Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 7, March, 1835
Author: Various
Language: English
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THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.


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

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.


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



SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.]  RICHMOND, MARCH 1835.  [NO. 7.

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



The _Publisher_ regrets that the learned and interesting discourse of
Professor Tucker on the "Progress of Philosophy," delivered before the
Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society at its last meeting,
could not appear in the present number without dividing it. It shall
certainly appear in the April number _entire_.



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

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

No. V.


On the arrival of Commodore Barron in the Mediterranean, he as senior
captain, superseded Preble in the command of the American forces in
that sea. The determined manner in which the war had been prosecuted
by the latter officer, and the many acts of gallantry which had
distinguished the period of his direction, caused his withdrawal to be
universally regretted; and the more so, as Barron was at that time
laboring under a disease of the liver, which disqualified him for
exertions, and indeed soon after obliged him to retire from active
duty. Preble returned to the United States, where he was received with
every mark of respect by the government and by his fellow-citizens in
general; leaving under Barron's command, six frigates, four brigs, two
schooners, a sloop of war and eight gunboats, which mounted in all
three hundred and twenty-six guns. The season was however too far
advanced to admit of farther operations against Tripoli; ships were
stationed off the harbor sufficient to maintain a blockade, the others
passed the winter in cruising or lying at Malta and the Sicilian
ports.

It has been stated that Mr. Cathcart was appointed to succeed Eaton as
Consul of the United States at Tunis, with instructions to obtain a
peace with Tripoli, even on condition of paying for it, should it be
otherwise impossible; but he was soon after removed, his place as
Consul being supplied by George Davis. The power to negotiate was
given to Tobias Lear, a gentleman who had been private secretary to
President Washington, and afterwards an agent of the American
Government in Saint Domingo, and who was sent in 1803 to reside at
Algiers, as Consul General for the Barbary States. Mr. Lear was
instructed to join Commodore Barron, in order to treat for peace with
Tripoli, which it was hoped "might be effected without any price or
pecuniary compensation whatever; but should adverse circumstances, of
which he could best judge, and which were not foreseen, render the
campaign abortive, and a pecuniary sacrifice preferable to a
protraction of the war," he was authorised, _in the last instance and
in that only_, "to agree to the payment of twenty thousand dollars
immediately, and of an annual tribute of eight or ten thousand more,
for peace." "For the ransom of the prisoners, _if ransom should be
unavoidable_, he might stipulate a sum not exceeding five hundred
dollars for each man, including officers," the Tripoline prisoners
being however exchanged for an equal number of Americans; but "this
rate of ransom was not to be yielded, without such a change in
affairs, by accident to the squadron, or by other powers joining
against the United States, as was very unlikely to happen;" and it was
to be borne in mind, that this sum, "connected with terms otherwise
favorable, was the voluntary offer of the Pasha[1] to Captain Preble
in January, 1804." The Commodore was at liberty to avail himself of
Hamet's co-operation, "if he should judge that it might prove useful;
to engage which, as well as to render it the more effectual, he had
discretionary authority to grant him pecuniary or other subsidies, not
exceeding twenty thousand dollars; but the less reliance was placed
upon his aid, as the force under the orders of the Commodore was
deemed sufficient for any exercise of coercion, which the obstinacy of
the Pasha might demand." The power to negotiate was confided to Mr.
Lear in the first instance, as Commissioner of the United States for
that purpose; in case of accident, it was to devolve upon the acting
Commodore of the squadron.

[Footnote 1: A mistake; no such proposition was made by the Pasha; of
this there are many proofs; it is sufficient however to quote Preble's
own words in his despatch of September 18th, 1804, in which, speaking
of the Pasha's offer of the 10th of August, to terminate the war on
payment by the Americans of five hundred dollars for each prisoner, he
says that "it was 350,000 dollars less than was demanded previous to
the bombardment of the 3d of the same month."]

