore.<br> - Come listen, ye gay! I will tell of a star<br> - Whose beaming is brighter and steadier far;<br> - It rose in the East, and the wise men came<br> - To see if its light were indeed the same<br> - Which their old books said would be seen to rest<br> - On Bethlehem's plains, in its silver vest,<br> - To point to the spot where a Saviour lay,<br> - Who would gather his flock, all gone astray;<br> - Would frighten the wolf from his helpless fold,<br> - And loosen the grasp of his demon hold;<br> - And lead them away to his pastures green,<br> - Where all is so verdant and fadeless seen,<br> - Where the river of life is a ceaseless stream,<br> - And the light of his love is the sweetest beam<br> - That ever shone out on benighted eyes,<br> - And brighter the face of those lovely skies,<br> - Than ever was seen in the softest sleep<br> - When the senses are hushed in calmness deep;<br> - And spirits are thought, with their gentle breath,<br> - To breathe on the lids of a seeming death,<br> - And whisper such things in the ear of wo,<br> - As the waking sinner must never know.<br> - Oh, what doth he ask in return for this,<br> - The light of his love, and such draughts of bliss?<br> - What doth he ask for the boon thus given?—<br> - Faith in the blood of the Son of Heaven.<br><br> - A cry was heard in Rama!—and so wild—<br> - 'Twas Rachel weeping for her murder'd child:—<br> - She would not be consoled—her youngest pride<br> - Was torn in terror from her sheltering side;<br> - At one dread blow her infant joy was gone<br> - To glut the rage of Herod's heart of stone;<br> - What drave the tyrant in his wrathful mood,<br> - To bathe her lovely innocents in blood?<br> - Why stoop'd the savage from his kingly throne,<br> - To fill Judea with a mother's moan?—<br> - Weak wretch! he idly sought in his alarm,<br> - To stay the purpose of Jehovah's arm;<br> - The creature, crawling on his kindred dust,<br> - Would stay the bolt, descending on his lust;<br> - The crafty counsel of his finite mind<br> - Would thwart the God, who rides upon the wind;<br> - Yea, "rides upon a Cherub," and doth fly,<br> - Scatt'ring his lightnings through the lurid sky.<br> - Vain hope! the purpose of his heart, foreknown,<br> - Ere yet the falcon swoops, the prey is flown;<br> - On Egypt's all unconscious breast is laid<br> - Another babe, like him whom erst the maid<br> - Daughter of Pharaoh on the wave espied<br> - In bark of bulrush, floating o'er the tide<br> - Where 'twas her wont her virgin limbs to lave,<br> - And snatched in pity from a watery grave;<br> - True to the chord that wakes in woman's heart,<br> - True to the pulse which bids her promptly start<br> - To shield defenceless childhood in her arms,<br> - And hush the plaining of its young alarms.<br><br> - Infant adored! I dare not here essay<br> - To paint the lustre of thy glorious way:—<br> - Let earth attend, while holy tongue recount<br> - Thy hallow'd lessons from the Olive Mount,<br> - While Heaven proclaims its messenger of love<br> - On Jordan's banks descending as a dove,<br> - While grateful multitudes in plaudits vie,<br> - And Zion shouts hosannah to the High!<br> - O'er famed Gethsemane, I must not tread.<br> - Sad o'er its memory let tears be shed;<br> - From bloody Calvary, the soul recoils<br> - From impious murderers, sharing in thy spoils;<br> - From thy dread agony, and bosom wrung,<br> - A world in awful darkness, sably hung,<br> - When earth was shook, the vail was rent in twain<br> - And yawning graves gave forth their dead again.<br><br> - From theme too great, too sad, I turn away,<br> - From strain too lofty for a feeble lay—<br> - They sought to quench in blood thy hallow'd light,<br> - To stay, the foolish ones! thy stayless flight;<br> - They did indeed thy breast of meekness wring,<br> - Which would have gathered them beneath its wing;<br> - Infuriate Jacob trampled on thy cross,<br> - Thy loved ones mourned in bitterness, thy loss,<br> - When suddenly is heard the earthquake shock,<br> - The sepulchre repels its closing rock,<br> - The grave is tenantless!—the body gone,<br> - The trembling guards in speechless terror thrown;<br> - Th' attending angel comes with lightning brow<br> - And raiment whiter than the dazzling snow,<br> - Comes to attest with his eternal breath,<br> - Our God triumphant over sin and death.<br><br> - Here let me pause and fix my ardent gaze—<br> - Faith is my star, whose ever-during rays<br> - Can guide my steps through life's surrounding gloom<br> - And cheer the paths which lie beyond the tomb;<br> - How was I lost in earth's bewildering vale<br> - When first I turned and saw that silver sail<br> - Above my dim horizon, breaking slow,<br> - When all of peace for me seem'd gone below;<br> - My world was sad and comfortless and drear<br> - Or cross'd by lights that glance and disappear;<br> - Look back, my soul, on scenes which long have passed,<br> - Think on the thousand phantoms I have chased;<br> - Count o'er the bubbles whose delusive dyes<br> - Have danced in emptiness before mine eyes;<br> - How were they followed,—won—and heedless clasp'd<br> - How fled their hues! evanished as I grasp'd!—<br> - That last and loveliest one, whose rainbow light<br> - Will break at times on memory so bright,<br> - How did it fleet with all its fairy fires,<br> - Fanned by the breath of young and soft desires!<br> - Caught by its tinsel shine, deceptive shed,<br> - I flew, with throbbing heart and dizzied head,<br> - A giddy round, where all beneath were flowers,<br> - Where sped, with "flying feet," the laughing hours:<br> - Dissolved the charm—dispelled the brilliant dream—<br> - Why changed to baleful shadow did it seem?<br> - What roused the madman from his trance, and left<br> - His heart a waste—of love—of joy bereft?<br> - What woke the foolish one?—unmanned his heart?<br> - Death, mid the treach'rous scene, did sudden start,<br> - And o'er my light of love his breath expires,<br> - It pales—it fades—extinguish'd are its fires!<br><br> - But now, how blest the change! there is a power<br> - Can foil e'en death—can rob his only hour<br> - Of half its sting—can even deck with charms<br> - The cold embrace of his sepulchral arms:<br> - 'Tis but the transient sinful passport this,<br> - To "joys unspeakable and full of bliss;"<br> - 'Tis but a short,—convulsive,—fitful thrill,—<br> - A momentary pang,—a sudden chill;—<br> - When free, the disembodied spirit flies<br> - Where, incorruptible, it never dies;<br> - To scenes the Patmos prophet, glowing paints,<br> - Where near the jasper seat adore the saints,<br> - Where bow of emerald circles round a throne<br> - In glory brighter than the sardine stone!<br> - Yet hold!—nor thus as if in scorn my soul<br> - Still break from earth and spurn its dull control;<br> - Why wilt thou bound away through paths of ether,<br> - Swift as "young roes upon thy mountains, Bether?"<br> - Turn—turn to earth, the blinded vision fails,—<br> - We must not look beyond those sapphire veils,<br> - Which mercy spreads in beauty o'er the skies,<br> - To spare the weakness of unhallow'd eyes;<br> - Oh, check the thought which soars, presumptuous man!<br> - Nor dare the heights that thou must never scan.<br><br> - But though shut out from that all radiant goal<br> - While "this corruptible" enchains the soul,<br> - He whom a gracious God hath given to see<br> - Yon light which burst on darkened Galilee,<br> - Will find a charm in that clear steady ray<br> - Which sweetens life and sanctifies decay;<br> - All changed the face of this dark prison, earth,<br> - It seems to spring as from a second birth;<br> - Chaos is gone,—as first it fled the sight<br> - Of Him who spake, and sudden there was light!<br> - Sweet flowers now spring upon the pris'ners path,<br> - Where once but thorns beset the child of wrath;<br> - A balm for wounds that once could rack the frame,<br> - Such monitory thoughts the fondest wish to tame.<br> - Such hope to cheer and stay the sinking breast,<br> - A prize so noble,—and so calm a rest!<br> - Such alter'd views!—new heavens!—and other skies!<br> - Some veil before was bound upon his eyes,<br> - Thus sudden loosed, as if angelic hands,<br> - Invisible, unbound his fettering bands.<br> - Where now the cold and soul revolting gloom<br> - That hung its shadows o'er the yawning tomb?<br> - Where gone the grief that with o'erwhelming load<br> - Press'd down the heart and crush'd it on its road?<br> - Lost in the hope of those prospective joys<br> - Where sorrow enters not, nor death annoys.</td></tr> -</table> -<br> -<div align="right">S. </div> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect06"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> - -<h4>THE SWEET SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA, AND THE VALLEY WHICH CONTAINS THEM.</h4> - -<center><small>BY W. BYRD POWELL, M.D.</small></center> -<br> -<p>Mr. Jefferson has said, and we admit it, that a sight of the Natural -Bridge is worth a trip across the Atlantic. But as this does not -preclude the possibility of greater curiosities existing, we are -allowed the privilege of expressing the belief, that the Sweet Springs, -inclusive of the entire valley which contains them, present to a -philosophical mind, a scene of incalculably greater interest. The -bridge, by one mental effort, is comprehended, and speculation put at -rest. Not so with this valley; but like the bridge, the first -impressions produced by it create amazement, but as soon as this state -of feeling is displaced by further observation, a train of thought -succeeds, of unceasing interest, upon the character and variety of the -causes which could have produced such a pleasing variety of effects.</p> - -<p>In the first place, the several springs, bubbling forth immense volumes -of water, highly charged with lime, carbonic acid gas, free caloric, -and in some instances iron, are objects of peculiar interest to the -philosopher, and so they will remain, more especially, until more facts -in relation to them are discovered, and the laws of chemical affinity -are better understood.</p> - -<p>In the second place, the great fertility of the valley, even to a -common observer, will be remarked as a matter of very uncommon -occurrence.</p> - -<p>In the third place, those elevations which cross the Valley, five in -number, popularly known as the Beaver Dams, are marvellous matters, -transcending even the Natural Bridge; and that they were constructed by -beavers, cannot admit of a doubt. But then the mind is lost in -amazement at the probable number of the animals that inhabited the -valley, and the immensity of their labor.</p> - -<p>The valley is bounded by high hills, perhaps mountains, and the one -that terminates its lower extremity consists of slate, and is separated -from the lateral ones by a stream of small magnitude above its junction -with the valley branch, which is made up measurably of the mineral -waters. The lateral mountains, at their lower extremity are slate; at -the other, sandstone; and in the middle, limestone.</p> - -<p>From the upper spring, or the one now in use, to the junction of its -branch with the mountain stream above treated of, is three miles, and -the fall in that distance was originally about one hundred and fifty -feet. Then there was between these lateral hills no valley or flat -land—this has been produced by the Beaver Dams which divided the -original declination into five perpendicular <i>falls</i>, measuring each -from twenty to thirty-eight feet—thus producing out of one mountain -gutter, five beautiful tables of the richest soil in the world. And -this too, simply by retaining the <i>debris</i> from the surrounding hills, -as it was annually washed in, and also the lime from the mineral -waters, which, since the production of the fountains has been -constantly depositing. It is furthermore evident that no one of these -dams was the work of one season, but of many, just as the necessity for -elevation was produced by the filling up of the artificial basin.</p> - -<p>As a description of one of those dams will serve for all, we will take -the largest, and the one which bounds the lower extremity of the -valley.</p> - -<p>This dam constitutes one bank of the stream which receives the valley -waters, and is about thirty-eight feet high, and half a mile in length; -the elevation, however, gradually diminishes from the centre to the -extremities. The mineral waters of the valley contain, as we have -intimated, an immense quantity of lime, which is deposited with -astonishing rapidity in the state of a simple carbonate, (especially in -those places where the water has much motion,) producing those mineral -forms called <i>stalactites</i> and <i>stalagmites</i>. With this knowledge it is -easy to comprehend how these imperishable monuments of beaver labor and -economy were produced.—For instance, these animals, according to their -manner of building, felled trees across the mouth of the branch, and -filled smaller interstices with brush, which would cause motion in the -water and serve as nuclei for its mineral depositions. Consequently, in -this dam may be seen immense incrustations of logs, brush, roots and -moss. In many instances, the ligneous matter, not being able to resist -the decomposing effects of time and moisture, is entirely removed, -leaving petrous tubes, resembling, in the larger specimens, cannon -barrels. These calcareous deposites not only cemented the timber -together, but secured the entire work against the smallest percolation, -prevented the escape of mountain <i>debris</i>, and rendered permanent a -labor, which under other circumstances, would little more than have -survived the duration of the timber, or the life of the industrious -artificer.</p> - -<p>The outside of the dam is stalactical in its whole length, which -resulted from the beaver's keeping its summit level, and thus causing -the water to flow over every point of it. This circumstance, in -connexion with the stream that washes its outer base, has caused large -and over hanging projections of the stalactical deposites, and -cavernous excavations; attached to the roofs of which is to be seen a -great variety of small and beautiful spars. At the point over which the -water at present is precipitated, the dam, is a bold and interesting -spectacle. Add to this a large descending column of white spray, into -which the water is converted by obstacles opposing its march over the -dam, and the scene is rendered truly sublime.</p> - -<p>The soil of the several basins seems to rest on stalagmite, and the -channel of the branch is worn out of it.</p> - -<p>In many places, far above the present level of the basins or dams, may -be seen large rocks of this stalagmite: thus proving incontestibly, -that this water occupied a position, two hundred feet at least above -what it did at the time the beavers commenced their labor, and before -the deep excavation was effected between the mountains.</p> - -<p>Finally, we deem it proper to make a few more remarks upon the first -topic we introduced,—namely, the waters themselves. As to the agents -concerned, and the play of affinities between them, it is useless for -us to hazard an opinion, more especially as we have not made ourselves -analytically acquainted with them. Let it suffice to point out the -several springs, and those sensible properties and qualities which will -necessarily be observed by every visiter; and first of the spring now -in use.</p> - -<p>As soon as this beautiful fountain is brought within the compass of -vision, attention will be arrested by the constant and copious escape -of fixed air, and the boldness of the stream. As soon as it is -introduced to the mouth, its sweetish taste and warmth are -discovered—and then its stimulating effect upon the system will be -perceived; and finally, if the visiter will walk below the spring, five -or six rods, he will discover the stalagmitic rocks of limestone which -have been formed by successive depositions from this water.</p> - -<p>The next spring below, is popularly called the Red Spring. It is -characterized by a red deposite, which we regard as the carbonate of -iron, by a strong sweetish calybiate taste, by its warmth, by the -boldness of the stream, and by the absence of any fixed air escaping.</p> - -<p>The two springs below this, resemble the first in every respect, so far -as the unaided senses can discover. We feel called upon to add, that no -one should venture a free use, as a drink, of the Red Spring water, -unadvised by an intelligent physician. It is a powerful water, and can -never prove an indifferent agent in any constitution.</p> - -<p>And finally, we beg leave to advise every visiter, whose soul is warmed -by a scientific love of natural phenomena, not to leave the ground till -he shall have seen the major part, at least, of what we have feebly -attempted to describe.</p> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect07"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> - -<h4>RECOLLECTIONS OF "CHOTANK."</h4> - -<center><small><i>Olim meminisse juvabit.</i>—V<small>IRGIL</small>.</small></center> -<br> - -<p>Blessed, yea thrice blessed, be the hills and flats, the "forests" and -swamps of Old Chotank! Prosperous, yea doubly prosperous be their -generous cultivators—worthy descendants of worthy sires—V<small>IRGINIANS</small> -all over, in heart and feeling, soul and body. From the Paspatansy -swells to the Neck levels, may they have peace and happiness in "all -their borders."</p> - -<p>How often do I turn over memory's volume and linger upon the page which -tells of my first visits to "Chotank"—so full of almost unalloyed -pleasure. The recollection steals upon the mind like soft strains of -music over the senses, giving the same chastened satisfaction.</p> - -<p>Can I ever forget the happy days and nights there spent: The ardent fox -hunt with whoop and hallo and winding horn: And would even <small>TEMPERANCE</small> -blush to look, after the fatigues of the chase, at the old family bowl -of mint julep, with its tuft of green peering above the inspiring -liquid—an emerald isle in a sea of amber—the dewy drops, cool and -sparkling, standing out upon its sides—all, all balmy and inviting? -And then, the morning over and the noon passed, the business of the day -accomplished, the social board is spread, loaded with flesh and fowl -and the products of the garden and the orchard! Come let us regale the -now lively senses and satisfy the excited appetite! What care we for -ragouts and fricassee's, and olla podrida's, and all the foreign -flummery that fashion and folly have brought into use? The juicy ham, -the rich surloin, the fat saddle, make the <i>substantials</i> of a V<small>IRGINIA</small> -dinner, and "lily-livered" he, who would want a better. But when -friends and strangers come—and welcome are they always! nature's -watery store house is at hand, and windy must be the day indeed, when -the Potomac cannot furnish a dish of chowder or crabs, to be added to -the feast. How I have luxuriated at a Chotank dinner! Nor let pleasures -of the table in this intellectual age be despised? Goddess of -Hospitality forbid it! And well may I address thee in the <i>feminine</i> -gender, thou dispenser of heartfelt mirth! 'Tis <small>WOMAN'S</small> smile enlivens -the feast—'tis <small>WOMAN'S</small> handy care that has so well provided it—'tis -<small>WOMAN'S</small> kind encouragement that adds a charm to all you see around you.</p> - -<p>And now let us loll in the cool portico, shaded with the Lombardy -poplar—the proper tree, let them say what they will, to surround a -gentleman's mansion—so tall and stately, and therefore so appropriate. -How delightful is the breeze on this height! See the white sails of the -vessels, through the trees on the bank of the river, spread out to -catch it, and how gracefully and even majestically they glide along. -You can trace them up and down as far as the eye can reach, following -their quiet courses. The beautiful slopes of the fields in Maryland, -cultivated to the water's edge, fill up a picture surpassingly -beautiful—not grand, but beautiful; for what can please more than the -calm sunshine shed upon upland and lowland, with the glad waters -glistening in its rays, and just enough of man's works on both "flood -and field" to give life and motion to the scene! Surrounded with such a -prospect as this, let the old folks discuss their crops, talk of their -wheat and corn, and prognosticate the changes of the weather—or, as -times now go, settle first the affairs of the county, then of the -state, and lastly of the nation, while we steal away to the parlor.</p> - -<p>D<small>AUGHTERS OF</small> V<small>IRGINIA</small>! always fair, always lovely, how much fairer and -lovelier than ever, do you appear in your own homes, surrounded by your -fathers, your brothers and your kinsmen. How it has delighted me to -watch the overflowings of your innocent hearts, to enjoy your winning -smiles—to listen to the music of your voices! I see in you no -hypocrisy and deceit, the moral contagious diseases caught by -intercourse with corrupt society—I find no "town-bred" arts, mocking -the modesty of nature—I discover no cunning devices to attract that -attention which merit alone ought to command. May this be written of -you always! May the land which produces noble, generous sons, ever have -for its boast and pride, <small>THE MOST VIRTUOUS DAUGHTERS</small>.</p> - -<p>And now having seen the young men <i>fairly</i> "paired," if not matched, -let us leave them with a blessing, and look after our more aged -friends.</p> - -<p>Politics have run high since we left them, but the "cool of the -evening" is cooling the blood, and "a drink" settles the controversy. -Friends and neighbors cannot afford to quarrel even about what concerns -themselves, much less about things so far off as at Washington. With -Virginia gentlemen there is always a courtesy and kindness even in -heated argument which precludes the possibility of offence.</p> - -<p>Ah! did I not see a sly wink? And is there not a touch of the elbow, -and then a low whisper, and by and by a buzz—and then an open proposal -for a sociable game at <small>CARDS</small>. Presently, presently, good friends, we -will have our tea and biscuit, and then for loo or whist!</p> - -<p>Let not starched propriety look prim, nor prudery shake her head, nor -jealous caution hold up her finger. Our fathers did the same before us, -and "be we wiser or better than they?" Call in the "womankind," as -Oldbuck of Monkbarns ungallantly styled the better part of creation, -and let us have fair friends and foes to join us round the table. Trim -the lights, roll from your purses just enough of silver to give an -interest to our play. Avaunt! spirits of gaming and avarice from this -circle—and here's at you till weariness or inclination calls us to -seek</p> - -<center><small>"Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep."</small></center> - -<p>And thus ends a day in Chotank: A day!—yes many, many days. In these -"our latter times," and this "our age of improvement," all this may be -thought wrong! Perhaps it is so. I will not dispute with stern morality -and strict philosophy. Their counsels are doubtless more worthy to be -followed than the maxim which</p> - -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem6"> - <tr><td><small>"Holds it one of the wisest things<br> - To drive dull care away."</small></td></tr> -</table> - -<p>But for "my single self" I can say that after a day spent in Chotank I -never had reason to exclaim, following the fashion of the Roman -Emperor, "<i>Diem Perdidi!</i>"</p> - -<p>But Chotank, like many other parts of the Old Dominion, is not now in -its "high and palmy state." Some fifteen or twenty years ago it -obtained that celebrity which makes it famous now. The ancient seats of -generous hospitality are still there, but their <i>former</i> possessors, so -free of heart, so liberal, and blessed withal with the means of being -free and liberal, where are <i>they?</i> "And echo alone answers, where are -they." Their sons can only hope to keep alive the old spirit by the -exercise of more prudence and economy than their fathers possessed. -Otherwise here too, as alas! in some cases is too true, the families -that once and now own the soil, are destined to be rudely pushed from -their places by grasping money lenders! Altered as the times are -however, and changed as is the condition of many of the inhabitants, -the life that I have attempted faintly to sketch, is the life yet led -by the merry Chotankers. With the remembrance of the "olden time" -strongly impressed on their minds, and tradition to strengthen the -ideas formed by their own recollections, they <i>will</i> have their fun and -their frolics—their barbecues and their fish frys. There are fewer -"roystering blades" than there used to be, and much less drinking than -formerly—but the court house now and then brings up a round dozen of -"good men and true," who will not disgrace their ancestors: men who -will make the "welkin ring" again with uprorarious mirth, and part as -they met in all that high flow of spirits which results from good -eating and drinking, and freedom, at least for the present, from care.</p> - -<p>Let us, however, close. There is that in the place and the people of -whom I am writing to induce me to continue: but enough for this -"Recollection." If the eye of a Chotanker should meet this page and -read what is written, he will know without looking at the signature -that he has met with a <small>FRIEND</small> to him and 'all his neighborhood.'</p> - -<blockquote><small><i>Alexandria, D. C., Sept. 13, 1834.</i></small></blockquote> -<div align="right">E. S. </div> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect08"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> - -<h4>IMPORTANT LAW CASE IN A SISTER STATE, INVOLVING QUESTIONS OF SCIENCE.</h4> - -<center><small>[Communicated by P. A. Browne, Esq. of Philadelphia.]</small></center> -<br> - -<p>On the Easterly side of the beautiful river Schuylkill, about seven -miles north of the city of Philadelphia, stands the flourishing town of -M<small>ANYUNK</small>. Only a few years ago there was not a house to be seen there, -and nothing disturbed the stillness of nature but the singing of the -birds, the lowing of the herds, and the gentle ripling of the river as -its waters glided towards the ocean; but now it has become the -habitation of thousands of human beings, the seat of numerous -manufactories, and a striking example of the rapid improvements in -American industry and the arts. The whole of this change has been -wrought by improving the navigation of the Schuylkill: by raising the -Fairmount and other dams, sufficient water has been provided, not only -for all the purposes of canaling and watering the city of Philadelphia, -but the company, incorporated by law for that purpose, have found at -their disposal an immense water power, which they sell and rent to the -best advantage.</p> - -<p>Among the number of enterprising citizens who availed themselves of -these advantages was Mr. Mark Richards, a gentleman advantageously -known and esteemed in the mercantile as well as the manufacturing -world.</p> - -<p>On the 1st of February, 1830, the Schuylkill navigation company made a -deed to John Moore, in which it was recited that on the 3d day of -November, 1827, Mark Richards had agreed with the company for the -purchase of a lot of ground at Manyunk therein described; that on the -25th of January, 1828, he, the said Mark, had agreed to purchase of the -company 100 <i>inches of water power</i> at flat-rock canal, at the annual -rent of $6 per inch; and on the 13th of March, 1828, 200 inches of -water power at the same rate, which water power was to be granted on -the <i>usual conditions</i>, and subject to the former grants by the company -of water power. That on the 4th of June, 1830, Richards and wife had -granted the said lot and "<i>the aforesaid water power of 300 inches of -water</i>" to Moore. It further recited that Richards had requested the -grant of the company to be made to Moore, he Richards having paid the -whole rent, amounting to $1840 per annum up to that time. Then follows -the grant of the lot, together with the privilege of drawing from the -canal through the forebay, at all times thereafter forever, "<small>SO MUCH -WATER AS CAN PASS</small> through two metalic apertures, one of 50, and the -other of 250 square inches, under a head of three feet." To have and to -hold "the quantity of 300 <small>SQUARE INCHES OF WATER</small>," in manner aforesaid. -Moore covenanted at his expense to erect and support the two metalic -apertures, one of 50, and the other of 250 <i>square inches</i>, through -which the said 300 <i>inches</i> of <i>water</i>, under a three feet head, "<i>is -to pass</i>." The company reserving to themselves the right to enter upon -the premises for the purpose of examining "the <i>size</i> of the -apertures."</p> - -<p>Mr. Moore having ascertained that by applying two plain simple metalic -apertures of the given sizes, he was not able to draw the same quantity -in square inches of water, but only 65 and -<small><small><sup>2</sup></small></small>/<small><small>3</small></small>d per cent. of the -amount, he therefore applied the adjutages described by Professor -Venturi; and for these applications, which were alleged to be a breach -of the contract, an action was instituted in the Supreme Court of -Pennsylvania.</p> - -<p>It will be perceived that this case involved not only important -principles of law, but interesting inquiries in hydrodynamics, to aid -in the discussion of which, large draughts were made upon the -scientific attainments of the accomplished bar of Philadelphia. For the -plaintiff were engaged John Sergeant and Horace Binney, Esquires; but -the absence of the latter gentleman at Congress, occasioned the -retaining of C. Chauncey, Esquire; for the defendants were Joseph R. -Ingersol and Peter A. Browne, Esquires.</p> - -<p>The cause occupied several days, during which time the court house was -continually crowded with an intelligent audience.</p> - -<p>The questions were, first, whether the granter was confined to the use -of <i>simple</i> apertures of the dimensions mentioned in the deed, when it -was apparent from the opinions of men of science, and from the -experiments made before the jury, that through such openings it was not -possible for him to draw more than 65 and -<small><small><sup>2</sup></small></small>/<small><small>3</small></small>d per cent. of the water -contracted for, (it being a law of nature that when a fluid is drawn -from a simple aperture or opening, the stream or vein is contracted so -as to form the figure of a cone;) or whether the grantee was entitled, -at all events, to his 300 inches of water, and had a right to affix -adjutages to overcome this law of nature, and restore things to the -state they were supposed to be in by the parties, if, when they -contracted, they were ignorant of this principle. Second. The defendant -having contracted for as much water as "<i>can pass</i>" through metalic -apertures of given sizes, whether he was entitled, provided he did not -increase the size of the openings, nor increase the head, so to adjust -the adjutages as to draw <i>more</i> water than 300 square inches; for it -was proved by another set of experiments that, by reason of the -adjutages at the defendant's mill, he had contrived, not only to -overcome the <i>vena contracta</i> or contracted vein, but to draw off more -water than would have passed through a plain opening if the vena -contracta did not exist.</p> - -<p>When a vessel is filled with a homogeneous fluid, and it is in -equilibrium, all the particles of the fluid are pressed equally in all -directions. This law was known to Archimedes, and its knowledge enabled -him to detect the fraud committed by the gold smith upon Hiero, King of -Syracuse. The first regular work upon Hisdrodynamics was written by -Sextus Julius Frentinus, inspector of the public fountains at Rome -under the Emperors Nerva and Trajan. He laid down the law, that water -which flows in a given time, from a given orifice, does not depend -<i>merely</i> upon the magnitude of the orifice, but upon the <i>head</i> or -height of the fluid in the vessel. From that period until the 17th -century none of the principles upon which this cause depends, were much -studied, nor the doctrine of fluids much known. At length Gallileo the -astronomer, by his discovery of the uniform acceleration of gravity, -paved the way for a rapid improvement in hydrodynamics. Gallileo was -acquainted with the fact that water could not be made to rise more than -a certain height in a common pump; but he was entirely unacquainted -with the reason. His pupil, Torricelli, and his friend, Viviani, -discovered that it was owing to the pressure of the external air, and -thus the problem was solved. Mariotte, who introduced experimental -philosophy into France, was the first who announced that fluids suffer -a retardation from the friction of their particles against the sides of -tubes; and he shewed that this was the case even though the tubes were -made of the <i>smoothest glass</i>. From his works, which were published -after his death, in 1684, it appears that though he was thus acquainted -with the principle upon which it is explained, he was unacquainted with -the <i>vena contracta</i>. About that time this subject began to be much -more studied in Italy. Dominic Guglielmini, a celebrated engineer, in -1697, published a very learned work upon the friction and resistance of -fluids; and from that period to this the learned of all nations have -admitted, that this resistance and retardation of fluids, owing to -their friction, did take place in a moving fluid. This work, as -connected with the motion of rivers and water in open canals, is one of -deep interest in natural philosophy; and it is one, which in this age -of improvements, should not be neglected in this country. Sir Isaac -Newton, whose capacious mind grasped at every kind of knowledge, -struggled hard to detect the reason of this resistance. In his 2nd book -of his "Principia," propositions 51, 52 and 53, he lays down certain -hypotheses, from which it results, that the filaments (as he calls -them,) of a fluid, in a pipe, will be kept back by their adhesion to -the sides of the tube, and that the next filaments will be kept back, -though in a less degree, by their adhesion to the first filaments, and -so on, until the velocity of the fluid will be greatest at the centre. -Now if we apply this principle to the discharge of a fluid through a -plain aperture, we will perceive that the parts of the water next to -the sides of the opening, being liable to the greatest friction, will -be the most retarded; and that those in the centre, being liable to the -least friction, will be most in advance; and that the friction -decreasing gradually from the extremities to the centre, the water will -be always flowing in the form of a cone, with the smallest end in -advance. This is the exact form of the vena contracta or contracted -vein!</p> - -<p>When the pipes are very small, this attraction of the sides of the -pipes to the fluid operates so as to suspend the whole mass, when it is -called capillary attraction. This appears to be the extent to which -Newton was acquainted with the laws that govern the vena contracta, at -the time he published the first edition of his Principia; but in his -second edition, published in 1714, he discloses the doctrine of the -contracted vein with his usual intelligence.</p> - -<p>Every body is acquainted with the splendid experiments of the Abbe -Bossut, which were published successively in 1771, 1786 and 1796, and -any one desirous of examining this interesting subject will consult -them at large.</p> - -<p>Poleni first discovered, that by applying an additional cylindrical -pipe to the orifice, of the same diameter, the <i>expenditure</i> of the -fluid was increased. This discovery was followed up, first, by Mr. -Vince; secondly, by Doctor Matthew Young; and lastly, by Venturi. This -last named gentleman published his work on hydraulics in 1798; it was -immediately translated and published in Nicholson's Journal of Natural -Philosophy, where all the different adjutages, including the one used -by the defendant in this action, are accurately drawn and described. -They are also noticed, though not in as ample a manner, in Gregory's -Mechanics, pages 438, 445 and 447.</p> - -<p>From all which it was contended, that every one making a contract, must -be <i>presumed</i> to be acquainted with the principles of the vena -contracta, and of the methods used to overcome it, and that this party -had a right to use these adjutages without incurring the risk of a -suit.</p> - -<blockquote><small>[We understand that the suit, the foregoing interesting sketch of which -has been obligingly furnished by one of the counsel, is still, in the -language of the lawyers, <i>sub judice;</i> the jury having found a verdict -subject to the opinion of the court. We are promised a full report of -the trial and decision, for a subsequent number.]—E<small>D</small>.</small></blockquote> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect09"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> - -<blockquote><small>M<small>R</small>. W<small>HITE</small>,—The following sketch was given me by one of those mail -stage story-tellers, who abound on our roads, and enliven the drowsy -passengers by their narratives. It is founded on fact, and may not be -unacceptable to such of your readers as are fond of the delineation of -human character in all its variety of phases.</small></blockquote> -<div align="right"><small>N<small>UGATOR</small>. </small></div> - - -<h4>SALLY SINGLETON.</h4> - -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem7"> - <tr><td><small>Who thundering comes on blackest steed,<br> - With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed?—<i>Byron</i>.</small></td></tr> -</table> -<br> - -<p>A horseman passed us at full speed, whose wild and haggard look -arrested the attention of my friend. In the name of all that is -singular, said he, who can that be, and whither is he posting with such -rapidity? His garb seems of the last century, and his grizzled locks -stream on the wind like those of some ancient bard.</p> - -<p>That man, replied I, is a lover, and is hurrying away to pay his -devoirs to his mistress, who married another, and has been dead for -many years.</p> - -<p>Indeed! you surprize me, he rejoined. He has, it is true, the "<i>lean -look</i>" of Shakspeare's lover; the "<i>blue eye and sunken;</i>" the -"<i>unquestionable spirit</i>," and "every thing about him demonstrates a -careless desolation"—yet I should have imagined, that the snows of so -many winters had extinguished all the fires of that frosty carcase; but -tell me who he is, and what is his story.</p> - -<p>His name is Wilson; and that of the lady whom he loved, was Sally -Singleton. I would that I had the graphic power of Scott to sketch a -tale of so much interest. If Sir Walter has immortalized an old man, -mounted on his white pony, and going in quest of the tombstomes, how -much is it to be regretted that the same master hand cannot be employed -to perpetuate the memory of yonder eccentric being, whose love lives -on, after the lapse of twenty years, in spite of the marriage and death -of his mistress—in spite of the evidence of his own senses, and -notwithstanding every human effort to dispel his delusion. Regularly -every morning, for the last twenty years, no matter what the state of -the weather, (alike to him the hail, the rain, and the sunshine,) has -he mounted his horse, and travelled a distance of ten miles, to see his -beloved Sally Singleton. His custom is, to ride directly up to the -window of her former apartment, and in a courteous manner, to bow to -his mistress in token of his continued attachment. Having performed -this act of gallantry, he waves with his hand a fond adieu, and -immediately gallops back with a triumphant air, as if perfectly -satisfied with having set his enemies at defiance. "The course of true -love never did run smooth," and in this case, whether "<i>misgrafted in -respect of years</i>," or "<i>different in blood</i>," or "<i>standing on the -choice of friends</i>," is not exactly known; but the lady was wedded to -another, and died soon after. Her lover would never believe in her -marriage or her death. His mind unhinged by the severity of his -disappointment, seems to have retained nothing but the single image of -her he loved, shut up in that apartment; and he resolved to brave every -difficulty, to testify his unchanging devotion. Obstacles were -purposely built across his path—the bridges were broken down—the idle -boys would gather around him, and assail him in their cruel folly—guns -even, were fired at him,—all in vain! The elements could not quench -the fervor of his love—obstacles were overleaped—he swam the -rivers—the boys were disregarded—balls could not harm him. He held a -charmed life; like young Lochinvar,</p> - -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem8"> - <tr><td><small>"He staid not for brake,<br> - And he stop'd not for stone;"</small></td></tr> -</table> - -<p>but dashed onward to his beloved window, and then, contented with this -public attestation of his unalterable love, returned with a look of -triumphant satisfaction, to his joyless home. As a last effort to -remove the veil from his eyes, a suit was instituted, in which he was -made a party, and proof of the lady's marriage and death was purposely -introduced to undeceive him. He listened with cold incredulity to the -witnesses; smiled derisively at that part of their testimony which -regarded her marriage and death; and the next morning was seen mounted -as usual, and bowing beneath the window of his adored Sally Singleton.</p> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect10"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>From the Petersburg Intelligencer. </small></div> -<h4>EXTRACT FROM A NOVEL</h4> -<center><small>THAT NEVER WILL BE PUBLISHED.</small></center> -<br> -<p>We had all assembled round the cheerful fire, that cracked and blazed -in the wide old-fashioned hearth. The labor of the day was over. My -father, snugly placed in his great easy chair, with his spectacles on -his nose, had been for some time studying the last long winded and very -patriotic speech of our representative in Congress, until his senses, -gradually yielding to its soothing eloquence, had sunk into a calm -slumber.—My mother sat in the corner knitting with all her might, and -every now and then expressing her wonder (for she always wondered) how -Patsy Woods could marry such a lazy, poor, good-for-nothing fellow as -Henry Pate. Sister was leaning with both elbows on the table, -devouring, as she termed it, the last most exquisite romance. Puss was -squatted on Mother's cricket, licking her paws with indefatigable -industry; and old Carlo, the pointer, lay grunting on the hearth rug, -sadly incommoded by the heat of the fire, but much too lazy to remove -from before it. And where was I? Oh! there was another corner to the -fire place. In its extremest nook sat cousin Caroline, and next to -her,—always next to her when I could get there, was I. Now this was -what I call a right comfortable family party; and not the least -comfortable of that party was myself. Cousin Caroline; dear, dear -cousin! Many a year has rolled over me since the scene I describe; many -a cold blast of the world's breath has blown on my heart and chilled, -one by one, the spring flowers of hope that grew there; but the -blossoms of love thy image nurtured, were gathered into a garland to -hang on thy tomb, and the tears of memory have preserved its freshness. -Cousin Caroline!—she was the loveliest creature on whom beauty ever -set its seal. Reader, my feeling towards her was not what is called -love; at least, not what I have since felt for another. My judgment of -her excellence was not biassed by passion. She was most beautiful. I -cannot describe her.</p> - -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem9"> - <tr><td><small>"Who has not proved how feebly words essay,<br> - To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray."</small></td></tr> -</table> - -<p>It were vain to talk of her "hyacinthine curls," her "ruby lips," her -"pearly teeth," her "gazelle eye." These, and all the etceteras of -description, define not beauty. It belongs to the pencil and not to the -pen, to give us a faint idea of its living richness. But had your eyes -glanced round a crowded room, crowded with beauty too, they would have -rested in amazement there; amazement, that one so lovely should be on -earth, and breathe among the creatures of common clay. Alas! it could -not be so long. No, I did not love her in manhood's sense of love; for, -at the time I speak of, I was but fourteen, and Caroline was in her -eighteenth year; but I loved her as all created things that could love, -loved her; from the highest to the lowest, she was the darling of the -household. The servants, indoor and outdoor, young and old, and the -crossest of the old, loved her. None so crabbed her smile would not -soften; none so stern her mildness would not subdue. Oh, what a -creature she was. I never saw Caroline angry, though I have seen her -repel, with dignity, intrusion or impertinence. I never saw her cross. -But this theme will lead me too far; and, perhaps the reader thinks I -might sum up my estimate of her qualities in one word—perfection. Not -so; but as near to it as the Creator ever suffered his creature to -attain. Well, we were sitting round the fire in the manner I have -described. Caroline was amusing me with a description of the pleasures -of the town, for she had just returned from a visit to a relation -residing in the city of ——, when the sound was heard of a carriage -coming up the avenue. What a bustle! Father bounced up, dropping the -paper and his spectacles; Mother stopped wondering about Patsy Woods, -to wonder still more who this could be. Pussy remained quiet, but Carlo -prevailed upon himself to stretch and yawn, and totter to the door, to -satisfy his curiosity. Sister looked up. Caroline looked down; and then -sister looked at her very archly, though I could not tell why, and -said, "go brother Harry, ask the gentleman in."</p> - -<p>"Why do you know who it is, my dear, that is coming to see us at this -late hour?" said my father. It was but eight o'clock; but remember we -were in the country. I went out of the room, and did not hear the -answer. I was met at the hall door by a gentleman, whom I ushered in. -My father accosted him, and was very proud and very happy to see Col. -H——d. He was then introduced to the members of the family; "and this -lady I think you are already acquainted with," continued my father, as -he presented cousin Caroline, who had hung back. The Colonel -smiled,—Caroline blushed, but she smiled too. What is all this about, -thought I. "Come, sir, be seated," quoth my father. The Colonel bowed, -thanked him, and placed himself forthwith in my chair, right beside -Caroline. Now it is true Caroline had two sides, and her left side was -as dear to me as her right; but then that side was next to the wall, -and she sat so near to it that there was no edging a chair in without -incommoding her. So I was fain to look out for other quarters, and -found them next to my mother, whence I looked the colonel right in the -face. He was not a handsome man, but a very noble looking one. He was -rather above the common height, somewhat thin, but his carriage very -erect. His complexion was dark, but ruddy dark, the hue of health and -manliness; his forehead broad; so much so as to make the lower part of -his visage appear contracted, and rather long. The expression of his -features when at rest, was stern, and even haughty; perhaps from the -habit of command, for his <i>had</i> been a soldier's life, and his title -was won on the battle field; but when in conversation, there was an air -of great good nature over his whole countenance, and his smile was very -winning. Cousin Caroline thought it so.</p> - -<p>"The road to your farm is rather intricate, my good sir," said the -colonel, as he took his seat, "and though I had a pretty good chart of -the country, (here he looked at Caroline and smiled one of those -winning smiles, but Caroline did not, or would not see him,) I was so -stupid as to miss the way, for when I reached the cross roads, instead -of taking the right I directed the servant to the left, and moved on -some time in the wrong direction without meeting a human being of whom -to make inquiry. At length I had the good fortune to encounter a -gentleman on horseback, who corrected my error, adding the satisfactory -assurance, that I had gone at least four miles in the opposite -direction to that which I desired to go; so that, though I set out -betimes, it was thus late before I reached here."</p> - -<p>"Well, I wonder!" cried my mother.</p> - -<p>"Then colonel you must be sadly in want of refreshment," said my -father. "My dear"—</p> - -<p>"Not at all so, my dear sir. I beg you will give yourselves no trouble -on my account. I assure you"—</p> - -<p>"Sit still, colonel, I beg of you," interrupted my father, as the -former rose to urge his remonstrance.—"Sit still, sir; trouble indeed; -we'll have supper directly, and I don't care if I nibble a little -myself."