These instructions bear the stamp of that extreme cautiousness and
uncertainty with regard to the employment of decisive measures, which
characterized the government of the United States at that period. A
force is sent, deemed adequate for any exercise of coercion which may
be required, without recourse to a Pretender from whose alliance, a
considerable accession of moral influence might have been fairly
expected; yet in anticipation of adverse events, or of circumstances
not then foreseen, a civil agent is vested with authority to purchase
a humiliating peace. It is doubtless proper in all cases, to provide
for possible mishaps, particularly where the scene of action is far
distant; but in this instance, it is difficult to conceive that any
occurrences should render necessary a total abandonment by the United
States, of principles, for the support of which so large an armament
had been prepared; and there were the less grounds for such
anticipations, as it was believed, though erroneously, that the Pasha
had already offered terms much more favorable than those to which the
agent was authorised in the end to agree. It must be observed however,
that these instructions were issued on the 6th of June, 1804, at which
period Preble's spirited attacks had not been made, and the
proceedings of the American forces in the Mediterranean had, with one
or two exceptions, been remarkable only for their inefficiency or
their disastrous results.

Having received these orders, Mr. Lear quitted Algiers, and joined
Barron off Tripoli; they both soon after retired to Malta, which they
considered the most convenient place, either for carrying on
negotiations with Tripoli, or for directing the operations of the
ships. On the 28th of December, 1804, a letter reached them from Don
G. J. de Sousa, Spanish Consul at Tripoli, in which he stated, that at
a late audience the Pasha had expressed his willingness to make peace
with the Americans, provided they would come forward on proper
grounds, but had added, "that their proposals had hitherto been
extravagant and inadmissible, not only from the trifling amount of
money offered, but also from their having sought to compel their
acceptance by force of arms, a method by which they would never
succeed." The Consul then suggested, that Mr. Lear should himself
appear before the city with a flag of truce, and treat directly with
the Pasha, "whom means would be found _sub rosa_, to dispose for a
peace on terms appropriate and suitable for both parties." He
concluded by tendering his own good offices in the affair, requesting
however, that for the present, the utmost secrecy might be observed
with regard to this communication.

Notwithstanding the last injunction, many circumstances conspired to
induce a belief that the letter had been written under Yusuf's
directions, in order to discover the temper and disposition of the
Americans. In truth, the general character of the Spanish Consul was
by no means respectable; he was known to be closely connected with the
Pasha, and it had even been suspected, that to his influence or agency
the war with the United States was chiefly to be attributed. In
addition to this, no communications had been received from Yusuf since
his last proposition to Preble, after the bombardment in August; nor
indeed was any thing known respecting his strength, or the effects
which had been produced by the attacks made during the preceding
summer. It was therefore difficult to judge what "would be appropriate
and suitable for both parties;" and the Spanish Consul's _sub rosa_
means of disposing the Pasha to such terms, were very naturally
mistrusted. For these reasons, and from an expectation that more
direct offers would soon be made, it was determined that no answer
should be given to the letter immediately.

Of Eaton, no news was received by the Commodore from the period of his
departure for Egypt, until the return of the Argus from Alexandria, on
the 10th of March, 1805. She brought despatches from him, containing
information of the means pursued to communicate with Hamet, of their
successful issue, of the Convention about to be made with the Prince,
and of their projected expedition to Derne, in aid of which he
intreated that supplies of money, provisions and ammunition might be
sent to Bomba, and if possible, a detachment of one hundred marines.
In the brig came also Mahumed Mezaluna, an old Moor, who had been
Hamet's secretary, and who now appeared as his accredited agent to
solicit assistance.

Barron had however, by this time become very doubtful as to the
propriety of acting in concert with the exile, and he moreover feared,
that he had already exceeded his own authority, in the instructions
which he had given to Eaton on parting. The information conveyed by
the despatches, particularly as regarded the Convention, increased his
uneasiness, as he was led to apprehend that Eaton had acted even
beyond the limits of those instructions, and had entered into
engagements "incompatable with the ideas and intentions of their
government, or with the authority vested in himself." Indeed,
independently of the evident disinclination of the government to act
in concert with Hamet, and the smallness of the sum allowed for the
purpose, absolute engagements to place him on the throne of Tripoli,
might have produced the most serious consequences to the Americans.
The enterprise, in order to be effective, would have been necessarily
attended with a great expenditure of funds, for which indemnification
could not have been reasonably expected, in whatever way or however
pointedly it may have been stipulated: by its failure the insolence of
the Barbary States would have been increased, and additional
encouragement have been given to the exactions of their Sovereigns;
and even if completely successful, the advantages to be derived by the
United States were by no means evident. The ruler of every country,
however unrestrained his authority may be, must in his policy take
into consideration, the habits and the prejudices of his people; few
have succeeded by acting without reference to both, and fewer still
have lived to witness any important change wrought in either through
their own efforts. The Tripolines were bigoted Mahometans, and piracy
was among them an ancient and most honorable calling; the
establishment of Hamet by the aid of Christians, and his engagement to
remain at peace with them, without immediate compensation or the
promise of tribute, would certainly render him unpopular with his own
subjects, and excite against him the enmity of the other Barbary
powers. To overcome such difficulties, the Prince would have neither
the courage nor the means; and it could hardly be anticipated, that
when once on the throne of Tripoli he would risk its possession, by
pursuing a course at variance with the wishes of his people, and the
requisitions of the adjoining Sovereigns, merely from gratitude to the
Americans, or from respect for engagements made to them in the days of
his adversity.

The probability of obtaining beneficial results through Hamet's
co-operation, or indeed from any offensive measures against Tripoli,
had always been doubted by Bainbridge; and his opinion certainly
merited attention, for although imprisoned, yet he had sufficient
intercourse with the foreign consuls and other residents of the town,
to enable him to judge of the Pasha's strength and of the dispositions
of the inhabitants with regard to the two brothers. By letters
received from him, about the time of the arrival of the Argus, he
repeated his conviction that the establishment of the exiled Prince in
Tripoli, was not possible, from the weakness of his character the
contempt in which he was held by the people, his want of resources and
the force which Yusuf was capable of employing against him; and that
if the liberation of the American prisoners were made to depend upon
that measure, it would be better to leave them to their fate, than to
squander lives and treasure in so futile an attempt. He acknowledged
that he had been mistaken in the ideas he had entertained of the
Pasha's strength, and of the effects to be produced on the place by
naval operations only; that the damage occasioned by Preble's attacks,
had been slight as the houses were miserably built and almost
destitute of furniture; and that although the blockade had occasioned
embarrassments to the mercantile class and somewhat straitened Yusuf's
means, yet he would be able to hold out a long time, and be disposed
to suffer any extremity rather than surrender his prisoners without
ransom.

The situation in which those prisoners might be placed by Hamet's
marching against Tripoli, was also to be considered. Although the
utmost precaution was adopted to conceal the object of Eaton's mission
to Egypt, it was soon made known to Yusuf, by an Italian who was his
agent at Malta. It gave him much alarm, but with his usual energy he
prepared to meet the consequences, by sending such troops as he could
spare to reinforce those under the Beys of his frontier provinces. He
likewise despatched an agent to Alexandria, to intreat the Viceroy not
to allow his brother to quit the country; but Eaton had been already
joined by the Prince, and had so completely secured the favor of the
Turkish authorities, that this attempt to defeat the plan proved
fruitless. Yusuf had however, a strong security for his throne, at
least so far as regarded any danger from the forces of the Americans;
for he held in his power three hundred and seven of their
fellow-citizens, whose lives he well knew would be considered
infinitely more valuable than any advantages which could be derived
from his expulsion. With this view, he declared that he should
consider them as hostages for the conduct of their government, and
that any attempts made in favor of his brother, might prove fatal to
them. Information of his intentions was conveyed to Barron in January,
by a letter from Bainbridge, which he concludes by saying: "The Pasha
is very attentive to your transactions with his brother at Alexandria;
a force is going against Derne. Give me leave to tell you, I have
found your plan with the Pasha's brother very vast, and that _you
sacrifice the lives of the prisoners here in case of success_." Other
notices of the same purport were received; and the determined violence
of Yusuf's disposition was too well known, to leave a doubt that in
the last extremity, he might be inclined thus to wreak his vengeance
on the unfortunate captives. Until such extremity however, no fears
were to be entertained with regard to them, as their existence was
evidently most important to the Pasha.