</p> - -<p>So the colonel gave up the contest, but when he reseated himself, he -perceived Caroline was gone; she had slipped out of the room with my -mother. The colonel had a very nice supper that night, and he did it -justice. Who prepared it, think you? my mother? No, for she returned to -the room in two minutes after she left it. I knew who prepared it, and -so did the colonel, or he made a shrewd guess; for, when Caroline -returned, he gave her a look that spoke volumes of thankfulness, and of -such exquisite fondness that it made the blood mount to her very -forehead.</p> - -<p>A week passed away, and colonel H——d remained a constant guest at my -father's; and though I could not but like and admire him, his conduct -was a source of great annoyance to me, for no sooner did Caroline make -her appearance in the breakfast room in the morning than he posted -himself next to her; and then they took such long walks together, and -would spend so many hours in riding about the country, and they never -asked me to accompany them, so that Caroline had as well have been in -town again, for the opportunity I had of conversing with her. The -result of all this is, of course, plain to the reader; and it was soon -formally announced that on the third day of the succeeding month -Caroline was to become the bride of the wealthy and gallant Colonel -H——d, and accompany him forthwith to his distant home, for his -residence was in the state of Georgia. I wept bitter tears, and sobbed -as if my heart would break as I laid all lonely in my bed that night on -which this latter piece of intelligence had been communicated by my -father, until sleep, the comforter of the wretched, extended to me the -bliss of oblivion. "Blessings on the man who invented sleep," says -friend Sancho—blessings, aye blessings indeed, on all bountiful nature -who, while she gives rest to the wearied body bestows consolation on -the grieving heart, lulls into gentle calm the storm of the passions, -plucks from power its ability and even its wish to oppress, and hushes -in poverty the sense of its weakness and its degradation. My fate has -not been more adverse than that of the generality of men, but "take it -all in all," the happiest portion of my existence has been spent in -sleep. Why did I weep? The being whom I loved best on earth was about -to be wedded to the worthy object of her choice,—a choice that -affection sanctioned and reason might well approve; and even to my -young observation it was apparent that while she gave, she was enjoying -happiness. There was pleasure in the beaming of her sparkling eyes, -there was joy in the dimples of her rosy smile. The very earth on which -she trod seemed springing to her step, and the air she breathed to be -pure and balmy. Could she be happy and I feel miserable? and that -misery growing too, out of the very source of her happiness. Yes; even -so unmixed, so absorbing was my selfishness. <i>My</i> selfishness! the -selfishness of humanity; for even as the rest of my fellow men so was, -and so am I. I thought of the many hours of delight I had enjoyed in -her presence, of the thousand daily kindnesses I had experienced at her -hand. She alone was wont to partake of my youthful joys, to sympathize -with my boyish griefs; it was her praise that urged me to exertion, the -fear of her censure that restrained me from mischief. And all this was -to pass away, and to pass with her presence too. Never more was my -heart to drink in the sweet light of her eyes; never more would her -soft voice breathe its music in my ear. I felt that I dwelt no longer -in her thoughts; I believed my very image would soon perish from her -memory. Such were the bitter thoughts that weighed down my mind.</p> - -<p>I go on spinning out this portion of my tale, no doubt very tediously, -and my readers will perhaps despair of my ever arriving at the end; but -patience, I shall get there by and by. "Bear with me yet a little -while." It is that I shrink from what I have undertaken to narrate, -that I wander into digression; for whatever effect it may have on -others, whose only interest in it will arise from momentary excitement, -on me the fearful casualty I shall describe, has imposed "the grief of -years." Many a pang has my heart experienced in my pilgrimage through -this weary world, and some grievous enough to sustain; time and -occupation, however, have afforded their accustomed remedy, and scars -only are left to mark where the wounds have been. But this, though -inflicted in boyhood's springy days, is festering now; aye now, when -the very autumn of manhood is passed, and the winter of age is -congealing the sources of feeling and of life.</p> - -<p>The wedding day was drawing nigh. One little week remained of the -appointed time; and a joyous man, no doubt, was colonel H——d, as hour -after hour winged its flight, and each diminished the space that lay -betwixt him and his assured felicity. Poor weak creatures that we are, -whose brief history is but a record of hope and disappointment, ever -deceived by the mirage of happiness that glitters afar in the desert of -life, and recedes from before us as we pursue, till outworn, we sink -into death with our thirst unslaked, our desires ungratified. One -little week remained. What matters the brevity of time when a moment is -fraught with power to destroy. Behold the gallant ship with tightened -cordage and outspread sails, dashing from her prow the glittering spray -as she dances on the leaping wave to the music of the breeze; cheerful -faces crowd her deck, for she is homeward bound from a distant land; -and now her port is almost reached, a hidden rock has pierced her side, -the eternal sea rolls over the sunken wreck. The warrior has charged -and broken the foe; the shout of victory rings in his ears, and fancy -twines the laurel round his brow; but treachery lurks in his armed -array, and the clarion of conquest sounds the note of defeat. The -mighty city with its thousand domes, its marble palaces, and its -crowded marts, over which ages have urged their onward flight, and -still it grew in wealth and strength, has felt the earthquake's shock. -Black mouldering ruins and a sullen sulphurous lake are left to mark -the spot where once its "splendors shone." And the heart, the human -heart, with its high aspirations, and its treacherous whisperings of -unmixed joys, its blindness of trust in coming events, its strange -forgetfulness of the hours gone by, its sunny morning of boundless -hope, its stormy night of dark despair.</p> - -<p>My father's house was situated on an elevated spot, commanding an -extensive view of the broad Potomac; from its front to the bank of the -river, a distance of some hundred yards, the ground descended in a -gentle slope terminating in a sheer precipice, and down, down "a -fearful depth below," rolled on the rapid waters. The bank was composed -of vast masses of rock, between the crevices of which pushed forth -gnarled and jagged trees of various kinds, shooting their moss-covered -branches in every direction, and hugged in strict and stifling embrace -by huge vines, that looked like the monster boas, of a preadamate -world. The summit was lined with a dense growth of underwood, that hid -from the passer by the awful chasm upon whose very margin he might be -unconciously standing. As the main road (which ran parallel to the -course of the river) laid upwards of a mile from the rear of the -dwelling house, and was, besides being generally in very bad order, -very uninteresting in its character, we were in the habit of using for -the purpose of visiting some of our neighbors, a path that ran along -and was dangerously near to the verge of the precipice, but which had -been travelled so long and so often without accident, that we had -ceased to think of even the possibility of any occurring. It was a -bright sunshiny morning, the blue sky studded with those massy rolling -clouds whose purple shades give such strong relief to the fleecy white, -and cheat the fancy into portraying a thousand resemblances; ancient -castles with frowning battlements, mighty ships resting beneath their -crowded canvass, bright fairy isles, where a poet's soul would delight -to wander, dark yawning caverns, in whose undreamt of depths the pent -up spirits of the damned might be "imagined howling." Pardon, pardon! -but sea and sky have always set me raving. It was at the breakfast -table that I informed my father I would ride over to aunt Diana's and -see if they were all well.—"The weather is so fine, and I have not -seen our good aunt for some time. I will ride with you; that is, if -you'll let me, cousin Harry," said Caroline, as if it were not a -delight to me to have her company. The colonel, too, proposed to join -us, and we went to get ourselves in readiness. We were soon on the -road, and away we cantered, full of health and youth and spirits. The -breeze came fresh and soft from the surface of the waters, and played -among Caroline's curls and revelled on her cheek, as if to gather the -odors of the rose, where its beauteous hue was so richly spread. We -paid our visit, partook of aunt Diana's good things, and set off on our -return, amid her protestations against our hurry. Caroline was riding -on a nice little mare that had been bred on the farm, and had always -been the pet of the family; as gentle and as playful as a lamb, but at -the same time full of spirit. We had arrived at a part of the road -where the precipice (now on our right hand) was highest. I was in -front, Caroline next to and behind me; a hare crossed my path: "take -care my boy," cried Colonel H——d, "that, you know, is said to be a -bad omen." Scarcely had he spoken when my horse started, and wheeled -short round; the mare partook of his fright, swerved half to the left, -and reared bolt upright. "Slack your rein and seize the mane, -Caroline," I screamed in agony. It was too late; the mare struggled, -and fell backwards. Oh, God! A shriek, a rushing sound</p> - -<center>* -* -* -* *</center> - -<p>I entered the chamber where innocence and beauty had been wont to -repose; around me were the trappings of the grave; the cold white -curtains with their black crape knots, the shrouded mirror, the -scattered herbs—and stretched upon the bed motionless, lay a form—the -form of her whose living excellence was unsurpassed. My father came in; -he took my hand, led me to the bed, and gently removed the sheet from -the marble face. Oh, death, thou art indeed a conqueror!</p> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect11"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> - -<h4>SONNET,</h4> -<center><small>WRITTEN ON THE BLUE RIDGE IN VIRGINIA.</small></center> -<br><br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem10"> - <tr><td>Gigantic sov'reign of this mountain-chain,<br> - Proud Otter Peak! as gazing on thee now<br> - I mark the sun its parting splendor throw<br> - Athwart thy summit hoar—I sigh with pain<br> - To think thus soon I needs must turn again<br> - And seek man's bustling haunts! What if my brow<br> - No longer wear the signs of sorrow's plough,<br> - Doth not my heart its traces still retain,<br> - And I still hate the crowd?—Yes! it is so,<br> - And scenes alone such as surround me here—<br> - These deep'ning shades—thy torrents loud and clear—<br> - Yon half-hid cot—the cattle's plaintive low—<br> - The raven's cry, and the soft whispering breeze,<br> - Have now the pow'r this aching breast to please.</td></tr> -</table> -<div align="right">* * * </div> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect12"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> - -<h4>STANZAS,</h4> -<center><small>WRITTEN AT THE WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA.</small></center> -<br><br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem10"> - <tr><td>With spirits like the slacken'd strings<br> - Of some neglected instrument—<br> - Or rather like the wearied wings<br> - Of a lone bird by travel spent;<br> - Ah! how should I expect to find<br> - Midst scenes of constant revelry,<br> - A solace for a troubled mind,<br> - A cure for my despondency?—<br><br> - There was a time when mirth's glad tone<br> - And pleasure's smile had charms for me—<br> - But disappointment had not strown<br> - My pathway then with misery:<br> - Health then was mine—and friends sincere—<br> - Requited love—and prospects bright—<br> - Nor dreamt I that a day so clear<br> - Could ever set in such a night!</td></tr> -</table> -<div align="right">* * * </div> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect13"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> - -<h4>TO —— —— OF THE U. S. NAVY.</h4> -<br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem11"> - <tr><td>Tell me—for thou hast stood on classic ground,<br> - If there the waters flow more bright and clear,<br> - And if the trees with thicker foliage crowned,<br> - Are lovelier far than those which blossom here?<br><br> - Say is it true, in green unfading bowers,<br> - That there the wild bird sings her sweetest lay?<br> - And that a light, more beautiful than ours,<br> - Lends richer glories to expiring day?<br><br> - Wooed by Italian airs, does woman's cheek<br> - With purer color glow, than in our land?<br> - Or does her eye more eloquently speak,<br> - Or with a softer grace her form expand?<br><br> - Does music there, with power to us unknown,<br> - Breathe o'er the heart a far diviner spell?<br> - And with a sweeter, more entrancing tone,<br> - The thrilling strains of love and glory swell?<br><br> - Tell me if thou in thought didst dearer prize<br> - Thy home, than all that Italy could give?<br> - Didst thou regret that her resplendent skies<br> - Should smile on men as slaves content to live?<br><br> - Didst thou, when straying in her cities fair,<br> - Or in her groves of bloom, regret that here<br> - No perfumes mingle with the passing air?<br> - And was thine own, thy native land, less dear?<br><br> - Or didst thou turn where proudly in the breeze<br> - America's star-spangled flag was flying?<br> - The flag that o'er thee waved on the high seas;<br> - With conscious heart exultingly replying,<br><br> - "No slothful land of dreaming ease is ours,<br> - Her soil is only trodden by the free—<br> - Less rich in music, poetry, and flowers,<br> - Still, still she is the land of all for me!"</td></tr> -</table> -<div align="right">E. A. S. </div> - -<blockquote><small><i>Lombardy, Va.</i></small></blockquote> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect14"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> -<br> -<center><b>MUSINGS II</b>—<i>By the Author of Vyvyan</i>.</center> -<br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem12"> - <tr><td><small>The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets<br> - Ebbing and flowing.——————<i>Rogers</i>.</small></td></tr> -</table> -<br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem13"> - <tr><td><small>I loved her from my boyhood—she to me<br> - Was as a fairy city of the heart,<br> - Rising like water columns from the sea.<br> - - <i>Childe Harold</i>, Canto IV. Stanza xviii.</small></td></tr> -</table> -<br><br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem14"> - <tr><td> There is, far in a foreign clime,<br> - Alas! no longer free—<br> - A city famed in olden time<br> - As queen of all the sea;<br> - Still fair but fallen from her prime—<br> - For such is destiny.<br><br> - There motley masque and princely ball<br> - Make gay the merry carnival,<br> - And all the night some serenade<br> - Steals sweetly from the calm Lagune,<br> - While many a dark eyed loving maid<br> - Is wooed in secret neath the moon.<br><br> - And swiftly o'er the noiseless tide<br> - Gondolas dark, like spectres, glide<br> - Neath archways deep and bridges fair,<br> - Temples and marble palaces,<br> - Adorned with jutting balconies,<br> - And dim arcades of beauty rare.<br><br> - There's naught that meets the wondering eye,<br> - From the wave that kisses the landing stair<br> - To the sculptured range in the azure sky,<small><small><sup>1</sup></small></small><br> - But wears a wild unearthly air,<br> - And every voice that echoes among<br> - Those phantomlike halls, breathes the spell of song.<br><br> - The rudest Barcarolli's cry,<br> - Heard faint and far o'er Adria's waves,<br> - Might cheat the listener of a sigh—<br> - So sad the farewell which it leaves,<br> - When sinking on the ear it dies<br> - Along the borders of the skies.<br><br> - Oh! Venice! Venice! couldst thou be<br> - Still wond'rous fair and even as free!<br> - How peerless were thy regal halls!—<br> - How glorious were thy seagirt walls!—<br> - But foreign banners flaunt thy tide,<br> - And chains have tamed thy lion's pride.<br><br> - Thy flag is furled upon the sea,<br> - Thy sceptre shivered on the land,<br> - And many a spirit mourns for thee<br> - Beyond the Lido's barren strand:<br> - Better thy towers were sunk below<br> - The level of Old Ocean's flow.<br><br> - Fair city of the fairest clime,<br> - Sad change hath come o'er thee—<br> - The spirit voice of olden time<br> - Is wailing o'er thy sea;<br> - And matin bell and vesper chime<br> - Seem knelling for the free<br> - Who reared thy standard o'er the wave<br> - And spurned the chains that now enslave.</td></tr> -</table> - -<blockquote><small><small><sup>1</sup></small> The tops of many of the buildings are ornamented with a -range of statues.</small></blockquote> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect15"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> - -<h4>THE GENIUS OF COLUMBIA TO HER NATIVE MUSE.</h4> -<br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem14"> - <tr><td> A parent's eye, sweet mountain maid,<br> - Hath seen thee rise in Sylvan shade;<br> - And patient, lent attentive ear<br> - Thy first, wild minstrelsy to hear:<br> - And thou hast breathed some artless lays,<br> - That well deserve the meed of praise;<br> - For, nursed by spirits bold and free,<br> - Thy notes should breathe of Liberty.<br> - Yet some who scan thy numbers wild,<br> - Inquire if thou art Fancy's child,<br> - Or some impostor, duly taught<br> - To weave with skill the borrow'd thought.<br> - Then list, my child! Experience sage<br> - May well direct thy guileless age.<br><br> - Breathe not thy notes with spirit tame,<br> - Nor pilfer, from an honor'd name,<br> - The praise that crowns the sons of fame.<br> - Be not by imitation taught,<br> - To blend with thine, the vagrant thought,<br> - From Britain's polish'd minstrels caught.<br> - Full oft my mountain echoes tell,<br> - How Byron's genius fram'd a spell,<br> - Which reason vainly seeks to quell:<br> - Did not his spirit cast a gloom<br> - On all who shared his adverse doom,<br> - E'en from the cradle to the tomb?<br> - With intellectual treasures bless'd,<br> - With misanthropic thoughts possess'd,<br> - Their sway alternate fired his breast.<br> - He pour'd the lava stream alone,<br> - In torrents from that burning zone,<br> - Which girt his bosom's fiery throne.<br> - Enough! on his untimely bier<br> - Affection shed no hallow'd tear—<br> - He claim'd no love—he own'd no fear.<br><br> - And she,<small><small><sup>1</sup></small></small> whose light poetic tread<br> - Scarce sways the dewdrop newly shed<br> - Upon the rose-bud's infant head;<br> - Most meet to be the tender nurse<br> - Of virtue, wounded by the curse<br> - Of passion's fierce and lawless verse,<br> - Whose dulcet strain, with soothing pow'r,<br> - Can calm the soul in sorrow's hour,<br> - And scatter many a thornless flow'r:<br> - The thoughts that breathe in each soft line,<br> - Seem spirits from a purer shrine<br> - Than earth can in her realms confine.<br> - Yet mayst thou not, in mimic lay,<br> - Such lofty arts of verse essay?<br> - 'Twere but a vain and weak display.<br> - Be Freedom's bold, unfetter'd child,<br> - And roam thy native forests wild,<br> - Where, on thy birth, all nature smil'd;<br> - Dwell on the mountain's sylvan crest,<br> - Where fair Hygeia roams confest,<br> - Bright Fancy's ever honor'd guest:<br> - Mark the proud streams that onward sweep,<br> - And to old Ocean's bosom leap—<br> - Majestic offspring of the deep.<br> - Their inspiration shall be thine,<br> - And nature, from that mighty shrine,<br> - Shall prompt thee with a voice divine!<br> - When thy free spirit is reveal'd,<br> - The spells within its depths conceal'd<br> - Will soon a golden tribute yield.<br> - In numbers free, by nature taught,<br> - Breathe forth the wild poetic thought,<br> - And let thy strains be Fancy fraught.<br><br> - Enough! my child! a parent's voice<br> - Would fain direct thy youthful choice<br> - To themes, majestic and sublime,<br> - The fruits of Freedom's favor'd clime.<br> - Enough! For thee has nature thrown<br> - O'er the wild stream a curb of stone,<br> - Whose pendant arch in verdure dress'd,<br> - Binds the tall mountain's cloven crest.<small><small><sup>2</sup></small></small><br> - For thee the volum'd waters sweep<br> - Through riven mountains to the deep.<small><small><sup>3</sup></small></small><br> - For thee the mighty cataract pours<br> - In thunder, through opposing shores;<br> - And rushing with delirious leap,<br> - Bursts the full fountains of the deep;<br> - A billowy phlegethon—whose waves<br> - Rend the strong walls of Ocean's caves.</td></tr> -</table> -<div align="right">C. </div> - -<blockquote><small><small><sup>1</sup></small> Mrs. Hemans.</small></blockquote> - -<blockquote><small><small><sup>2</sup></small> The Natural Bridge.</small></blockquote> - -<blockquote><small><small><sup>3</sup></small> Harper's Ferry.</small></blockquote> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect16"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> - -<h4>DEATH AMONG THE TREES.</h4> -<br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem15"> - <tr><td> Death walketh in the forest. The tall Pines<br> - Do woo the lightning-flash,—and thro' their veins<br> - The fire-cup darting, leaves their blacken'd trunks<br> - A tablet, where Ambition's sons may read<br> - Their destiny. The Oak that centuries spar'd,<br> - Grows grey at last, and like some time-scath'd man<br> - Stretching out palsied arms, doth feebly cope<br> - With the destroyer, while its gnarled roots<br> - Betray their trust. The towering Elm turns pale,<br> - And faintly strews the sere and yellow leaf,<br> - While from its dead arms falls the wedded vine.<br> - The Sycamore uplifts a beacon-brow,<br> - Denuded of its honors,—while the blast<br> - That sways the wither'd Willow, rudely asks<br> - For its lost grace, and for its tissued leaf<br> - Of silvery hue.<br><br> - - - I knew that blight might check<br> - The sapling, ere kind nature's hand could weave<br> - Its first spring-coronal, and that the worm<br> - Coiling itself amid our garden-plants<br> - Did make their unborn buds its sepulchre.<br> - And well I knew, how wild and wrecking winds<br> - May take the forest-monarchs by the crown,<br> - And lay them with the lowliest vassal-herb;<br> - And that the axe, with its sharp ministry,<br> - Might in one hour, such revolution work,<br> - That all earth's boasted power could never hope<br> - To reinstate. And I had seen the flame<br> - Go crackling up, amid yon verdant boughs,<br> - And with a tyrant's insolence dissolve<br> - Their interlacing,—and I felt that man<br> - For sordid gain, would make the forest's pomp<br> - Its heaven-rear'd arch, and living tracery<br> - A funeral pyre. But yet I did not deem<br> - That pale disease amid those shades would steal<br> - As to a sickly maiden's cheek, and waste<br> - The plenitude of those majestic ranks,<br> - Which in their peerage and nobility,<br> - Unrivall'd and unchronicled, had reign'd.<br> - And then I said, if in this world of knells,<br> - And open graves, there lingereth one, whose dream<br> - Is of aught permanent below the skies,<br> - Even let him come, and muse among the trees,<br> - For they shall be his teachers,—they shall bow<br> - To their meek lessons his forgetful ear,<br> - And by the whispering of their faded leaves,<br> - Soften to his sad heart, the thought of death.</td></tr> -</table> -<div align="right">L. H. S. </div> - -<blockquote><small><i>Hartford, Con. Sept. 10, 1834</i>.</small></blockquote> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"> -<br> -<h3>ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.</h3> -<hr align="center" width="50"><a name="sect17"></a> - -<blockquote><small>A<small>MIR</small> K<small>HAN</small>, <small>AND OTHER -POEMS</small>: the remains of Lucretia Maria Davidson, who -died at Plattsburg, N. Y. August 27, 1825, aged 16 years and 11 months. -With a Biographical Sketch, by Samuel F. B. Morse, A. M. <i>New York: G. -& C. & H. Carvill</i>—1829.</small></blockquote> - -<p>We believe that this little volume, although published several years -since, has but recently found its way to this side of the Potomac. Our -attention has been attracted towards it by some notice of its contents -in the Richmond Enquirer, whose principal editor we will do him the -justice to say, has always manifested a lively interest in the -productions of American genius. Mr. Ritchie is entitled to the more -praise for his efforts in behalf of domestic literature, not only on -account of his active and absorbing labors as a political writer, but -because, also, we are sorry to add, the subject is one in which -southern taste and intelligence have, for the most part, evinced but -little concern. It is but too common for our leading men, professional -as well as others, to affect something like a sneer at every native -attempt in the walks of polite literature. Their example, we fear, has -imparted a tone to the reading circles generally, and has served to -beget that inordinate appetite for every thing <i>foreign</i> which has -either obtained a fashionable currency abroad—or occasioned some -<i>excitement</i> in that busy, noisy, gossipping class of society, whose -merit is so vastly disproportioned to its influence. We have often -known the sentimental trash and profane ribaldry of some popular -Englishman eagerly sought after, and as eagerly devoured, whilst the -pure and genuine productions of native genius have remained neglected -on the bookseller's shelf, and quietly surrendered to oblivion. That -this does, in some measure, proceed from an unenlightened and -uncultivated public taste, we do not doubt; but it is much more the -fruit of a slavish and inglorious dependence upon accidental -circumstances,—a spiritless, and we might add, a cowardly apprehension -of appearing <i>singular</i>—that is, of not chiming in with the shallow, -vain and heartless tittle-tattle of the self-styled <i>beau monde</i> and -<i>corps elite</i> of society. It is not the fault of the bookseller. The -undertaker, who prepares the coffin and shroud, has as little -participation in the death of the person for whom they are intended. -The bookseller is but the caterer of the public palate; and if that -palate is diseased, he is no more answerable for it, than the milliners -and mantuamakers who are busily occupied in deforming the fairest part -of creation, are censurable for the false taste of their customers.</p> - -<p>We did not intend by the foregoing observations, to bespeak any -extraordinary share of public favor towards the poems of Miss Davidson. -What we have said in relation to the neglect of American talent, was -designed to have a general and not particular application. -Notwithstanding we hear that the poems before us have been -extravagantly praised beyond the Atlantic, we are not so intoxicated by -a little foreign flattery as to believe that they are destined to -immortality. Some may console themselves, if they please, for the whole -ocean of obloquy and contempt cast upon us from the British press, by -regarding with favorable eyes this little rivulet of praise bestowed -upon the juvenile efforts of a lovely and interesting girl. We are not -of that number; we shall endeavor to decide upon the work before us, -unbiassed by trans-atlantic opinion—and we shall render precisely that -judgment which we would have done if that opinion had been pronounced -in the usual tone of British arrogance and contumely.</p> - -<p>Regarding the volume before us as a literary production merely, and -supposing it to have been the offspring of a matured mind, we do not -think that it possesses any considerable merit. Estimating its -contents, however, as the first lispings of a child of genius,—as -furnishing proofs of the existence of that ethereal spark which, under -favorable circumstances, might have been kindled into a brilliant -flame, we do consider it as altogether extraordinary. We do not say -that these poems are equal to the early productions of Chatterton, -Henry Kirke White, or Dermody, those prodigies of precocious -talent,—but we entertain not a shadow of doubt if Miss Davidson had -lived, that she would have ranked among the highest of her own sex in -poetical excellence. In forming a correct judgment upon the offspring -of her muse, her youth is not alone to be considered. She had also to -contend with those remorseless enemies of mental effort,—poverty, -sorrow, and ill health; and it is, perhaps, a circumstance in her -history not unworthy of notice, that possessing a high degree of -personal beauty, and being on that account the object of much -admiration and attention, she did not suffer herself to be withdrawn -from the purer sources of intellectual enjoyment. Love indeed, seems to -have found no permanent lodgment in her heart. It might have stolen to -the threshold and infused some of its gentle influences, but she seems -to have been resolved to cast off the silken cord before it was too -firmly bound around her. Thus in the piece which bears the title of -<i>Cupid's Bower</i>, written in her fifteenth year.</p> - -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem16"> - <tr><td>"Am I in fairy land?—or tell me, pray,<br> - To what love-lighted bower I've found my way?<br> - Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled<br> - In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild.<br><br> - And is this Cupid's realm?—if so, good by!<br> - Cupid, and Cupid's votaries, I fly;<br> - No offering to his altar do I bring,<br> - No bleeding heart—or hymeneal ring."</td></tr> -</table> - -<p>The longest, most elaborate, and perhaps best of her poems, is that -which gives the principal title to the volume. <i>Amir Khan</i> is a simple -oriental tale, written in her sixteenth year, and is worked up with -surprising power of imagery for one so young. The most fastidious and -critical reader could not fail to be struck with its resemblance to the -gorgeous magnificence of Lalla Rookh; a resemblance, to be sure, which -no more implies equality of merit than does the brilliancy of the mock -diamond establish its value with that of the real gem. We give the -opening passage from the poem as a fair specimen of the rest, and from -which the reader may form a correct opinion of the style and -composition.</p> - -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem17"> - <tr><td>"Brightly o'er spire, and dome, and tower,<br> - The pale moon shone at midnight hour,<br> - While all beneath her smile of light<br> - Was resting there in calm delight;<br> - Evening with robe of stars appears,<br> - Bright as repentant Peri's tears,<br> - And o'er her turban's fleecy fold<br> - Night's crescent streamed its rays of gold,<br> - While every chrystal cloud of heaven,<br> - Bowed as it passed the queen of even.<br> - Beneath—calm Cashmere's lovely vale<br> - Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale;<br> - The amaranth and tuberose,<br> - Convolvulus in deep repose,<br> - Bent to each breeze which swept their bed,<br> - Or scarcely kissed the dew and fled;<br> - The bulbul, with his lay of love;<br> - Sang mid the stillness of the grove;<br> - The gulnare blushed a deeper hue,<br> - And trembling shed a shower of dew,<br> - Which perfumed e'er it kiss'd the ground,<br> - Each zephyr's pinion hovering round.<br> - The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow<br> - Glitter'd beneath the moon's pale glow;<br> - And wide the plantain's arms were spread,<br> - The guardian of its native bed."</td></tr> -</table> - -<p>We venture to assert that if Thomas Moore had written Amir Khan at the -age of sixteen, there are thousands by whom it would be read and -admired who would hardly condescend to open Miss Davidson's volume; and -that too, without being able to assign any other or better reason than -that Moore is a distinguished and popular British bard, whereas the -other was an obscure country girl, who lived and died in the state of -New York.</p> - -<p>The lines to the memory of Henry Kirk White, which were composed at -thirteen, are much superior to many elegiac stanzas written by poets of -some reputation at twenty-five or thirty. Of all her minor pieces -however, those which were written at fifteen seem to us to possess the -greatest merit, if we except the <i>Coquette</i>, a very spirited production -in imitation of the Scottish dialect, composed in her fourteenth year. -The following are the two first stanzas:</p> - -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem18"> - <tr><td>"I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest,<br> - My Ellen's lost for aye;<br> - My heart is sair and much distressed,<br> - I surely soon must die.<br><br> - I canna think o' wark at a',<br> - My eyes still wander far,<br> - <i>I see her neck like driven snaw,<br> - I see her flaxen hair.</i>"</td></tr> -</table> - -<p>The image of the snowy neck and flaxen hair of the beautiful but unkind -fair one, presented so strongly to the rejected lover, as to prevent -his performing his daily work, strikes us as highly poetical and true -to nature, as we doubt not all genuine lovers will testify. Burns wrote -many, very many verses, which were much superior, but Burns wrote some -also, which were not so good. <i>Ruth's answer to Naomi</i>, must be -allowed, we think, to be a good paraphrase of that most affecting -passage of scripture. We must give the whole to the reader.</p> - -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem19"> - <tr><td>"Entreat me not, I must not hear,<br> - Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear;<br> - Thy answer's written deeply now<br> - On this warm cheek and clouded brow;<br> - 'Tis gleaming o'er this eye of sadness<br> - Which only near <i>thee</i> sparkles gladness.<br><br> - The hearts <i>most</i> dear to us are gone,<br> - And <i>thou</i> and <i>I</i> are left alone;<br> - Where'er thou wanderest, I will go,<br> - I'll follow thee through joy or wo;<br> - Shouldst thou to other countries fly,<br> - Where'er thou lodgest, there will I.<br><br> - Thy people shall my people be,<br> - And to thy God, I'll bend the knee;<br> - Whither thou fliest, will I fly,<br> - And where thou diest, I will die;<br> - And the same sod which pillows thee<br> - Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me."<small><small><sup>1</sup></small></small></td></tr> -</table> - -<blockquote><small>[<small><sup>1</sup></small> We subjoin the passage of scripture paraphrased by Miss -Davidson, and also another paraphrase which has been ascribed to the -Hon. R. H. Wilde of Georgia. Our readers can compare and decide between -them.</small></blockquote> - -<blockquote><small>"And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from -following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go: and where thou -lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my -God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried."</small></blockquote> - -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem20"> - <tr><td><small>Nay, do not ask!—entreat not—no!<br> - O no! I will not leave thy side,<br> - Whither thou goest—I will go—<br> - Where thou abidest—I'll abide.<br><br> - Through life—in death—my soul to thine<br> - Shall cleave as fond, as first it clave—<br> - Thy home—thy people—shall be mine—<br> - Thy God my God—thy grave my grave.]</small></td></tr> -</table> - -<p>We present an extract from a piece called "<i>Woman's Love</i>," as a -specimen of Miss Davidson's management of blank verse, a form of poetic -diction which Montgomery thinks the most unmanageable of any. The fair -authoress might not herself have experienced that holy passion, but she -certainly knew how deep and imperishable it is when once planted in the -female bosom.</p> - -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem21"> - <tr><td> - - - "Love is<br> - A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart,<br> - When felt, as only woman love <i>can</i> feel!<br> - <i>Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower</i><br> - <i>Sinks on spring-flowers; deep, as a cave-locked fountain;</i><br> - <i>And changeless as the cypress' green leaves;</i><br> - <i>And like them, sad!</i>—She nourished<br> - Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed<br> - A passion unconfessed, till he she loved<br> - Was wedded to another. Then she grew<br> - Moody and melancholy; one alone<br> - Had power to soothe her in her wanderings,<br> - Her gentle sister;—but that sister died,<br> - And the unhappy girl was left alone,<br> - A <i>maniac</i>. She would wander far, and shunned<br> - Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt<br> - Was that dead sister's grave: and that to her<br> - Was as a home."</td></tr> -</table> - -<p>We have italicised such of the lines as we think breathe the air and -spirit of genuine poetry. The snow flake has often been used as the -emblem of purity; but the snow flake reposing on beds of vernal -blossoms, is to us original as well as highly poetical. The -"cave-locked fountain" too, with its lone, deep, and quiet waters, -seems to us to express with force that profound and melancholy -sentiment which the writer intended to illustrate.</p> - -<p>We shall conclude our selections with the one addressed <i>to a lady -whose singing resembled that of an absent sister</i>.</p> - -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem22"> - <tr><td>"Oh! touch the chord yet once again,<br> - Nor chide me, though I weep the while;<br> - Believe me, that deep, seraph strain<br> - Bore with it memory's moonlight smile.<br><br> - It murmured of an absent friend;<br> - The voice, the air, 'twas all her own;<br> - And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend<br> - In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.<br><br> - And days and months have darkly passed,<br> - Since last I listened to her lay;<br> - And sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast,<br> - Since then, across my weary way.<br><br> - Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear,<br> - Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathing;<br> - Hush, busy memory,—sorrow's tear<br> - Will blight the garland thou art wreathing.<br><br> - 'Tis sweet, though sad—yes, I will stay,<br> - I cannot tear myself away.<br> - I thank thee, lady, for the strain,<br> - The tempest of my soul is still;<br> - Then touch the chord yet once again,<br> - For thou canst calm the storm at will."</td></tr> -</table> - -<p>We beg the reader to bear it in mind that these are the productions of -a young, inexperienced, and almost uneducated girl, and that they are -not to be tried by the tests which are usually applied to more matured -efforts. In conclusion, we will say in the language of Dr. Morse, her -biographer, "that her defects will be perceived to be those of youth -and inexperience, while in invention, and in that mysterious power of -exciting deep interest, of enchaining the attention, and keeping it -alive to the end of the story; in that adaptation of the measure to the -sentiment, and in the sudden change of measure to suit a sudden change -of sentiment, in wild and romantic description, and in the congruity of -the accompaniments to her characters, all conceived with great purity -and delicacy, she will be allowed to have discovered uncommon maturity -of mind; and her friends to have been warranted in forming very high -expectations of her future distinction."</p> - -<p>We are pleased to learn that it is in contemplation by Miss Davidson's -friends, to publish a new and improved edition of her works, with -various additions from her unpublished manuscripts.</p> - -<hr align="center" width="50"><a name="sect18"></a> - -<blockquote><small>T<small>HE</small> P<small>ILGRIMS OF THE</small> -R<small>HINE</small>; by the author of Pelham, Eugene Aram, &c. -<i>New York: Published by Harper & Brothers</i>—1834.</small></blockquote> - -<p>Mr. Bulwer's novels have acquired no inconsiderable degree of -popularity in the circles of fashionable literature. Whether they are -destined to survive the temporary admiration bestowed on them, is at -this time a subject of speculation; but in the next generation, will -become matter of fact. We are among those who think that they will -quietly glide into that oblivious ocean, which is destined to receive a -large proportion of the ever multiplying productions of this prolific -age. We do not say this either, in disparagement of many of those -labors of the mind which even intrinsic excellence cannot save from -perishing. Great and valuable as some of them undoubtedly are, such is -the onward march of intellect, and such the endless creations which -fancy and genius are continually rearing for man's gratification and -improvement,—to say nothing of the almost illimitable progress of -science, that posterity will find no room for the thousandth part of -our present stock of literature. We do not anticipate that Mr. Bulwer's -writings will be among the select few which will outlive the general -wreck; because, unless we are much mistaken, he is one of those authors -who write more for present than permanent fame. This is emphatically -the age of great moral and mental excitability. It is a period of -incessant restlessness and activity; and he who would expect to command -much attention, must seek to gratify the appetite for novelty and -variety, even at the expense of good sense, sound morality and correct -taste. We incline to the opinion that Mr. Bulwer has forgotten, that -society in the aggregate, frequently resembles the individual man; and -that whilst it often experiences paroxysms of unnatural excitement, -there are long lucid intervals of returning reason and sober -simplicity. The volume before us is not calculated, we think, to leave -any lasting impression, either of good or evil. Whilst it certainly -abounds in felicitous language, and contains passages of fine -sentiment, it is grossly defective both in plot and machinery; and if -it were worth while to descend to minute criticism, it would be easy to -point out many examples of false morality as well as false taste. Mr. -Bulwer seems to have been aware, in his preface, that he was making a -bold experiment upon popular favor, and accordingly he claims the -reader's "indulgence for the superstitions he has incorporated with his -tale—for the floridity of his style, and the redundance of his -descriptions." As if somewhat apprehensive, however, that that -indulgence might not possibly be granted, he assures the public that -"various reasons have conspired to make this the work, above all others -that he has written, which has given him the most delight (though not -unmixed with melancholy,) in producing, and in which his mind, for the -time, has been the most completely absorbed." A popular writer, thus -bespeaking the public approbation in advance, by stamping his last -production with his own decided preference, could not expect to be -treated uncourteously by his readers. In the first sentence of the -second chapter too, the author declares as follows: "I wish only for -such readers as give themselves heart and soul up to me: if they begin -to cavil, I have done with them; their fancy should put itself entirely -under my management." Now whether it proceeded from a spirit of -perverseness or not, we cannot tell; but we resolved when we read this -passage, neither to surrender our heart, fancy or judgment to Mr. -Bulwer's guidance. On the contrary, we determined to read the book and -decide on its merits, in the spirit of perfect impartiality and entire -independence. The story upon which the work is founded—at least that -part of it which treats of mortal affairs, consists of the simplest -materials. Trevylyan, a gentleman of "a wild, resolute and active -nature, who had been thrown upon the world at the age of sixteen, and -had passed his youth in alternate pleasure, travel and solitary study," -falls in love with Gertrude Vane, a young girl, described as "the -loveliest person that ever dawned upon a poet's vision." A fatal -disease, "consumption in its most beautiful shape," had set its seal -upon her, and yet Trevylyan loved with an irresistible passion. With -the consent, rather than by the advice of the faculty and her friends, -the young and interesting invalid, attended by her father and lover, -goes upon a pilgrimage up the beautiful and romantic Rhine. From that -pilgrimage she never returned; but in one of those wild and legendary -spots which impart such interest to that celebrated stream—a spot -selected by herself as her last grassy couch, she breathed out her -gentle spirit, and quietly sunk to her lasting repose. Such is the -simple thread upon which Mr. Bulwer has contrived to weave a variety of -German legends and fairy fictions, having no necessary connection with -the main story, except that the principal episodes were suggested by -some remarkable scenery or some castellated ruin on the banks of the -Rhine. The <i>underplot</i>, if it may be so called, or the adventures of -Nymphalin, queen of the fairies, and her Elfin court, is altogether -unworthy of Mr. Bulwer's genius. It is rather a bungling attempt to -revive the exploded machinery of supernatural agency; and we moreover -do not perceive any possible connection or sympathy between these -imaginary beings and the principal personages of the tale. Apart from -other considerations, the actions and conversations of these roving -elves are destitute of all interest and attraction; and nothing in our -eyes appears more preposterous than the introduction of the Lord -Treasurer into Queen Nymphalin's train. We always thought that the -fairies were mischievous spirits—sometimes a little wicked, and often -very benevolent; but never before did we suspect that this ideal -population of the world of fancy, manifested any concern in the dry -subject of finance, or in the <i>unfairy-like</i> establishment of a regular -exchequer. The story of "The Wooing of Master Fox," related for the -amusement of Queen Nymphalin, making every allowance for the author's -design in introducing it, is to our taste unutterably disgusting and -ridiculous.</p> - -<p>We have no objection to the occasional use of the fairy superstition in -tales of fancy; no more than we have to the frequent classical -allusions to heathen mythology which distinguish the best writers. They -are pleasing and beautiful illustrations, when happily introduced. But -we do protest against lifting the veil from the world of imagination, -and investing its shadowy beings with the common place attributes, the -vulgar actions and frivolous dialogue of mere mortals. It is in truth -dispelling the illusion in which the spirit of poetry delights to -indulge. It takes away the most powerful charm from the cool and -sequestered grotto, the shady grove or moonlit bower. It vulgarises the -world of romance, and reduces the region of mind to a level with brute -sense, or even coarser matter.</p> - -<p>Condemning as we do, in perfect good faith, these exceptionable -portions of Mr. Bulwer's volume, we take pleasure in awarding due -praise to some of the legends and stories introduced into the work, and -which are for the most part related by Trevylyan for the amusement of -Gertrude. Of these, we give the decided preference to "The Brothers" -and "The Maid of Malines." The latter indeed, strikes us as so finished -an illustration of some of the noble qualities of woman kind, that we -have determined to present it entire for the benefit of our readers.</p> -<a name="sect19"></a> -<h4>THE MAID OF MALINES.</h4> - -<p>It was noonday in the town of Malines, or Mechlin, as the English -usually term it: the Sabbath bell had summoned the inhabitants to -divine worship; and the crowd that had loitered round the Church of St. -Rembauld, had gradually emptied itself within the spacious aisles of -the sacred edifice.</p> - -<p>A young man was standing in the street, with his eyes bent on the -ground, and apparently listening for some sound; for, without raising -his looks from the rude pavement, he turned to every corner of it with -an intent and anxious expression of countenance; he held in one hand a -staff, in the other a long slender cord, the end of which trailed on -the ground; every now and then he called, with a plaintive voice, -"Fido, Fido, come back! Why hast thou deserted me?" Fido returned not: -the dog, wearied of confinement, had slipped from the string, and was -at play with his kind in a distant quarter of the town, leaving the -blind man to seek his way as he might to his solitary inn.</p> - -<p>By and by a light step passed through the street, and the young -stranger's face brightened—</p> - -<p>"Pardon me," said he, turning to the spot where his quick ear had -caught the sound, "and direct me, if you are not by chance much pressed -for a few moment's time, to the hotel <i>Mortier d'or</i>."