Considerations of this nature made a deep impression upon Barron, and
induced him to view the cause in which Eaton had embarked, in a most
unfavorable light; honor and policy, however, forbade the immediate
abandonment of Hamet. The Argus and Hornet were therefore laden with
ammunition and stores for the supply of the expedition, and despatched
to Bomba, where their opportune arrival and the assistance rendered by
them at Derne have been already noticed. A letter was also carried by
the Argus from Barron to Eaton, in which after applauding his courage
and perseverance, he represents to him "that their Government in
consenting to act in concert with Hamet, did not contemplate the
measure as leading necessarily and absolutely to his establishment in
Tripoli, but as a means which, provided there existed energy in the
exiled Prince, and attachment to his person on the parts of his former
subjects, might be employed to the common furtherance and advantage of
his claims and the American cause; that if he possessed these
qualities, and had sufficient interest with the people, he might after
getting possession of Derne and Bengazi, move on with firm steps, and
conduct his followers to the gates of the capital, in aid of which,
operations would be prosecuted with vigor by the squadron, as soon as
the season would permit." He declared, however, that "he must withhold
his sanction from any convention or engagement, tending to impress
upon Hamet, the idea that the Americans had bound themselves to place
him on the throne," such engagements being unauthorized and
inexpedient, particularly taking into view, the situation in which
Bainbridge and their other captive countrymen might be placed by this
co-operation: that he should not suffer any convention with the
Prince, to interfere with that "perfect and uncontrolled power of
choice and action, in concluding a pacification with the Pasha, which
it was important under such circumstances to preserve;" and "that
honorable and advantageous terms being once offered, and accepted by
the representative of government appointed to treat for peace, all
support to Hamet must necessarily cease." The request for a detachment
of marines could not be complied with, "as the services of all would
be required on board their respective ships." The confused and indeed
contradictory injunctions contained in this letter, mark the utmost
indecision in the mind of the writer, and were calculated only to
puzzle the person to whom they were directed. He is discouraged from
prosecuting the enterprise in which he had engaged, while he is at the
same time assured, that the utmost assistance will be afforded to its
advancement by the squadron. A few days after the sailing of the Argus
and Hornet, the Nautilus was also sent to Derne, with additional
supplies and some cannon, which proved serviceable in the attacks on
that place.

About the same time a small vessel being sent to Tripoli by the
Commodore with clothing and other necessaries for the prisoners, Mr.
Lear wrote to the Spanish Consul thanking him politely for his
communication and his offers, but assuring him at the same time, that
as the Pasha had rejected several propositions for terminating the
war, no others would be made on the part of the United States; and
that the armed force, which was then considerable, would be employed
with vigor against Tripoli as soon as the season would permit; in the
mean while however, any proposition from the Pasha, tending to the
establishment of peace on honorable terms, would receive due
consideration. The vessel on its return, (April 21,) brought a second
letter from the Spanish Consul conveying a direct proposition from
Yusuf, to terminate the war and surrender the prisoners, on condition
that the Americans should pay him two hundred thousand dollars and
restore the Tripolines who had fallen into their hands, with all their
property. The Consul added, that he considered this offer as only
intended to form the basis of a negotiation, for which he again urged
Mr. Lear to come to Tripoli, assuring him that he would be received
with respect and remain in safety. This proposition was considered
inadmissible; it was however important, as giving evidence of the
Pasha's disposition, and the American negotiators, under the
persuasion that it would soon be followed by others of a more
acceptable nature, very prudently remained silent.