</p> - -<p>It was a young woman, whose dress betokened that she belonged to the -middling class of life, whom he thus addressed. "It is some distance -hence, sir," said she, "but if you continue your way straight on for -about a hundred yards, and then take the second turn to your right -hand—"</p> - -<p>"Alas!" interrupted the stranger, with a melancholy smile, "your -direction will avail me little; my dog has deserted me, and I am -blind!"</p> - -<p>There was something in these words, and in the stranger's voice, which -went irresistibly to the heart of the young woman. "Pray forgive me," -she said, almost with tears in her eyes, "I did not perceive your—" -misfortune, she was about to say, but she checked herself with an -instinctive delicacy. "Lean upon me, I will conduct you to the door; -nay, sir," observing that he hesitated, "I have time enough to spare, I -assure you."</p> - -<p>The stranger placed his hand on the young woman's arm, and though -Lucille was naturally so bashful that even her mother would laughingly -reproach her for the excess of a maiden virtue, she felt not the least -pang of shame, as she found herself thus suddenly walking through the -streets of Malines, alone with a young stranger, whose dress and air -betokened him of a rank superior to her own.</p> - -<p>"Your voice is very gentle," said he, after a pause, "and that," he -added, with a slight sigh, "is the criterion by which I only know the -young and the beautiful." Lucille now blushed, and with a slight -mixture of pain in the blush, for she knew well that to beauty she had -no pretension. "Are you a native of this town?" continued he. "Yes, -sir; my father holds a small office in the customs, and my mother and I -eke out his salary by making lace. We are called poor, but we do not -feel it, sir."</p> - -<p>"You are fortunate: there is no wealth like the heart's wealth, -content," answered the blind man mournfully.</p> - -<p>"And Monsieur," said Lucille, feeling angry with herself that she had -awakened a natural envy in the stranger's mind, and anxious to change -the subject—"and Monsieur, has he been long at Malines?"</p> - -<p>"But yesterday. I am passing through the Low Countries on a tour; -perhaps you smile at the tour of a blind man—but it is wearisome even -to the blind to rest always in the same place. I thought during church -time, when the streets were empty, that I might, by the help of my dog, -enjoy safely, at least the air, if not the sight of the town; but there -are some persons, methinks, who cannot even have a dog for a friend."</p> - -<p>The blind man spoke bitterly,—the desertion of his dog had touched him -to the core. Lucille wiped her eyes. "And does Monsieur travel then -alone?" said she; and looking at his face more attentively than she had -yet ventured to do, she saw that he was scarcely above two-and-twenty. -"His father, his <i>mother</i>," she added, with an emphasis on the last -word, "are they not with him?"</p> - -<p>"I am an orphan," answered the stranger; "and I have neither brother -nor sister."</p> - -<p>The desolate condition of the blind man quite melted Lucille; never had -she been so strongly affected. She felt a strange flutter at the -heart—a secret and earnest sympathy, that attracted her at once -towards him. She wished that heaven had suffered her to be his sister.</p> - -<p>The contrast between the youth and the form of the stranger, and the -affliction which took hope from the one, and activity from the other, -increased the compassion he excited. His features were remarkably -regular, and had a certain nobleness in their outline; and his frame -was gracefully and firmly knit, though he moved cautiously and with no -cheerful step.</p> - -<p>They had now passed into a narrow street leading towards the hotel, -when they heard behind them the clatter of hoofs; and Lucille, looking -hastily back, saw that a troop of the Belgian horse was passing thro' -town.</p> - -<p>She drew her charge close by the wall, and trembling with fear for him, -she stationed herself by his side. The troop passed at a full trot -through the street; and at the sound of their clanging arms, and the -ringing hoofs of their heavy chargers, Lucille might have seen, had she -looked at the blind man's face, that its sad features kindled with -enthusiasm, and his head was raised proudly from its wonted and -melancholy bend. "Thank heaven," she said, as the troop had nearly -passed them, "the danger is over!" Not so. One of the last two soldiers -who rode abreast, was unfortunately mounted on a young and unmanageable -horse. The rider's oaths and digging spur only increased the fire and -impatience of the charger; he plunged from side to side of the narrow -street.</p> - -<p>"<i>Gardez vous</i>," cried the horseman, as he was borne on to the place -where Lucille and the stranger stood against the wall; "are ye mad—why -do you not run?"</p> - -<p>"For heaven's sake, for mercy sake, he is blind!" cried Lucille, -clinging to the stranger's side.</p> - -<p>"Save yourself, my kind guide!" said the stranger. But Lucille dreamt -not of such desertion. The trooper wrested the horse's head from the -spot where they stood; with a snort, as he felt the spur, the enraged -animal lashed out with its hind legs; and Lucille, unable to save -<i>both</i>, threw herself before the blind man, and received the shock -directed against him; her slight and delicate arm fell shattered by her -side—the horseman was borne onward. "Thank God, <i>you</i> are saved!" was -poor Lucille's exclamation; and she fell, overcome with pain and -terror, into the arms which the stranger mechanically opened to receive -her.</p> - -<p>"My guide, my friend!" cried he, "you are hurt, you—"</p> - -<p>"No, sir," interrupted Lucille, faintly, "I am better, I am well. -<i>This</i> arm, if you please—we are not far from your hotel now."</p> - -<p>But the stranger's ear, tutored to every inflection of voice, told him -at once of the pain she suffered; he drew from her by degrees the -confession of the injury she had sustained; but the generous girl did -not tell him it had been incurred solely in his protection. He now -insisted on reversing their duties, and accompanying <i>her</i> to her home; -and Lucille, almost fainting with pain, and hardly able to move, was -forced to consent. But a few steps down the next turning stood the -humble mansion of her father—they reached it—and Lucille scarcely -crossed the threshold, before she sank down, and for some minutes was -insensible to pain. It was left to the stranger to explain, and to -beseech them immediately to send for a surgeon, "the most skilful—the -most practised in town," said he. "See, I am rich, and this is the -least I can do to atone to your generous daughter for not forsaking -even a stranger in peril."</p> - -<p>He held out his purse as he spoke, but the father refused the offer; -and it saved the blind man some shame that he could not see the blush -of honest resentment with which so poor a species of remuneration was -put aside.</p> - -<p>The young man staid till the surgeon arrived, till the arm was set; nor -did he depart until he had obtained a promise from the mother, that he -should learn the next morning how the sufferer had passed the night.</p> - -<p>The next morning, indeed, he had intended to quit a town that offers -but little temptation to the traveller; but he tarried day after day, -until Lucille herself accompanied her mother to assure him of her -recovery.</p> - -<p>You know, or at least I do, dearest Gertrude, that there <i>is</i> such a -thing as love at the first meeting—a secret and unaccountable affinity -between persons (strangers before,) which draws them irresistibly -together. If there were truth in Plato's beautiful phantasy, that our -souls were a portion of the stars, it might be, that spirits thus -attracted to each other, have drawn their original light from the same -orb; and they thus but yearn for a renewal of their former union. Yet, -without recurring to such ideal solutions of a daily mystery, it was -but natural that one in the forlorn and desolate condition of Eugene -St. Amand, should have felt a certain tenderness for a person who had -so generously suffered for his sake.</p> - -<p>The darkness to which he was condemned did not shut from his mind's eye -the haunting images of ideal beauty; rather, on the contrary, in his -perpetual and unoccupied solitude, he fed the reveries of an -imagination naturally warm, and a heart eager for sympathy.</p> - -<p>He had said rightly that his only test of beauty was in the melody of -voice; and never had a softer or a more thrilling tone than that of the -young maiden touched upon his ear. Her exclamation, so beautifully -denying self, so devoted in its charity, "Thank God, <i>you</i> are saved!" -uttered too, in the moment of her own suffering, rang constantly upon -his soul, and he yielded, without precisely defining their nature, to -vague and delicious sentiments, that his youth had never awakened to -till then. And Lucille—the very accident that had happened to her on -his behalf, only deepened the interest she had already conceived for -one who, in the first flush of youth, was thus cut off from the glad -objects of life, and led to a night of years, desolate and alone. There -is, to your beautiful and kindly sex, a perpetual and gushing -<i>lovingness to protect</i>. This makes them the angels of sickness, the -comforters of age, the fosterers of childhood; and this feeling, in -Lucille peculiarly developed, had already inexpressibly linked her -compassionate nature to the lot of the unfortunate traveller. With -ardent affections, and with thoughts beyond her station and her years, -she was not without that modest vanity which made her painfully -susceptible to her own deficiencies in beauty. Instinctively conscious -of how deeply she herself could love, she believed it impossible that -she could ever be so loved in return. This stranger, so superior in her -eyes to all she had yet seen, was the first out of her own household -who had ever addressed her in that voice, which by tones, not words, -speaks that admiration most dear to a woman's heart. To <i>him</i> she was -beautiful, and her lovely mind spoke out undimmed by the imperfections -of her face. Not, indeed, that Lucille was wholly without personal -attraction; her light step and graceful form were elastic with the -freshness of youth, and her mouth and smile had so gentle and tender an -expression, that there were moments when it would not have been the -blind only who would have mistaken her to be beautiful. Her early -childhood had indeed given the promise of attractions, which the -small-pox, that then fearful malady, had inexorably marred. It had not -only seared the smooth skin and the brilliant hues, but utterly changed -even the character of the features. It so happened that Lucille's -family were celebrated for beauty, and vain of that celebrity; and so -bitterly had her parents deplored the effects of the cruel malady, that -poor Lucille had been early taught to consider them far more grievous -than they really were, and to exaggerate the advantages of that beauty, -the loss of which was considered by her parents so heavy a misfortune. -Lucille too, had a cousin named Julie, who was the wonder of all -Malines for her personal perfections; and as the cousins were much -together, the contrast was too striking not to occasion frequent -mortification to Lucille. But every misfortune has something of a -counterpoise; and the consciousness of personal inferiority, had -meekened, without souring, her temper—had given gentleness to a spirit -that otherwise might have been too high, and humility to a mind that -was naturally strong, impassioned, and energetic.</p> - -<p>And yet Lucille had long conquered the one disadvantage she most -dreaded in the want of beauty. Lucille was never known but to be loved. -Wherever came her presence, her bright and soft mind diffused a certain -inexpressible charm; and where she was not, a something was missing -from the scene which not even Julie's beauty could replace.</p> - -<p>"I propose," said St. Amand to Madame le Tisseur, Lucille's mother, as -he sat in her little salon,—for he had already contracted that -acquaintance with the family which permitted him to be led to their -house, to return the visits Madame le Tisseur had made him, and his -dog, once more returned a penitent to his master, always conducted his -steps to the humble abode, and stopped instinctively at the door,—"I -propose," said St. Amand, after a pause, and with some embarrassment, -"to stay a little while longer at Malines; the air agrees with me, and -I like the quiet of the place; but you are aware, Madame, that at a -hotel among strangers, I feel my situation somewhat cheerless. I have -been thinking"—St. Amand paused again—"I have been thinking that if I -could persuade some agreeable family to receive me as a lodger, I would -fix myself here for some weeks. I am easily pleased."</p> - -<p>"Doubtless there are many in Malines who would be too happy to receive -such a lodger."</p> - -<p>"Will you receive me?" said St. Amand, abruptly. "It was of your family -I thought."</p> - -<p>"Of us? Monsieur is too flattering, but we have scarcely a room good -enough for you."</p> - -<p>"What difference between one room and another can there be to me? That -is the best apartment to my choice in which the human voice sounds most -kindly."</p> - -<p>The arrangement was made, and St. Amand came now to reside beneath the -same roof as Lucille. And was she not happy that <i>he</i> wanted so -constant an attendance? was she not happy that she was ever of use? St. -Amand was passionately fond of music: he played himself with a skill -that was only surpassed by the exquisite melody of his voice; and was -not Lucille happy when she sat mute and listening to such sounds as at -Malines were never heard before? Was she not happy in gazing on a face -to whose melancholy aspect her voice instantly summoned the smile? Was -she not happy when the music ceased, and St. Amand called "Lucille?" -Did not her own name uttered by that voice, seem to her even sweeter -than the music? Was she not happy when they walked out in the still -evenings of summer, and her arm thrilled beneath the light touch of one -to whom she was so necessary? Was she not proud in her happiness, and -was there not something like worship in the gratitude she felt to him, -for raising her humble spirit to the luxury of feeling herself loved?</p> - -<p>St. Amand's parents were French; they had resided in the neighborhood -of Amiens, where they had inherited a competent property, to which he -had succeeded about two years previous to the date of my story.</p> - -<p>He had been blind from the age of three years. "I know not," said he, -as he related these particulars to Lucille one evening when they were -alone; "I know not what the earth may be like, or the heaven, or the -rivers whose voice at least I can hear, for I have no recollection -beyond that of a confused, but delicious blending of a thousand -glorious colors—a bright and quick sense of joy—<small>A VISIBLE MUSIC</small>. But -it is only since my childhood closed that I have mourned, as I now -unceasingly mourn, for the light of day. My boyhood passed in a quiet -cheerfulness; the least trifle then could please and occupy the -vacancies of my mind; but it was as I took delight in being read -to,—as I listened to the vivid descriptions of poetry,—as I glowed at -the recital of great deeds,—as I was made acquainted by books, with -the energy, the action, the heat, the fervor, the pomp, the enthusiasm -of life, that I gradually opened to the sense of all I was forever -denied. I felt that I existed, not lived; and that, in the midst of the -Universal Liberty, I was sentenced to a prison, from whose blank walls -there was no escape. Still, however, while my parents lived, I had -something of consolation; at least I was not alone. They died, and a -sudden and dread solitude—a vast and empty dreariness settled upon my -dungeon. One old servant only, who had nursed me from my childhood, who -had known me in my short privilege of light, by whose recollections my -mind could grope back its way through the dark and narrow passages of -memory, to faint glimpses of the sun, was all that remained to me of -human sympathies. It did not suffice, however, to content me with a -home where my father and my mother's kind voice were <i>not</i>. A restless -impatience, an anxiety to move, possessed me; and I set out from my -home, journeying whither I cared not, so that at least I could change -an air that weighed upon me like a palpable burthen. I took only this -old attendant as my companion; he too died three months since at -Bruxelles, worn out with years. Alas! I had forgotten that he was old, -for I saw not his progress to decay; and now, save my faithless dog, I -was utterly alone, till I came hither and found <i>thee</i>."</p> - -<p>Lucille stooped down to caress the dog; she blest the desertion that -had led to a friend who never could desert.</p> - -<p>But however much and however gratefully St. Amand loved Lucille, her -power availed not to chase the melancholy from his brow, and to -reconcile him to his forlorn condition.</p> - -<p>"Ah, would that I could see thee! Would that I could look upon a face -that my heart vainly endeavors to delineate."</p> - -<p>"If thou couldst," sighed Lucille, "thou wouldst cease to love me."</p> - -<p>"Impossible!" cried St. Amand, passionately; "however the world may -find thee, <i>thou</i> wouldst become my standard of beauty, and I should -judge not of thee by others, but of others by thee."</p> - -<p>He loved to hear Lucille read to him; and mostly he loved the -descriptions of war, of travel, of wild adventure, and yet they -occasioned him the most pain. Often she paused from the page as she -heard him sigh, and felt that she would even have renounced the bliss -of being loved by him, if she could have restored to him that blessing, -the desire for which haunted him as a spectre.</p> - -<p>Lucille's family were Catholic, and, like most in their station, they -possessed the superstitions, as well as the devotion of the faith. -Sometimes they amused themselves of an evening by the various legends -and imaginary miracles of their calendar: and once, as they were thus -conversing with two or three of their neighbors, "The Tomb of the Three -Kings of Cologne" became the main topic of their wandering recitals. -However strong was the sense of Lucille, she was, as you will readily -conceive, naturally influenced by the belief of those with whom she had -been brought up from her cradle, and she listened to tale after tale of -the miracles wrought at the consecrated tomb, as earnestly and -undoubtingly as the rest.</p> - -<p>And the Kings of the East were no ordinary saints; to the relics of the -Three Magi, who followed the Star of Bethlehem, and were the first -potentates of the earth who adored its Saviour, well might the pious -Catholic suppose that a peculiar power and a healing sanctity would -belong. Each of the circle (St. Amand, who had been more than usually -silent, and even gloomy during the day, had retired to his apartment, -for there were some moments, when in the sadness of his thoughts, he -sought that solitude which he so impatiently fled from at others)—each -of the circle had some story to relate equally veracious and -indisputable, of an infirmity cured, or a prayer accorded, or a sin -atoned for at the foot of the holy tomb. One story peculiarly affected -Lucille; the narrator, a venerable old man with gray locks, solemnly -declared himself a witness of its truth.</p> - -<p>A woman at Anvers had given birth to a son, the offspring of an illicit -connexion, who came into the world deaf and dumb. The unfortunate -mother believed the calamity a punishment for her own sin. "Ah, would," -said she, "that the affliction had fallen only upon me! Wretch that I -am, my innocent child is punished for my offence!" This idea haunted -her night and day: she pined and could not be comforted. As the child -grew up, and wound himself more and more round her heart, its caresses -added new pangs to her remorse; and at length (continued the narrator) -hearing perpetually of the holy fame of the Tomb of Cologne, she -resolved upon a pilgrimage barefoot to the shrine. "God is merciful," -said she, "and he who called Magdaline his sister, may take the -mother's curse from the child." She then went to Cologne; she poured -her tears, her penitence, and her prayers, at the sacred tomb. When she -returned to her native town, what was her dismay as she approached her -cottage to behold it a heap of ruins!—its blackened rafters and -yawning casements betokened the ravages of fire. The poor woman sunk -upon the ground utterly overpowered. Had her son perished? At that -moment she heard the cry of a child's voice, and, lo! her child rushed -to her arms, and called her "mother!"</p> - -<p>He had been saved from the fire which had broken out seven days before; -but in the terror he had suffered, the string that tied his tongue had -been loosened; he had uttered articulate sounds of distress; the curse -was removed, and one word at least the kind neighbors had already -taught him, to welcome his mother's return. What cared she now that her -substance was gone, that her roof was ashes; she bowed in grateful -submission to so mild a stroke; her prayer had been heard, and the sin -of the mother was visited no longer on the child.</p> - -<p>I have said, dear Gertrude, that this story made a deep impression upon -Lucille. A misfortune so nearly akin to that of St. Amand, removed by -the prayer of another, filled her with devoted thoughts, and a -beautiful hope. "Is not the tomb still standing?" thought she; "is not -God still in heaven? He who heard the guilty, may he not hear the -guiltless? Is he not the God of love? Are not the affections the -offerings that please him best? and what though the child's mediator -was his mother, can even a mother love her child more tenderly than I -love Eugene? But if, Lucille, thy prayer be granted, if he recover his -sight, <i>thy</i> charm is gone, he will love thee no longer. No matter! be -it so; I shall at least have made him happy!"</p> - -<p>Such were the thoughts that filled the mind of Lucille; she cherished -them till they settled into resolution, and she secretly vowed to -perform her pilgrimage of love. She told neither St. Amand nor her -parents of her intention; she knew the obstacles such an annunciation -would create. Fortunately, she had an aunt settled at Bruxelles, to -whom she had been accustomed, once in every year, to pay a month's -visit, and at that time she generally took with her the work of a -twelve-month's industry, which found a readier sale at Bruxelles than -Malines. Lucille and St. Amand were already betrothed; their wedding -was shortly to take place; and the custom of the country leading -parents, however poor, to nourish the honorable ambition of giving some -dowry with their daughters, Lucille found it easy to hide the object of -her departure, under the pretence of taking the lace to Bruxelles, -which had been the year's labor of her mother and herself; it would -sell for sufficient at least to defray the preparations for the -wedding.</p> - -<p>"Thou art ever right, child," said Madame Le Tisseur; "the richer St. -Amand is, why the less oughtest thou to go a beggar to his house."</p> - -<p>In fact, the honest ambition of the good people was excited; their -pride had been hurt by the envy of the town and the current -congratulations on so advantageous a marriage; and they employed -themselves in counting up the fortune they should be able to give to -their only child, and flattering their pardonable vanity with the -notion that there would be no such great disproportion in the connexion -after all. They were right, but not in their own view of the estimate; -the wealth that Lucille brought was what fate could not -lessen,—reverse could not reach,—the ungracious seasons could not -blight its sweet harvest,—imprudence could not dissipate,—fraud could -not steal one grain from its abundant coffers! Like the purse in the -fairy tale, its use was hourly, its treasure inexhaustible!</p> - -<p>St. Amand alone was not to be won to her departure; he chafed at the -notion of a dowry: he was not appeased even by Lucille's -representation, that it was only to gratify and not to impoverish her -parents. "And <i>thou</i>, too, canst leave me!" he said, in that plaintive -voice which had made his first charm to Lucille's heart. "It is a -second blindness."</p> - -<p>"But for a few days; a fortnight at most, dearest Eugene!"</p> - -<p>"A fortnight! you do not reckon time as the blind do," said St. Amand, -bitterly.</p> - -<p>"But listen, listen, dear Eugene," said Lucille, weeping. The sound of -her sobs restored him to a sense of his ingratitude. Alas, he knew not -how much he had to be grateful for. He held out his arms to her; -"Forgive me," said he. "Those who can see nature know not how terrible -it is to be alone."</p> - -<p>"But my mother will not leave you."</p> - -<p>"She is not you!"</p> - -<p>"And Julie," said Lucille, hesitatingly.</p> - -<p>"What is Julie to me?"</p> - -<p>"Ah, you are the only one, save my parents, who could think of me in -her presence."</p> - -<p>"And why, Lucille?"</p> - -<p>"Why! She is more beautiful than a dream."</p> - -<p>"Say not so. Would I could see, that I might prove to the world how -much more beautiful thou art. There is no music in <i>her</i> voice."</p> - -<p>The evening before Lucille departed, she sat up late with St. Amand and -her mother. They conversed on the future; they made plans; in the wide -sterility of the world, they laid out the garden of household love, and -filled it with flowers, forgetful of the wind that scatters and the -frost that kills. And when, leaning on Lucille's arm, St. Amand sought -his chamber, and they parted at his door, which closed upon her, she -fell down on her knees at the threshold, and poured out the fulness of -her heart in a prayer for his safety, and the fulfilment of her timid -hope.</p> - -<p>At daybreak she was consigned to the conveyance that performed the -short journey from Malines to Bruxelles. When she entered the town, -instead of seeking her aunt, she rested at an auberge in the suburbs, -and confiding her little basket of lace to the care of its hostess, she -set out alone, and on foot, upon the errand of her heart's lovely -superstition. And erring though it was, her faith redeemed its -weakness—her affection made it even sacred. And well may we believe, -that the eye which reads all secrets scarce looked reprovingly on that -fanaticism, whose only infirmity was love.</p> - -<p>So fearful was she, lest, by rendering the task too easy, she might -impair the effect, that she scarcely allowed herself rest or food. -Sometimes, in the heat of noon, she wandered a little from the -road-side, and under the spreading lime-tree surrendered her mind to -its sweet and bitter thoughts; but ever the restlessness of her -enterprise urged her on, and faint, weary, and with bleeding feet, she -started up and continued her way. At length she reached the ancient -city, where a holier age has scarce worn from the habits and aspects of -men the Roman trace. She prostrated herself at the tomb of the Magi: -she proffered her ardent but humble prayer to Him before whose son -those fleshless heads (yet to faith at least preserved) had, nearly -eighteen centuries ago, bowed in adoration. Twice every day, for a -whole week, she sought the same spot, and poured forth the same prayer. -The last day an old priest, who, hovering in the church, had observed -her constantly at devotion, with that fatherly interest which the -better ministers of the Catholic sect (that sect which has covered the -earth with the mansions of charity) feel for the unhappy, approached -her as she was retiring with moist and downcast eyes, and saluting her, -assumed the privilege of his order, to inquire if there was aught in -which his advice or aid could serve. There was something in the -venerable air of the old man which encouraged Lucille; she opened her -heart to him; she told him all. The good priest was much moved by her -simplicity and earnestness. He questioned her minutely as to the -peculiar species of blindness with which St. Amand was afflicted; and -after musing a little while, he said, "Daughter, God is great and -merciful, we must trust in his power, but we must not forget that he -mostly works by mortal agents. As you pass through Louvain in your way -home, fail not to see there a certain physician, named Le Kain. He is -celebrated through Flanders for the cures he has wrought among the -blind, and his advice is sought by all classes from far and near. He -lives hard by the Hotel de Ville, but any one will inform you of his -residence. Stay, my child, you shall take him a note from me; he is a -benevolent and kindly man, and you shall tell him exactly the same -story (and with the same voice) you have told to me."</p> - -<p>So saying the priest made Lucille accompany him to his home, and -forcing her to refresh herself less sparingly than she had yet done -since she had left Malines, he gave her his blessing, and a letter to -Le Kain, which he rightly judged would insure her a patient hearing -from the physician. Well known among all men of science was the name of -the priest, and a word of recommendation from him went farther, where -virtue and wisdom were honored, than the longest letter from the -haughtiest Sieur in Flanders.</p> - -<p>With a patient and hopeful spirit, the young pilgrim turned her back on -the Roman Cologne, and now about to rejoin St. Amand, she felt neither -the heat of the sun nor the weariness of the road. It was one day at -noon that she again passed through L<small>OUVAIN</small>, and she soon found herself -by the noble edifice of the H<small>OTEL DE</small> V<small>ILLE</small>. Proud rose its Gothic -spires against the sky, and the sun shone bright on its rich tracery -and Gothic casements; the broad open street was crowded with persons of -all classes, and it was with some modest alarm that Lucille lowered her -veil and mingled with the throng. It was easy, as the priest had said, -to find the house of Le Kain; she bade the servant take the priest's -letter to his master, and she was not long kept waiting before she was -admitted to the physician's presence. He was a spare, tall man, with a -bald front, and a calm and friendly countenance. He was not less -touched than the priest had been by the manner in which she narrated -her story, described the affliction of her betrothed, and the hope that -had inspired the pilgrimage she had just made.</p> - -<p>"Well," said he, encouragingly, "we must see our patient. You can bring -him hither to me."</p> - -<p>"Ah, sir, I had hoped—" Lucille stopped suddenly.</p> - -<p>"What, my young friend?"</p> - -<p>"That I might have had the triumph of bringing you to Malines. I know, -sir, what you are about to say; and I know, sir, your time must be very -valuable; but I am not so poor as I seem, and Eugene, that is Monsieur -St. Amand, is very rich, and—and I have at Bruxelles what I am sure is -a large sum; it was to have provided for the wedding, but it is most -heartily at your service, sir."</p> - -<p>Le Kain smiled; he was one of those men who love to read the human -heart when its leaves are fair and undefiled; and, in the benevolence -of science, he would have gone a longer journey than from Louvain to -Malines to give sight to the blind, even had St. Amand been a beggar.</p> - -<p>"Well, well," said he, "but you forget that Monsieur St. Amand is not -the only one in the world who wants me. I must look at my note-book, -and see if I can be spared for a day or two."</p> - -<p>So saying he glanced at his memoranda; every thing smiled on Lucille: -he had no engagements that his partner could not fulfil, for some days; -he consented to accompany Lucille to Malines.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile cheerless and dull had passed the time to St. Amand; he was -perpetually asking Madame Le Tisseur what hour it was; it was almost -his only question. There seemed to him no sun in the heavens, no -freshness in the air, and he even forbore his favorite music; the -instrument had lost its sweetness since Lucille was not by to listen.</p> - -<p>It was natural that the gossips of Malines should feel some envy at the -marriage Lucille was about to make with one whose competence report had -exaggerated into prodigal wealth, whose birth had been elevated from -the respectable to the noble, and whose handsome person was clothed, by -the interest excited by his misfortune, with the beauty of Antinous. -Even that misfortune, which ought to have levelled all distinctions, -was not sufficient to check the general envy; perhaps to some of the -dames of Malines blindness in a husband was indeed not the least -agreeable of all qualifications! But there was one in whom this envy -rankled with a peculiar sting; it was the beautiful, the all-conquering -Julie. That the humble, the neglected Lucille should be preferred to -her; that Lucille, whose existence was well-nigh forgot beside Julie's, -should become thus suddenly of importance; that there should be one -person in the world, and that person young, rich, handsome, to whom she -was less than nothing, when weighed in the balance with Lucille, -mortified to the quick a vanity that had never till then received a -wound. "It is well," she would say, with a bitter jest, "that Lucille's -lover is blind. To be the one it is necessary to be the other!"</p> - -<p>During Lucille's absence she had been constantly in Madame Le Tisseur's -house—indeed Lucille had prayed her to be so. She had sought, with an -industry that astonished herself, to supply Lucille's place, and among -the strange contradictions of human nature, she had learned, during her -efforts to please, to love the object of those efforts,—as much at -least as she was capable of loving.</p> - -<p>She conceived a positive hatred to Lucille; she persisted in imagining -that nothing but the accident of first acquaintance had deprived her of -a conquest with which she persuaded herself her happiness had become -connected. Had St. Amand never loved Lucille, and proposed to Julie, -his misfortune would have made her reject him, despite his wealth and -his youth; but to be Lucille's lover, and a conquest to be won from -Lucille, raised him instantly to an importance not his own. Safe, -however, in his affliction, the arts and beauty of Julie fell harmless -on the fidelity of St. Amand. Nay, he liked her less than ever, for it -seemed an impertinence in any one to counterfeit the anxiety and -watchfulness of Lucille.</p> - -<p>"It is time, surely it is time, Madame Le Tisseur, that Lucille should -return. She might have sold all the lace in Malines by this time," said -St. Amand one day, peevishly.</p> - -<p>"Patience, my dear friend; patience, perhaps she may return to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"To-morrow! let me see, it is only six o'clock, only six, you are -sure?"</p> - -<p>"Just five, dear Eugene shall I read to you? this is a new book from -Paris, it has made a great noise," said Julie.</p> - -<p>"You are very kind, but I will not trouble you."</p> - -<p>"It is any thing but trouble."</p> - -<p>"In a word, then, I would rather not."</p> - -<p>"Oh! that he could see," thought Julie; "would I not punish him for -this!"</p> - -<p>"I hear carriage-wheels; who can be passing this way? Surely it is the -voiturier from Bruxelles," said St. Amand, starting up, "it is his day, -his hour, too. No, no, it is a lighter vehicle," and he sank down -listlessly on his seat.</p> - -<p>Nearer and nearer rolled the wheels; they turned the corner; they -stopped at the lowly door; and—overcome,—overjoyed, Lucille was -clasped to the bosom of St. Amand.</p> - -<p>"Stay," said she, blushing, as she recovered her self-possession, and -turned to Le Kain, "pray pardon me, sir. Dear Eugene, I have brought -with me one who, by God's blessing, may yet restore you to sight."</p> - -<p>"We must not be sanguine, my child," said Le Kain; "any thing is better -than disappointment."</p> - -<p>To close this part of my story, dear Gertrude, Le Kain examined St. -Amand, and the result of the examination was a confident belief in the -probability of a cure. St. Amand gladly consented to the experiment of -an operation; it succeeded—the blind man saw! Oh! what were Lucille's -feelings, what her emotion, what her joy, when she found the object of -her pilgrimage—of her prayers—fulfilled! That joy was so intense, -that in the eternal alterations of human life she might have foretold -from its excess how bitter the sorrows fated to ensue.</p> - -<p>As soon as by degrees the patient's new sense became reconciled to the -light, his first, his only demand was for Lucille. "No, let me not see -her alone, let me see her in the midst of you all, that I may convince -you that the heart never is mistaken in its instincts." With a fearful, -a sinking presentiment, Lucille yielded to the request to which the -impetuous St. Amand would hear indeed no denial. The father, the -mother, Julie, Lucille, Julie's younger sisters assembled in the little -parlor; the door opened, and St. Amand stood hesitating on the -threshold. One look around sufficed to him; his face brightened, he -uttered a cry of joy. "Lucille! Lucille!" he exclaimed, "It is you, I -know it, <i>you</i> only!" He sprang forward, <i>and fell at the feet of -Julie!</i></p> - -<p>Flushed, elated, triumphant, Julie bent upon him her sparkling eyes; -<i>she</i> did not undeceive him.</p> - -<p>"You are wrong, you mistake," said Madame Le Tisseur, in confusion; -"that is her cousin Julie, this is your Lucille."</p> - -<p>St. Amand rose, turned, saw Lucille, and at that moment she wished -herself in her grave. Surprise, mortification, disappointment, almost -dismay, were depicted in his gaze. He had been haunting his -prison-house with dreams, and, now set free, he felt how unlike they -were to the truth. Too new to observation to read the wo, the despair, -the lapse and shrinking of the whole frame, that his look occasioned -Lucille, he yet felt, when the first shock of his surprise was over, -that it was not thus he should thank her who had restored him to sight. -He hastened to redeem his error; ah! how could it be redeemed?</p> - -<p>From that hour all Lucille's happiness was at an end; her fairy palace -was shattered in the dust; the magician's wand was broken up; the Ariel -was given to the winds; and the bright enchantment no longer -distinguished the land she lived in from the rest of the barren world. -It was true that St. Amand's words were kind; it is true that he -remembered with the deepest gratitude all she had done in his behalf; -it is true that he forced himself again and again to say, "She is my -betrothed—my benefactress!" and he cursed himself to think that the -feelings he had entertained for her were fled. Where was the passion of -his words? where the ardor of his tone? where that play and light of -countenance which her step, <i>her</i> voice could formerly call forth? When -they were alone he was embarrassed and constrained, and almost cold; -his hand no longer sought hers; his soul no longer missed her if she -was absent a moment from his side. When in their household circle, he -seemed visibly more at ease; but did his eyes fasten upon her who had -opened them to the day? did they not wander at every interval with a -too eloquent admiration to the blushing and radiant face of the -exulting Julie? This was not, you will believe, suddenly perceptible in -one day or one week, but every day it was perceptible more and more. -Yet still—bewitched, ensnared as St. Amand was—he never perhaps would -have been guilty of an infidelity that he strove with the keenest -remorse to wrestle against, had it not been for the fatal contrast, at -the first moment of his gushing enthusiasm, which Julie had presented -to Lucille; but for that he would have formed no previous idea of real -and living beauty to aid the disappointment of his imaginings and his -dreams. He would have seen Lucille young and graceful, and with eyes -beaming affection, contrasted only by the wrinkled countenance and -bended frame of her parents, and she would have completed her conquest -over him before he had discovered that she was less beautiful than -others; nay more—that infidelity never could have lasted above the -first few days, if the vain and heartless object of it had not exerted -every art, all the power and witchery of her beauty, to cement and -continue it. The unfortunate Lucille—so susceptible to the slightest -change in those she loved, so diffident of herself, so proud too in -that diffidence—no longer necessary, no longer missed, no longer -loved—could not bear to endure the galling comparison of the past and -present. She fled uncomplainingly to her chamber to indulge her tears, -and thus, unhappily, absent as her father generally was during the day, -and busied as her mother was either at work or in household matters, -she left Julie a thousand opportunities to complete the power she had -begun to wield over—no, not the heart!—the <i>senses</i> of St. Amand! -Yet, still not suspecting, in the open generosity of her mind, the -whole extent of her affliction, poor Lucille buoyed herself at times -with the hope that when once married, when once in that intimacy of -friendship, the unspeakable love she felt for him could disclose itself -with less restraint than at present,—she should perhaps regain a heart -which had been so devotedly hers, that she could not think that without -a fault it was irrevocably gone: on that hope she anchored all the -little happiness that remained to her. And still St. Amand pressed -their marriage, but in what different tones! In fact, he wished to -preclude from himself the possibility of a deeper ingratitude than that -which he had incurred already. He vainly thought that the broken reed -of love might be bound up and strengthened by the ties of duty; and at -least he was anxious that his hand, his fortune, his esteem, his -gratitude, should give to Lucille the only recompense it was now in his -power to bestow. Meanwhile, left alone so often with Julie, and Julie -bent on achieving the last triumph over his heart, St. Amand was -gradually preparing a far different reward, a far different return for -her to whom he owed so incalculable a debt.</p> - -<p>There was a garden behind the house, in which there was a small arbor, -where often in the summer evenings Eugene and Lucille had sat -together—hours never to return! One day she heard from her own -chamber, where she sat mourning, the sound of St. Amand's flute -swelling gently from that beloved and consecrated bower. She wept as -she heard it, and the memories that the music bore softening and -endearing his image, she began to reproach herself that she had yielded -so often to the impulse of her wounded feelings; that, chilled by <i>his</i> -coldness, she had left him so often to himself, and had not -sufficiently dared to tell him of that affection which, in her modest -self-depreciation, constituted her only pretension to his love. -"Perhaps he is alone now," she thought; "the tune too is one which he -knew that I loved:" and with her heart on her step, she stole from the -house and sought the arbor. She had scarce turned from her chamber when -the flute ceased; as she neared the arbor she heard voices—Julie's -voice in grief, St. Amand's in consolation. A dread foreboding seized -her; her feet clung rooted to the earth.</p> - -<p>"Yes, marry her—forget me," said Julie; "in a few days you will be -another's and I, I—forgive me, Eugene, forgive me that I have -disturbed your happiness. I am punished sufficiently—my heart will -break, but it will break loving you"—sobs choked Julie's voice.</p> - -<p>"Oh, speak not thus," said St. Amand. "I, <i>I</i> only am to blame; I, -false to both, to both ungrateful. Oh, from the hour that these eyes -opened upon you I drank in a new life; the sun itself to me was less -wonderful than your beauty. But—but—let me forget that hour. What do -I not owe to Lucille? I shall be wretched—I shall deserve to be so; -for shall I not think, Julie, that I have imbittered our life with your -ill-fated love? But all that I can give—my hand—my home—my plighted -faith—must be hers. Nay, Julie, nay—why that look? could I act -otherwise? can I dream otherwise? Whatever the sacrifice, <i>must</i> I not -render it? Ah, what do I owe to Lucille, were it only for the thought -that but for her I might never have seen thee."</p> - -<p>Lucille staid to hear no more; with the same soft step as that which -had borne her within hearing of these fatal words, she turned back once -more to her desolate chamber.</p> - -<p>That evening, as St. Amand was sitting alone in his apartment, he heard -a gentle knock at the door. "Come in," he said, and Lucille entered. He -started in some confusion, and would have taken her hand, but she -gently repulsed him. She took a seat opposite to him, and looking down, -thus addressed him:—</p> - -<p>"My dear Eugene, that is, Monsieur St. Amand, I have something on my -mind that I think it better to speak at once; and if I do not exactly -express what I would wish to say, you must not be offended at Lucille; -it is not an easy matter to put into words what one feels deeply." -Coloring, and suspecting something of the truth, St. Amand would have -broken in upon her here; but she, with a gentle impatience, waved him -to be silent, and continued:—</p> - -<p>"You know that when you once loved me, I used to tell you, that you -would cease to do so, could you see how undeserving I was of your -attachment? I did not deceive myself, Eugene; I always felt assured -that such would be the case, that your love for me necessarily rested -on your affliction: but, for all that, I never at least had a dream, or -a desire, but for your happiness; and God knows, that if again, by -walking bare-footed, not to Cologne, but to Rome—to the end of the -world, I could save you from a much less misfortune than that of -blindness, I would cheerfully do it; yes, even though I might foretel -all the while that, on my return, you would speak to me coldly, think -of me lightly, and that the penalty to me would—would be—what it has -been!" Here Lucille wiped a few natural tears from her eyes; St. Amand, -struck to the heart, covered his face with his hands, without the -courage to interrupt her. Lucille continued:—</p> - -<p>"That which I foresaw has come to pass: I am no longer to you what I -once was, when you could clothe this poor form and this homely face -with a beauty they did not possess; you would wed me still, it is true; -but I am proud, Eugene, and cannot stoop to gratitude where I once had -love. I am not so unjust as to blame you; the change was natural, was -inevitable. I should have steeled myself more against it; but I am now -resigned; we must part; you love Julie—that too is natural—and <i>she</i> -loves you; ah! what also more probable in the course of events? Julie -loves you, not yet, perhaps, so much as I did, but then she has not -known you as I have, and she, whose whole life has been triumph, cannot -feel the gratitude I felt at fancying myself loved; but this will come; -God grant it! Farewell, then, for ever, dear Eugene; I leave you when -you no longer want me; you are now independent of Lucille; wherever you -go, a thousand hereafter can supply my place;—farewell!"</p> - -<p>She rose, as she said this, to leave the room; but St. Amand seizing -her hand, which she in vain endeavored to withdraw from his clasp, -poured forth incoherently, passionately, his reproaches on himself, his -eloquent persuasions against her resolution.</p> - -<p>"I confess," said he, "that I have been allured for a moment; I confess -that Julie's beauty made me less sensible to your stronger, your -holier, oh! far, far holier title to my love! But forgive me, dearest -Lucille; already I return to you, to all I once felt for you; make me -not curse the blessing of sight that I owe to you. You must not leave -me; never can we two part; try me, only try me, and if ever, hereafter, -my heart wander from you, <i>then</i>, Lucille, leave me to my remorse!"</p> - -<p>Even at that moment Lucille did not yield; she felt that his prayer was -but the enthusiasm of the hour; she felt that there was a virtue in her -pride; that to leave him was a duty to herself. In vain he pleaded; in -vain were his embraces, his prayers; in vain he reminded her of their -plighted troth, of her aged parents, whose happiness had become wrapped -in her union with him; "How, even were it as you wrongly believe, how -in honor to them can I desert you, can I wed another?"</p> - -<p>"Trust that, trust all to me," answered Lucille; "your honor shall be -my care, none shall blame <i>you;</i> only do not let your marriage with -Julie be celebrated here before their eyes; that is all I ask, all they -can expect. God bless you! do not fancy I shall be unhappy, for -whatever happiness the world gives you, shall I not have contributed to -bestow it?—and with that thought, I am above compassion."</p> - -<p>She glided from his arms, and left him to a solitude more bitter even -than that of blindness; that very night Lucille sought her mother; to -her she confided all. I pass over the reasons she urged, the arguments -she overcame; she conquered rather than convinced, and leaving to -Madame Le Tisseur the painful task of breaking to her father her -unalterable resolution, she quitted Malines the next morning, and with -a heart too honest to be utterly without comfort, paid that visit to -her aunt which had been so long deferred.