Other letters giving assurances of the Pasha's desire to make peace,
were received at the same time, from persons, whose characters and
situations gave the utmost weight to their opinions. Bainbridge and
his unfortunate companions had borne their fate with so much manly
fortitude, as to interest in their behalf, not only several of the
most respectable foreign residents in Tripoli, but also the minister
of foreign affairs Mahomet D'Ghies, who has been previously mentioned,
as a worthy and intelligent person. This minister being himself
engaged in extensive mercantile transactions, was naturally anxious
for the termination of a war by which the commerce of the place was
almost destroyed; but independently of this consideration, the
accounts of Bainbridge and of all who have subsequently known him,
warrant the belief that he was actuated by motives of real benevolence
in his endeavors to procure peace, and in the steps taken by him to
mitigate the severity which his dark-souled master was disposed to
exercise towards the captive Americans. He had already made several
attempts to communicate with Preble, in order to induce him to treat
with the Pasha, on condition of paying ransom for the prisoners; but
the difficulties of transmission and the precautions which he was
obliged to adopt to prevent discovery, had caused them all to fail.
The state of his health had become such, as to require his absence
from Tripoli during the ensuing summer, and he was most anxious that
peace might be made before that time, as he was well aware of the
force of the Americans, and of the advantages which Hamet would have
from their assistance; he may have also entertained fears that the
desperate determination of Yusuf might lead him to the accomplishment
of his fatal threats against the prisoners. He therefore resolved to
make another effort, and knowing the views and inclinations of the
Pasha with regard to peace, he conferred with Bainbridge on the
subject, as also with Mr. Nissen the Danish Consul, a man of the
highest respectability who had been uniformly the friend of the
Americans. In consequence of arrangements between them, Mr. Nissen
wrote to the Commodore on the 18th of March, in the name of Mahomet
D'Ghies; recommending him to take measures for treating with the
Pasha, and proposing to that effect, that he should send some one duly
authorized and instructed to Tripoli, for whose perfect inviolability
during his stay the strongest guaranties would be given; he considered
this plan as much more likely to lead to a speedy and satisfactory
conclusion, than a negotiation carried on by correspondence, or
through a Tripoline agent on board the squadron. This letter was
accompanied by others from Bainbridge urging an immediate acquiescence
in the plan proposed, the result of which he believed would be as
favorable to the Americans, as they could expect; he had no doubt that
the ransom of the prisoners might be effected for a hundred and twenty
thousand dollars, and that their liberation could never be obtained
without paying for it, unless large land forces were employed;
concluding by an assurance, that no Tripoline would ever consider a
farthing, as paid for the Pasha's friendship, after what had been
already experienced from the Americans.

These communications were not received until late in April; they were
then accompanied by another of more recent date from Bainbridge,
enclosing a copy of one which had been sent him by Mahomet D'Ghies; in
the latter, the minister states that the Pasha had just heard of his
brother's being _with_ the American squadron, (a report probably
occasioned by the arrival of Hamet's agent at Malta) and had in
consequence manifested the strongest resentment; saying that "as long
as the war was a war of interest, it might easily be brought to a
conclusion by some sacrifice on one side or the other; but that it was
now directed against himself and for his dethronement, and he would
act in a manner, by which the feelings of the United States, should be
hurt in the most tender point which he had the means of reaching." The
minister concluded by intreating, that the Commodore might be made
fully aware of the difficulties attending any negotiation, while he
was at all in relations with Hamet. The French Consul also confirmed
the account of the Pasha's irritation, and of the danger in which the
captives were placed. The letters were all forwarded by Captain
Rodgers, who commanded the ships blockading the harbor of Tripoli;
this officer being acquainted with their contents, wrote at the same
time to Mr. Lear, (April 18) strongly dissuading him from meeting the
advances of the Pasha, "until he had been rendered more sensible of
the force of the Americans, and of their capacity to use it," and
insisting that if an attack were made within six weeks, under proper
regulations, peace might be concluded on terms perfectly honorable and
advantageous to the United States.

On the 11th of May, the Hornet arrived from Derne, bringing accounts
from Eaton of the capture of that place, and of all the occurrences
since leaving Egypt, with a reply at length to Barron's letter of
March 22d. He represented that the measures had been eminently
successful; Hamet was in possession of the most valuable province of
Tripoli, his enemies were retreating, and the supply of some funds
with a few regular troops to give effect to operations requiring
energy, would enable him without doubt soon to appear at the gates of
the City. He had however been much discouraged by the Commodore's
declaration, that all support to the Prince must cease, if the terms
which the Pasha might offer, should be accepted; he was convinced that
terms would be offered as soon as Yusuf entertained serious
apprehensions for his safety, but he considered it incumbent on the
United States, in case they were accepted, and it should be determined
to withdraw all aid from Hamet, to place him in a situation at least
as good as that from which he had been drawn, and out of the reach of
his vindictive brother. He expressed his opinion that Derne should not
be abandoned, nor peace made precipitately, as the navy might thus be
crushed and the national honor receive a heavy blow.