</p> - -<p>The pride of Lucille's parents prevented them from reproaching St. -Amand. He did not bear, however, their cold and altered looks; he left -their house; and though for several days he would not even see Julie, -yet her beauty and her art gradually resumed their empire over him. -They were married at Courtroi, and, to the joy of the vain Julie, -departed to the gay metropolis of France. But before their departure, -before his marriage, St. Amand endeavored to appease his conscience, by -purchasing for Monsieur Le Tisseur, a much more lucrative and honorable -office than that he now held. Rightly judging that Malines could no -longer be a pleasant residence for them, and much less for Lucille, the -duties of the post were to be fulfilled in another town; and knowing -that Monsieur Le Tisseur's delicacy would revolt at receiving such a -favor from his hands, he kept the nature of his negociation a close -secret, and suffered the honest citizen to believe that his own merits -alone had entitled him to so unexpected a promotion.</p> - -<p>Time went on. This quiet and simple history of humble affections took -its date in a stormy epoch of the world—the dawning Revolution of -France. The family of Lucille had been little more than a year settled -in their new residence, when Dumouriez led his army into the -Netherlands. But how meanwhile had that year passed for Lucille? I have -said that her spirit was naturally high; that, though so tender, she -was not weak; her very pilgrimage to Cologne alone, and at the timid -age of seventeen, proved that there was a strength in her nature no -less than a devotion in her love. The sacrifice she had made brought -its own reward. She believed St. Amand was happy, and she would not -give way to the selfishness of grief; she had still duties to perform; -she could still comfort her parents, and cheer their age; she could -still be all the world to them; she felt this, and was consoled. Only -once during the year had she heard of Julie; she had been seen by a -mutual friend at Paris, gay, brilliant, courted, and admired; of St. -Amand she heard nothing.</p> - -<p>My tale, dear Gertrude, does not lead me through the harsh scenes of -war. I do not tell you of the slaughter and the siege, and the blood -that inundated those fair lands, the great battle-field of Europe. The -people of the Netherlands in general were with the cause of Dumouriez, -but the town in which Le Tisseur dwelt offered some faint resistance to -his arms. Le Tisseur himself, despite his age, girded on his sword; the -town was carried, and the fierce and licentious troops of the conqueror -poured, flushed with their easy victory, through its streets. Le -Tisseur's house was filled with drunken and rude troopers; Lucille -herself trembled in the fierce gripe of one of those dissolute -soldiers, more bandit than soldier, whom the subtle Dumouriez had -united to his army, and by whose blood he so often saved that of his -nobler band; her shrieks, her cries were vain, when suddenly the -reeking troopers gave way; "the Captain! brave Captain!" was shouted -forth; the insolent soldier, felled by a powerful arm, sank senseless -at the feet of Lucille; and a glorious form, towering above its -fellows, even through its glittering garb, even in that dreadful hour -remembered at a glance by Lucille, stood at her side; her protector, -her guardian! thus once more she beheld St. Amand!</p> - -<p>The house was cleared in an instant, the door barred. Shouts, groans, -wild snatches of exulting song, the clang of arms, the tramp of horses, -the hurrying footsteps, the deep music, sounded loud, and blended -terribly without; Lucille heard them not; she was on that breast which -never should have deserted her.</p> - -<p>Effectually to protect his friends, St. Amand took up his quarters at -their house; and for two days he was once more under the same roof as -Lucille. He never recurred voluntarily to Julie; he answered Lucille's -timid inquiry after her health briefly, and with coldness, but he spoke -with all the enthusiasm of a long pent and ardent spirit of the new -profession he had embraced. Glory seemed now to be his only mistress, -and the vivid delusion of the first bright dreams of the revolution -filled his mind, broke from his tongue, and lighted up those dark eyes -which Lucille had redeemed to day.</p> - -<p>She saw him depart at the head of his troop; she saw his proud crest -glancing in the sun; she saw that his last glance reverted to her, -where she stood at the door; and as he waved his adieu, she fancied -that there was on his face that look of deep and grateful tenderness -which reminded her of the one bright epoch of her life.</p> - -<p>She was right; St. Amand had long since in bitterness repented of a -transient infatuation, had long since discovered the true Florimel from -the false, and felt that, in Julie, Lucille's wrongs were avenged. But -in the hurry and heat of war he plunged that regret—the keenest of -all—which imbodies the bitter words, "<small>TOO LATE</small>!"</p> - -<p>Years passed away, and in the resumed tranquillity of Lucille's life -the brilliant apparition of St. Amand appeared as something dreamt of, -not seen. The star of Napoleon had risen above the horizon; the romance -of his early career had commenced; and the campaign of Egypt had been -the herald of those brilliant and meteoric successes which flashed -forth from the gloom of the Revolution of France.</p> - -<p>You are aware, dear Gertrude, how many in the French as well as the -English troops returned home from Egypt, blinded with the ophthalmia of -that arid soil. Some of the young men in Lucille's town, who had joined -Napoleon's army, came back, darkened by that fearful affliction, and -Lucille's alms, and Lucille's aid, and Lucille's sweet voice were ever -at hand for those poor sufferers, whose common misfortune touched so -thrilling a cord of her heart.</p> - -<p>Her father was now dead, and she had only her mother to cheer amid the -ills of age. As one evening they sat at work together, Madame Le -Tisseur said, after a pause—</p> - -<p>"I wish, dear Lucille, thou couldst be persuaded to marry Justin; he -loves thee well, and now that thou art yet young, and hast many years -before thee, thou shouldst remember that when I die thou wilt be -alone."</p> - -<p>"Ah cease, dearest mother, I never can marry now, and as for love—once -taught in the bitter school in which I have learned the knowledge of -myself—I cannot be deceived again."</p> - -<p>"My Lucille, you do not know yourself; never was woman loved, if Justin -does not love you; and never did lover feel with more real warmth how -worthily he loved."</p> - -<p>And this was true; and not of Justin alone, for Lucille's modest -virtues, her kindly temper, and a certain undulating and feminine -grace, which accompanied all her movements, had secured her as many -conquests as if she had been beautiful. She had rejected all offers of -marriage with a shudder; without even the throb of a flattered vanity. -One memory, sadder, was also dearer to her than all things; and -something sacred in its recollections made her deem it even a crime to -think of effacing the past by a new affection.</p> - -<p>"I believe," continued Madame Le Tisseur, angrily, "that thou still -thinkest fondly of him from whom only in the world thou couldst have -experienced ingratitude."</p> - -<p>"Nay mother," said Lucille, with a blush and a slight sigh, "Eugene is -married to another."</p> - -<p>While thus conversing, they heard a gentle and timid knock at the -door—the latch was lifted. "This" said the rough voice of a -commissaire of the town—"this, monsieur, is the house of <i>Madame Le -Tisseur</i>, and—<i>voila mademoiselle!</i>" A tall figure, with a shade over -his eyes, and wrapped in a long military cloak, stood in the room. A -thrill shot across Lucille's heart. He stretched out his arms; -"Lucille," said that melancholy voice, which had made the music of her -first youth—"where art thou, Lucille; alas! she does not recognize St. -Amand."</p> - -<p>Thus was it, indeed. By a singular fatality, the burning suns and the -sharp dust of the plains of Egypt had smitten the young soldier, in the -flush of his career, with a second—and this time, with an -irremediable—blindness! He had returned to France to find his hearth -lonely; Julie was no more—a sudden fever had cut her off in the midst -of youth; and he had sought his way to Lucille's house, to see if one -hope yet remained to him in the world!</p> - -<p>And when, days afterward, humbly and sadly he re-urged a former suit, -did Lucille shut her heart to its prayer? Did her pride remember its -wound—did she revert to his desertion—did she say to the whisper of -her yearning love—<i>"thou hast been before forsaken?"</i> That voice and -those darkened eyes pleaded to her with a pathos not to be resisted; "I -am once more necessary to him," was all her thought—"if I reject him, -who will tend him?" In that thought was the motive of her conduct; in -that thought gushed back upon her soul all the springs of checked, but -unconquered, unconquerable love! In that thought she stood beside him -at the altar, and pledged, with a yet holier devotion than she might -have felt of yore, the vow of her imperishable truth.</p> - -<p>And Lucille found, in the future, a reward which the common world could -never comprehend. With his blindness returned all the feelings she had -first awakened in St. Amand's solitary heart; again he yearned for her -step—again he missed even a moment's absence from his side—again her -voice chased the shadow from his brow—and in her presence was a sense -of shelter and of sunshine. He no longer sighed for the blessing he had -lost; he reconciled himself to fate, and entered into that serenity of -mood which mostly characterizes the blind. Perhaps, after we have seen -the actual world, and experienced its hollow pleasures, we can resign -ourselves the better to its exclusion; and as the cloister which repels -the ardor of our hope is sweet to our remembrance, so the darkness -loses its terror when experience has wearied us with the glare and -travail of the day. It was something, too, as they advanced in life, to -feel the chains that bound him to Lucille strengthening daily, and to -cherish in his overflowing heart the sweetness of increasing gratitude; -it was something that he could not see years wrinkle that open brow, or -dim the tenderness of that touching smile; it was something that to him -she was beyond the reach of time, and preserved to the verge of a grave -(which received them both within a few days of each other,) in all the -bloom of her unwithering affection—in all the freshness of a heart -that never could grow old!</p> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect20"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> -<br> -<center><b>SONG</b>—<i>By the Author of Vyvyan</i>.</center> -<br><br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem23"> - <tr><td>On the brow of the mountain<br> - The grey mists darkle—<br> - On the wave of the fountain<br> - Star images sparkle—<br> - Wild lights o'er the meadow<br> - Are fitfully gleaming—<br> - In the hill's dark shadow<br> - A spirit is dreaming.<br> - The birds and the flowers<br> - With closed eyes are sleeping,<br> - All hushed are the bowers<br> - Where glow-worms are creeping—<br> - There's quiet in heaven,<br> - There's peace to the billow—<br> - A blessing seems given<br> - To all—save my pillow.<br> - Alas! do I wonder<br> - I too cannot sleep,<br> - Like the calm waves yonder,<br> - And dream all as deep?—<br> - There's beauty beside me,<br> - A love-heaving breast—<br> - Ah! my very joys chide me,<br> - And rob me of rest.</td></tr> -</table><br> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect21"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> -<br> -<h4>LINES ON FINDING A BILLET FROM AN EARLY FRIEND AMONG SOME OLD PAPERS.</h4> -<br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem24"> - <tr><td>I gaze on this discolored sheet<br> - Which time has tinged with many a stain,<br> - And sigh to think his course should bring<br> - To nought, that friendship nursed in vain.<br> - Here in your well known hand I see<br> - My name, with terms endearing traced,<br> - And vows of firm fidelity,<br> - Which other objects soon effaced.<br> - Strange does it seem, that in these words<br> - A dead affection I should find,<br> - As if some early buried friend<br> - Resumed his place among his kind.<br> - Yes—after many a chilling year<br> - Of coldness and of alter'd feeling,<br> - This tatter'd messenger is here,<br> - Worlds of forgotten thought revealing.<br> - As once my faith was purely thine,<br> - For thee my blood I would have pour'd<br> - As freely as the rich red wine<br> - We pledged around the jovial board.<br> - It seem'd that thou wert thus to me,<br> - Loyal and true as thou didst swear:<br> - I knew not then, as now I know,<br> - That oaths are but impassion'd air.<br> - And even now, a doubt that they<br> - Were falsehoods all, will cross my brain:<br> - That thought alone I seek to quell,<br> - That thought alone could give me pain.<br> - To be forgotten has no sting—<br> - For friendships every day grow cold;<br> - But 'tis a wounding thought, that I<br> - Have purchased dross, and paid in gold.<br> - Tho' thou hast changed, as worldlings change<br> - Amid the haunts of sordid men,<br> - I cannot bid my feelings range—<br> - But cling to what I deem'd thee <i>then</i>.</td></tr> -</table> -<div align="right">S. </div> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect22"></a> -<br> -<br> -<div align="right"><small>For the Southern Literary Messenger. </small></div> -<br> -<center><b>THE CEMETERY.</b>—<i>From the Russian</i>.</center> -<br> -<table align="center" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" summary="poem25"> - <tr><td align="center"><small><b>FIRST VOICE.</b></small></td></tr> - <tr><td> How sad, how frightful the abode,<br> - How dread the silence of the tomb!<br> - There all surrounding objects speak<br> - The haunt of terror and of gloom—<br> - And nought but tempests' horrid howl we hear,<br> - And bones together rattling on the bier!</td></tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr><td align="center"><small><b>SECOND VOICE.</b></small></td></tr> - <tr><td> How peaceful, tranquil is the tomb!<br> - How calm, how deep is its repose!<br> - There flow'rets wild more sweetly bloom,<br> - There zephyr's breath more softly flows;<br> - And there the nightingale and turtle-dove<br> - Their notes pour forth of happiness and love.</td></tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr><td align="center"><small><b>FIRST VOICE.</b></small></td></tr> - <tr><td> Against that dark sepulchral mound,<br> - Funereal crows their pinions beat;<br> - There dens of ravenous wolves are found,<br> - And there the vulture's foul retreat;<br> - The earth around with greedy claws they tear,<br> - Whilst serpents hiss and poison all the air.</td></tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr><td align="center"><small><b>SECOND VOICE.</b></small></td></tr> - <tr><td> There, when the shades of evening fall,<br> - The sportive hares their gambols keep;<br> - Or, fearless of the huntsman's call,<br> - Upon the verdant herbage sleep;<br> - While midst the foliage of the o'erhanging boughs<br> - The feathered tribe in slumbers soft repose.</td></tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr><td align="center"><small><b>FIRST VOICE.</b></small></td></tr> - <tr><td> Around that dank and humid spot<br> - A noisome vapor ever clings,<br> - Exhaled from heaps which there to rot<br> - Death with untiring labor brings;<br> - Devoid of leaves the trees their branches spread,<br> - And every plant seems withering, or dead.</td></tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr><td align="center"><small><b>SECOND VOICE.</b></small></td></tr> - <tr><td> In what soft accents whispers there<br> - The evening breeze about the tomb,<br> - Diffusing through the balmy air<br> - Of countless flowers the rich perfume,<br> - And speaking of a place of peace and rest,<br> - Where e'er mid breathing fragrance dwell the blessed!</td></tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr><td align="center"><small><b>FIRST VOICE.</b></small></td></tr> - <tr><td> When to this dismal vale of tears,<br> - The pilgrim comes with weary pace,<br> - O'erpowered by appalling fears,<br> - In vain his steps he would retrace;<br> - Urged onwards by a hand unseen, unknown,<br> - He's headlong in the wreck-strewed torrent thrown.</td></tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr><td align="center"><small><b>SECOND VOICE.</b></small></td></tr> - <tr><td> Worn out by life's sad pilgrimage,<br> - Man here at length his staff lays down—<br> - Here feels no more the tempest's rage,<br> - Nor dreads the heav'ns impending frown—<br> - Reposes from his toil in slumbers deep,<br> - And sleeps of ages the eternal sleep!</td></tr> -</table><br> -<br> -<br> -<hr align="center" width="100"><a name="sect23"></a> -<br> -<br> -<h4>EDITORIAL REMARKS.</h4> - -<p>We flatter ourselves that our patrons will not be displeased with the -feast which we have set before them in the present number of the -Messenger. We have not commenced with the egg and ended with the apple, -(<i>ab ovo usque ad malum</i>,) according to the ancient custom; nor placed -the substantials before the dessert, as in modern entertainments; but -have rather chosen to mingle them without order or arrangement,—that -our guests may partake as their respective tastes and inclinations may -dictate. The scientific reader will be attracted by the communications -of Dr. P<small>OWELL</small>, and P<small>ETER</small> A. B<small>ROWNE</small>, Esq. of Philadelphia. By the former -gentleman, who is now actively engaged in geological and antiquarian -researches in the western country, we are kindly promised occasional -aid; and, to the latter distinguished individual, we owe our thanks for -the warm interest he has evinced in our infant enterprize.</p> - -<p>Of Mr. W<small>IRT'S</small> letter, it would be superfluous to speak, more especially -as it is accompanied by some excellent remarks by a highly intelligent -friend,—himself destined to become an ornament to the profession of -which he speaks.</p> - -<p>The general reader cannot fail to be pleased with many, if not all the -communications which are inserted. In the article headed "<i>Example is -better than Precept</i>," he will recognize an elegant and vigorous -pen;—and, in the "<i>Recollections of Chotank</i>," it will not be -difficult to perceive that the hand employed in describing the generous -customs and proverbial hospitality of that ancient portion of our -state,—is one of uncommon skill in the art and beauty of composition. -The article from the Petersburg Intelligencer, entitled an "<i>Extract -from a Novel that never will be published</i>," (but which we hope <i>will</i> -be published)—though not expressly written for the "Messenger," will -be new to most of our readers. If we mistake not, the writer has -furnished strong evidence of talent in a particular department of -literature, which needs only to be cultivated in order to attain a high -degree of success.</p> - -<p>The poetical contributions, which are entirely <i>original</i> in the -present number, whilst they do not need our eulogy, we cannot permit to -pass without some special notice at our hands. The "<i>Power of Faith</i>" -will not fail to attract the lover of genuine poetry, especially if his -heart be warmed with christian zeal. It is written by a gentleman whose -modesty is as great as his merit; and whose writings, both in prose and -verse, will do honor to his native state. The sprightly effusion among -the prose articles which is headed "<i>Sally Singleton</i>," is from the -same hand. Of "<i>Death among the Trees</i>," it would be unnecessary to -speak, as it will be readily recognized and admired, as the production -of a distinguished female writer already known to fame. We take -pleasure in placing in the same company two other charming effusions, -by writers of the same gentle sex, whose assistance in our literary -labors we shall always be proud to receive. We allude to the "<i>Address -of the Genius of Columbia to her Native Muse</i>," and the "<i>Lines to an -Officer of the United States Navy, by E. A. S.</i>" The "<i>Sonnet, written -on the Blue Ridge</i>," and the "<i>Stanzas, composed at the White Sulphur -Springs of Virginia</i>," are both the productions of the same superior -mind. There is not only decided power, but a most attractive pathos and -bewitching melancholy in the two productions referred to. We hope that -the author will continue to adorn our columns with the offspring of his -gifted muse. The author of "<i>Lines on a Billet from an Early Friend</i>," -will always be a welcome guest at our literary table. We know him as a -gentleman of fine taste and varied endowments. The "<i>Cemetery</i>" is from -the pen of a young Philadelphian of fine talents. He need not at any -time apprehend exclusion from our columns.</p> - -<p>If we have chosen to speak last of the author of "<i>Musings</i>," it is not -because he is least in our estimation. On the contrary, we sincerely -esteem him as among the favored few, to whom it is given,—-if they -themselves will it,—to reach the highest honors, and the most enduring -rewards, in the empire of poesy. The beautiful and graceful picture of -Venice, presented in our present number,—of Venice despoiled of her -ancient glory—yet still glorious in ruin,—will command, if we mistake -not, general admiration. Successful as the author always is, in his -light and fugitive pieces, he gives evidence of a power to grasp the -highest themes, and to sport with familiar ease in the least accessible -regions of fancy. Why does he not seize the lyre at once, and pour -forth a song which shall add to his country's honor, and insure for -himself a chaplet of renown? Why does he not at once take rank with the -H<small>ALLECKS</small>, the B<small>RYANTS</small> and P<small>ERCIVALS</small>, of a colder clime? He is every way -qualified to do it.</p> - -<p>To our numerous correspondents and contributors, whose favors have not -yet appeared in print,—we owe our acknowledgments, and in some -instances an apology. Our space is exceedingly disproportioned to the -quantity of matter which we have on hand; and, of course, we are driven -to the painful, and rather invidious task of selection. We have many -articles actually in type, which we are necessarily obliged to exclude -from the present number. Among them may be enumerated "<i>A Scene in -Genoa, by an American Tourist</i>," the "<i>Grave Seekers</i>," and other fine -specimens of poetry. The "<i>Reporter's Story, or the Importance of a -Syllable</i>," "<i>The Cottage in the Glen</i>,"—the poems from Louisa and -Pittsylvania, and from various other quarters, shall all receive the -earliest possible attention. The high claims of our correspondents in -Mobile and Tuscaloosa in the state of Alabama, shall also be attended -to; and, we hope that others in distant states, will not deem -themselves slighted if not now particularly enumerated.</p> - -<p>The "<i>Eulogy on Lafayette</i>," transmitted from France, and handed over -to us by a friend, shall appear in the next number.</p> - -<p>We have read with pleasure, the love tale composed by an accomplished -young lady in one of the upper counties; and, whilst we do not hesitate -to render a just tribute to the delicacy of sentiment and glowing fancy -which distinguish her pages, candor compels us to urge one objection, -which we fear is insurmountable. The story is wrought up with materials -derived from English character and manners; and, we have too many -thousands of similar fictions issuing from the British press, to -authorize the belief that another of the same class will be interesting -to an American reader. We should like to see our own writers confine -their efforts to native subjects—to throw aside the trammels of -foreign reading, and to select their themes from the copious materials -which every where abound in our own magnificent country.</p> - -<p>For a similar reason, our friend from Caroline must excuse us for -declining to insert his sketches. We have no "<i>dilapidated castles</i>," -nor any "<i>last heirs of Ardendale</i>," in our plain republican land.</p> - -<p>Neither can we insert in our pages (though we should like to oblige our -Essex correspondent,) any thing which bears the slightest resemblance -to a <i>fairy tale</i>. We prefer treading upon earthly ground, and dealing -with mortal personages.</p> - -<p>To our highly respected correspondent, who addressed a letter to the -publisher in June last, from Prince Edward, we take this opportunity to -say, that our columns shall be freely open to discussions in behalf of -the interests of education. We conceive that the cause of literature is -intimately connected with it; and we have it in contemplation to -present ere long, to the public, some candid views, in regard to the -policy heretofore pursued in the Councils of our State, on this -interesting subject. We are enemies to every system founded upon -favoritism and monopoly; and we are advocates for the equal application -of those pecuniary resources which the bounty of the state has -dedicated to the cause of education. We have no idea that the Literary -Fund, the common property of us all, ought to be so managed as to -defeat the purposes of its founders; in other words, that it should be -so wrested from the original design of its creation, as to benefit only -two classes of society—the highest and the lowest,—the extremes of -wealth and indigence,—whilst the great mass of the community are -excluded from all advantages to be derived from it. This system may -suit particular individuals, and may subserve particular ends; but it -is at war with the best interests of the state, and ought to be -exposed, so far as the honorable weapons of truth and justice shall be -able to expose it.</p> - -<p>The suggestions of our highly intelligent friend from South Carolina, -who we presume is a temporary resident in one of the northern states, -are entitled to much respect and consideration. We quote the following -just sentiments from his letter:</p> - -<blockquote>"American literature, although increasing, is still at an immense -distance in rear of that of England, and Germany and France. And why? -It is owing entirely to the <i>divided attention</i> of our literary -characters. However profound and capacious their minds—and however -great their powers of thought, and brilliant and forcible those of -expression, it is impossible for them to succeed, at the same time, in -every department of knowledge. No man can distinguish himself in any -one pursuit, when his mind is applied to a dozen. Let him bend his -faculties upon a single object; and with industry and perseverance, he -will assuredly secure its attainment. Among us, we have no professed -students, whose lives are devoted to the acquisition and development of -learning. All men of talents rush early into the absorbing pursuits of -politics; and together with providing the means of support, continue in -them for life. So long as this is the case, it cannot be expected of us -to present eminent men, in any way calculated to compete with those of -the Old World.</blockquote> - -<blockquote>"It would be a useful and an ennobling task for some one, well -qualified to examine the subject in all its bearings, to offer an -expose of the various causes for the low ebb at which our national -literature now stands, and the means by which they might be subverted."</blockquote> - -<p>We should be much gratified if some one of our many intelligent -subscribers would furnish us an essay upon this interesting subject. -None would be more likely to present it, in some of its strongest -lights, than the writer of the letter from which we have quoted.</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. -I., No. 2, October, 1834, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER *** - -***** This file should be named 52411-h.htm or 52411-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/4/1/52411/ - -Produced by Ron Swanson - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - - - -</pre> - -</body> -</html> diff --git a/old/52411.txt b/old/52411.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a4823ec..0000000 --- a/old/52411.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4503 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., -No. 2, October, 1834, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 2, October, 1834 - -Author: Various - -Editor: James E. Heath - -Release Date: June 25, 2016 [EBook #52411] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER *** - - - - -Produced by Ron Swanson - - - - - -THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER: - -DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS. - - -Au gre de nos desirs bien plus qu'au gre des vents. - _Crebillon's Electre_. - -As _we_ will, and not as the winds will. - - -RICHMOND: -T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR. -1834-5. - - - - -SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER. - -VOL. I.] RICHMOND, OCTOBER 15, 1834. [NO. 2. - -T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM. - - - - -TO THE PUBLIC, AND ESPECIALLY THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTHERN STATES. - - -The favorable reception of the first number of the Messenger has been a -source of no small gratification. Letters have been received by the -publisher from various quarters, approving the plan of the publication, -and strongly commendatory of the work. The appeal to the citizens of -the south for support of a substantial kind, was not in vain. Already -enough have come forward as subscribers, to defray the necessary -expense of publication; and contributions to the columns of the paper -have been liberally offered from different quarters. The publisher -doubts not that with his present support, he will be enabled to furnish -a periodical replete with matter of an acceptable kind. The useful and -agreeable--the grave and gay--will be mingled in each number, so as to -give it a pleasing variety, and enable every reader to find something -to his taste. Thus will the paper become a source of innocent -amusement, and at the same time a vehicle of valuable information. - -That such a paper is to be desired in the southern states no one will -controvert, and all must be sensible that an increase of public -patronage will furnish the most effectual means of having what is -wanted. An enlarged subscription list would put it in the power of the -publisher to cater in the literary world on a more liberal scale; and -the extended circulation of the paper, which would be a consequence of -that subscription, would furnish a yet stronger inducement to many to -make valuable contributions. - -The publisher also makes his grateful acknowledgements for the friendly -and liberal support received from various gentlemen residing in the -states north of the Potomac. Many in that quarter, of literary and -professional distinction, have kindly extended their patronage. - -Already the number of contributions received, has greatly exceeded the -most sanguine expectations of the publisher. Still he would earnestly -invite the gifted pens of the country to repeat their favors, and unite -in extending the INFLUENCE OF LITERATURE. - - - - -LETTER FROM MR. WIRT TO A LAW STUDENT. - - -The countrymen of WILLIAM WIRT hold his memory in respect, not more for -his mental powers than for his pure morality. Every thing which comes -to light in regard to him, tends to show that his character has not -been too highly appreciated. The letter which occupies a portion of -this number, and which is now for the first time published, exhibits -him in a way strongly calculated to arrest attention. A young gentleman -who is about to leave the walls of a university, and looks to the law -as his profession, who is not related to or connected with Mr. Wirt, -nor even acquainted with him, and knows him only as an ornament to his -profession and his country, is induced by the high estimate which he -has formed of his character, and the great confidence that might be -reposed in any advice that he would give, to ask at his hands some -instruction as to the course of study best to be pursued. Mr. Wirt, -with constant occupation even at ordinary times, is, at the period when -this letter is received, busily employed in preparing for the supreme -court of the confederacy, then shortly to commence its session. Yet -notwithstanding the extent of his engagements, he hastily prepares a -long letter replete with advice, and of a nature to excite the student -to reach, if possible, the very pinnacle of his profession. What can be -better calculated to increase our esteem for those who have attained -the highest distinction themselves, than to see them submit to personal -trouble and inconvenience, for the purpose of encouraging the young to -come forward and cope with them? It would seem as if there were -something in the profession of the law which tends to produce such -liberality of feeling. We find strong evidence of this, if we look to -the course of the two men who are generally regarded as at the head of -the Virginia bar. How utterly destitute are they of that close and -narrow feeling which, in other pursuits of life, not unfrequently leads -the successful man to depress others that his own advantages may with -greater certainty be retained. - -A few remarks will now be made upon the contents of the letter. The -student, says Mr. Wirt, must cultivate most assiduously the habits of -reading, observing, above all of thinking: must make himself a master -in every branch of the science that belongs to the profession; acquire -a mastery of his own language, and when he comes to the bar speak to -the purpose and to the point. He is not merely to make himself a great -lawyer. General science must not be overlooked. History and politics, -statistics and political economy, are all to receive a share of -attention. - -Much of this advice may well be followed by minds of every description, -but some portion of it seems better fitted for an intellect of the -highest order than for the great mass of those who come to the bar. -Lord _Mansfield_ could be a statesman and a jurist, an orator of -persuasive eloquence and acute reasoning, and a judge "whose opinions -may be studied as models." And Sir _William Jones_ has shown that it -was possible for the same individual to be a most extensive linguist, -an historian of great research, a person of information upon matters -the most varied, an author in poetry as well as prose, and a writer of -equal elegance upon legal and miscellaneous subjects. - -But these were men whose extraordinary endowments have caused the world -to admire their strength of understanding and their great attainments. -Mr. Wirt seems to think it best to open a field the whole extent of -which could only be reached by such minds as these, and excite others -to occupy as large a portion of it as practicable, by inculcating the -belief that "to unceasing diligence there is scarcely any thing -impossible." - -That much may be effected by labor and perseverance, no one will -controvert. Mr. Butler is an example. He states, in his reminiscences, -that he was enabled to accomplish what he did, by never allowing -himself to be unemployed for a moment; rising early; dividing his time -systematically; and abstaining in a great degree from company and other -amusements. Yet while the student is exhorted thus to persevere, some -caution may be requisite lest his time be lost amid the variety of -subjects that are laid before him in the extensive course which Mr. -Wirt has prescribed. - -Generally speaking, the student of law will fail to attain the highest -point in his profession, unless the principal portion of his time be -given to that profession. While travelling the road to professional -distinction, he may, without greatly impeding his course, for the sake -of variety, occasionally wander to the right or to the left, provided -he will speedily return to his proper track. But if he open to himself -a variety of paths, walking alternately in them, and spending in one as -much time as in another, he will find that he can never travel far in -any. In _England_ the lawyer commonly devotes himself with great -constancy to his profession, and suffers his attention to be diverted -from it by nothing else. In our country, and especially in the southern -states, more politicians than lawyers are to be found at the -bar.--Hence the English lawyers are generally, as lawyers, more able -and more learned than those of our country. There, as well as here, the -lawyer who devotes a large portion of his life to politics, will become -less fit for his peculiar vocation. - -Lord _Brougham_ is mentioned by Mr. Wirt, but he constitutes no -exception to this remark. He was, it is true, at the same time an -extensive practitioner at the bar, and a leading member of the House of -Commons. He kept pace with the literature of the day, and contributed -largely to the periodical press. The wonder was how he could do all -this and go into society so much as he did; how _he_ could do it, when -so many able men found the profession of the law as much as they could -master. But his fellow practitioners could, to some extent, solve the -problem. The truth was, that Lord _Brougham_ was more remarkable as an -ingenious advocate than as an able lawyer, and made a much better -leader of the opposition than he has since made a Lord Chancellor. -There are many abler lawyers now presiding at his bar, and the decrees -of his master of the rolls are more respected than his own. - -In our country every one must, to some extent, be informed on the -subject of politics, that he may be enabled to discharge his duty as a -citizen; and history and general literature should certainly receive -from all a due share of attention. But if the student of law remember -what has oft been said of his profession, that the studies of even -twenty years will leave much behind that is yet to be grappled with and -mastered, he will perceive the necessity, if he desire to become a -profound jurist, of making all general studies ancillary and -subordinate to that which is his especial object. If he would know to -what extent his attention may be divided, he may take Mr. Wirt himself -as an example. In him extensive legal attainments were happily blended -with general knowledge; powers of argument and eloquence were well -combined; and in the forcible speaker was seen the accomplished -gentleman. His good taste and sense of propriety would never allow him -to descend to that low personality which has now become so common a -fault among the debaters of the day. - -A word to the gentleman who forwarded the letter. His reasons for -transmitting it are not inserted, because it is believed that no -relative or friend of Mr. Wirt can possibly object to the publication -of _such_ a letter. - -C. - - -BALTIMORE, DECEMBER 20, 1833. - -_My dear sir:_ - -Your letter, dated "University of ----, December 12," was received on -yesterday morning--and although it finds me extremely busy in preparing -for the Supreme Court of the United States, I am so much pleased with -its spirit, that I cannot reconcile it to myself to let it pass -unanswered. If I were ever so well qualified to advise you, to which I -do not pretend, but little good could be done by a single letter, and I -have not time for more. Knowing nothing of the peculiarities of your -mental character, I can give no advice adapted to your peculiar case. I -am persuaded that education may be so directed by a sagacious and -skilful teacher, as to prune and repress those faculties of the pupil -which are too prone to luxuriance, and to train and invigorate those -which are disproportionately weak or slow; so as to create a just -balance among the powers, and enable the mind to act with the highest -effect of which it is capable. But it requires a previous acquaintance -with the student, to ascertain the natural condition of his various -powers, in order to know which requires the spur and which the rein. In -some minds, imagination overpowers and smothers all the other -faculties: in others, reason, like a sturdy oak, throws all the rest -into a sickly shade. Some men have a morbid passion for the study of -poetry--others, of mathematics, &c. &c. All this may be corrected by -discipline, so far as it may be judicious to correct it. But the -physician must understand the disease, and become acquainted with all -the idiosyncracies of the patient, before he can prescribe. I have no -advantage of this kind with regard to you; and to prescribe by -conjecture, would require me to conjecture every possible case that -_may_ be yours, and to prescribe for each, which would call for a -ponderous volume, instead of a letter. I believe that in all sound -minds, the germ of all the faculties exists, and may, by skilful -management, be wooed into expansion: but they exist, naturally, in -different degrees of health and strength, and as this matter is -generally left to the impulses of nature in each individual, the -healthiest and strongest germs get the start--give impulse and -direction to the efforts of each mind--stamp its character and shape -its destiny. As education, therefore, now stands among us, each man -must be his own preceptor in this respect, and by turning in his eyes -upon himself, and descrying the comparative action of his own powers, -discover which of them requires more tone--which, if any, less. We must -take care, however, not to make an erroneous estimate of the relative -value of the faculties, and thus commit the sad mistake of cultivating -the showy at the expense of the solid. With these preliminary remarks, -by way of explaining why I cannot be more particular in regard to your -case, permit me, instead of chalking out a course of study by -furnishing you with lists of books and the order in which they should -be read, (and no list of books and course of study would be equally -proper for all minds,) to close this letter with a few general remarks. - -If your _spirit_ be as stout and pure as your letter indicates, you -require little advice beyond that which you will find within the walls -of your University. A brave and pure spirit is more than "_half the -battle,_" not only in preparing for life, but in all its conflicts. -_Take it for granted, that there is no excellence without great labor._ -No mere aspirations for eminence, however ardent, will do the business. -Wishing, and sighing, and imagining, and dreaming of greatness, will -never make you great. If you would get to the mountain's top on which -the temple of fame stands, it will not do _to stand still_, looking, -admiring, and wishing you were there. You must gird up your loins, and -go to work with all the indomitable energy of Hannibal scaling the -Alps. Laborious study, and diligent observation of the world, are both -indispensable to the attainment of eminence. By the former, you must -make yourself master of all that is known of science and letters; by -the latter, you must know _man_, at large, and particularly the -character and genius of your own countrymen. You must cultivate -assiduously the habits of _reading_, _thinking_, and _observing_. -Understand your own language grammatically, critically, thoroughly: -learn its origin, or rather its various origins, which you may learn -from Johnson's and Webster's prefaces to their large dictionaries. -Learn all that is delicate and beautiful, as well as strong, in the -language, and master all its stores of opulence. You will find a rich -mine of instruction in the splendid language of Burke. His diction is -frequently magnificent; sometimes too gorgeous, I think, for a chaste -and correct taste; but he will show you all the wealth of your -language. You must, by ardent study and practice, acquire for yourself -a _mastery_ of the language, and be able both to speak and to write it, -promptly, easily, elegantly, and with that variety of style which -different subjects, different hearers, and different readers are -continually requiring. You must have such a command of it as to be able -to adapt yourself, with intuitive quickness and ease, to every -situation in which you may chance to be placed--and you will find no -great difficulty in this, if you have the _copia verborum_ and a -correct taste. With this study of the language you must take care to -unite the habits already mentioned--the diligent observation of all -that is passing around you; and _active_, _close_ and _useful -thinking_. If you have access to Franklin's works, read them carefully, -particularly his third volume, and you will know what I mean by _the -habits of observing and thinking_. We cannot all be _Franklins_, it is -true; but, by imitating his mental habits and unwearied industry, we -may reach an eminence we should never otherwise attain. Nor would he -have been _the Franklin_ he was, if he had permitted himself to be -discouraged by the reflection that we cannot all be _Newtons_. It is -our business to make the most of our own talents and opportunities, and -instead of discouraging ourselves by comparisons and imaginary -impossibilities, to believe all things possible--as indeed almost all -things are, to a spirit bravely and firmly resolved. Franklin was a -fine model of _a practical man_ as contradistinguished from a -_visionary theorist_, as men of genius are very apt to be. He was great -in that greatest of all good qualities, _sound, strong, common sense_. -A mere book-worm is a miserable driveller; and a mere genius, a thing -of gossamer fit only for the winds to sport with. Direct your -intellectual efforts, principally, to the cultivation of the strong, -masculine qualities of the mind. Learn (I repeat it) _to think_--_to -think deeply, comprehensibly, powerfully_--and learn the simple, -nervous language which is appropriate to that kind of thinking. Read -the legal and political arguments of Chief Justice Marshall, and those -of Alexander Hamilton, which are coming out. Read them, _study them_; -and observe with what an omnipotent sweep of thought they range over -the whole field of every subject they take in hand--and _that_ with a -scythe so ample, and so keen, that not a straw is left standing behind -them. Brace yourself up to these great efforts. Strike for this giant -character of mind, and leave prettiness and frivolity for triflers. -There is nothing in your letter that suggests the necessity of this -admonition; I make it merely with reference to that tendency to -efflorescence which I have occasionally heard charged to southern -genius. It is perfectly consistent with these herculean habits of -thinking, to be a laborious student, and to know all that books can -teach. This extensive acquisition is necessary, not only to teach you -how far science has advanced in every direction, and where the _terra -incognita_ begins, into which genius is to direct its future -discoveries, but to teach you also the strength and the weakness of the -human intellect--how far it is permitted us to go, and where the -penetration of man is forced, by its own impotence and the nature of -the subject, to give up the pursuit;--and when you have mastered all -the past conquests of science, you will understand what Socrates meant -by saying, that he knew only enough to be sure that _he knew -nothing--nothing, compared with that illimitable tract that lies beyond -the reach of our faculties_. You must never be satisfied with the -surface of things: probe them to the bottom, and let nothing go 'till -you understand it as thoroughly as your powers will enable you. Seize -the moment of excited curiosity on any subject to solve your doubts; -for if you let it pass, the desire may never return, and you may remain -in ignorance. The habits which I have been recommending are not merely -for college, but for life. Franklin's habits of constant and deep -excogitation clung to him to his latest hour. Form these habits now: -learn all that may be learned at your University, and bring all your -acquisitions and your habits to the study of the law, which you say is -to be your profession;--and when you come to this study, come resolved -to master it--not to play in its shallows, but to sound all its depths. -There is no knowing what a mind greatly and firmly resolved, may -achieve in this department of science, as well as every other. Resolve -to be the first lawyer of your age, in the depth, extent, variety and -accuracy of your legal learning. Master the science of pleading--master -Coke upon Littleton--and Coke's and Plowden's Reports--master Fearne on -Contingent Remainders and Executory Devises, 'till you can sport and -play familiarly with its most subtle distinctions. Lay your foundation -deep, and broad, and strong, and you will find the superstructure -comparatively light work. It is not by shrinking from the difficult -parts of the science, but by courting them, grappling with them, and -overcoming them, that a man rises to professional greatness. There is a -great deal of law learning that is dry, dark, cold, revolting--but it -is an old feudal castle, in perfect preservation, which the legal -architect, who aspires to the first honors of his profession, will -delight to explore, and learn all the uses to which its various parts -used to be put: and he will the better understand, enjoy and relish the -progressive improvements of the science in modern times. You must be a -master in every branch of the science that belongs to your -profession--the law of nature and of nations, the civil law, the law -merchant, the maritime law, &c. the chart and outline of all which you -will see in Blackstone's Commentaries. Thus covered with the panoply of -professional learning, a master of the pleadings, practice and cases, -and at the same time a _great constitutional and philosophic lawyer_, -you must keep way, also, with the march of general science. Do you -think this requiring too much? Look at Brougham, and see what man can -do if well armed and well resolved. With a load of _professional -duties_ that would, _of themselves_, have been appalling to the most of -_our_ countrymen, he _stood, nevertheless, at the head of his party in -the House of Commons_, and, _at the same time, set in motion and -superintended various primary schools and various periodical works, the -most instructive and useful that ever issued from the British press, to -which he furnished, with his own pen, some of the most masterly -contributions_, and yet found time _not only to keep pace_ with the -progress of the _arts and sciences_, but _to keep at the head of those -whose peculiar and exclusive occupations these arts and sciences were_. -_There_ is a model of _industry and usefulness_ worthy of all your -emulation. You must, indeed, be a great lawyer; but it will not do to -be a mere lawyer--more especially as you are very properly turning your -mind, also, to the political service of your country, and to the study -and practice of eloquence. You must, therefore, be a political lawyer -and historian; thoroughly versed in the constitution and laws of your -country, and fully acquainted with _all its statistics_, and the -history of all the leading measures which have distinguished the -several administrations. You must study the debates in congress, and -observe what have been the actual effects upon the country of the -various measures that have been most strenuously contested in their -origin. You must be a master of the science of political economy, and -especially of _financiering_, of which so few of our young countrymen -know any thing. The habit of observing all that is passing, and -thinking closely and deeply upon them, demands pre-eminently an -attention to the political course of your country. But it is time to -close this letter. You ask for instructions adapted to improvement in -eloquence. This is a subject for a treatise, not for a letter. Cicero, -however, has summed up the whole art in a few words: it -is--"_apte--distincte--ornate dicere_"--to speak _to the purpose_--to -speak _clearly and distinctly_--to speak _gracefully_:--to be able _to -speak to the purpose_, you must understand your subject and all that -belongs to it:--and then your _thoughts and method_ must be _clear in -themselves_ and _clearly and distinctly enunciated_:--and lastly, your -voice, style, delivery and gesture, must be _graceful and delightfully -impressive_. In relation to this subject, I would strenuously advise -you to two things: _Compose much, and often, and carefully, with -reference to this same rule of apte, distincte, ornate;_ and let your -_conversation_ have reference to the same objects. I do not mean that -you should be _elaborate and formal_ in your ordinary conversation. Let -it be _perfectly simple and natural_, but _always, in good time_, (to -speak as the musician) and well enunciated. - -With regard to the style of eloquence that you shall adopt, that must -depend very much on your own taste and genius. You are not disposed, I -presume, to be an humble imitator of any man? If you are, you may bid -farewell to the hope of eminence in this walk. None are mere imitators -to whom nature has given original powers. The ape alone is content with -mere imitation. If nature has bestowed such a portion of the spirit of -oratory as can advance you to a high rank in this walk, your manner -_will be_ your own. In what style of eloquence you are best fitted to -excel, you, yourself, if destined to excellence, are the best judge. I -can only tell you that the _florid and Asiatic style_ is not the taste -of the age. The _strong_, and even the _rugged and abrupt_, are far -more successful. Bold propositions, boldly and briefly expressed--pithy -sentences--nervous common sense--strong phrases--the _felicite audax_ -both in language and conception--well compacted periods--sudden and -strong masses of light--an apt adage in English or Latin--a keen -sarcasm--a merciless personality--a mortal thrust--these are the -beauties and deformities that now make a speaker the most interesting. -A gentleman and a christian will conform to the reigning taste so far -only as his principles and habits of _decorum_ will permit. The florid -and Asiatic was never a good style either for a European or an American -taste. We require that a man should _speak to the purpose_ and _come to -the point_--that he should _instruct and convince_. To do this, his -mind must move with great strength and power: reason should be -manifestly his master faculty--argument should predominate throughout; -but these great points secured, wit and fancy may cast their lights -around his path, provided the wit be courteous as well as brilliant, -and the fancy chaste and modest. But they must be kept well in the back -ground, for they are dangerous allies; and a man had better be without -them, than to show them in front, or to show them too often. - -But I am wearying you, my dear sir, as well as myself. If these few -imperfect hints, on subjects so extended and diversified, can be of any -service to you, I shall be gratified. They may, at least, convince you -that your letter has interested me in your behalf, and that I shall be -happy to hear of your future fame and prosperity. I offer you my -respects, and tender the compliments of the season. - -WM. WIRT. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -MISFORTUNE AND GENIUS: A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT. - - "You have seen - Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears - Were like a better day: Those happy smiles - That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know - What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence - As pearls from diamonds dropp'd."--_King Lear_. - - -In a late excursion through the western districts of Virginia, having -been detained at the picturesque village of F----, I took a seat in the -stage coach, intending to visit some of the neighboring springs. The -usually delightful temperature and clear sky of the mountain summer, -had been suddenly changed into a cold misty atmosphere; and as I stept -into the coach, the curtains of which had been let down for greater -comfort, I found a solitary female passenger sitting in one corner of -the carriage, and apparently absorbed in deep contemplation. She was -plainly but genteely dressed, in a suit of mourning; and there was -something in her whole appearance, which would have immediately struck -the eye of the most careless observer. Her face, and such parts of her -head as were unconcealed by her bonnet, seemed to me, at a single -glance, to present a fine study for the disciples of Lavater and -Spurzheim--or at least to furnish a model which a painter would have -loved to transfer to his canvass. Her features were not what are -usually termed beautiful; that is, there was not that exquisite -symmetry in them, nor that brilliant contrast between the delicate -white skin and raven hair, or between the coral lip and the lustrous -dark eye, which with some constitute the perfection of female beauty; -but there was something beyond and superior to all these:--There was a -fine intellectual expression which could not be mistaken. I do not even -recollect the color of her eyes: I only remember that those "windows of -the soul" revealed a whole volume of thought and feeling--and that -there was cast over her countenance an inexpressible veil of sadness, -which instantly seized upon my sympathies. As the stage drove off, the -crack of the coachman's whip, and the lumbering of the wheels, seemed -to rouse her from her reverie, and I remarked a deeper tinge of -melancholy pass over her features. It was to her like the sound of a -funeral knell! She was about to bid adieu, perhaps forever, to the -scenes of her infancy--to scenes which were endeared by the remembrance -of departed joys, and even consecrated by bitter inconsolable sorrows! - -After the customary salutation, I determined to engage my interesting -fellow-traveller in conversation; and I at once perceived by the modest -blush which suffused her cheek, and by the timid responses she made to -my inquiries, that she was conscious of appearing in the somewhat -embarrassing situation of an unattended and unprotected female. I -studied therefore to put her mind at ease, by a delicate pledge of my -protection as far as my journey extended. Words of kindness and respect -seemed to fall upon her ear, as if she had been unused to them. Her -countenance, which had sunk in gloom, was lighted up by a mild -expression of tranquillity. I saw that I had somewhat won upon her -confidence, and I determined to improve the advantage, by affording her -an opportunity of narrating her story--a story which I was curious to -know, and which I had already half learned in her care-worn visage, her -garments of woe, and her apparently forlorn and unbefriended condition. - -Such are the mysterious sympathies of our nature, that whilst the -sorrowing heart experiences a transient relief in pouring its griefs -into another's ear, there is a no less melancholy pleasure in listening -to the tale of misfortune, and participating in the misery of its -victim. My companion did not hesitate, in her own peculiar and artless -manner, to relate her story. It was brief, simple and affecting. - -Maria (for that was her name,) was now in her sixteenth year, and was -one of several children, born not to affluence, but to comparative -independence. A doating grandmother adopted her, when not two years -old, with the free consent of her parents. They had other offspring to -provide for; and their residence was not so remote, but that occasional -visits might preserve unbroken the ties of filial and parental love. -The venerable grandmother devoted her humble means to the maintenance -and education of her charge. Her aged bosom rejoiced in beholding -herself, as it were, perpetuated in this blooming scion from her own -stock. She spared neither pains nor expense, consistent with her -limited fortune, in preparing her young descendant for a life of -usefulness, piety and virtue. In truth, her dutiful grandchild was so -"garnered up in her heart," that she became the only worldly hope of -her declining years. Maria was her earthly solace--the tie which bound -her to life when all its charms had faded--the being who made it -desirable to linger yet a little longer on the confines of the grave. -But how fleeting and unsubstantial is human hope! Scarcely a fortnight -had elapsed since this venerated lady had been called to realize -another state of being. When Maria touched upon this part of her -narrative, I could perceive the agony of her soul. I could see the -tearful and uplifted eye as she exclaimed, "Yes, sir! it has pleased -Providence to deprive me of my only earthly benefactress!" - -I was troubled at the misery I had occasioned, and I hastened, if -possible, to administer such consolation as seemed to me proper. "But -you have parents," I replied, "who will take you to their home, and -gladly receive you in their arms?" Little did I think that the wound -which I thus attempted to heal, would bleed afresh at my remark. The -afflicted girl appeared to be deprived, for a moment, of utterance. Her -heart seemed to swell almost to bursting, with the strength and -intensity of her feelings. "My friend," she at length replied, in a -tone of comparative calmness, "for by that name permit me to call you, -even on so short an acquaintance,--you have touched a theme upon which -I would gladly have avoided explanation. The interest you have already -shown, however, in my unhappy story, entitles you to still more of my -confidence. You shall know the whole of my cruel fortune. Though my -father and mother are both still living, they are no longer parents to -me. My father _might have been_ all which a friendless and unprotected -daughter could desire; but alas! for years and years past, he has lost -the 'moral image' which God originally stamped upon his nature. The -DEMON OF INTEMPERANCE has long--long possessed him. His feelings and -affections are no longer those of an intelligent and rational creature. -He scarcely knows me as his offspring; but turns from me with sullen -indifference, if not disgust. My mother!"---- - -At the mention of that hallowed name, the fair narrator seemed to be -almost choked by the violence of her emotions. She stopped an instant -as if to respire more freely. - -"My mother," she continued, "cannot extend to me her arm. She is -herself broken-hearted and friendless; she is wasting away under the -chastening rod of Providence!"---- - -"Heavens!" I inwardly exclaimed, "what havoc--what torture have I not -inflicted upon this innocent bosom! Why did I officiously intermeddle -in things which did not concern me--things too, which I could only know -by tearing open the yet unhealed wounds of an anguished heart." I was -at the point of offering some atonement for the mischief I had done. I -saw the whole picture of wretchedness as it was presented to Maria's -mind. I even shared, or thought that I shared, in the sorrows which -overwhelmed her. My imagination conjured up before me the churlish and -miserable wretch who was then wallowing in the stye of brutal -sensuality--and in whose bosom all holy and natural affection had been -drowned by the fatal Circean cup. I beheld his pale and neglected -partner, writhing under that immedicable sickness of the heart--not of -hope deferred, but of dark, absolute despair. I turned to the object -before me. I saw how those affections which clung around her beloved -protectress, as the tendrils of the vine cling around the aged tree, -were in one evil hour withered forever. She, an unprotected destitute -orphan--worse than an orphan--thrown upon the wide, cold and unfeeling -world--perhaps seeking an asylum in the house of some half welcoming -and distant relative. What a throng of perplexing--might I not say, -distracting reflections, at that moment rushed upon me! I endeavored to -change the subject, but at first without success. I experienced some -relief, however, by being assured, that the relative to whose house she -was now hastening, had offered his aid and protection, in the spirit of -kindness and sincerity. - -The most wonderful part of my story is yet to be told. When Maria was -sufficiently composed, I resolved to divert the conversation into more -agreeable channels. I was struck with the delicacy and propriety of her -speech--with the simple, correct, and even elegant language which she -used. Another and a quite unexpected source of admiration was yet in -reserve for me. I touched upon the topic of her education--upon the -books she had learned--the seminaries she had attended--and the -teachers by whom she was instructed. Even here methought I might be -officious and imprudent. What could be expected from a girl of -sixteen--from one who had been born to humble fortune--from one who had -had no one at home except an unlettered grandmother, to stir up within -her the noble spirit of emulation, and to fan the divine sparks of -genius and knowledge. Might she not suppose that I intended to deride -the ignorance of youth, and expose the deficiency of her acquirements! -Not so! At the bare mention of her books and instructers, I saw for the -first time, the clouds which had gathered around her brow begin to -disperse. There was evidently something like a smile which played upon -her features. It looked like the rainbow of peace, which denoted that -the storm of passion was passing away. Oh, how eloquently did she -discourse upon the beauties and delights of learning! Next to the star -of Bethlehem, which gilded her sorrowing path, and which for two years -had attracted her devotional spirit,--knowledge was the luminary which -she worshipped with more than Persian idolatry. The reader shall judge -of my surprise and admiration, when he is informed, that this artless -girl of sixteen--this youthful prodigy--had already amassed a richer -intellectual treasure, than often falls to the lot of men of superior -minds, even at the age of maturity. The great masters of Roman and -classical antiquity she had read in their original tongue--the Georgics -and AEneid of Virgil--the Commentaries of Caesar--Selections from -Horace--and the matchless orations of Tully, were as familiar to her, -as household words. She was also conversant with the French, and -thoroughly grounded in her own vernacular. Besides the usual elements -of mathematics, she had even encountered the forbidding subtleties of -algebra; and although mistress of the pleasing study of geography, -there was nothing which had so filled her mind with delight as the -sublime researches of astronomy. She loved to contemplate the harmony -and beauty of the planetary system,--and to soar still further on the -wings of thought, into that vast and illimitable firmament where each -twinkling luminary is itself the centre of a similar system. She had -watched too the fiery and eccentric track of the comet, "brandishing -its crystal tresses in the sky;" and from all the wonderful movements -and harmonious action of the heavenly bodies, she had realized the -impressive sentiment of Young, that - - "An undevout astronomer is mad." - -From the marvellous works of creation as revealed in that most sublime -of all human sciences, her soul had been transported to the Creator -himself, whom she worshipped in adoring humility. - -But why enumerate--why speak of her varied and almost numberless -acquirements? There was scarcely a branch of learning with which she -did not manifest at least some acquaintance. Even the popular and -somewhat pleasing science of phrenology had not escaped her attention. -In the theories and conclusions of its ardent disciples however, she -was reluctant to concur. The moral and intellectual character did not, -in her opinion, depend on the position of the brain, or the -conformation of the skull. It squinted at the hateful doctrine of -materialism; at least she thought so, and until better satisfied, she -would not believe. Though closely engaged for years in her regular -scholastic studies, this extraordinary female had found leisure to -stray occasionally into the paths of polite and elegant literature. She -had culled from the most illustrious of the British bards, some of -their choicest and sweetest flowers; and the beautiful fictions of -Scott were faithfully stored in her memory. - -Deeply interested as I felt in this young and highly gifted girl, the -hour of separation was at hand. The journey before her was -comparatively long and tedious; mine would speedily terminate. When -about to bid her adieu, I fancied that I saw regret painted in her -countenance. Her solitude would bring back some of those gloomy -reflections, which society and conversation had in some measure -dissipated. I handed her a literary work which I had with me, to -beguile the loneliness and misery of her journey. She accepted it with -eagerness and gratitude. A new current of joy sprung up in her bosom. -Commending her to the protection of heaven, I pressed her hand, and -left my seat in the coach. - -My sensations, when the vehicle swiftly departed, were of a mixed -character. There was a strange combination of pleasure and pain. Poor -Maria, I thought, we may never again meet in this world of sorrow; but -if ever a pure aspiration was breathed for thy happiness, it is that -which I now offer. I know that there is something within me which -borders on romance; and perhaps many will suppose that my imagination -has thrown over this adventure an illusive coloring. It may be so; but -even after an interval of composed reflection, I have not been able to -discover any thing in the foregoing sketch which does not substantially -conform to truth. I have often moralized on Maria's story, and in my -blind distrust of the dealings of an all wise Providence, have wished -that human blessings could be sometimes more equally distributed. I -have thought of the hundreds and thousands of the gay, simple, -fluttering insects, dignified with the name of fashionable -belles,--born and reared in the lap of luxury,--reposing in moral and -intellectual sloth, and quaffing the delicious but fatal poison of -adulation,--how inferior, how immeasurably inferior, most, if not all -of them were, to this poor, neglected, deserted orphan. I have thought -how hard was that decree, by which the light, trifling and glittering -things of creation should be buoyed up to the surface by their own -levity--whilst modest merit and suffering virtue were doomed to sink -into obscurity, and perhaps into wretchedness. On the other hand, I -have loved to look at the sunny smiles which Hope, in spite of us, will -sprinkle over the chequered landscape of life. It is impossible! I have -exclaimed, that one so young, yet so unfortunate--so highly improved by -moral and mental culture--so worthy of admiration and esteem, should -live and die unknown and unregretted. She surely was not - - --------"born to blush unseen, - And waste her sweetness in the desert air"-- - -at least such is my hope, and such is doubtless the prayer of every -generous reader. - -H. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -EXAMPLE IS BETTER THAN PRECEPT. - - -I never read Jeremy Bentham's 'Book of Fallacies:' it is known to me -only through the Edinburgh Review. I am uncertain whether it _gibbets_ -the above saying, or not; but no fallacy of them all better deserves to -be hung up on high, for the admonition of mankind. There is none more -mischievous, in the best filled pack of the largest wholesale -proverb-pedler. - -"_Example is better than precept!_"--is the constant plea, the -invariable subterfuge, of those who do not want to follow good counsel. -Be the counsel ever so sage--be the propriety and expediency of -following it ever so manifest--if it perchance do not square to a T -with the adviser's own practice, he is twitted with this sapient -apothegm; and the advised party wends his way of folly as completely -self-satisfied, as if he had demonstrated it to be the way of wisdom by -an argument clearly pertinent, and mathematically unanswerable. Yet how -is his argument more to the purpose--how is he more rational--than if -he should refuse to take a road pointed out by a sign-board, because -the board itself did not run along before him? May I not correctly show -to others a way, which it is not convenient or agreeable for me to -travel myself? - -I could fill a book with the instances I have known, of people who have -deluded themselves to their own hurt, by relying upon this same -proverb. - -For years, I have been a little given to drinking: not to excess, 'tis -true--but more than is good for me. A sprightly younker, whose thirst -appeared likely to become inordinate, being counselled by me to abstain -altogether from strong waters, as the only sure resource of those -afflicted with that propensity--told me, "_example was better than -precept,_" and refused to heed the one, because he could not have the -other also. He has since died a sot. The last three years of his -existence were, to his wife, years of shame, terror, and misery, from -which widowhood and the poor-house were a welcome refuge. His children -are schooled and maintained by the parish. - -My appetite is better than ordinary. It is, in truth, too much -indulged, and not a few head-aches and nightmares have been the -consequence. Venturing once, on the score of my woful experience, to -admonish a young friend whom I saw entering the habit in which I was -confirmed, he confuted me with the accustomed logical -reply--"_example,_" and so forth. Seven years afterwards saw him -tottering on the grave's brink, with an incurable _dyspepsia_, the -fruit of gluttony, and of gluttony's usual attendant, indolence. - -When a boy, I was a famous _climber_. Perched in a cherry tree one day, -I saw a lad, clumsier than I was, going far out upon a slender branch. -I cautioned him that it would break. "Didn't I see you on it just now?" -said he: "and there you are now, further out on a smaller limb! -_Example's better_"--but before he could end the saying, his bough -snapped, and he fell twenty feet, breaking a leg and dislocating a -shoulder by the fall. - -Another time, as I and a smaller boy were hunting, he walked over a -creek upon a log, which he saw was just able to bear his weight, -through rottenness. "You had better not venture," said he to me. But I -said, I had always heard, _example was better than precept_, and -following him, was soused by the breaking of the log, in six feet -water. Being a good swimmer, I escaped with a ducking, (it was near -Christmas,) and with wetting my gun, lock, priming, and all: so that it -cost me a full hour to refit for sport. - -It is not, however, commonly, either _immediate_ or _bodily_ harm that -we incur by means of this Jack-o'lantern proverb. Our faith in it is -not sufficient to lead us into instant and obvious danger: it is in -general the opiate with which we lull ourselves, only when the evil we -are warned against is of the _moral_ kind, or likely to occur at a -remote period. - -In my youth, I read novels to a pernicious excess. They enfeebled my -memory; unfixed my power of attention and my habits of thought; blunted -my zest for history; dimmed my perception of reasoning; gave me the -most illusory ideas of human life and character; and filled my brain -with fantastic visions. A passion for learning, and the timely counsels -of a sensible friend, subsequently won me so far from this career of -dissipation, that I surmounted in some degree its evil effects, and -acquired a moderate stock of solid knowledge: but to my dying day I -shall feel its cloying, _unhinging_, debilitating influence upon my -mental constitution. Still, even latterly, I have continued to indulge -myself with the best novels, as they appeared. My weakness in this -respect unluckily became known to a young girl, who seemed to be -exactly treading in my footsteps; and whom I earnestly warned of the -dangers besetting that path. "Now, cousin L., how can you talk so, when -I have seen you _devouring_ the _Antiquary_, and _Guy Mannering_, and -_Patronage_, and I don't know how many besides! You need not preach to -me: _example is better than precept._" _Therefore_--for the reasoning -seemed to her as conclusive as Euclids--_therefore_ she went on, with -undistinguishing voracity, through all the spawn of the novel press: -and there is not now a sadder instance of the effects of novel-reading. -After rejecting with disdain three suitors every way her equals, (and -in real merit her superiors,) because they were so unlike her favorite -novel heroes--did not woo on their knees or in blank verse--and had -'such shocking, vulgar names'--she, at three and twenty, married a -coxcomb, formed precisely after the model upon which her 'mind's eye' -had so long dwelt. He was gaudy, flippant, and specious; knew a dozen -of Moore's Melodies by rote; could softly discourse of _the heart_ and -its _affections_, as if he really possessed the one, and had actually -felt the other; and, most irresistible of all, his name was EDWIN -MORTIMER FITZGERALD. The result may be imagined. The society of such a -being could not long please. Their conversation was a routine of -insipid frivolity and angry disputes. With no definite principles of -economy or of morals, he wasted his fortune and wrecked his health over -the bottle and at cards--excitements, the usual resource of a weak, -ill-cultivated understanding. She is now a widow, scantily endowed, at -the age of twenty-seven. Her mind, too much engrossed by her darling -pursuit to have learned, even in the impressive school of adversity, is -nearly a blank as to all useful knowledge: imagination, paramount there -over every other faculty, is prolific of innumerable fooleries; she can -do no work beyond crimping a ruff or making a frill: and her nerves, -_shattered_ by tea, late hours, and sentimental emotion at fictitious -scenes, threaten a disordered intellect and a premature grave. - -To this impertinent adage, about _example_ and _precept_, is it chiefly -owing that I am at this moment a bachelor, aged fifty. I used it to -parry the repeated instances made me by a friendly senior bachelor, to -be "up and a doing," in the journey towards matrimony. As the proverb -commonly silenced him, it appeared to me at last, as it does to most -people, a satisfactory answer; it was the lullaby, with which I hushed -into repose every transient qualm that his expostulations excited. My -friend at length, in reasonable time, took me at my word, and added -example to precept: he married, well and happily. But one obstacle or -other, real or imaginary, had by this time confirmed me in my -inactivity. Business occupied my time: chimerical visions of female -excellence, in spite of my better reason, haunted me from the regions -of romance, and made me hard to be pleased, even by merits which I was -obliged to confess were superior to my own: courtship, by being long in -view yet long deferred, came at length to appear clothed in -embarrassment and terror: a failure, resulting (as vanity whispered,) -purely from the awkwardness produced by embarrassment and terror, -finally crushed all matrimonial aspirations: and, as it is now absurd -to hope for a _love-match_, (a genuine novel-reader can brook no other) -I am e'en trying to resign myself to the doom of perpetual celibacy. - -'Twere needless to multiply examples. These suffice to shew, not only -how absurd in reasoning, but how hurtful often in practice it is, to -consider advice as at all the _less good_, for not being enforced by -the giver's example. That proverb has done as much harm in the world as -the doctrine of the Pope's infallibility, or of the divine right of -kings; or as the silly saying, "_stuff a cold, and starve a fever;_" -or, as (by its perversion) that unfortunate one, "_spare the rod, and -spoil the child._" - -Yet, after all, the maxim I have been exposing is not _untrue_. -_Example_ IS better than _precept_: DOES more effectually shew _the -right way_. But it is _fallacious_, and _mischievous_, by being -misapplied. Instead of being regarded merely as a rebuke to the -adviser, it is absurdly taken by the _advised_ as a justication to -himself in persisting in error. In most cases it is not even a _just_ -rebuke to the _adviser_: because ten to one there is _some -dissimilarity of situation or of circumstances_, which makes it not -expedient or proper for him to do what he nevertheless _properly_ -recommends to another. While I shew you your road--and shew it with -perfect correctness--my own duty or pleasure may call me another way, -or may bid me remain where I am. But the adage is _never_ an apology -for the advised party's neglect of advice: and whensoever he attempts -to use it as such, his plea, though abstractly true, is impertinent--is -nothing to the purpose. - -M. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -THE POWER OF FAITH. - - "Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, in the - "days of Herod the King, behold there came wise men from the - "east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born king of the - "Jews? for we have seen his star in the east and have come to - "worship him." - - - Pleasure! thou cheat of a world's dim night, - What shadows pass over thy disk of light! - To follow thy flitting and quivering flame, - Is to die in the depths of despair and shame; - 'Tis to perish afar on a lone wild moor, - Or the wreck of a ship on a hopeless shore. - Come listen, ye gay! I will tell of a star - Whose beaming is brighter and steadier far; - It rose in the East, and the wise men came - To see if its light were indeed the same - Which their old books said would be seen to rest - On Bethlehem's plains, in its silver vest, - To point to the spot where a Saviour lay, - Who would gather his flock, all gone astray; - Would frighten the wolf from his helpless fold, - And loosen the grasp of his demon hold; - And lead them away to his pastures green, - Where all is so verdant and fadeless seen, - Where the river of life is a ceaseless stream, - And the light of his love is the sweetest beam - That ever shone out on benighted eyes, - And brighter the face of those lovely skies, - Than ever was seen in the softest sleep - When the senses are hushed in calmness deep; - And spirits are thought, with their gentle breath, - To breathe on the lids of a seeming death, - And whisper such things in the ear of wo, - As the waking sinner must never know. - Oh, what doth he ask in return for this, - The light of his love, and such draughts of bliss? - What doth he ask for the boon thus given?-- - Faith in the blood of the Son of Heaven. - - A cry was heard in Rama!--and so wild-- - 'Twas Rachel weeping for her murder'd child:-- - She would not be consoled--her youngest pride - Was torn in terror from her sheltering side; - At one dread blow her infant joy was gone - To glut the rage of Herod's heart of stone; - What drave the tyrant in his wrathful mood, - To bathe her lovely innocents in blood? - Why stoop'd the savage from his kingly throne, - To fill Judea with a mother's moan?-- - Weak wretch! he idly sought in his alarm, - To stay the purpose of Jehovah's arm; - The creature, crawling on his kindred dust, - Would stay the bolt, descending on his lust; - The crafty counsel of his finite mind - Would thwart the God, who rides upon the wind; - Yea, "rides upon a Cherub," and doth fly, - Scatt'ring his lightnings through the lurid sky. - Vain hope! the purpose of his heart, foreknown, - Ere yet the falcon swoops, the prey is flown; - On Egypt's all unconscious breast is laid - Another babe, like him whom erst the maid - Daughter of Pharaoh on the wave espied - In bark of bulrush, floating o'er the tide - Where 'twas her wont her virgin limbs to lave, - And snatched in pity from a watery grave; - True to the chord that wakes in woman's heart, - True to the pulse which bids her promptly start - To shield defenceless childhood in her arms, - And hush the plaining of its young alarms. - - Infant adored! I dare not here essay - To paint the lustre of thy glorious way:-- - Let earth attend, while holy tongue recount - Thy hallow'd lessons from the Olive Mount, - While Heaven proclaims its messenger of love - On Jordan's banks descending as a dove, - While grateful multitudes in plaudits vie, - And Zion shouts hosannah to the High! - O'er famed Gethsemane, I must not tread. - Sad o'er its memory let tears be shed; - From bloody Calvary, the soul recoils - From impious murderers, sharing in thy spoils; - From thy dread agony, and bosom wrung, - A world in awful darkness, sably hung, - When earth was shook, the vail was rent in twain - And yawning graves gave forth their dead again. - - From theme too great, too sad, I turn away, - From strain too lofty for a feeble lay-- - They sought to quench in blood thy hallow'd light, - To stay, the foolish ones! thy stayless flight; - They did indeed thy breast of meekness wring, - Which would have gathered them beneath its wing; - Infuriate Jacob trampled on thy cross, - Thy loved ones mourned in bitterness, thy loss, - When suddenly is heard the earthquake shock, - The sepulchre repels its closing rock, - The grave is tenantless!--the body gone, - The trembling guards in speechless terror thrown; - Th' attending angel comes with lightning brow - And raiment whiter than the dazzling snow, - Comes to attest with his eternal breath, - Our God triumphant over sin and death. - - Here let me pause and fix my ardent gaze-- - Faith is my star, whose ever-during rays - Can guide my steps through life's surrounding gloom - And cheer the paths which lie beyond the tomb; - How was I lost in earth's bewildering vale - When first I turned and saw that silver sail - Above my dim horizon, breaking slow, - When all of peace for me seem'd gone below; - My world was sad and comfortless and drear - Or cross'd by lights that glance and disappear; - Look back, my soul, on scenes which long have passed, - Think on the thousand phantoms I have chased; - Count o'er the bubbles whose delusive dyes - Have danced in emptiness before mine eyes; - How were they followed,--won--and heedless clasp'd - How fled their hues! evanished as I grasp'd!-- - That last and loveliest one, whose rainbow light - Will break at times on memory so bright, - How did it fleet with all its fairy fires, - Fanned by the breath of young and soft desires! - Caught by its tinsel shine, deceptive shed, - I flew, with throbbing heart and dizzied head, - A giddy round, where all beneath were flowers, - Where sped, with "flying feet," the laughing hours: - Dissolved the charm--dispelled the brilliant dream-- - Why changed to baleful shadow did it seem? - What roused the madman from his trance, and left - His heart a waste--of love--of joy bereft? - What woke the foolish one?--unmanned his heart? - Death, mid the treach'rous scene, did sudden start, - And o'er my light of love his breath expires, - It pales--it fades--extinguish'd are its fires! - - But now, how blest the change! there is a power - Can foil e'en death--can rob his only hour - Of half its sting--can even deck with charms - The cold embrace of his sepulchral arms: - 'Tis but the transient sinful passport this, - To "joys unspeakable and full of bliss;" - 'Tis but a short,--convulsive,--fitful thrill,-- - A momentary pang,--a sudden chill;-- - When free, the disembodied spirit flies - Where, incorruptible, it never dies; - To scenes the Patmos prophet, glowing paints, - Where near the jasper seat adore the saints, - Where bow of emerald circles round a throne - In glory brighter than the sardine stone! - Yet hold!--nor thus as if in scorn my soul - Still break from earth and spurn its dull control; - Why wilt thou bound away through paths of ether, - Swift as "young roes upon thy mountains, Bether?" - Turn--turn to earth, the blinded vision fails,-- - We must not look beyond those sapphire veils, - Which mercy spreads in beauty o'er the skies, - To spare the weakness of unhallow'd eyes; - Oh, check the thought which soars, presumptuous man! - Nor dare the heights that thou must never scan. - - But though shut out from that all radiant goal - While "this corruptible" enchains the soul, - He whom a gracious God hath given to see - Yon light which burst on darkened Galilee, - Will find a charm in that clear steady ray - Which sweetens life and sanctifies decay; - All changed the face of this dark prison, earth, - It seems to spring as from a second birth; - Chaos is gone,--as first it fled the sight - Of Him who spake, and sudden there was light! - Sweet flowers now spring upon the pris'ners path, - Where once but thorns beset the child of wrath; - A balm for wounds that once could rack the frame, - Such monitory thoughts the fondest wish to tame. - Such hope to cheer and stay the sinking breast, - A prize so noble,--and so calm a rest! - Such alter'd views!--new heavens!--and other skies! - Some veil before was bound upon his eyes, - Thus sudden loosed, as if angelic hands, - Invisible, unbound his fettering bands. - Where now the cold and soul revolting gloom - That hung its shadows o'er the yawning tomb? - Where gone the grief that with o'erwhelming load - Press'd down the heart and crush'd it on its road? - Lost in the hope of those prospective joys - Where sorrow enters not, nor death annoys. - -S. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -THE SWEET SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA, AND THE VALLEY WHICH CONTAINS THEM. - -BY W. BYRD POWELL, M.D. - - -Mr. Jefferson has said, and we admit it, that a sight of the Natural -Bridge is worth a trip across the Atlantic. But as this does not -preclude the possibility of greater curiosities existing, we are -allowed the privilege of expressing the belief, that the Sweet Springs, -inclusive of the entire valley which contains them, present to a -philosophical mind, a scene of incalculably greater interest. The -bridge, by one mental effort, is comprehended, and speculation put at -rest. Not so with this valley; but like the bridge, the first -impressions produced by it create amazement, but as soon as this state -of feeling is displaced by further observation, a train of thought -succeeds, of unceasing interest, upon the character and variety of the -causes which could have produced such a pleasing variety of effects. - -In the first place, the several springs, bubbling forth immense volumes -of water, highly charged with lime, carbonic acid gas, free caloric, -and in some instances iron, are objects of peculiar interest to the -philosopher, and so they will remain, more especially, until more facts -in relation to them are discovered, and the laws of chemical affinity -are better understood. - -In the second place, the great fertility of the valley, even to a -common observer, will be remarked as a matter of very uncommon -occurrence. - -In the third place, those elevations which cross the Valley, five in -number, popularly known as the Beaver Dams, are marvellous matters, -transcending even the Natural Bridge; and that they were constructed by -beavers, cannot admit of a doubt. But then the mind is lost in -amazement at the probable number of the animals that inhabited the -valley, and the immensity of their labor. - -The valley is bounded by high hills, perhaps mountains, and the one -that terminates its lower extremity consists of slate, and is separated -from the lateral ones by a stream of small magnitude above its junction -with the valley branch, which is made up measurably of the mineral -waters. The lateral mountains, at their lower extremity are slate; at -the other, sandstone; and in the middle, limestone. - -From the upper spring, or the one now in use, to the junction of its -branch with the mountain stream above treated of, is three miles, and -the fall in that distance was originally about one hundred and fifty -feet. Then there was between these lateral hills no valley or flat -land--this has been produced by the Beaver Dams which divided the -original declination into five perpendicular _falls_, measuring each -from twenty to thirty-eight feet--thus producing out of one mountain -gutter, five beautiful tables of the richest soil in the world. And -this too, simply by retaining the _debris_ from the surrounding hills, -as it was annually washed in, and also the lime from the mineral -waters, which, since the production of the fountains has been -constantly depositing. It is furthermore evident that no one of these -dams was the work of one season, but of many, just as the necessity for -elevation was produced by the filling up of the artificial basin. - -As a description of one of those dams will serve for all, we will take -the largest, and the one which bounds the lower extremity of the -valley. - -This dam constitutes one bank of the stream which receives the valley -waters, and is about thirty-eight feet high, and half a mile in length; -the elevation, however, gradually diminishes from the centre to the -extremities. The mineral waters of the valley contain, as we have -intimated, an immense quantity of lime, which is deposited with -astonishing rapidity in the state of a simple carbonate, (especially in -those places where the water has much motion,) producing those mineral -forms called _stalactites_ and _stalagmites_. With this knowledge it is -easy to comprehend how these imperishable monuments of beaver labor and -economy were produced.--For instance, these animals, according to their -manner of building, felled trees across the mouth of the branch, and -filled smaller interstices with brush, which would cause motion in the -water and serve as nuclei for its mineral depositions. Consequently, in -this dam may be seen immense incrustations of logs, brush, roots and -moss. In many instances, the ligneous matter, not being able to resist -the decomposing effects of time and moisture, is entirely removed, -leaving petrous tubes, resembling, in the larger specimens, cannon -barrels. These calcareous deposites not only cemented the timber -together, but secured the entire work against the smallest percolation, -prevented the escape of mountain _debris_, and rendered permanent a -labor, which under other circumstances, would little more than have -survived the duration of the timber, or the life of the industrious -artificer. - -The outside of the dam is stalactical in its whole length, which -resulted from the beaver's keeping its summit level, and thus causing -the water to flow over every point of it. This circumstance, in -connexion with the stream that washes its outer base, has caused large -and over hanging projections of the stalactical deposites, and -cavernous excavations; attached to the roofs of which is to be seen a -great variety of small and beautiful spars. At the point over which the -water at present is precipitated, the dam, is a bold and interesting -spectacle. Add to this a large descending column of white spray, into -which the water is converted by obstacles opposing its march over the -dam, and the scene is rendered truly sublime. - -The soil of the several basins seems to rest on stalagmite, and the -channel of the branch is worn out of it. - -In many places, far above the present level of the basins or dams, may -be seen large rocks of this stalagmite: thus proving incontestibly, -that this water occupied a position, two hundred feet at least above -what it did at the time the beavers commenced their labor, and before -the deep excavation was effected between the mountains. - -Finally, we deem it proper to make a few more remarks upon the first -topic we introduced,--namely, the waters themselves. As to the agents -concerned, and the play of affinities between them, it is useless for -us to hazard an opinion, more especially as we have not made ourselves -analytically acquainted with them. Let it suffice to point out the -several springs, and those sensible properties and qualities which will -necessarily be observed by every visiter; and first of the spring now -in use. - -As soon as this beautiful fountain is brought within the compass of -vision, attention will be arrested by the constant and copious escape -of fixed air, and the boldness of the stream. As soon as it is -introduced to the mouth, its sweetish taste and warmth are -discovered--and then its stimulating effect upon the system will be -perceived; and finally, if the visiter will walk below the spring, five -or six rods, he will discover the stalagmitic rocks of limestone which -have been formed by successive depositions from this water. - -The next spring below, is popularly called the Red Spring. It is -characterized by a red deposite, which we regard as the carbonate of -iron, by a strong sweetish calybiate taste, by its warmth, by the -boldness of the stream, and by the absence of any fixed air escaping. - -The two springs below this, resemble the first in every respect, so far -as the unaided senses can discover. We feel called upon to add, that no -one should venture a free use, as a drink, of the Red Spring water, -unadvised by an intelligent physician. It is a powerful water, and can -never prove an indifferent agent in any constitution. - -And finally, we beg leave to advise every visiter, whose soul is warmed -by a scientific love of natural phenomena, not to leave the ground till -he shall have seen the major part, at least, of what we have feebly -attempted to describe. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -RECOLLECTIONS OF "CHOTANK." - - _Olim meminisse juvabit._--VIRGIL. - - -Blessed, yea thrice blessed, be the hills and flats, the "forests" and -swamps of Old Chotank! Prosperous, yea doubly prosperous be their -generous cultivators--worthy descendants of worthy sires--VIRGINIANS -all over, in heart and feeling, soul and body. From the Paspatansy -swells to the Neck levels, may they have peace and happiness in "all -their borders." - -How often do I turn over memory's volume and linger upon the page which -tells of my first visits to "Chotank"--so full of almost unalloyed -pleasure. The recollection steals upon the mind like soft strains of -music over the senses, giving the same chastened satisfaction. - -Can I ever forget the happy days and nights there spent: The ardent fox -hunt with whoop and hallo and winding horn: And would even TEMPERANCE -blush to look, after the fatigues of the chase, at the old family bowl -of mint julep, with its tuft of green peering above the inspiring -liquid--an emerald isle in a sea of amber--the dewy drops, cool and -sparkling, standing out upon its sides--all, all balmy and inviting? -And then, the morning over and the noon passed, the business of the day -accomplished, the social board is spread, loaded with flesh and fowl -and the products of the garden and the orchard! Come let us regale the -now lively senses and satisfy the excited appetite! What care we for -ragouts and fricassee's, and olla podrida's, and all the foreign -flummery that fashion and folly have brought into use? The juicy ham, -the rich surloin, the fat saddle, make the _substantials_ of a VIRGINIA -dinner, and "lily-livered" he, who would want a better. But when -friends and strangers come--and welcome are they always! nature's -watery store house is at hand, and windy must be the day indeed, when -the Potomac cannot furnish a dish of chowder or crabs, to be added to -the feast. How I have luxuriated at a Chotank dinner! Nor let pleasures -of the table in this intellectual age be despised? Goddess of -Hospitality forbid it! And well may I address thee in the _feminine_ -gender, thou dispenser of heartfelt mirth! 'Tis WOMAN'S smile enlivens -the feast--'tis WOMAN'S handy care that has so well provided it--'tis -WOMAN'S kind encouragement that adds a charm to all you see around you. - -And now let us loll in the cool portico, shaded with the Lombardy -poplar--the proper tree, let them say what they will, to surround a -gentleman's mansion--so tall and stately, and therefore so appropriate. -How delightful is the breeze on this height! See the white sails of the -vessels, through the trees on the bank of the river, spread out to -catch it, and how gracefully and even majestically they glide along. -You can trace them up and down as far as the eye can reach, following -their quiet courses. The beautiful slopes of the fields in Maryland, -cultivated to the water's edge, fill up a picture surpassingly -beautiful--not grand, but beautiful; for what can please more than the -calm sunshine shed upon upland and lowland, with the glad waters -glistening in its rays, and just enough of man's works on both "flood -and field" to give life and motion to the scene! Surrounded with such a -prospect as this, let the old folks discuss their crops, talk of their -wheat and corn, and prognosticate the changes of the weather--or, as -times now go, settle first the affairs of the county, then of the -state, and lastly of the nation, while we steal away to the parlor. - -DAUGHTERS OF VIRGINIA! always fair, always lovely, how much fairer and -lovelier than ever, do you appear in your own homes, surrounded by your -fathers, your brothers and your kinsmen. How it has delighted me to -watch the overflowings of your innocent hearts, to enjoy your winning -smiles--to listen to the music of your voices! I see in you no -hypocrisy and deceit, the moral contagious diseases caught by -intercourse with corrupt society--I find no "town-bred" arts, mocking -the modesty of nature--I discover no cunning devices to attract that -attention which merit alone ought to command. May this be written of -you always! May the land which produces noble, generous sons, ever have -for its boast and pride, THE MOST VIRTUOUS DAUGHTERS. - -And now having seen the young men _fairly_ "paired," if not matched, -let us leave them with a blessing, and look after our more aged -friends. - -Politics have run high since we left them, but the "cool of the -evening" is cooling the blood, and "a drink" settles the controversy. -Friends and neighbors cannot afford to quarrel even about what concerns -themselves, much less about things so far off as at Washington. With -Virginia gentlemen there is always a courtesy and kindness even in -heated argument which precludes the possibility of offence. - -Ah! did I not see a sly wink? And is there not a touch of the elbow, -and then a low whisper, and by and by a buzz--and then an open proposal -for a sociable game at CARDS. Presently, presently, good friends, we -will have our tea and biscuit, and then for loo or whist! - -Let not starched propriety look prim, nor prudery shake her head, nor -jealous caution hold up her finger. Our fathers did the same before us, -and "be we wiser or better than they?" Call in the "womankind," as -Oldbuck of Monkbarns ungallantly styled the better part of creation, -and let us have fair friends and foes to join us round the table. Trim -the lights, roll from your purses just enough of silver to give an -interest to our play. Avaunt! spirits of gaming and avarice from this -circle--and here's at you till weariness or inclination calls us to -seek - - "Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep." - -And thus ends a day in Chotank: A day!--yes many, many days. In these -"our latter times," and this "our age of improvement," all this may be -thought wrong! Perhaps it is so. I will not dispute with stern morality -and strict philosophy. Their counsels are doubtless more worthy to be -followed than the maxim which - - "Holds it one of the wisest things - To drive dull care away." - -But for "my single self" I can say that after a day spent in Chotank I -never had reason to exclaim, following the fashion of the Roman -Emperor, "_Diem Perdidi!_" - -But Chotank, like many other parts of the Old Dominion, is not now in -its "high and palmy state." Some fifteen or twenty years ago it -obtained that celebrity which makes it famous now. The ancient seats of -generous hospitality are still there, but their _former_ possessors, so -free of heart, so liberal, and blessed withal with the means of being -free and liberal, where are _they_? "And echo alone answers, where are -they." Their sons can only hope to keep alive the old spirit by the -exercise of more prudence and economy than their fathers possessed. -Otherwise here too, as alas! in some cases is too true, the families -that once and now own the soil, are destined to be rudely pushed from -their places by grasping money lenders! Altered as the times are -however, and changed as is the condition of many of the inhabitants, -the life that I have attempted faintly to sketch, is the life yet led -by the merry Chotankers. With the remembrance of the "olden time" -strongly impressed on their minds, and tradition to strengthen the -ideas formed by their own recollections, they _will_ have their fun and -their frolics--their barbecues and their fish frys. There are fewer -"roystering blades" than there used to be, and much less drinking than -formerly--but the court house now and then brings up a round dozen of -"good men and true," who will not disgrace their ancestors: men who -will make the "welkin ring" again with uprorarious mirth, and part as -they met in all that high flow of spirits which results from good -eating and drinking, and freedom, at least for the present, from care. - -Let us, however, close. There is that in the place and the people of -whom I am writing to induce me to continue: but enough for this -"Recollection." If the eye of a Chotanker should meet this page and -read what is written, he will know without looking at the signature -that he has met with a FRIEND to him and 'all his neighborhood.' - -_Alexandria, D. C., Sept. 13, 1834._ E. S. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -IMPORTANT LAW CASE IN A SISTER STATE, INVOLVING QUESTIONS OF SCIENCE. - -[Communicated by P. A. Browne, Esq. of Philadelphia.] - - -On the Easterly side of the beautiful river Schuylkill, about seven -miles north of the city of Philadelphia, stands the flourishing town of -MANYUNK. Only a few years ago there was not a house to be seen there, -and nothing disturbed the stillness of nature but the singing of the -birds, the lowing of the herds, and the gentle ripling of the river as -its waters glided towards the ocean; but now it has become the -habitation of thousands of human beings, the seat of numerous -manufactories, and a striking example of the rapid improvements in -American industry and the arts. The whole of this change has been -wrought by improving the navigation of the Schuylkill: by raising the -Fairmount and other dams, sufficient water has been provided, not only -for all the purposes of canaling and watering the city of Philadelphia, -but the company, incorporated by law for that purpose, have found at -their disposal an immense water power, which they sell and rent to the -best advantage. - -Among the number of enterprising citizens who availed themselves of -these advantages was Mr. Mark Richards, a gentleman advantageously -known and esteemed in the mercantile as well as the manufacturing -world. - -On the 1st of February, 1830, the Schuylkill navigation company made a -deed to John Moore, in which it was recited that on the 3d day of -November, 1827, Mark Richards had agreed with the company for the -purchase of a lot of ground at Manyunk therein described; that on the -25th of January, 1828, he, the said Mark, had agreed to purchase of the -company 100 _inches of water power_ at flat-rock canal, at the annual -rent of $6 per inch; and on the 13th of March, 1828, 200 inches of -water power at the same rate, which water power was to be granted on -the _usual conditions_, and subject to the former grants by the company -of water power. That on the 4th of June, 1830, Richards and wife had -granted the said lot and "_the aforesaid water power of 300 inches of -water_" to Moore. It further recited that Richards had requested the -grant of the company to be made to Moore, he Richards having paid the -whole rent, amounting to $1840 per annum up to that time. Then follows -the grant of the lot, together with the privilege of drawing from the -canal through the forebay, at all times thereafter forever, "SO MUCH -WATER AS CAN PASS through two metalic apertures, one of 50, and the -other of 250 square inches, under a head of three feet." To have and to -hold "the quantity of 300 SQUARE INCHES OF WATER," in manner aforesaid. -Moore covenanted at his expense to erect and support the two metalic -apertures, one of 50, and the other of 250 _square inches_, through -which the said 300 _inches_ of _water_, under a three feet head, "_is -to pass_." The company reserving to themselves the right to enter upon -the premises for the purpose of examining "the _size_ of the -apertures." - -Mr. Moore having ascertained that by applying two plain simple metalic -apertures of the given sizes, he was not able to draw the same quantity -in square inches of water, but only 65 and 2/3d per cent. of the -amount, he therefore applied the adjutages described by Professor -Venturi; and for these applications, which were alleged to be a breach -of the contract, an action was instituted in the Supreme Court of -Pennsylvania. - -It will be perceived that this case involved not only important -principles of law, but interesting inquiries in hydrodynamics, to aid -in the discussion of which, large draughts were made upon the -scientific attainments of the accomplished bar of Philadelphia. For the -plaintiff were engaged John Sergeant and Horace Binney, Esquires; but -the absence of the latter gentleman at Congress, occasioned the -retaining of C. Chauncey, Esquire; for the defendants were Joseph R. -Ingersol and Peter A. Browne, Esquires. - -The cause occupied several days, during which time the court house was -continually crowded with an intelligent audience. - -The questions were, first, whether the granter was confined to the use -of _simple_ apertures of the dimensions mentioned in the deed, when it -was apparent from the opinions of men of science, and from the -experiments made before the jury, that through such openings it was not -possible for him to draw more than 65 and 2/3d per cent. of the water -contracted for, (it being a law of nature that when a fluid is drawn -from a simple aperture or opening, the stream or vein is contracted so -as to form the figure of a cone;) or whether the grantee was entitled, -at all events, to his 300 inches of water, and had a right to affix -adjutages to overcome this law of nature, and restore things to the -state they were supposed to be in by the parties, if, when they -contracted, they were ignorant of this principle. Second. The defendant -having contracted for as much water as "_can pass_" through metalic -apertures of given sizes, whether he was entitled, provided he did not -increase the size of the openings, nor increase the head, so to adjust -the adjutages as to draw _more_ water than 300 square inches; for it -was proved by another set of experiments that, by reason of the -adjutages at the defendant's mill, he had contrived, not only to -overcome the _vena contracta_ or contracted vein, but to draw off more -water than would have passed through a plain opening if the vena -contracta did not exist. - -When a vessel is filled with a homogeneous fluid, and it is in -equilibrium, all the particles of the fluid are pressed equally in all -directions. This law was known to Archimedes, and its knowledge enabled -him to detect the fraud committed by the gold smith upon Hiero, King of -Syracuse. The first regular work upon Hisdrodynamics was written by -Sextus Julius Frentinus, inspector of the public fountains at Rome -under the Emperors Nerva and Trajan. He laid down the law, that water -which flows in a given time, from a given orifice, does not depend -_merely_ upon the magnitude of the orifice, but upon the _head_ or -height of the fluid in the vessel. From that period until the 17th -century none of the principles upon which this cause depends, were much -studied, nor the doctrine of fluids much known. At length Gallileo the -astronomer, by his discovery of the uniform acceleration of gravity, -paved the way for a rapid improvement in hydrodynamics. Gallileo was -acquainted with the fact that water could not be made to rise more than -a certain height in a common pump; but he was entirely unacquainted -with the reason. His pupil, Torricelli, and his friend, Viviani, -discovered that it was owing to the pressure of the external air, and -thus the problem was solved. Mariotte, who introduced experimental -philosophy into France, was the first who announced that fluids suffer -a retardation from the friction of their particles against the sides of -tubes; and he shewed that this was the case even though the tubes were -made of the _smoothest glass_. From his works, which were published -after his death, in 1684, it appears that though he was thus acquainted -with the principle upon which it is explained, he was unacquainted with -the _vena contracta_. About that time this subject began to be much -more studied in Italy. Dominic Guglielmini, a celebrated engineer, in -1697, published a very learned work upon the friction and resistance of -fluids; and from that period to this the learned of all nations have -admitted, that this resistance and retardation of fluids, owing to -their friction, did take place in a moving fluid. This work, as -connected with the motion of rivers and water in open canals, is one of -deep interest in natural philosophy; and it is one, which in this age -of improvements, should not be neglected in this country. Sir Isaac -Newton, whose capacious mind grasped at every kind of knowledge, -struggled hard to detect the reason of this resistance. In his 2nd book -of his "Principia," propositions 51, 52 and 53, he lays down certain -hypotheses, from which it results, that the filaments (as he calls -them,) of a fluid, in a pipe, will be kept back by their adhesion to -the sides of the tube, and that the next filaments will be kept back, -though in a less degree, by their adhesion to the first filaments, and -so on, until the velocity of the fluid will be greatest at the centre. -Now if we apply this principle to the discharge of a fluid through a -plain aperture, we will perceive that the parts of the water next to -the sides of the opening, being liable to the greatest friction, will -be the most retarded; and that those in the centre, being liable to the -least friction, will be most in advance; and that the friction -decreasing gradually from the extremities to the centre, the water will -be always flowing in the form of a cone, with the smallest end in -advance. This is the exact form of the vena contracta or contracted -vein! - -When the pipes are very small, this attraction of the sides of the -pipes to the fluid operates so as to suspend the whole mass, when it is -called capillary attraction. This appears to be the extent to which -Newton was acquainted with the laws that govern the vena contracta, at -the time he published the first edition of his Principia; but in his -second edition, published in 1714, he discloses the doctrine of the -contracted vein with his usual intelligence. - -Every body is acquainted with the splendid experiments of the Abbe -Bossut, which were published successively in 1771, 1786 and 1796, and -any one desirous of examining this interesting subject will consult -them at large. - -Poleni first discovered, that by applying an additional cylindrical -pipe to the orifice, of the same diameter, the _expenditure_ of the -fluid was increased. This discovery was followed up, first, by Mr. -Vince; secondly, by Doctor Matthew Young; and lastly, by Venturi. This -last named gentleman published his work on hydraulics in 1798; it was -immediately translated and published in Nicholson's Journal of Natural -Philosophy, where all the different adjutages, including the one used -by the defendant in this action, are accurately drawn and described. -They are also noticed, though not in as ample a manner, in Gregory's -Mechanics, pages 438, 445 and 447. - -From all which it was contended, that every one making a contract, must -be _presumed_ to be acquainted with the principles of the vena -contracta, and of the methods used to overcome it, and that this party -had a right to use these adjutages without incurring the risk of a -suit. - -[We understand that the suit, the foregoing interesting sketch of which -has been obligingly furnished by one of the counsel, is still, in the -language of the lawyers, _sub judice_; the jury having found a verdict -subject to the opinion of the court. We are promised a full report of -the trial and decision, for a subsequent number.]--ED. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -MR. WHITE,--The following sketch was given me by one of those mail -stage story-tellers, who abound on our roads, and enliven the drowsy -passengers by their narratives. It is founded on fact, and may not be -unacceptable to such of your readers as are fond of the delineation of -human character in all its variety of phases. - -NUGATOR. - - -SALLY SINGLETON. - - Who thundering comes on blackest steed, - With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed?--_Byron_. - - -A horseman passed us at full speed, whose wild and haggard look -arrested the attention of my friend. In the name of all that is -singular, said he, who can that be, and whither is he posting with such -rapidity? His garb seems of the last century, and his grizzled locks -stream on the wind like those of some ancient bard. - -That man, replied I, is a lover, and is hurrying away to pay his -devoirs to his mistress, who married another, and has been dead for -many years. - -Indeed! you surprize me, he rejoined. He has, it is true, the "_lean -look_" of Shakspeare's lover; the "_blue eye and sunken_;" the -"_unquestionable spirit_," and "every thing about him demonstrates a -careless desolation"--yet I should have imagined, that the snows of so -many winters had extinguished all the fires of that frosty carcase; but -tell me who he is, and what is his story. - -His name is Wilson; and that of the lady whom he loved, was Sally -Singleton. I would that I had the graphic power of Scott to sketch a -tale of so much interest. If Sir Walter has immortalized an old man, -mounted on his white pony, and going in quest of the tombstomes, how -much is it to be regretted that the same master hand cannot be employed -to perpetuate the memory of yonder eccentric being, whose love lives -on, after the lapse of twenty years, in spite of the marriage and death -of his mistress--in spite of the evidence of his own senses, and -notwithstanding every human effort to dispel his delusion. Regularly -every morning, for the last twenty years, no matter what the state of -the weather, (alike to him the hail, the rain, and the sunshine,) has -he mounted his horse, and travelled a distance of ten miles, to see his -beloved Sally Singleton. His custom is, to ride directly up to the -window of her former apartment, and in a courteous manner, to bow to -his mistress in token of his continued attachment. Having performed -this act of gallantry, he waves with his hand a fond adieu, and -immediately gallops back with a triumphant air, as if perfectly -satisfied with having set his enemies at defiance. "The course of true -love never did run smooth," and in this case, whether "_misgrafted in -respect of years_," or "_different in blood_," or "_standing on the -choice of friends_," is not exactly known; but the lady was wedded to -another, and died soon after. Her lover would never believe in her -marriage or her death. His mind unhinged by the severity of his -disappointment, seems to have retained nothing but the single image of -her he loved, shut up in that apartment; and he resolved to brave every -difficulty, to testify his unchanging devotion. Obstacles were -purposely built across his path--the bridges were broken down--the idle -boys would gather around him, and assail him in their cruel folly--guns -even, were fired at him,--all in vain! The elements could not quench -the fervor of his love--obstacles were overleaped--he swam the -rivers--the boys were disregarded--balls could not harm him. He held a -charmed life; like young Lochinvar, - - "He staid not for brake, - And he stop'd not for stone;" - -but dashed onward to his beloved window, and then, contented with this -public attestation of his unalterable love, returned with a look of -triumphant satisfaction, to his joyless home. As a last effort to -remove the veil from his eyes, a suit was instituted, in which he was -made a party, and proof of the lady's marriage and death was purposely -introduced to undeceive him. He listened with cold incredulity to the -witnesses; smiled derisively at that part of their testimony which -regarded her marriage and death; and the next morning was seen mounted -as usual, and bowing beneath the window of his adored Sally Singleton. - - - - - From the Petersburg Intelligencer. - -EXTRACT FROM A NOVEL - -THAT NEVER WILL BE PUBLISHED. - - -We had all assembled round the cheerful fire, that cracked and blazed -in the wide old-fashioned hearth. The labor of the day was over. My -father, snugly placed in his great easy chair, with his spectacles on -his nose, had been for some time studying the last long winded and very -patriotic speech of our representative in Congress, until his senses, -gradually yielding to its soothing eloquence, had sunk into a calm -slumber.--My mother sat in the corner knitting with all her might, and -every now and then expressing her wonder (for she always wondered) how -Patsy Woods could marry such a lazy, poor, good-for-nothing fellow as -Henry Pate. Sister was leaning with both elbows on the table, -devouring, as she termed it, the last most exquisite romance. Puss was -squatted on Mother's cricket, licking her paws with indefatigable -industry; and old Carlo, the pointer, lay grunting on the hearth rug, -sadly incommoded by the heat of the fire, but much too lazy to remove -from before it. And where was I? Oh! there was another corner to the -fire place. In its extremest nook sat cousin Caroline, and next to -her,--always next to her when I could get there, was I. Now this was -what I call a right comfortable family party; and not the least -comfortable of that party was myself. Cousin Caroline; dear, dear -cousin! Many a year has rolled over me since the scene I describe; many -a cold blast of the world's breath has blown on my heart and chilled, -one by one, the spring flowers of hope that grew there; but the -blossoms of love thy image nurtured, were gathered into a garland to -hang on thy tomb, and the tears of memory have preserved its freshness. -Cousin Caroline!--she was the loveliest creature on whom beauty ever -set its seal. Reader, my feeling towards her was not what is called -love; at least, not what I have since felt for another. My judgment of -her excellence was not biassed by passion. She was most beautiful. I -cannot describe her. - - "Who has not proved how feebly words essay, - To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray." - -It were vain to talk of her "hyacinthine curls," her "ruby lips," her -"pearly teeth," her "gazelle eye." These, and all the etceteras of -description, define not beauty. It belongs to the pencil and not to the -pen, to give us a faint idea of its living richness. But had your eyes -glanced round a crowded room, crowded with beauty too, they would have -rested in amazement there; amazement, that one so lovely should be on -earth, and breathe among the creatures of common clay. Alas! it could -not be so long. No, I did not love her in manhood's sense of love; for, -at the time I speak of, I was but fourteen, and Caroline was in her -eighteenth year; but I loved her as all created things that could love, -loved her; from the highest to the lowest, she was the darling of the -household. The servants, indoor and outdoor, young and old, and the -crossest of the old, loved her. None so crabbed her smile would not -soften; none so stern her mildness would not subdue. Oh, what a -creature she was. I never saw Caroline angry, though I have seen her -repel, with dignity, intrusion or impertinence. I never saw her cross. -But this theme will lead me too far; and, perhaps the reader thinks I -might sum up my estimate of her qualities in one word--perfection. Not -so; but as near to it as the Creator ever suffered his creature to -attain. Well, we were sitting round the fire in the manner I have -described. Caroline was amusing me with a description of the pleasures -of the town, for she had just returned from a visit to a relation -residing in the city of ----, when the sound was heard of a carriage -coming up the avenue. What a bustle! Father bounced up, dropping the -paper and his spectacles; Mother stopped wondering about Patsy Woods, -to wonder still more who this could be. Pussy remained quiet, but Carlo -prevailed upon himself to stretch and yawn, and totter to the door, to -satisfy his curiosity. Sister looked up. Caroline looked down; and then -sister looked at her very archly, though I could not tell why, and -said, "go brother Harry, ask the gentleman in." - -"Why do you know who it is, my dear, that is coming to see us at this -late hour?" said my father. It was but eight o'clock; but remember we -were in the country. I went out of the room, and did not hear the -answer. I was met at the hall door by a gentleman, whom I ushered in. -My father accosted him, and was very proud and very happy to see Col. -H----d. He was then introduced to the members of the family; "and this -lady I think you are already acquainted with," continued my father, as -he presented cousin Caroline, who had hung back. The Colonel -smiled,--Caroline blushed, but she smiled too. What is all this about, -thought I. "Come, sir, be seated," quoth my father. The Colonel bowed, -thanked him, and placed himself forthwith in my chair, right beside -Caroline. Now it is true Caroline had two sides, and her left side was -as dear to me as her right; but then that side was next to the wall, -and she sat so near to it that there was no edging a chair in without -incommoding her. So I was fain to look out for other quarters, and -found them next to my mother, whence I looked the colonel right in the -face. He was not a handsome man, but a very noble looking one. He was -rather above the common height, somewhat thin, but his carriage very -erect. His complexion was dark, but ruddy dark, the hue of health and -manliness; his forehead broad; so much so as to make the lower part of -his visage appear contracted, and rather long. The expression of his -features when at rest, was stern, and even haughty; perhaps from the -habit of command, for his _had_ been a soldier's life, and his title -was won on the battle field; but when in conversation, there was an air -of great good nature over his whole countenance, and his smile was very -winning. Cousin Caroline thought it so. - -"The road to your farm is rather intricate, my good sir," said the -colonel, as he took his seat, "and though I had a pretty good chart of -the country, (here he looked at Caroline and smiled one of those -winning smiles, but Caroline did not, or would not see him,) I was so -stupid as to miss the way, for when I reached the cross roads, instead -of taking the right I directed the servant to the left, and moved on -some time in the wrong direction without meeting a human being of whom -to make inquiry. At length I had the good fortune to encounter a -gentleman on horseback, who corrected my error, adding the satisfactory -assurance, that I had gone at least four miles in the opposite -direction to that which I desired to go; so that, though I set out -betimes, it was thus late before I reached here." - -"Well, I wonder!" cried my mother. - -"Then colonel you must be sadly in want of refreshment," said my -father. "My dear"-- - -"Not at all so, my dear sir. I beg you will give yourselves no trouble -on my account. I assure you"-- - -"Sit still, colonel, I beg of you," interrupted my father, as the -former rose to urge his remonstrance.--"Sit still, sir; trouble indeed; -we'll have supper directly, and I don't care if I nibble a little -myself." - -So the colonel gave up the contest, but when he reseated himself, he -perceived Caroline was gone; she had slipped out of the room with my -mother. The colonel had a very nice supper that night, and he did it -justice. Who prepared it, think you? my mother? No, for she returned to -the room in two minutes after she left it. I knew who prepared it, and -so did the colonel, or he made a shrewd guess; for, when Caroline -returned, he gave her a look that spoke volumes of thankfulness, and of -such exquisite fondness that it made the blood mount to her very -forehead. - -A week passed away, and colonel H----d remained a constant guest at my -father's; and though I could not but like and admire him, his conduct -was a source of great annoyance to me, for no sooner did Caroline make -her appearance in the breakfast room in the morning than he posted -himself next to her; and then they took such long walks together, and -would spend so many hours in riding about the country, and they never -asked me to accompany them, so that Caroline had as well have been in -town again, for the opportunity I had of conversing with her. The -result of all this is, of course, plain to the reader; and it was soon -formally announced that on the third day of the succeeding month -Caroline was to become the bride of the wealthy and gallant Colonel -H----d, and accompany him forthwith to his distant home, for his -residence was in the state of Georgia. I wept bitter tears, and sobbed -as if my heart would break as I laid all lonely in my bed that night on -which this latter piece of intelligence had been communicated by my -father, until sleep, the comforter of the wretched, extended to me the -bliss of oblivion. "Blessings on the man who invented sleep," says -friend Sancho--blessings, aye blessings indeed, on all bountiful nature -who, while she gives rest to the wearied body bestows consolation on -the grieving heart, lulls into gentle calm the storm of the passions, -plucks from power its ability and even its wish to oppress, and hushes -in poverty the sense of its weakness and its degradation. My fate has -not been more adverse than that of the generality of men, but "take it -all in all," the happiest portion of my existence has been spent in -sleep. Why did I weep? The being whom I loved best on earth was about -to be wedded to the worthy object of her choice,--a choice that -affection sanctioned and reason might well approve; and even to my -young observation it was apparent that while she gave, she was enjoying -happiness. There was pleasure in the beaming of her sparkling eyes, -there was joy in the dimples of her rosy smile. The very earth on which -she trod seemed springing to her step, and the air she breathed to be -pure and balmy. Could she be happy and I feel miserable? and that -misery growing too, out of the very source of her happiness. Yes; even -so unmixed, so absorbing was my selfishness. _My_ selfishness! the -selfishness of humanity; for even as the rest of my fellow men so was, -and so am I. I thought of the many hours of delight I had enjoyed in -her presence, of the thousand daily kindnesses I had experienced at her -hand. She alone was wont to partake of my youthful joys, to sympathize -with my boyish griefs; it was her praise that urged me to exertion, the -fear of her censure that restrained me from mischief. And all this was -to pass away, and to pass with her presence too. Never more was my -heart to drink in the sweet light of her eyes; never more would her -soft voice breathe its music in my ear. I felt that I dwelt no longer -in her thoughts; I believed my very image would soon perish from her -memory. Such were the bitter thoughts that weighed down my mind. - -I go on spinning out this portion of my tale, no doubt very tediously, -and my readers will perhaps despair of my ever arriving at the end; but -patience, I shall get there by and by. "Bear with me yet a little -while." It is that I shrink from what I have undertaken to narrate, -that I wander into digression; for whatever effect it may have on -others, whose only interest in it will arise from momentary excitement, -on me the fearful casualty I shall describe, has imposed "the grief of -years." Many a pang has my heart experienced in my pilgrimage through -this weary world, and some grievous enough to sustain; time and -occupation, however, have afforded their accustomed remedy, and scars -only are left to mark where the wounds have been. But this, though -inflicted in boyhood's springy days, is festering now; aye now, when -the very autumn of manhood is passed, and the winter of age is -congealing the sources of feeling and of life. - -The wedding day was drawing nigh. One little week remained of the -appointed time; and a joyous man, no doubt, was colonel H----d, as hour -after hour winged its flight, and each diminished the space that lay -betwixt him and his assured felicity. Poor weak creatures that we are, -whose brief history is but a record of hope and disappointment, ever -deceived by the mirage of happiness that glitters afar in the desert of -life, and recedes from before us as we pursue, till outworn, we sink -into death with our thirst unslaked, our desires ungratified. One -little week remained. What matters the brevity of time when a moment is -fraught with power to destroy. Behold the gallant ship with tightened -cordage and outspread sails, dashing from her prow the glittering spray -as she dances on the leaping wave to the music of the breeze; cheerful -faces crowd her deck, for she is homeward bound from a distant land; -and now her port is almost reached, a hidden rock has pierced her side, -the eternal sea rolls over the sunken wreck. The warrior has charged -and broken the foe; the shout of victory rings in his ears, and fancy -twines the laurel round his brow; but treachery lurks in his armed -array, and the clarion of conquest sounds the note of defeat. The -mighty city with its thousand domes, its marble palaces, and its -crowded marts, over which ages have urged their onward flight, and -still it grew in wealth and strength, has felt the earthquake's shock. -Black mouldering ruins and a sullen sulphurous lake are left to mark -the spot where once its "splendors shone." And the heart, the human -heart, with its high aspirations, and its treacherous whisperings of -unmixed joys, its blindness of trust in coming events, its strange -forgetfulness of the hours gone by, its sunny morning of boundless -hope, its stormy night of dark despair. - -My father's house was situated on an elevated spot, commanding an -extensive view of the broad Potomac; from its front to the bank of the -river, a distance of some hundred yards, the ground descended in a -gentle slope terminating in a sheer precipice, and down, down "a -fearful depth below," rolled on the rapid waters. The bank was composed -of vast masses of rock, between the crevices of which pushed forth -gnarled and jagged trees of various kinds, shooting their moss-covered -branches in every direction, and hugged in strict and stifling embrace -by huge vines, that looked like the monster boas, of a preadamate -world. The summit was lined with a dense growth of underwood, that hid -from the passer by the awful chasm upon whose very margin he might be -unconciously standing. As the main road (which ran parallel to the -course of the river) laid upwards of a mile from the rear of the -dwelling house, and was, besides being generally in very bad order, -very uninteresting in its character, we were in the habit of using for -the purpose of visiting some of our neighbors, a path that ran along -and was dangerously near to the verge of the precipice, but which had -been travelled so long and so often without accident, that we had -ceased to think of even the possibility of any occurring. It was a -bright sunshiny morning, the blue sky studded with those massy rolling -clouds whose purple shades give such strong relief to the fleecy white, -and cheat the fancy into portraying a thousand resemblances; ancient -castles with frowning battlements, mighty ships resting beneath their -crowded canvass, bright fairy isles, where a poet's soul would delight -to wander, dark yawning caverns, in whose undreamt of depths the pent -up spirits of the damned might be "imagined howling." Pardon, pardon! -but sea and sky have always set me raving. It was at the breakfast -table that I informed my father I would ride over to aunt Diana's and -see if they were all well.--"The weather is so fine, and I have not -seen our good aunt for some time. I will ride with you; that is, if -you'll let me, cousin Harry," said Caroline, as if it were not a -delight to me to have her company. The colonel, too, proposed to join -us, and we went to get ourselves in readiness. We were soon on the -road, and away we cantered, full of health and youth and spirits. The -breeze came fresh and soft from the surface of the waters, and played -among Caroline's curls and revelled on her cheek, as if to gather the -odors of the rose, where its beauteous hue was so richly spread. We -paid our visit, partook of aunt Diana's good things, and set off on our -return, amid her protestations against our hurry. Caroline was riding -on a nice little mare that had been bred on the farm, and had always -been the pet of the family; as gentle and as playful as a lamb, but at -the same time full of spirit. We had arrived at a part of the road -where the precipice (now on our right hand) was highest. I was in -front, Caroline next to and behind me; a hare crossed my path: "take -care my boy," cried Colonel H----d, "that, you know, is said to be a -bad omen." Scarcely had he spoken when my horse started, and wheeled -short round; the mare partook of his fright, swerved half to the left, -and reared bolt upright. "Slack your rein and seize the mane, -Caroline," I screamed in agony. It was too late; the mare struggled, -and fell backwards. Oh, God! A shriek, a rushing sound - - * * * * * - -I entered the chamber where innocence and beauty had been wont to -repose; around me were the trappings of the grave; the cold white -curtains with their black crape knots, the shrouded mirror, the -scattered herbs--and stretched upon the bed motionless, lay a form--the -form of her whose living excellence was unsurpassed. My father came in; -he took my hand, led me to the bed, and gently removed the sheet from -the marble face. Oh, death, thou art indeed a conqueror! - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -SONNET, - -WRITTEN ON THE BLUE RIDGE IN VIRGINIA. - - - Gigantic sov'reign of this mountain-chain, - Proud Otter Peak! as gazing on thee now - I mark the sun its parting splendor throw - Athwart thy summit hoar--I sigh with pain - To think thus soon I needs must turn again - And seek man's bustling haunts! What if my brow - No longer wear the signs of sorrow's plough, - Doth not my heart its traces still retain, - And I still hate the crowd?--Yes! it is so, - And scenes alone such as surround me here-- - These deep'ning shades--thy torrents loud and clear-- - Yon half-hid cot--the cattle's plaintive low-- - The raven's cry, and the soft whispering breeze, - Have now the pow'r this aching breast to please. - -* * * - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -STANZAS, - -WRITTEN AT THE WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA. - - - With spirits like the slacken'd strings - Of some neglected instrument-- - Or rather like the wearied wings - Of a lone bird by travel spent; - Ah! how should I expect to find - Midst scenes of constant revelry, - A solace for a troubled mind, - A cure for my despondency?-- - - There was a time when mirth's glad tone - And pleasure's smile had charms for me-- - But disappointment had not strown - My pathway then with misery: - Health then was mine--and friends sincere-- - Requited love--and prospects bright-- - Nor dreamt I that a day so clear - Could ever set in such a night! - -* * * - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -TO ---- ---- OF THE U. S. NAVY. - - - Tell me--for thou hast stood on classic ground, - If there the waters flow more bright and clear, - And if the trees with thicker foliage crowned, - Are lovelier far than those which blossom here? - - Say is it true, in green unfading bowers, - That there the wild bird sings her sweetest lay? - And that a light, more beautiful than ours, - Lends richer glories to expiring day? - - Wooed by Italian airs, does woman's cheek - With purer color glow, than in our land? - Or does her eye more eloquently speak, - Or with a softer grace her form expand? - - Does music there, with power to us unknown, - Breathe o'er the heart a far diviner spell? - And with a sweeter, more entrancing tone, - The thrilling strains of love and glory swell? - - Tell me if thou in thought didst dearer prize - Thy home, than all that Italy could give? - Didst thou regret that her resplendent skies - Should smile on men as slaves content to live? - - Didst thou, when straying in her cities fair, - Or in her groves of bloom, regret that here - No perfumes mingle with the passing air? - And was thine own, thy native land, less dear? - - Or didst thou turn where proudly in the breeze - America's star-spangled flag was flying? - The flag that o'er thee waved on the high seas; - With conscious heart exultingly replying, - - "No slothful land of dreaming ease is ours, - Her soil is only trodden by the free-- - Less rich in music, poetry, and flowers, - Still, still she is the land of all for me!" - -E. A. S. - -_Lombardy, Va._ - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -MUSINGS II--_By the Author of Vyvyan_. - - The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets - Ebbing and flowing.--------_Rogers_. - - I loved her from my boyhood--she to me - Was as a fairy city of the heart, - Rising like water columns from the sea. - _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. Stanza xviii. - - - There is, far in a foreign clime, - Alas! no longer free-- - A city famed in olden time - As queen of all the sea; - Still fair but fallen from her prime-- - For such is destiny. - - There motley masque and princely ball - Make gay the merry carnival, - And all the night some serenade - Steals sweetly from the calm Lagune, - While many a dark eyed loving maid - Is wooed in secret neath the moon. - - And swiftly o'er the noiseless tide - Gondolas dark, like spectres, glide - Neath archways deep and bridges fair, - Temples and marble palaces, - Adorned with jutting balconies, - And dim arcades of beauty rare. - - There's naught that meets the wondering eye, - From the wave that kisses the landing stair - To the sculptured range in the azure sky,[1] - But wears a wild unearthly air, - And every voice that echoes among - Those phantomlike halls, breathes the spell of song. - - The rudest Barcarolli's cry, - Heard faint and far o'er Adria's waves, - Might cheat the listener of a sigh-- - So sad the farewell which it leaves, - When sinking on the ear it dies - Along the borders of the skies. - - Oh! Venice! Venice! couldst thou be - Still wond'rous fair and even as free! - How peerless were thy regal halls!-- - How glorious were thy seagirt walls!-- - But foreign banners flaunt thy tide, - And chains have tamed thy lion's pride. - - Thy flag is furled upon the sea, - Thy sceptre shivered on the land, - And many a spirit mourns for thee - Beyond the Lido's barren strand: - Better thy towers were sunk below - The level of Old Ocean's flow. - - Fair city of the fairest clime, - Sad change hath come o'er thee-- - The spirit voice of olden time - Is wailing o'er thy sea; - And matin bell and vesper chime - Seem knelling for the free - Who reared thy standard o'er the wave - And spurned the chains that now enslave. - -[Footnote 1: The tops of many of the buildings are ornamented with a -range of statues.] - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -THE GENIUS OF COLUMBIA TO HER NATIVE MUSE. - - - A parent's eye, sweet mountain maid, - Hath seen thee rise in Sylvan shade; - And patient, lent attentive ear - Thy first, wild minstrelsy to hear: - And thou hast breathed some artless lays, - That well deserve the meed of praise; - For, nursed by spirits bold and free, - Thy notes should breathe of Liberty. - Yet some who scan thy numbers wild, - Inquire if thou art Fancy's child, - Or some impostor, duly taught - To weave with skill the borrow'd thought. - Then list, my child! Experience sage - May well direct thy guileless age. - - Breathe not thy notes with spirit tame, - Nor pilfer, from an honor'd name, - The praise that crowns the sons of fame. - Be not by imitation taught, - To blend with thine, the vagrant thought, - From Britain's polish'd minstrels caught. - Full oft my mountain echoes tell, - How Byron's genius fram'd a spell, - Which reason vainly seeks to quell: - Did not his spirit cast a gloom - On all who shared his adverse doom, - E'en from the cradle to the tomb? - With intellectual treasures bless'd, - With misanthropic thoughts possess'd, - Their sway alternate fired his breast. - He pour'd the lava stream alone, - In torrents from that burning zone, - Which girt his bosom's fiery throne. - Enough! on his untimely bier - Affection shed no hallow'd tear-- - He claim'd no love--he own'd no fear. - - And she,[1] whose light poetic tread - Scarce sways the dewdrop newly shed - Upon the rose-bud's infant head; - Most meet to be the tender nurse - Of virtue, wounded by the curse - Of passion's fierce and lawless verse, - Whose dulcet strain, with soothing pow'r, - Can calm the soul in sorrow's hour, - And scatter many a thornless flow'r: - The thoughts that breathe in each soft line, - Seem spirits from a purer shrine - Than earth can in her realms confine. - Yet mayst thou not, in mimic lay, - Such lofty arts of verse essay? - 'Twere but a vain and weak display. - Be Freedom's bold, unfetter'd child, - And roam thy native forests wild, - Where, on thy birth, all nature smil'd; - Dwell on the mountain's sylvan crest, - Where fair Hygeia roams confest, - Bright Fancy's ever honor'd guest: - Mark the proud streams that onward sweep, - And to old Ocean's bosom leap-- - Majestic offspring of the deep. - Their inspiration shall be thine, - And nature, from that mighty shrine, - Shall prompt thee with a voice divine! - When thy free spirit is reveal'd, - The spells within its depths conceal'd - Will soon a golden tribute yield. - In numbers free, by nature taught, - Breathe forth the wild poetic thought, - And let thy strains be Fancy fraught. - - Enough! my child! a parent's voice - Would fain direct thy youthful choice - To themes, majestic and sublime, - The fruits of Freedom's favor'd clime. - Enough! For thee has nature thrown - O'er the wild stream a curb of stone, - Whose pendant arch in verdure dress'd, - Binds the tall mountain's cloven crest.[2] - For thee the volum'd waters sweep - Through riven mountains to the deep.[3] - For thee the mighty cataract pours - In thunder, through opposing shores; - And rushing with delirious leap, - Bursts the full fountains of the deep; - A billowy phlegethon--whose waves - Rend the strong walls of Ocean's caves. - -C. - -[Footnote 1: Mrs. Hemans.] - -[Footnote 2: The Natural Bridge.] - -[Footnote 3: Harper's Ferry.] - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -DEATH AMONG THE TREES. - - - Death walketh in the forest. The tall Pines - Do woo the lightning-flash,--and thro' their veins - The fire-cup darting, leaves their blacken'd trunks - A tablet, where Ambition's sons may read - Their destiny. The Oak that centuries spar'd, - Grows grey at last, and like some time-scath'd man - Stretching out palsied arms, doth feebly cope - With the destroyer, while its gnarled roots - Betray their trust. The towering Elm turns pale, - And faintly strews the sere and yellow leaf, - While from its dead arms falls the wedded vine. - The Sycamore uplifts a beacon-brow, - Denuded of its honors,--while the blast - That sways the wither'd Willow, rudely asks - For its lost grace, and for its tissued leaf - Of silvery hue. - - I knew that blight might check - The sapling, ere kind nature's hand could weave - Its first spring-coronal, and that the worm - Coiling itself amid our garden-plants - Did make their unborn buds its sepulchre. - And well I knew, how wild and wrecking winds - May take the forest-monarchs by the crown, - And lay them with the lowliest vassal-herb; - And that the axe, with its sharp ministry, - Might in one hour, such revolution work, - That all earth's boasted power could never hope - To reinstate. And I had seen the flame - Go crackling up, amid yon verdant boughs, - And with a tyrant's insolence dissolve - Their interlacing,--and I felt that man - For sordid gain, would make the forest's pomp - Its heaven-rear'd arch, and living tracery - A funeral pyre. But yet I did not deem - That pale disease amid those shades would steal - As to a sickly maiden's cheek, and waste - The plenitude of those majestic ranks, - Which in their peerage and nobility, - Unrivall'd and unchronicled, had reign'd. - And then I said, if in this world of knells, - And open graves, there lingereth one, whose dream - Is of aught permanent below the skies, - Even let him come, and muse among the trees, - For they shall be his teachers,--they shall bow - To their meek lessons his forgetful ear, - And by the whispering of their faded leaves, - Soften to his sad heart, the thought of death. - -L. H. S. - -_Hartford, Con. Sept. 10, 1834_. - - - - -ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES. - - -AMIR KHAN, AND OTHER POEMS: the remains of Lucretia Maria Davidson, who -died at Plattsburg, N. Y. August 27, 1825, aged 16 years and 11 months. -With a Biographical Sketch, by Samuel F. B. Morse, A. M. _New York: G. -& C. & H. Carvill_--1829. - - -We believe that this little volume, although published several years -since, has but recently found its way to this side of the Potomac. Our -attention has been attracted towards it by some notice of its contents -in the Richmond Enquirer, whose principal editor we will do him the -justice to say, has always manifested a lively interest in the -productions of American genius. Mr. Ritchie is entitled to the more -praise for his efforts in behalf of domestic literature, not only on -account of his active and absorbing labors as a political writer, but -because, also, we are sorry to add, the subject is one in which -southern taste and intelligence have, for the most part, evinced but -little concern. It is but too common for our leading men, professional -as well as others, to affect something like a sneer at every native -attempt in the walks of polite literature. Their example, we fear, has -imparted a tone to the reading circles generally, and has served to -beget that inordinate appetite for every thing _foreign_ which has -either obtained a fashionable currency abroad--or occasioned some -_excitement_ in that busy, noisy, gossipping class of society, whose -merit is so vastly disproportioned to its influence. We have often -known the sentimental trash and profane ribaldry of some popular -Englishman eagerly sought after, and as eagerly devoured, whilst the -pure and genuine productions of native genius have remained neglected -on the bookseller's shelf, and quietly surrendered to oblivion. That -this does, in some measure, proceed from an unenlightened and -uncultivated public taste, we do not doubt; but it is much more the -fruit of a slavish and inglorious dependence upon accidental -circumstances,--a spiritless, and we might add, a cowardly apprehension -of appearing _singular_--that is, of not chiming in with the shallow, -vain and heartless tittle-tattle of the self-styled _beau monde_ and -_corps elite_ of society. It is not the fault of the bookseller. The -undertaker, who prepares the coffin and shroud, has as little -participation in the death of the person for whom they are intended. -The bookseller is but the caterer of the public palate; and if that -palate is diseased, he is no more answerable for it, than the milliners -and mantuamakers who are busily occupied in deforming the fairest part -of creation, are censurable for the false taste of their customers. - -We did not intend by the foregoing observations, to bespeak any -extraordinary share of public favor towards the poems of Miss Davidson. -What we have said in relation to the neglect of American talent, was -designed to have a general and not particular application. -Notwithstanding we hear that the poems before us have been -extravagantly praised beyond the Atlantic, we are not so intoxicated by -a little foreign flattery as to believe that they are destined to -immortality. Some may console themselves, if they please, for the whole -ocean of obloquy and contempt cast upon us from the British press, by -regarding with favorable eyes this little rivulet of praise bestowed -upon the juvenile efforts of a lovely and interesting girl. We are not -of that number; we shall endeavor to decide upon the work before us, -unbiassed by trans-atlantic opinion--and we shall render precisely that -judgment which we would have done if that opinion had been pronounced -in the usual tone of British arrogance and contumely. - -Regarding the volume before us as a literary production merely, and -supposing it to have been the offspring of a matured mind, we do not -think that it possesses any considerable merit. Estimating its -contents, however, as the first lispings of a child of genius,--as -furnishing proofs of the existence of that ethereal spark which, under -favorable circumstances, might have been kindled into a brilliant -flame, we do consider it as altogether extraordinary. We do not say -that these poems are equal to the early productions of Chatterton, -Henry Kirke White, or Dermody, those prodigies of precocious -talent,--but we entertain not a shadow of doubt if Miss Davidson had -lived, that she would have ranked among the highest of her own sex in -poetical excellence. In forming a correct judgment upon the offspring -of her muse, her youth is not alone to be considered. She had also to -contend with those remorseless enemies of mental effort,--poverty, -sorrow, and ill health; and it is, perhaps, a circumstance in her -history not unworthy of notice, that possessing a high degree of -personal beauty, and being on that account the object of much -admiration and attention, she did not suffer herself to be withdrawn -from the purer sources of intellectual enjoyment. Love indeed, seems to -have found no permanent lodgment in her heart. It might have stolen to -the threshold and infused some of its gentle influences, but she seems -to have been resolved to cast off the silken cord before it was too -firmly bound around her. Thus in the piece which bears the title of -_Cupid's Bower_, written in her fifteenth year. - - "Am I in fairy land?--or tell me, pray, - To what love-lighted bower I've found my way? - Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled - In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild. - - And is this Cupid's realm?--if so, good by! - Cupid, and Cupid's votaries, I fly; - No offering to his altar do I bring, - No bleeding heart--or hymeneal ring." - -The longest, most elaborate, and perhaps best of her poems, is that -which gives the principal title to the volume. _Amir Khan_ is a simple -oriental tale, written in her sixteenth year, and is worked up with -surprising power of imagery for one so young. The most fastidious and -critical reader could not fail to be struck with its resemblance to the -gorgeous magnificence of Lalla Rookh; a resemblance, to be sure, which -no more implies equality of merit than does the brilliancy of the mock -diamond establish its value with that of the real gem. We give the -opening passage from the poem as a fair specimen of the rest, and from -which the reader may form a correct opinion of the style and -composition. - - "Brightly o'er spire, and dome, and tower, - The pale moon shone at midnight hour, - While all beneath her smile of light - Was resting there in calm delight; - Evening with robe of stars appears, - Bright as repentant Peri's tears, - And o'er her turban's fleecy fold - Night's crescent streamed its rays of gold, - While every chrystal cloud of heaven, - Bowed as it passed the queen of even. - Beneath--calm Cashmere's lovely vale - Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale; - The amaranth and tuberose, - Convolvulus in deep repose, - Bent to each breeze which swept their bed, - Or scarcely kissed the dew and fled; - The bulbul, with his lay of love; - Sang mid the stillness of the grove; - The gulnare blushed a deeper hue, - And trembling shed a shower of dew, - Which perfumed e'er it kiss'd the ground, - Each zephyr's pinion hovering round. - The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow - Glitter'd beneath the moon's pale glow; - And wide the plantain's arms were spread, - The guardian of its native bed." - -We venture to assert that if Thomas Moore had written Amir Khan at the -age of sixteen, there are thousands by whom it would be read and -admired who would hardly condescend to open Miss Davidson's volume; and -that too, without being able to assign any other or better reason than -that Moore is a distinguished and popular British bard, whereas the -other was an obscure country girl, who lived and died in the state of -New York. - -The lines to the memory of Henry Kirk White, which were composed at -thirteen, are much superior to many elegiac stanzas written by poets of -some reputation at twenty-five or thirty. Of all her minor pieces -however, those which were written at fifteen seem to us to possess the -greatest merit, if we except the _Coquette_, a very spirited production -in imitation of the Scottish dialect, composed in her fourteenth year. -The following are the two first stanzas: - - "I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest, - My Ellen's lost for aye; - My heart is sair and much distressed, - I surely soon must die. - - I canna think o' wark at a', - My eyes still wander far, - _I see her neck like driven snaw, - I see her flaxen hair._" - -The image of the snowy neck and flaxen hair of the beautiful but unkind -fair one, presented so strongly to the rejected lover, as to prevent -his performing his daily work, strikes us as highly poetical and true -to nature, as we doubt not all genuine lovers will testify. Burns wrote -many, very many verses, which were much superior, but Burns wrote some -also, which were not so good. _Ruth's answer to Naomi_, must be -allowed, we think, to be a good paraphrase of that most affecting -passage of scripture. We must give the whole to the reader. - - "Entreat me not, I must not hear, - Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear; - Thy answer's written deeply now - On this warm cheek and clouded brow; - 'Tis gleaming o'er this eye of sadness - Which only near _thee_ sparkles gladness. - - The hearts _most_ dear to us are gone, - And _thou_ and _I_ are left alone; - Where'er thou wanderest, I will go, - I'll follow thee through joy or wo; - Shouldst thou to other countries fly, - Where'er thou lodgest, there will I. - - Thy people shall my people be, - And to thy God, I'll bend the knee; - Whither thou fliest, will I fly, - And where thou diest, I will die; - And the same sod which pillows thee - Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me."[1] - -[Footnote 1: We subjoin the passage of scripture paraphrased by Miss -Davidson, and also another paraphrase which has been ascribed to the -Hon. R. H. Wilde of Georgia. Our readers can compare and decide between -them. - -"And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from -following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go: and where thou -lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my -God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried." - - Nay, do not ask!--entreat not--no! - O no! I will not leave thy side, - Whither thou goest--I will go-- - Where thou abidest--I'll abide. - - Through life--in death--my soul to thine - Shall cleave as fond, as first it clave-- - Thy home--thy people--shall be mine-- - Thy God my God--thy grave my grave.] - -We present an extract from a piece called "_Woman's Love_," as a -specimen of Miss Davidson's management of blank verse, a form of poetic -diction which Montgomery thinks the most unmanageable of any. The fair -authoress might not herself have experienced that holy passion, but she -certainly knew how deep and imperishable it is when once planted in the -female bosom. - - "Love is - A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart, - When felt, as only woman love _can_ feel! - _Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower_ - _Sinks on spring-flowers; deep, as a cave-locked fountain;_ - _And changeless as the cypress' green leaves;_ - _And like them, sad!_--She nourished - Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed - A passion unconfessed, till he she loved - Was wedded to another. Then she grew - Moody and melancholy; one alone - Had power to soothe her in her wanderings, - Her gentle sister;--but that sister died, - And the unhappy girl was left alone, - A _maniac_. She would wander far, and shunned - Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt - Was that dead sister's grave: and that to her - Was as a home." - -We have italicised such of the lines as we think breathe the air and -spirit of genuine poetry. The snow flake has often been used as the -emblem of purity; but the snow flake reposing on beds of vernal -blossoms, is to us original as well as highly poetical. The -"cave-locked fountain" too, with its lone, deep, and quiet waters, -seems to us to express with force that profound and melancholy -sentiment which the writer intended to illustrate. - -We shall conclude our selections with the one addressed _to a lady -whose singing resembled that of an absent sister_. - - "Oh! touch the chord yet once again, - Nor chide me, though I weep the while; - Believe me, that deep, seraph strain - Bore with it memory's moonlight smile. - - It murmured of an absent friend; - The voice, the air, 'twas all her own; - And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend - In one mild, murmuring, touching tone. - - And days and months have darkly passed, - Since last I listened to her lay; - And sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast, - Since then, across my weary way. - - Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear, - Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathing; - Hush, busy memory,--sorrow's tear - Will blight the garland thou art wreathing. - - 'Tis sweet, though sad--yes, I will stay, - I cannot tear myself away. - I thank thee, lady, for the strain, - The tempest of my soul is still; - Then touch the chord yet once again, - For thou canst calm the storm at will." - -We beg the reader to bear it in mind that these are the productions of -a young, inexperienced, and almost uneducated girl, and that they are -not to be tried by the tests which are usually applied to more matured -efforts. In conclusion, we will say in the language of Dr. Morse, her -biographer, "that her defects will be perceived to be those of youth -and inexperience, while in invention, and in that mysterious power of -exciting deep interest, of enchaining the attention, and keeping it -alive to the end of the story; in that adaptation of the measure to the -sentiment, and in the sudden change of measure to suit a sudden change -of sentiment, in wild and romantic description, and in the congruity of -the accompaniments to her characters, all conceived with great purity -and delicacy, she will be allowed to have discovered uncommon maturity -of mind; and her friends to have been warranted in forming very high -expectations of her future distinction." - -We are pleased to learn that it is in contemplation by Miss Davidson's -friends, to publish a new and improved edition of her works, with -various additions from her unpublished manuscripts. - - - - -THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE; by the author of Pelham, Eugene Aram, &c. -_New York: Published by Harper & Brothers_--1834. - - -Mr. Bulwer's novels have acquired no inconsiderable degree of -popularity in the circles of fashionable literature. Whether they are -destined to survive the temporary admiration bestowed on them, is at -this time a subject of speculation; but in the next generation, will -become matter of fact. We are among those who think that they will -quietly glide into that oblivious ocean, which is destined to receive a -large proportion of the ever multiplying productions of this prolific -age. We do not say this either, in disparagement of many of those -labors of the mind which even intrinsic excellence cannot save from -perishing. Great and valuable as some of them undoubtedly are, such is -the onward march of intellect, and such the endless creations which -fancy and genius are continually rearing for man's gratification and -improvement,--to say nothing of the almost illimitable progress of -science, that posterity will find no room for the thousandth part of -our present stock of literature. We do not anticipate that Mr. Bulwer's -writings will be among the select few which will outlive the general -wreck; because, unless we are much mistaken, he is one of those authors -who write more for present than permanent fame. This is emphatically -the age of great moral and mental excitability. It is a period of -incessant restlessness and activity; and he who would expect to command -much attention, must seek to gratify the appetite for novelty and -variety, even at the expense of good sense, sound morality and correct -taste. We incline to the opinion that Mr. Bulwer has forgotten, that -society in the aggregate, frequently resembles the individual man; and -that whilst it often experiences paroxysms of unnatural excitement, -there are long lucid intervals of returning reason and sober -simplicity. The volume before us is not calculated, we think, to leave -any lasting impression, either of good or evil. Whilst it certainly -abounds in felicitous language, and contains passages of fine -sentiment, it is grossly defective both in plot and machinery; and if -it were worth while to descend to minute criticism, it would be easy to -point out many examples of false morality as well as false taste. Mr. -Bulwer seems to have been aware, in his preface, that he was making a -bold experiment upon popular favor, and accordingly he claims the -reader's "indulgence for the superstitions he has incorporated with his -tale--for the floridity of his style, and the redundance of his -descriptions." As if somewhat apprehensive, however, that that -indulgence might not possibly be granted, he assures the public that -"various reasons have conspired to make this the work, above all others -that he has written, which has given him the most delight (though not -unmixed with melancholy,) in producing, and in which his mind, for the -time, has been the most completely absorbed." A popular writer, thus -bespeaking the public approbation in advance, by stamping his last -production with his own decided preference, could not expect to be -treated uncourteously by his readers. In the first sentence of the -second chapter too, the author declares as follows: "I wish only for -such readers as give themselves heart and soul up to me: if they begin -to cavil, I have done with them; their fancy should put itself entirely -under my management." Now whether it proceeded from a spirit of -perverseness or not, we cannot tell; but we resolved when we read this -passage, neither to surrender our heart, fancy or judgment to Mr. -Bulwer's guidance. On the contrary, we determined to read the book and -decide on its merits, in the spirit of perfect impartiality and entire -independence. The story upon which the work is founded--at least that -part of it which treats of mortal affairs, consists of the simplest -materials. Trevylyan, a gentleman of "a wild, resolute and active -nature, who had been thrown upon the world at the age of sixteen, and -had passed his youth in alternate pleasure, travel and solitary study," -falls in love with Gertrude Vane, a young girl, described as "the -loveliest person that ever dawned upon a poet's vision." A fatal -disease, "consumption in its most beautiful shape," had set its seal -upon her, and yet Trevylyan loved with an irresistible passion. With -the consent, rather than by the advice of the faculty and her friends, -the young and interesting invalid, attended by her father and lover, -goes upon a pilgrimage up the beautiful and romantic Rhine. From that -pilgrimage she never returned; but in one of those wild and legendary -spots which impart such interest to that celebrated stream--a spot -selected by herself as her last grassy couch, she breathed out her -gentle spirit, and quietly sunk to her lasting repose. Such is the -simple thread upon which Mr. Bulwer has contrived to weave a variety of -German legends and fairy fictions, having no necessary connection with -the main story, except that the principal episodes were suggested by -some remarkable scenery or some castellated ruin on the banks of the -Rhine. The _underplot_, if it may be so called, or the adventures of -Nymphalin, queen of the fairies, and her Elfin court, is altogether -unworthy of Mr. Bulwer's genius. It is rather a bungling attempt to -revive the exploded machinery of supernatural agency; and we moreover -do not perceive any possible connection or sympathy between these -imaginary beings and the principal personages of the tale. Apart from -other considerations, the actions and conversations of these roving -elves are destitute of all interest and attraction; and nothing in our -eyes appears more preposterous than the introduction of the Lord -Treasurer into Queen Nymphalin's train. We always thought that the -fairies were mischievous spirits--sometimes a little wicked, and often -very benevolent; but never before did we suspect that this ideal -population of the world of fancy, manifested any concern in the dry -subject of finance, or in the _unfairy-like_ establishment of a regular -exchequer. The story of "The Wooing of Master Fox," related for the -amusement of Queen Nymphalin, making every allowance for the author's -design in introducing it, is to our taste unutterably disgusting and -ridiculous. - -We have no objection to the occasional use of the fairy superstition in -tales of fancy; no more than we have to the frequent classical -allusions to heathen mythology which distinguish the best writers. They -are pleasing and beautiful illustrations, when happily introduced. But -we do protest against lifting the veil from the world of imagination, -and investing its shadowy beings with the common place attributes, the -vulgar actions and frivolous dialogue of mere mortals. It is in truth -dispelling the illusion in which the spirit of poetry delights to -indulge. It takes away the most powerful charm from the cool and -sequestered grotto, the shady grove or moonlit bower. It vulgarises the -world of romance, and reduces the region of mind to a level with brute -sense, or even coarser matter. - -Condemning as we do, in perfect good faith, these exceptionable -portions of Mr. Bulwer's volume, we take pleasure in awarding due -praise to some of the legends and stories introduced into the work, and -which are for the most part related by Trevylyan for the amusement of -Gertrude. Of these, we give the decided preference to "The Brothers" -and "The Maid of Malines." The latter indeed, strikes us as so finished -an illustration of some of the noble qualities of woman kind, that we -have determined to present it entire for the benefit of our readers. - - -THE MAID OF MALINES. - -It was noonday in the town of Malines, or Mechlin, as the English -usually term it: the Sabbath bell had summoned the inhabitants to -divine worship; and the crowd that had loitered round the Church of St. -Rembauld, had gradually emptied itself within the spacious aisles of -the sacred edifice. - -A young man was standing in the street, with his eyes bent on the -ground, and apparently listening for some sound; for, without raising -his looks from the rude pavement, he turned to every corner of it with -an intent and anxious expression of countenance; he held in one hand a -staff, in the other a long slender cord, the end of which trailed on -the ground; every now and then he called, with a plaintive voice, -"Fido, Fido, come back! Why hast thou deserted me?" Fido returned not: -the dog, wearied of confinement, had slipped from the string, and was -at play with his kind in a distant quarter of the town, leaving the -blind man to seek his way as he might to his solitary inn. - -By and by a light step passed through the street, and the young -stranger's face brightened-- - -"Pardon me," said he, turning to the spot where his quick ear had -caught the sound, "and direct me, if you are not by chance much pressed -for a few moment's time, to the hotel _Mortier d'or_." - -It was a young woman, whose dress betokened that she belonged to the -middling class of life, whom he thus addressed. "It is some distance -hence, sir," said she, "but if you continue your way straight on for -about a hundred yards, and then take the second turn to your right -hand--" - -"Alas!" interrupted the stranger, with a melancholy smile, "your -direction will avail me little; my dog has deserted me, and I am -blind!" - -There was something in these words, and in the stranger's voice, which -went irresistibly to the heart of the young woman. "Pray forgive me," -she said, almost with tears in her eyes, "I did not perceive your--" -misfortune, she was about to say, but she checked herself with an -instinctive delicacy. "Lean upon me, I will conduct you to the door; -nay, sir," observing that he hesitated, "I have time enough to spare, I -assure you." - -The stranger placed his hand on the young woman's arm, and though -Lucille was naturally so bashful that even her mother would laughingly -reproach her for the excess of a maiden virtue, she felt not the least -pang of shame, as she found herself thus suddenly walking through the -streets of Malines, alone with a young stranger, whose dress and air -betokened him of a rank superior to her own. - -"Your voice is very gentle," said he, after a pause, "and that," he -added, with a slight sigh, "is the criterion by which I only know the -young and the beautiful." Lucille now blushed, and with a slight -mixture of pain in the blush, for she knew well that to beauty she had -no pretension. "Are you a native of this town?" continued he. "Yes, -sir; my father holds a small office in the customs, and my mother and I -eke out his salary by making lace. We are called poor, but we do not -feel it, sir." - -"You are fortunate: there is no wealth like the heart's wealth, -content," answered the blind man mournfully. - -"And Monsieur," said Lucille, feeling angry with herself that she had -awakened a natural envy in the stranger's mind, and anxious to change -the subject--"and Monsieur, has he been long at Malines?" - -"But yesterday. I am passing through the Low Countries on a tour; -perhaps you smile at the tour of a blind man--but it is wearisome even -to the blind to rest always in the same place. I thought during church -time, when the streets were empty, that I might, by the help of my dog, -enjoy safely, at least the air, if not the sight of the town; but there -are some persons, methinks, who cannot even have a dog for a friend." - -The blind man spoke bitterly,--the desertion of his dog had touched him -to the core. Lucille wiped her eyes. "And does Monsieur travel then -alone?" said she; and looking at his face more attentively than she had -yet ventured to do, she saw that he was scarcely above two-and-twenty. -"His father, his _mother_," she added, with an emphasis on the last -word, "are they not with him?" - -"I am an orphan," answered the stranger; "and I have neither brother -nor sister." - -The desolate condition of the blind man quite melted Lucille; never had -she been so strongly affected. She felt a strange flutter at the -heart--a secret and earnest sympathy, that attracted her at once -towards him. She wished that heaven had suffered her to be his sister. - -The contrast between the youth and the form of the stranger, and the -affliction which took hope from the one, and activity from the other, -increased the compassion he excited. His features were remarkably -regular, and had a certain nobleness in their outline; and his frame -was gracefully and firmly knit, though he moved cautiously and with no -cheerful step. - -They had now passed into a narrow street leading towards the hotel, -when they heard behind them the clatter of hoofs; and Lucille, looking -hastily back, saw that a troop of the Belgian horse was passing thro' -town. - -She drew her charge close by the wall, and trembling with fear for him, -she stationed herself by his side. The troop passed at a full trot -through the street; and at the sound of their clanging arms, and the -ringing hoofs of their heavy chargers, Lucille might have seen, had she -looked at the blind man's face, that its sad features kindled with -enthusiasm, and his head was raised proudly from its wonted and -melancholy bend. "Thank heaven," she said, as the troop had nearly -passed them, "the danger is over!" Not so. One of the last two soldiers -who rode abreast, was unfortunately mounted on a young and unmanageable -horse. The rider's oaths and digging spur only increased the fire and -impatience of the charger; he plunged from side to side of the narrow -street. - -"_Gardez vous_," cried the horseman, as he was borne on to the place -where Lucille and the stranger stood against the wall; "are ye mad--why -do you not run?" - -"For heaven's sake, for mercy sake, he is blind!" cried Lucille, -clinging to the stranger's side. - -"Save yourself, my kind guide!" said the stranger. But Lucille dreamt -not of such desertion. The trooper wrested the horse's head from the -spot where they stood; with a snort, as he felt the spur, the enraged -animal lashed out with its hind legs; and Lucille, unable to save -_both_, threw herself before the blind man, and received the shock -directed against him; her slight and delicate arm fell shattered by her -side--the horseman was borne onward. "Thank God, _you_ are saved!" was -poor Lucille's exclamation; and she fell, overcome with pain and -terror, into the arms which the stranger mechanically opened to receive -her. - -"My guide, my friend!" cried he, "you are hurt, you--" - -"No, sir," interrupted Lucille, faintly, "I am better, I am well. -_This_ arm, if you please--we are not far from your hotel now." - -But the stranger's ear, tutored to every inflection of voice, told him -at once of the pain she suffered; he drew from her by degrees the -confession of the injury she had sustained; but the generous girl did -not tell him it had been incurred solely in his protection. He now -insisted on reversing their duties, and accompanying _her_ to her home; -and Lucille, almost fainting with pain, and hardly able to move, was -forced to consent. But a few steps down the next turning stood the -humble mansion of her father--they reached it--and Lucille scarcely -crossed the threshold, before she sank down, and for some minutes was -insensible to pain. It was left to the stranger to explain, and to -beseech them immediately to send for a surgeon, "the most skilful--the -most practised in town," said he. "See, I am rich, and this is the -least I can do to atone to your generous daughter for not forsaking -even a stranger in peril." - -He held out his purse as he spoke, but the father refused the offer; -and it saved the blind man some shame that he could not see the blush -of honest resentment with which so poor a species of remuneration was -put aside. - -The young man staid till the surgeon arrived, till the arm was set; nor -did he depart until he had obtained a promise from the mother, that he -should learn the next morning how the sufferer had passed the night. - -The next morning, indeed, he had intended to quit a town that offers -but little temptation to the traveller; but he tarried day after day, -until Lucille herself accompanied her mother to assure him of her -recovery. - -You know, or at least I do, dearest Gertrude, that there _is_ such a -thing as love at the first meeting--a secret and unaccountable affinity -between persons (strangers before,) which draws them irresistibly -together. If there were truth in Plato's beautiful phantasy, that our -souls were a portion of the stars, it might be, that spirits thus -attracted to each other, have drawn their original light from the same -orb; and they thus but yearn for a renewal of their former union. Yet, -without recurring to such ideal solutions of a daily mystery, it was -but natural that one in the forlorn and desolate condition of Eugene -St. Amand, should have felt a certain tenderness for a person who had -so generously suffered for his sake. - -The darkness to which he was condemned did not shut from his mind's eye -the haunting images of ideal beauty; rather, on the contrary, in his -perpetual and unoccupied solitude, he fed the reveries of an -imagination naturally warm, and a heart eager for sympathy. - -He had said rightly that his only test of beauty was in the melody of -voice; and never had a softer or a more thrilling tone than that of the -young maiden touched upon his ear. Her exclamation, so beautifully -denying self, so devoted in its charity, "Thank God, _you_ are saved!" -uttered too, in the moment of her own suffering, rang constantly upon -his soul, and he yielded, without precisely defining their nature, to -vague and delicious sentiments, that his youth had never awakened to -till then. And Lucille--the very accident that had happened to her on -his behalf, only deepened the interest she had already conceived for -one who, in the first flush of youth, was thus cut off from the glad -objects of life, and led to a night of years, desolate and alone. There -is, to your beautiful and kindly sex, a perpetual and gushing -_lovingness to protect_. This makes them the angels of sickness, the -comforters of age, the fosterers of childhood; and this feeling, in -Lucille peculiarly developed, had already inexpressibly linked her -compassionate nature to the lot of the unfortunate traveller. With -ardent affections, and with thoughts beyond her station and her years, -she was not without that modest vanity which made her painfully -susceptible to her own deficiencies in beauty. Instinctively conscious -of how deeply she herself could love, she believed it impossible that -she could ever be so loved in return. This stranger, so superior in her -eyes to all she had yet seen, was the first out of her own household -who had ever addressed her in that voice, which by tones, not words, -speaks that admiration most dear to a woman's heart. To _him_ she was -beautiful, and her lovely mind spoke out undimmed by the imperfections -of her face. Not, indeed, that Lucille was wholly without personal -attraction; her light step and graceful form were elastic with the -freshness of youth, and her mouth and smile had so gentle and tender an -expression, that there were moments when it would not have been the -blind only who would have mistaken her to be beautiful. Her early -childhood had indeed given the promise of attractions, which the -small-pox, that then fearful malady, had inexorably marred. It had not -only seared the smooth skin and the brilliant hues, but utterly changed -even the character of the features. It so happened that Lucille's -family were celebrated for beauty, and vain of that celebrity; and so -bitterly had her parents deplored the effects of the cruel malady, that -poor Lucille had been early taught to consider them far more grievous -than they really were, and to exaggerate the advantages of that beauty, -the loss of which was considered by her parents so heavy a misfortune. -Lucille too, had a cousin named Julie, who was the wonder of all -Malines for her personal perfections; and as the cousins were much -together, the contrast was too striking not to occasion frequent -mortification to Lucille. But every misfortune has something of a -counterpoise; and the consciousness of personal inferiority, had -meekened, without souring, her temper--had given gentleness to a spirit -that otherwise might have been too high, and humility to a mind that -was naturally strong, impassioned, and energetic. - -And yet Lucille had long conquered the one disadvantage she most -dreaded in the want of beauty. Lucille was never known but to be loved. -Wherever came her presence, her bright and soft mind diffused a certain -inexpressible charm; and where she was not, a something was missing -from the scene which not even Julie's beauty could replace. - -"I propose," said St. Amand to Madame le Tisseur, Lucille's mother, as -he sat in her little salon,--for he had already contracted that -acquaintance with the family which permitted him to be led to their -house, to return the visits Madame le Tisseur had made him, and his -dog, once more returned a penitent to his master, always conducted his -steps to the humble abode, and stopped instinctively at the door,--"I -propose," said St. Amand, after a pause, and with some embarrassment, -"to stay a little while longer at Malines; the air agrees with me, and -I like the quiet of the place; but you are aware, Madame, that at a -hotel among strangers, I feel my situation somewhat cheerless. I have -been thinking"--St. Amand paused again--"I have been thinking that if I -could persuade some agreeable family to receive me as a lodger, I would -fix myself here for some weeks. I am easily pleased." - -"Doubtless there are many in Malines who would be too happy to receive -such a lodger." - -"Will you receive me?" said St. Amand, abruptly. "It was of your family -I thought." - -"Of us? Monsieur is too flattering, but we have scarcely a room good -enough for you." - -"What difference between one room and another can there be to me? That -is the best apartment to my choice in which the human voice sounds most -kindly." - -The arrangement was made, and St. Amand came now to reside beneath the -same roof as Lucille. And was she not happy that _he_ wanted so -constant an attendance? was she not happy that she was ever of use? St. -Amand was passionately fond of music: he played himself with a skill -that was only surpassed by the exquisite melody of his voice; and was -not Lucille happy when she sat mute and listening to such sounds as at -Malines were never heard before? Was she not happy in gazing on a face -to whose melancholy aspect her voice instantly summoned the smile? Was -she not happy when the music ceased, and St. Amand called "Lucille?" -Did not her own name uttered by that voice, seem to her even sweeter -than the music? Was she not happy when they walked out in the still -evenings of summer, and her arm thrilled beneath the light touch of one -to whom she was so necessary? Was she not proud in her happiness, and -was there not something like worship in the gratitude she felt to him, -for raising her humble spirit to the luxury of feeling herself loved? - -St. Amand's parents were French; they had resided in the neighborhood -of Amiens, where they had inherited a competent property, to which he -had succeeded about two years previous to the date of my story. - -He had been blind from the age of three years. "I know not," said he, -as he related these particulars to Lucille one evening when they were -alone; "I know not what the earth may be like, or the heaven, or the -rivers whose voice at least I can hear, for I have no recollection -beyond that of a confused, but delicious blending of a thousand -glorious colors--a bright and quick sense of joy--A VISIBLE MUSIC. But -it is only since my childhood closed that I have mourned, as I now -unceasingly mourn, for the light of day. My boyhood passed in a quiet -cheerfulness; the least trifle then could please and occupy the -vacancies of my mind; but it was as I took delight in being read -to,--as I listened to the vivid descriptions of poetry,--as I glowed at -the recital of great deeds,--as I was made acquainted by books, with -the energy, the action, the heat, the fervor, the pomp, the enthusiasm -of life, that I gradually opened to the sense of all I was forever -denied. I felt that I existed, not lived; and that, in the midst of the -Universal Liberty, I was sentenced to a prison, from whose blank walls -there was no escape. Still, however, while my parents lived, I had -something of consolation; at least I was not alone. They died, and a -sudden and dread solitude--a vast and empty dreariness settled upon my -dungeon. One old servant only, who had nursed me from my childhood, who -had known me in my short privilege of light, by whose recollections my -mind could grope back its way through the dark and narrow passages of -memory, to faint glimpses of the sun, was all that remained to me of -human sympathies. It did not suffice, however, to content me with a -home where my father and my mother's kind voice were _not_. A restless -impatience, an anxiety to move, possessed me; and I set out from my -home, journeying whither I cared not, so that at least I could change -an air that weighed upon me like a palpable burthen. I took only this -old attendant as my companion; he too died three months since at -Bruxelles, worn out with years. Alas! I had forgotten that he was old, -for I saw not his progress to decay; and now, save my faithless dog, I -was utterly alone, till I came hither and found _thee_." - -Lucille stooped down to caress the dog; she blest the desertion that -had led to a friend who never could desert. - -But however much and however gratefully St. Amand loved Lucille, her -power availed not to chase the melancholy from his brow, and to -reconcile him to his forlorn condition. - -"Ah, would that I could see thee! Would that I could look upon a face -that my heart vainly endeavors to delineate." - -"If thou couldst," sighed Lucille, "thou wouldst cease to love me." - -"Impossible!" cried St. Amand, passionately; "however the world may -find thee, _thou_ wouldst become my standard of beauty, and I should -judge not of thee by others, but of others by thee." - -He loved to hear Lucille read to him; and mostly he loved the -descriptions of war, of travel, of wild adventure, and yet they -occasioned him the most pain. Often she paused from the page as she -heard him sigh, and felt that she would even have renounced the bliss -of being loved by him, if she could have restored to him that blessing, -the desire for which haunted him as a spectre. - -Lucille's family were Catholic, and, like most in their station, they -possessed the superstitions, as well as the devotion of the faith. -Sometimes they amused themselves of an evening by the various legends -and imaginary miracles of their calendar: and once, as they were thus -conversing with two or three of their neighbors, "The Tomb of the Three -Kings of Cologne" became the main topic of their wandering recitals. -However strong was the sense of Lucille, she was, as you will readily -conceive, naturally influenced by the belief of those with whom she had -been brought up from her cradle, and she listened to tale after tale of -the miracles wrought at the consecrated tomb, as earnestly and -undoubtingly as the rest. - -And the Kings of the East were no ordinary saints; to the relics of the -Three Magi, who followed the Star of Bethlehem, and were the first -potentates of the earth who adored its Saviour, well might the pious -Catholic suppose that a peculiar power and a healing sanctity would -belong. Each of the circle (St. Amand, who had been more than usually -silent, and even gloomy during the day, had retired to his apartment, -for there were some moments, when in the sadness of his thoughts, he -sought that solitude which he so impatiently fled from at others)--each -of the circle had some story to relate equally veracious and -indisputable, of an infirmity cured, or a prayer accorded, or a sin -atoned for at the foot of the holy tomb. One story peculiarly affected -Lucille; the narrator, a venerable old man with gray locks, solemnly -declared himself a witness of its truth. - -A woman at Anvers had given birth to a son, the offspring of an illicit -connexion, who came into the world deaf and dumb. The unfortunate -mother believed the calamity a punishment for her own sin. "Ah, would," -said she, "that the affliction had fallen only upon me! Wretch that I -am, my innocent child is punished for my offence!" This idea haunted -her night and day: she pined and could not be comforted. As the child -grew up, and wound himself more and more round her heart, its caresses -added new pangs to her remorse; and at length (continued the narrator) -hearing perpetually of the holy fame of the Tomb of Cologne, she -resolved upon a pilgrimage barefoot to the shrine. "God is merciful," -said she, "and he who called Magdaline his sister, may take the -mother's curse from the child." She then went to Cologne; she poured -her tears, her penitence, and her prayers, at the sacred tomb. When she -returned to her native town, what was her dismay as she approached her -cottage to behold it a heap of ruins!--its blackened rafters and -yawning casements betokened the ravages of fire. The poor woman sunk -upon the ground utterly overpowered. Had her son perished? At that -moment she heard the cry of a child's voice, and, lo! her child rushed -to her arms, and called her "mother!" - -He had been saved from the fire which had broken out seven days before; -but in the terror he had suffered, the string that tied his tongue had -been loosened; he had uttered articulate sounds of distress; the curse -was removed, and one word at least the kind neighbors had already -taught him, to welcome his mother's return. What cared she now that her -substance was gone, that her roof was ashes; she bowed in grateful -submission to so mild a stroke; her prayer had been heard, and the sin -of the mother was visited no longer on the child. - -I have said, dear Gertrude, that this story made a deep impression upon -Lucille. A misfortune so nearly akin to that of St. Amand, removed by -the prayer of another, filled her with devoted thoughts, and a -beautiful hope. "Is not the tomb still standing?" thought she; "is not -God still in heaven? He who heard the guilty, may he not hear the -guiltless? Is he not the God of love? Are not the affections the -offerings that please him best? and what though the child's mediator -was his mother, can even a mother love her child more tenderly than I -love Eugene? But if, Lucille, thy prayer be granted, if he recover his -sight, _thy_ charm is gone, he will love thee no longer. No matter! be -it so; I shall at least have made him happy!" - -Such were the thoughts that filled the mind of Lucille; she cherished -them till they settled into resolution, and she secretly vowed to -perform her pilgrimage of love. She told neither St. Amand nor her -parents of her intention; she knew the obstacles such an annunciation -would create. Fortunately, she had an aunt settled at Bruxelles, to -whom she had been accustomed, once in every year, to pay a month's -visit, and at that time she generally took with her the work of a -twelve-month's industry, which found a readier sale at Bruxelles than -Malines. Lucille and St. Amand were already betrothed; their wedding -was shortly to take place; and the custom of the country leading -parents, however poor, to nourish the honorable ambition of giving some -dowry with their daughters, Lucille found it easy to hide the object of -her departure, under the pretence of taking the lace to Bruxelles, -which had been the year's labor of her mother and herself; it would -sell for sufficient at least to defray the preparations for the -wedding. - -"Thou art ever right, child," said Madame Le Tisseur; "the richer St. -Amand is, why the less oughtest thou to go a beggar to his house." - -In fact, the honest ambition of the good people was excited; their -pride had been hurt by the envy of the town and the current -congratulations on so advantageous a marriage; and they employed -themselves in counting up the fortune they should be able to give to -their only child, and flattering their pardonable vanity with the -notion that there would be no such great disproportion in the connexion -after all. They were right, but not in their own view of the estimate; -the wealth that Lucille brought was what fate could not -lessen,--reverse could not reach,--the ungracious seasons could not -blight its sweet harvest,--imprudence could not dissipate,--fraud could -not steal one grain from its abundant coffers! Like the purse in the -fairy tale, its use was hourly, its treasure inexhaustible! - -St. Amand alone was not to be won to her departure; he chafed at the -notion of a dowry: he was not appeased even by Lucille's -representation, that it was only to gratify and not to impoverish her -parents. "And _thou_, too, canst leave me!" he said, in that plaintive -voice which had made his first charm to Lucille's heart. "It is a -second blindness." - -"But for a few days; a fortnight at most, dearest Eugene!" - -"A fortnight! you do not reckon time as the blind do," said St. Amand, -bitterly. - -"But listen, listen, dear Eugene," said Lucille, weeping. The sound of -her sobs restored him to a sense of his ingratitude. Alas, he knew not -how much he had to be grateful for. He held out his arms to her; -"Forgive me," said he. "Those who can see nature know not how terrible -it is to be alone." - -"But my mother will not leave you." - -"She is not you!" - -"And Julie," said Lucille, hesitatingly. - -"What is Julie to me?" - -"Ah, you are the only one, save my parents, who could think of me in -her presence." - -"And why, Lucille?" - -"Why! She is more beautiful than a dream." - -"Say not so. Would I could see, that I might prove to the world how -much more beautiful thou art. There is no music in _her_ voice." - -The evening before Lucille departed, she sat up late with St. Amand and -her mother. They conversed on the future; they made plans; in the wide -sterility of the world, they laid out the garden of household love, and -filled it with flowers, forgetful of the wind that scatters and the -frost that kills. And when, leaning on Lucille's arm, St. Amand sought -his chamber, and they parted at his door, which closed upon her, she -fell down on her knees at the threshold, and poured out the fulness of -her heart in a prayer for his safety, and the fulfilment of her timid -hope. - -At daybreak she was consigned to the conveyance that performed the -short journey from Malines to Bruxelles. When she entered the town, -instead of seeking her aunt, she rested at an auberge in the suburbs, -and confiding her little basket of lace to the care of its hostess, she -set out alone, and on foot, upon the errand of her heart's lovely -superstition. And erring though it was, her faith redeemed its -weakness--her affection made it even sacred. And well may we believe, -that the eye which reads all secrets scarce looked reprovingly on that -fanaticism, whose only infirmity was love. - -So fearful was she, lest, by rendering the task too easy, she might -impair the effect, that she scarcely allowed herself rest or food. -Sometimes, in the heat of noon, she wandered a little from the -road-side, and under the spreading lime-tree surrendered her mind to -its sweet and bitter thoughts; but ever the restlessness of her -enterprise urged her on, and faint, weary, and with bleeding feet, she -started up and continued her way. At length she reached the ancient -city, where a holier age has scarce worn from the habits and aspects of -men the Roman trace. She prostrated herself at the tomb of the Magi: -she proffered her ardent but humble prayer to Him before whose son -those fleshless heads (yet to faith at least preserved) had, nearly -eighteen centuries ago, bowed in adoration. Twice every day, for a -whole week, she sought the same spot, and poured forth the same prayer. -The last day an old priest, who, hovering in the church, had observed -her constantly at devotion, with that fatherly interest which the -better ministers of the Catholic sect (that sect which has covered the -earth with the mansions of charity) feel for the unhappy, approached -her as she was retiring with moist and downcast eyes, and saluting her, -assumed the privilege of his order, to inquire if there was aught in -which his advice or aid could serve. There was something in the -venerable air of the old man which encouraged Lucille; she opened her -heart to him; she told him all. The good priest was much moved by her -simplicity and earnestness. He questioned her minutely as to the -peculiar species of blindness with which St. Amand was afflicted; and -after musing a little while, he said, "Daughter, God is great and -merciful, we must trust in his power, but we must not forget that he -mostly works by mortal agents. As you pass through Louvain in your way -home, fail not to see there a certain physician, named Le Kain. He is -celebrated through Flanders for the cures he has wrought among the -blind, and his advice is sought by all classes from far and near. He -lives hard by the Hotel de Ville, but any one will inform you of his -residence. Stay, my child, you shall take him a note from me; he is a -benevolent and kindly man, and you shall tell him exactly the same -story (and with the same voice) you have told to me." - -So saying the priest made Lucille accompany him to his home, and -forcing her to refresh herself less sparingly than she had yet done -since she had left Malines, he gave her his blessing, and a letter to -Le Kain, which he rightly judged would insure her a patient hearing -from the physician. Well known among all men of science was the name of -the priest, and a word of recommendation from him went farther, where -virtue and wisdom were honored, than the longest letter from the -haughtiest Sieur in Flanders. - -With a patient and hopeful spirit, the young pilgrim turned her back on -the Roman Cologne, and now about to rejoin St. Amand, she felt neither -the heat of the sun nor the weariness of the road. It was one day at -noon that she again passed through LOUVAIN, and she soon found herself -by the noble edifice of the HOTEL DE VILLE. Proud rose its Gothic -spires against the sky, and the sun shone bright on its rich tracery -and Gothic casements; the broad open street was crowded with persons of -all classes, and it was with some modest alarm that Lucille lowered her -veil and mingled with the throng. It was easy, as the priest had said, -to find the house of Le Kain; she bade the servant take the priest's -letter to his master, and she was not long kept waiting before she was -admitted to the physician's presence. He was a spare, tall man, with a -bald front, and a calm and friendly countenance. He was not less -touched than the priest had been by the manner in which she narrated -her story, described the affliction of her betrothed, and the hope that -had inspired the pilgrimage she had just made. - -"Well," said he, encouragingly, "we must see our patient. You can bring -him hither to me." - -"Ah, sir, I had hoped--" Lucille stopped suddenly. - -"What, my young friend?" - -"That I might have had the triumph of bringing you to Malines. I know, -sir, what you are about to say; and I know, sir, your time must be very -valuable; but I am not so poor as I seem, and Eugene, that is Monsieur -St. Amand, is very rich, and--and I have at Bruxelles what I am sure is -a large sum; it was to have provided for the wedding, but it is most -heartily at your service, sir." - -Le Kain smiled; he was one of those men who love to read the human -heart when its leaves are fair and undefiled; and, in the benevolence -of science, he would have gone a longer journey than from Louvain to -Malines to give sight to the blind, even had St. Amand been a beggar. - -"Well, well," said he, "but you forget that Monsieur St. Amand is not -the only one in the world who wants me. I must look at my note-book, -and see if I can be spared for a day or two." - -So saying he glanced at his memoranda; every thing smiled on Lucille: -he had no engagements that his partner could not fulfil, for some days; -he consented to accompany Lucille to Malines. - -Meanwhile cheerless and dull had passed the time to St. Amand; he was -perpetually asking Madame Le Tisseur what hour it was; it was almost -his only question. There seemed to him no sun in the heavens, no -freshness in the air, and he even forbore his favorite music; the -instrument had lost its sweetness since Lucille was not by to listen. - -It was natural that the gossips of Malines should feel some envy at the -marriage Lucille was about to make with one whose competence report had -exaggerated into prodigal wealth, whose birth had been elevated from -the respectable to the noble, and whose handsome person was clothed, by -the interest excited by his misfortune, with the beauty of Antinous. -Even that misfortune, which ought to have levelled all distinctions, -was not sufficient to check the general envy; perhaps to some of the -dames of Malines blindness in a husband was indeed not the least -agreeable of all qualifications! But there was one in whom this envy -rankled with a peculiar sting; it was the beautiful, the all-conquering -Julie. That the humble, the neglected Lucille should be preferred to -her; that Lucille, whose existence was well-nigh forgot beside Julie's, -should become thus suddenly of importance; that there should be one -person in the world, and that person young, rich, handsome, to whom she -was less than nothing, when weighed in the balance with Lucille, -mortified to the quick a vanity that had never till then received a -wound. "It is well," she would say, with a bitter jest, "that Lucille's -lover is blind. To be the one it is necessary to be the other!" - -During Lucille's absence she had been constantly in Madame Le Tisseur's -house--indeed Lucille had prayed her to be so. She had sought, with an -industry that astonished herself, to supply Lucille's place, and among -the strange contradictions of human nature, she had learned, during her -efforts to please, to love the object of those efforts,--as much at -least as she was capable of loving. - -She conceived a positive hatred to Lucille; she persisted in imagining -that nothing but the accident of first acquaintance had deprived her of -a conquest with which she persuaded herself her happiness had become -connected. Had St. Amand never loved Lucille, and proposed to Julie, -his misfortune would have made her reject him, despite his wealth and -his youth; but to be Lucille's lover, and a conquest to be won from -Lucille, raised him instantly to an importance not his own. Safe, -however, in his affliction, the arts and beauty of Julie fell harmless -on the fidelity of St. Amand. Nay, he liked her less than ever, for it -seemed an impertinence in any one to counterfeit the anxiety and -watchfulness of Lucille. - -"It is time, surely it is time, Madame Le Tisseur, that Lucille should -return. She might have sold all the lace in Malines by this time," said -St. Amand one day, peevishly. - -"Patience, my dear friend; patience, perhaps she may return to-morrow." - -"To-morrow! let me see, it is only six o'clock, only six, you are -sure?" - -"Just five, dear Eugene shall I read to you? this is a new book from -Paris, it has made a great noise," said Julie. - -"You are very kind, but I will not trouble you." - -"It is any thing but trouble." - -"In a word, then, I would rather not." - -"Oh! that he could see," thought Julie; "would I not punish him for -this!" - -"I hear carriage-wheels; who can be passing this way? Surely it is the -voiturier from Bruxelles," said St. Amand, starting up, "it is his day, -his hour, too. No, no, it is a lighter vehicle," and he sank down -listlessly on his seat. - -Nearer and nearer rolled the wheels; they turned the corner; they -stopped at the lowly door; and--overcome,--overjoyed, Lucille was -clasped to the bosom of St. Amand. - -"Stay," said she, blushing, as she recovered her self-possession, and -turned to Le Kain, "pray pardon me, sir. Dear Eugene, I have brought -with me one who, by God's blessing, may yet restore you to sight." - -"We must not be sanguine, my child," said Le Kain; "any thing is better -than disappointment." - -To close this part of my story, dear Gertrude, Le Kain examined St. -Amand, and the result of the examination was a confident belief in the -probability of a cure. St. Amand gladly consented to the experiment of -an operation; it succeeded--the blind man saw! Oh! what were Lucille's -feelings, what her emotion, what her joy, when she found the object of -her pilgrimage--of her prayers--fulfilled! That joy was so intense, -that in the eternal alterations of human life she might have foretold -from its excess how bitter the sorrows fated to ensue. - -As soon as by degrees the patient's new sense became reconciled to the -light, his first, his only demand was for Lucille. "No, let me not see -her alone, let me see her in the midst of you all, that I may convince -you that the heart never is mistaken in its instincts." With a fearful, -a sinking presentiment, Lucille yielded to the request to which the -impetuous St. Amand would hear indeed no denial. The father, the -mother, Julie, Lucille, Julie's younger sisters assembled in the little -parlor; the door opened, and St. Amand stood hesitating on the -threshold. One look around sufficed to him; his face brightened, he -uttered a cry of joy. "Lucille! Lucille!" he exclaimed, "It is you, I -know it, _you_ only!" He sprang forward, _and fell at the feet of -Julie!_ - -Flushed, elated, triumphant, Julie bent upon him her sparkling eyes; -_she_ did not undeceive him. - -"You are wrong, you mistake," said Madame Le Tisseur, in confusion; -"that is her cousin Julie, this is your Lucille." - -St. Amand rose, turned, saw Lucille, and at that moment she wished -herself in her grave. Surprise, mortification, disappointment, almost -dismay, were depicted in his gaze. He had been haunting his -prison-house with dreams, and, now set free, he felt how unlike they -were to the truth. Too new to observation to read the wo, the despair, -the lapse and shrinking of the whole frame, that his look occasioned -Lucille, he yet felt, when the first shock of his surprise was over, -that it was not thus he should thank her who had restored him to sight. -He hastened to redeem his error; ah! how could it be redeemed? - -From that hour all Lucille's happiness was at an end; her fairy palace -was shattered in the dust; the magician's wand was broken up; the Ariel -was given to the winds; and the bright enchantment no longer -distinguished the land she lived in from the rest of the barren world. -It was true that St. Amand's words were kind; it is true that he -remembered with the deepest gratitude all she had done in his behalf; -it is true that he forced himself again and again to say, "She is my -betrothed--my benefactress!" and he cursed himself to think that the -feelings he had entertained for her were fled. Where was the passion of -his words? where the ardor of his tone? where that play and light of -countenance which her step, _her_ voice could formerly call forth? When -they were alone he was embarrassed and constrained, and almost cold; -his hand no longer sought hers; his soul no longer missed her if she -was absent a moment from his side. When in their household circle, he -seemed visibly more at ease; but did his eyes fasten upon her who had -opened them to the day? did they not wander at every interval with a -too eloquent admiration to the blushing and radiant face of the -exulting Julie? This was not, you will believe, suddenly perceptible in -one day or one week, but every day it was perceptible more and more. -Yet still--bewitched, ensnared as St. Amand was--he never perhaps would -have been guilty of an infidelity that he strove with the keenest -remorse to wrestle against, had it not been for the fatal contrast, at -the first moment of his gushing enthusiasm, which Julie had presented -to Lucille; but for that he would have formed no previous idea of real -and living beauty to aid the disappointment of his imaginings and his -dreams. He would have seen Lucille young and graceful, and with eyes -beaming affection, contrasted only by the wrinkled countenance and -bended frame of her parents, and she would have completed her conquest -over him before he had discovered that she was less beautiful than -others; nay more--that infidelity never could have lasted above the -first few days, if the vain and heartless object of it had not exerted -every art, all the power and witchery of her beauty, to cement and -continue it. The unfortunate Lucille--so susceptible to the slightest -change in those she loved, so diffident of herself, so proud too in -that diffidence--no longer necessary, no longer missed, no longer -loved--could not bear to endure the galling comparison of the past and -present. She fled uncomplainingly to her chamber to indulge her tears, -and thus, unhappily, absent as her father generally was during the day, -and busied as her mother was either at work or in household matters, -she left Julie a thousand opportunities to complete the power she had -begun to wield over--no, not the heart!--the _senses_ of St. Amand! -Yet, still not suspecting, in the open generosity of her mind, the -whole extent of her affliction, poor Lucille buoyed herself at times -with the hope that when once married, when once in that intimacy of -friendship, the unspeakable love she felt for him could disclose itself -with less restraint than at present,--she should perhaps regain a heart -which had been so devotedly hers, that she could not think that without -a fault it was irrevocably gone: on that hope she anchored all the -little happiness that remained to her. And still St. Amand pressed -their marriage, but in what different tones! In fact, he wished to -preclude from himself the possibility of a deeper ingratitude than that -which he had incurred already. He vainly thought that the broken reed -of love might be bound up and strengthened by the ties of duty; and at -least he was anxious that his hand, his fortune, his esteem, his -gratitude, should give to Lucille the only recompense it was now in his -power to bestow. Meanwhile, left alone so often with Julie, and Julie -bent on achieving the last triumph over his heart, St. Amand was -gradually preparing a far different reward, a far different return for -her to whom he owed so incalculable a debt. - -There was a garden behind the house, in which there was a small arbor, -where often in the summer evenings Eugene and Lucille had sat -together--hours never to return! One day she heard from her own -chamber, where she sat mourning, the sound of St. Amand's flute -swelling gently from that beloved and consecrated bower. She wept as -she heard it, and the memories that the music bore softening and -endearing his image, she began to reproach herself that she had yielded -so often to the impulse of her wounded feelings; that, chilled by _his_ -coldness, she had left him so often to himself, and had not -sufficiently dared to tell him of that affection which, in her modest -self-depreciation, constituted her only pretension to his love. -"Perhaps he is alone now," she thought; "the tune too is one which he -knew that I loved:" and with her heart on her step, she stole from the -house and sought the arbor. She had scarce turned from her chamber when -the flute ceased; as she neared the arbor she heard voices--Julie's -voice in grief, St. Amand's in consolation. A dread foreboding seized -her; her feet clung rooted to the earth. - -"Yes, marry her--forget me," said Julie; "in a few days you will be -another's and I, I--forgive me, Eugene, forgive me that I have -disturbed your happiness. I am punished sufficiently--my heart will -break, but it will break loving you"--sobs choked Julie's voice. - -"Oh, speak not thus," said St. Amand. "I, _I_ only am to blame; I, -false to both, to both ungrateful. Oh, from the hour that these eyes -opened upon you I drank in a new life; the sun itself to me was less -wonderful than your beauty. But--but--let me forget that hour. What do -I not owe to Lucille? I shall be wretched--I shall deserve to be so; -for shall I not think, Julie, that I have imbittered our life with your -ill-fated love? But all that I can give--my hand--my home--my plighted -faith--must be hers. Nay, Julie, nay--why that look? could I act -otherwise? can I dream otherwise? Whatever the sacrifice, _must_ I not -render it? Ah, what do I owe to Lucille, were it only for the thought -that but for her I might never have seen thee." - -Lucille staid to hear no more; with the same soft step as that which -had borne her within hearing of these fatal words, she turned back once -more to her desolate chamber. - -That evening, as St. Amand was sitting alone in his apartment, he heard -a gentle knock at the door. "Come in," he said, and Lucille entered. He -started in some confusion, and would have taken her hand, but she -gently repulsed him. She took a seat opposite to him, and looking down, -thus addressed him:-- - -"My dear Eugene, that is, Monsieur St. Amand, I have something on my -mind that I think it better to speak at once; and if I do not exactly -express what I would wish to say, you must not be offended at Lucille; -it is not an easy matter to put into words what one feels deeply." -Coloring, and suspecting something of the truth, St. Amand would have -broken in upon her here; but she, with a gentle impatience, waved him -to be silent, and continued:-- - -"You know that when you once loved me, I used to tell you, that you -would cease to do so, could you see how undeserving I was of your -attachment? I did not deceive myself, Eugene; I always felt assured -that such would be the case, that your love for me necessarily rested -on your affliction: but, for all that, I never at least had a dream, or -a desire, but for your happiness; and God knows, that if again, by -walking bare-footed, not to Cologne, but to Rome--to the end of the -world, I could save you from a much less misfortune than that of -blindness, I would cheerfully do it; yes, even though I might foretel -all the while that, on my return, you would speak to me coldly, think -of me lightly, and that the penalty to me would--would be--what it has -been!" Here Lucille wiped a few natural tears from her eyes; St. Amand, -struck to the heart, covered his face with his hands, without the -courage to interrupt her. Lucille continued:-- - -"That which I foresaw has come to pass: I am no longer to you what I -once was, when you could clothe this poor form and this homely face -with a beauty they did not possess; you would wed me still, it is true; -but I am proud, Eugene, and cannot stoop to gratitude where I once had -love. I am not so unjust as to blame you; the change was natural, was -inevitable. I should have steeled myself more against it; but I am now -resigned; we must part; you love Julie--that too is natural--and _she_ -loves you; ah! what also more probable in the course of events? Julie -loves you, not yet, perhaps, so much as I did, but then she has not -known you as I have, and she, whose whole life has been triumph, cannot -feel the gratitude I felt at fancying myself loved; but this will come; -God grant it! Farewell, then, for ever, dear Eugene; I leave you when -you no longer want me; you are now independent of Lucille; wherever you -go, a thousand hereafter can supply my place;--farewell!" - -She rose, as she said this, to leave the room; but St. Amand seizing -her hand, which she in vain endeavored to withdraw from his clasp, -poured forth incoherently, passionately, his reproaches on himself, his -eloquent persuasions against her resolution. - -"I confess," said he, "that I have been allured for a moment; I confess -that Julie's beauty made me less sensible to your stronger, your -holier, oh! far, far holier title to my love! But forgive me, dearest -Lucille; already I return to you, to all I once felt for you; make me -not curse the blessing of sight that I owe to you. You must not leave -me; never can we two part; try me, only try me, and if ever, hereafter, -my heart wander from you, _then_, Lucille, leave me to my remorse!" - -Even at that moment Lucille did not yield; she felt that his prayer was -but the enthusiasm of the hour; she felt that there was a virtue in her -pride; that to leave him was a duty to herself. In vain he pleaded; in -vain were his embraces, his prayers; in vain he reminded her of their -plighted troth, of her aged parents, whose happiness had become wrapped -in her union with him; "How, even were it as you wrongly believe, how -in honor to them can I desert you, can I wed another?" - -"Trust that, trust all to me," answered Lucille; "your honor shall be -my care, none shall blame _you_; only do not let your marriage with -Julie be celebrated here before their eyes; that is all I ask, all they -can expect. God bless you! do not fancy I shall be unhappy, for -whatever happiness the world gives you, shall I not have contributed to -bestow it?--and with that thought, I am above compassion." - -She glided from his arms, and left him to a solitude more bitter even -than that of blindness; that very night Lucille sought her mother; to -her she confided all. I pass over the reasons she urged, the arguments -she overcame; she conquered rather than convinced, and leaving to -Madame Le Tisseur the painful task of breaking to her father her -unalterable resolution, she quitted Malines the next morning, and with -a heart too honest to be utterly without comfort, paid that visit to -her aunt which had been so long deferred. - -The pride of Lucille's parents prevented them from reproaching St. -Amand. He did not bear, however, their cold and altered looks; he left -their house; and though for several days he would not even see Julie, -yet her beauty and her art gradually resumed their empire over him. -They were married at Courtroi, and, to the joy of the vain Julie, -departed to the gay metropolis of France. But before their departure, -before his marriage, St. Amand endeavored to appease his conscience, by -purchasing for Monsieur Le Tisseur, a much more lucrative and honorable -office than that he now held. Rightly judging that Malines could no -longer be a pleasant residence for them, and much less for Lucille, the -duties of the post were to be fulfilled in another town; and knowing -that Monsieur Le Tisseur's delicacy would revolt at receiving such a -favor from his hands, he kept the nature of his negociation a close -secret, and suffered the honest citizen to believe that his own merits -alone had entitled him to so unexpected a promotion. - -Time went on. This quiet and simple history of humble affections took -its date in a stormy epoch of the world--the dawning Revolution of -France. The family of Lucille had been little more than a year settled -in their new residence, when Dumouriez led his army into the -Netherlands. But how meanwhile had that year passed for Lucille? I have -said that her spirit was naturally high; that, though so tender, she -was not weak; her very pilgrimage to Cologne alone, and at the timid -age of seventeen, proved that there was a strength in her nature no -less than a devotion in her love. The sacrifice she had made brought -its own reward. She believed St. Amand was happy, and she would not -give way to the selfishness of grief; she had still duties to perform; -she could still comfort her parents, and cheer their age; she could -still be all the world to them; she felt this, and was consoled. Only -once during the year had she heard of Julie; she had been seen by a -mutual friend at Paris, gay, brilliant, courted, and admired; of St. -Amand she heard nothing. - -My tale, dear Gertrude, does not lead me through the harsh scenes of -war. I do not tell you of the slaughter and the siege, and the blood -that inundated those fair lands, the great battle-field of Europe. The -people of the Netherlands in general were with the cause of Dumouriez, -but the town in which Le Tisseur dwelt offered some faint resistance to -his arms. Le Tisseur himself, despite his age, girded on his sword; the -town was carried, and the fierce and licentious troops of the conqueror -poured, flushed with their easy victory, through its streets. Le -Tisseur's house was filled with drunken and rude troopers; Lucille -herself trembled in the fierce gripe of one of those dissolute -soldiers, more bandit than soldier, whom the subtle Dumouriez had -united to his army, and by whose blood he so often saved that of his -nobler band; her shrieks, her cries were vain, when suddenly the -reeking troopers gave way; "the Captain! brave Captain!" was shouted -forth; the insolent soldier, felled by a powerful arm, sank senseless -at the feet of Lucille; and a glorious form, towering above its -fellows, even through its glittering garb, even in that dreadful hour -remembered at a glance by Lucille, stood at her side; her protector, -her guardian! thus once more she beheld St. Amand! - -The house was cleared in an instant, the door barred. Shouts, groans, -wild snatches of exulting song, the clang of arms, the tramp of horses, -the hurrying footsteps, the deep music, sounded loud, and blended -terribly without; Lucille heard them not; she was on that breast which -never should have deserted her. - -Effectually to protect his friends, St. Amand took up his quarters at -their house; and for two days he was once more under the same roof as -Lucille. He never recurred voluntarily to Julie; he answered Lucille's -timid inquiry after her health briefly, and with coldness, but he spoke -with all the enthusiasm of a long pent and ardent spirit of the new -profession he had embraced. Glory seemed now to be his only mistress, -and the vivid delusion of the first bright dreams of the revolution -filled his mind, broke from his tongue, and lighted up those dark eyes -which Lucille had redeemed to day. - -She saw him depart at the head of his troop; she saw his proud crest -glancing in the sun; she saw that his last glance reverted to her, -where she stood at the door; and as he waved his adieu, she fancied -that there was on his face that look of deep and grateful tenderness -which reminded her of the one bright epoch of her life. - -She was right; St. Amand had long since in bitterness repented of a -transient infatuation, had long since discovered the true Florimel from -the false, and felt that, in Julie, Lucille's wrongs were avenged. But -in the hurry and heat of war he plunged that regret--the keenest of -all--which imbodies the bitter words, "TOO LATE!" - -Years passed away, and in the resumed tranquillity of Lucille's life -the brilliant apparition of St. Amand appeared as something dreamt of, -not seen. The star of Napoleon had risen above the horizon; the romance -of his early career had commenced; and the campaign of Egypt had been -the herald of those brilliant and meteoric successes which flashed -forth from the gloom of the Revolution of France. - -You are aware, dear Gertrude, how many in the French as well as the -English troops returned home from Egypt, blinded with the ophthalmia of -that arid soil. Some of the young men in Lucille's town, who had joined -Napoleon's army, came back, darkened by that fearful affliction, and -Lucille's alms, and Lucille's aid, and Lucille's sweet voice were ever -at hand for those poor sufferers, whose common misfortune touched so -thrilling a cord of her heart. - -Her father was now dead, and she had only her mother to cheer amid the -ills of age. As one evening they sat at work together, Madame Le -Tisseur said, after a pause-- - -"I wish, dear Lucille, thou couldst be persuaded to marry Justin; he -loves thee well, and now that thou art yet young, and hast many years -before thee, thou shouldst remember that when I die thou wilt be -alone." - -"Ah cease, dearest mother, I never can marry now, and as for love--once -taught in the bitter school in which I have learned the knowledge of -myself--I cannot be deceived again." - -"My Lucille, you do not know yourself; never was woman loved, if Justin -does not love you; and never did lover feel with more real warmth how -worthily he loved." - -And this was true; and not of Justin alone, for Lucille's modest -virtues, her kindly temper, and a certain undulating and feminine -grace, which accompanied all her movements, had secured her as many -conquests as if she had been beautiful. She had rejected all offers of -marriage with a shudder; without even the throb of a flattered vanity. -One memory, sadder, was also dearer to her than all things; and -something sacred in its recollections made her deem it even a crime to -think of effacing the past by a new affection. - -"I believe," continued Madame Le Tisseur, angrily, "that thou still -thinkest fondly of him from whom only in the world thou couldst have -experienced ingratitude." - -"Nay mother," said Lucille, with a blush and a slight sigh, "Eugene is -married to another." - -While thus conversing, they heard a gentle and timid knock at the -door--the latch was lifted. "This" said the rough voice of a -commissaire of the town--"this, monsieur, is the house of _Madame Le -Tisseur_, and--_voila mademoiselle!_" A tall figure, with a shade over -his eyes, and wrapped in a long military cloak, stood in the room. A -thrill shot across Lucille's heart. He stretched out his arms; -"Lucille," said that melancholy voice, which had made the music of her -first youth--"where art thou, Lucille; alas! she does not recognize St. -Amand." - -Thus was it, indeed. By a singular fatality, the burning suns and the -sharp dust of the plains of Egypt had smitten the young soldier, in the -flush of his career, with a second--and this time, with an -irremediable--blindness! He had returned to France to find his hearth -lonely; Julie was no more--a sudden fever had cut her off in the midst -of youth; and he had sought his way to Lucille's house, to see if one -hope yet remained to him in the world! - -And when, days afterward, humbly and sadly he re-urged a former suit, -did Lucille shut her heart to its prayer? Did her pride remember its -wound--did she revert to his desertion--did she say to the whisper of -her yearning love--_"thou hast been before forsaken?"_ That voice and -those darkened eyes pleaded to her with a pathos not to be resisted; "I -am once more necessary to him," was all her thought--"if I reject him, -who will tend him?" In that thought was the motive of her conduct; in -that thought gushed back upon her soul all the springs of checked, but -unconquered, unconquerable love! In that thought she stood beside him -at the altar, and pledged, with a yet holier devotion than she might -have felt of yore, the vow of her imperishable truth. - -And Lucille found, in the future, a reward which the common world could -never comprehend. With his blindness returned all the feelings she had -first awakened in St. Amand's solitary heart; again he yearned for her -step--again he missed even a moment's absence from his side--again her -voice chased the shadow from his brow--and in her presence was a sense -of shelter and of sunshine. He no longer sighed for the blessing he had -lost; he reconciled himself to fate, and entered into that serenity of -mood which mostly characterizes the blind. Perhaps, after we have seen -the actual world, and experienced its hollow pleasures, we can resign -ourselves the better to its exclusion; and as the cloister which repels -the ardor of our hope is sweet to our remembrance, so the darkness -loses its terror when experience has wearied us with the glare and -travail of the day. It was something, too, as they advanced in life, to -feel the chains that bound him to Lucille strengthening daily, and to -cherish in his overflowing heart the sweetness of increasing gratitude; -it was something that he could not see years wrinkle that open brow, or -dim the tenderness of that touching smile; it was something that to him -she was beyond the reach of time, and preserved to the verge of a grave -(which received them both within a few days of each other,) in all the -bloom of her unwithering affection--in all the freshness of a heart -that never could grow old! - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -SONG--_By the Author of Vyvyan_. - - - On the brow of the mountain - The grey mists darkle-- - On the wave of the fountain - Star images sparkle-- - Wild lights o'er the meadow - Are fitfully gleaming-- - In the hill's dark shadow - A spirit is dreaming. - The birds and the flowers - With closed eyes are sleeping, - All hushed are the bowers - Where glow-worms are creeping-- - There's quiet in heaven, - There's peace to the billow-- - A blessing seems given - To all--save my pillow. - Alas! do I wonder - I too cannot sleep, - Like the calm waves yonder, - And dream all as deep?-- - There's beauty beside me, - A love-heaving breast-- - Ah! my very joys chide me, - And rob me of rest. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -LINES ON FINDING A BILLET FROM AN EARLY FRIEND AMONG SOME OLD PAPERS. - - - I gaze on this discolored sheet - Which time has tinged with many a stain, - And sigh to think his course should bring - To nought, that friendship nursed in vain. - Here in your well known hand I see - My name, with terms endearing traced, - And vows of firm fidelity, - Which other objects soon effaced. - Strange does it seem, that in these words - A dead affection I should find, - As if some early buried friend - Resumed his place among his kind. - Yes--after many a chilling year - Of coldness and of alter'd feeling, - This tatter'd messenger is here, - Worlds of forgotten thought revealing. - As once my faith was purely thine, - For thee my blood I would have pour'd - As freely as the rich red wine - We pledged around the jovial board. - It seem'd that thou wert thus to me, - Loyal and true as thou didst swear: - I knew not then, as now I know, - That oaths are but impassion'd air. - And even now, a doubt that they - Were falsehoods all, will cross my brain: - That thought alone I seek to quell, - That thought alone could give me pain. - To be forgotten has no sting-- - For friendships every day grow cold; - But 'tis a wounding thought, that I - Have purchased dross, and paid in gold. - Tho' thou hast changed, as worldlings change - Amid the haunts of sordid men, - I cannot bid my feelings range-- - But cling to what I deem'd thee _then_. - -S. - - - - - For the Southern Literary Messenger. - -THE CEMETERY.--_From the Russian_. - - - FIRST VOICE. - - How sad, how frightful the abode, - How dread the silence of the tomb! - There all surrounding objects speak - The haunt of terror and of gloom-- - And nought but tempests' horrid howl we hear, - And bones together rattling on the bier! - - - SECOND VOICE. - - How peaceful, tranquil is the tomb! - How calm, how deep is its repose! - There flow'rets wild more sweetly bloom, - There zephyr's breath more softly flows; - And there the nightingale and turtle-dove - Their notes pour forth of happiness and love. - - - FIRST VOICE. - - Against that dark sepulchral mound, - Funereal crows their pinions beat; - There dens of ravenous wolves are found, - And there the vulture's foul retreat; - The earth around with greedy claws they tear, - Whilst serpents hiss and poison all the air. - - - SECOND VOICE. - - There, when the shades of evening fall, - The sportive hares their gambols keep; - Or, fearless of the huntsman's call, - Upon the verdant herbage sleep; - While midst the foliage of the o'erhanging boughs - The feathered tribe in slumbers soft repose. - - - FIRST VOICE. - - Around that dank and humid spot - A noisome vapor ever clings, - Exhaled from heaps which there to rot - Death with untiring labor brings; - Devoid of leaves the trees their branches spread, - And every plant seems withering, or dead. - - - SECOND VOICE. - - In what soft accents whispers there - The evening breeze about the tomb, - Diffusing through the balmy air - Of countless flowers the rich perfume, - And speaking of a place of peace and rest, - Where e'er mid breathing fragrance dwell the blessed! - - - FIRST VOICE. - - When to this dismal vale of tears, - The pilgrim comes with weary pace, - O'erpowered by appalling fears, - In vain his steps he would retrace; - Urged onwards by a hand unseen, unknown, - He's headlong in the wreck-strewed torrent thrown. - - - SECOND VOICE. - - Worn out by life's sad pilgrimage, - Man here at length his staff lays down-- - Here feels no more the tempest's rage, - Nor dreads the heav'ns impending frown-- - Reposes from his toil in slumbers deep, - And sleeps of ages the eternal sleep! - - - - -EDITORIAL REMARKS. - - -We flatter ourselves that our patrons will not be displeased with the -feast which we have set before them in the present number of the -Messenger. We have not commenced with the egg and ended with the apple, -(_ab ovo usque ad malum_,) according to the ancient custom; nor placed -the substantials before the dessert, as in modern entertainments; but -have rather chosen to mingle them without order or arrangement,--that -our guests may partake as their respective tastes and inclinations may -dictate. The scientific reader will be attracted by the communications -of Dr. POWELL, and PETER A. BROWNE, Esq. of Philadelphia. By the former -gentleman, who is now actively engaged in geological and antiquarian -researches in the western country, we are kindly promised occasional -aid; and, to the latter distinguished individual, we owe our thanks for -the warm interest he has evinced in our infant enterprize. - -Of Mr. WIRT'S letter, it would be superfluous to speak, more especially -as it is accompanied by some excellent remarks by a highly intelligent -friend,--himself destined to become an ornament to the profession of -which he speaks. - -The general reader cannot fail to be pleased with many, if not all the -communications which are inserted. In the article headed "_Example is -better than Precept_," he will recognize an elegant and vigorous -pen;--and, in the "_Recollections of Chotank_," it will not be -difficult to perceive that the hand employed in describing the generous -customs and proverbial hospitality of that ancient portion of our -state,--is one of uncommon skill in the art and beauty of composition. -The article from the Petersburg Intelligencer, entitled an "_Extract -from a Novel that never will be published_," (but which we hope _will_ -be published)--though not expressly written for the "Messenger," will -be new to most of our readers. If we mistake not, the writer has -furnished strong evidence of talent in a particular department of -literature, which needs only to be cultivated in order to attain a high -degree of success. - -The poetical contributions, which are entirely _original_ in the -present number, whilst they do not need our eulogy, we cannot permit to -pass without some special notice at our hands. The "_Power of Faith_" -will not fail to attract the lover of genuine poetry, especially if his -heart be warmed with christian zeal. It is written by a gentleman whose -modesty is as great as his merit; and whose writings, both in prose and -verse, will do honor to his native state. The sprightly effusion among -the prose articles which is headed "_Sally Singleton_," is from the -same hand. Of "_Death among the Trees_," it would be unnecessary to -speak, as it will be readily recognized and admired, as the production -of a distinguished female writer already known to fame. We take -pleasure in placing in the same company two other charming effusions, -by writers of the same gentle sex, whose assistance in our literary -labors we shall always be proud to receive. We allude to the "_Address -of the Genius of Columbia to her Native Muse_," and the "_Lines to an -Officer of the United States Navy, by E. A. S._" The "_Sonnet, written -on the Blue Ridge_," and the "_Stanzas, composed at the White Sulphur -Springs of Virginia_," are both the productions of the same superior -mind. There is not only decided power, but a most attractive pathos and -bewitching melancholy in the two productions referred to. We hope that -the author will continue to adorn our columns with the offspring of his -gifted muse. The author of "_Lines on a Billet from an Early Friend_," -will always be a welcome guest at our literary table. We know him as a -gentleman of fine taste and varied endowments. The "_Cemetery_" is from -the pen of a young Philadelphian of fine talents. He need not at any -time apprehend exclusion from our columns. - -If we have chosen to speak last of the author of "_Musings_," it is not -because he is least in our estimation. On the contrary, we sincerely -esteem him as among the favored few, to whom it is given,---if they -themselves will it,--to reach the highest honors, and the most enduring -rewards, in the empire of poesy. The beautiful and graceful picture of -Venice, presented in our present number,--of Venice despoiled of her -ancient glory--yet still glorious in ruin,--will command, if we mistake -not, general admiration. Successful as the author always is, in his -light and fugitive pieces, he gives evidence of a power to grasp the -highest themes, and to sport with familiar ease in the least accessible -regions of fancy. Why does he not seize the lyre at once, and pour -forth a song which shall add to his country's honor, and insure for -himself a chaplet of renown? Why does he not at once take rank with the -HALLECKS, the BRYANTS and PERCIVALS, of a colder clime? He is every way -qualified to do it. - -To our numerous correspondents and contributors, whose favors have not -yet appeared in print,--we owe our acknowledgments, and in some -instances an apology. Our space is exceedingly disproportioned to the -quantity of matter which we have on hand; and, of course, we are driven -to the painful, and rather invidious task of selection. We have many -articles actually in type, which we are necessarily obliged to exclude -from the present number. Among them may be enumerated "_A Scene in -Genoa, by an American Tourist_," the "_Grave Seekers_," and other fine -specimens of poetry. The "_Reporter's Story, or the Importance of a -Syllable_," "_The Cottage in the Glen_,"--the poems from Louisa and -Pittsylvania, and from various other quarters, shall all receive the -earliest possible attention. The high claims of our correspondents in -Mobile and Tuscaloosa in the state of Alabama, shall also be attended -to; and, we hope that others in distant states, will not deem -themselves slighted if not now particularly enumerated. - -The "_Eulogy on Lafayette_," transmitted from France, and handed over -to us by a friend, shall appear in the next number. - -We have read with pleasure, the love tale composed by an accomplished -young lady in one of the upper counties; and, whilst we do not hesitate -to render a just tribute to the delicacy of sentiment and glowing fancy -which distinguish her pages, candor compels us to urge one objection, -which we fear is insurmountable. The story is wrought up with materials -derived from English character and manners; and, we have too many -thousands of similar fictions issuing from the British press, to -authorize the belief that another of the same class will be interesting -to an American reader. We should like to see our own writers confine -their efforts to native subjects--to throw aside the trammels of -foreign reading, and to select their themes from the copious materials -which every where abound in our own magnificent country. - -For a similar reason, our friend from Caroline must excuse us for -declining to insert his sketches. We have no "_dilapidated castles_," -nor any "_last heirs of Ardendale_," in our plain republican land. - -Neither can we insert in our pages (though we should like to oblige our -Essex correspondent,) any thing which bears the slightest resemblance -to a _fairy tale_. We prefer treading upon earthly ground, and dealing -with mortal personages. - -To our highly respected correspondent, who addressed a letter to the -publisher in June last, from Prince Edward, we take this opportunity to -say, that our columns shall be freely open to discussions in behalf of -the interests of education. We conceive that the cause of literature is -intimately connected with it; and we have it in contemplation to -present ere long, to the public, some candid views, in regard to the -policy heretofore pursued in the Councils of our State, on this -interesting subject. We are enemies to every system founded upon -favoritism and monopoly; and we are advocates for the equal application -of those pecuniary resources which the bounty of the state has -dedicated to the cause of education. We have no idea that the Literary -Fund, the common property of us all, ought to be so managed as to -defeat the purposes of its founders; in other words, that it should be -so wrested from the original design of its creation, as to benefit only -two classes of society--the highest and the lowest,--the extremes of -wealth and indigence,--whilst the great mass of the community are -excluded from all advantages to be derived from it. This system may -suit particular individuals, and may subserve particular ends; but it -is at war with the best interests of the state, and ought to be -exposed, so far as the honorable weapons of truth and justice shall be -able to expose it. - -The suggestions of our highly intelligent friend from South Carolina, -who we presume is a temporary resident in one of the northern states, -are entitled to much respect and consideration. We quote the following -just sentiments from his letter: - -"American literature, although increasing, is still at an immense -distance in rear of that of England, and Germany and France. And why? -It is owing entirely to the _divided attention_ of our literary -characters. However profound and capacious their minds--and however -great their powers of thought, and brilliant and forcible those of -expression, it is impossible for them to succeed, at the same time, in -every department of knowledge. No man can distinguish himself in any -one pursuit, when his mind is applied to a dozen. Let him bend his -faculties upon a single object; and with industry and perseverance, he -will assuredly secure its attainment. Among us, we have no professed -students, whose lives are devoted to the acquisition and development of -learning. All men of talents rush early into the absorbing pursuits of -politics; and together with providing the means of support, continue in -them for life. So long as this is the case, it cannot be expected of us -to present eminent men, in any way calculated to compete with those of -the Old World. - -"It would be a useful and an ennobling task for some one, well -qualified to examine the subject in all its bearings, to offer an -expose of the various causes for the low ebb at which our national -literature now stands, and the means by which they might be subverted." - -We should be much gratified if some one of our many intelligent -subscribers would furnish us an essay upon this interesting subject. -None would be more likely to present it, in some of its strongest -lights, than the writer of the letter from which we have quoted. - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. -I., No. 2, October, 1834, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER *** - -***** This file should be named 52411.txt or 52411.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/4/1/52411/ - -Produced by Ron Swanson - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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