The result of all these communications, was a determination on the
parts of the Commander of the forces, and the Consul General, to
abandon the co-operation with Hamet and to enter into a negotiation
with Yusuf. Barron considered the moment the most favorable for
concluding peace, on advantageous terms, as the capture of Derne must
doubtless have produced a powerful effect on the Pasha's mind; and
although discarding the idea of yielding any point of national honor
or advantage, to obtain the liberation of the prisoners, he yet
contended that "the lives of so many valuable and estimable Americans
should not be sacrificed to abstract points of honor." Mr. Lear in
reply, conceived it his duty, "to open and bring to a happy issue, a
negotiation for peace consistent with the tenor of their instructions,
whenever the Commander of the American naval forces in the
Mediterranean should judge the occasion proper and favorable;" he
would therefore at once proceed to Tripoli for the purpose; he _could
not however believe that any impression favorable to the United States
had been made on Yusuf, by the measures in concert with his brother,
unless the bravery and perseverance of the Americans at Derne, had
given him a proof of what might be done against him without extraneous
aid_.

Preparations were instantly made to carry both these resolutions into
effect. The Hornet was sent back to Derne with despatches notifying
Eaton of the projected negotiation, directing him at the same time
explicitly to inform Hamet, that all supplies of arms and money were
at an end, and he must trust entirely to his own resources and
exertions; that as he was now "_in possession of the most valuable
province of Tripoli_," and at the post from which he was driven when
he first solicited the assistance of the United States, all had been
done for him which he had a right to expect; but that endeavors would
be made to stipulate some conditions in his favor, provided they could
be obtained "without any considerable sacrifice of national
advantage." Eaton and his companions were not indeed directly ordered
to retire from Hamet's service, but the expressions of the letter
conveyed a hint that they were expected to do so which could not be
mistaken; in addition to which, Captain Hull, who commanded the ships
at Derne, was required to proceed with them immediately to Tripoli.

The necessary arrangements being also made for carrying Mr. Lear to
Tripoli, he sailed in the Essex frigate for that place, off which he
arrived on the 26th of May. He bore with him a letter from Barron to
Rodgers, resigning to the latter the command of the American forces in
the Mediterranean, a station which, as he said, "the languor of
sickness, and consequent mental as well as bodily inactivity,
prevented him from filling any longer, with approbation to himself, or
with advantage to the service." Some remarks are here necessary.

Commodore Barron had arrived in the Mediterranean, affected with a
disease which universally weakens the mental powers of those who are
subject to it; in his case we have the evidence of his officers, that
during the whole winter and spring, he had been "disqualified from
transacting any business, his mind being so mach impaired, that he
scarcely recollected what transpired from one day to another; and on
applications being made to him for instructions, he would lose the
recollection of what passed in the course of conversation." It was
also generally believed by the officers in the Mediterranean, "that
Mr. Lear had a great ascendancy over the Commodore in all his measures
relative to the squadron." For merely exercising such an ascendancy,
Mr. Lear cannot certainly be blamed; nor can it be imputed as a fault
to Barron, that in his situation it should have existed; he had been
intrusted with an important command, which he wished to retain,
particularly as he was much better acquainted with the views and
wishes of his government, than the officer who would succeed him in
case of his resignation could possibly have been. Under these
circumstances it was natural, that being himself aware of his
debilitated state, he should have looked for counsel and assistance to
one in whom their government had manifested such implicit confidence.
Respecting the course to be pursued with Tripoli, Mr. Lear in all his
despatches and recorded conversations, had advocated the propriety of
strong measures, for which he considered the forces of the United
States alone as perfectly adequate. To the plan of co-operation with
Hamet, he had been from the first opposed, pronouncing it visionary
and impracticable; he insisted that Yusuf might be compelled to accede
to honorable terms without any extraneous assistance whatever, and
"that more reliance might be placed on a peace with him if well beaten
into it, than with his brother, if placed on the throne by the aid of
the Americans." When the accounts arrived of Eaton's junction with
Hamet, and their projected expedition from Egypt, he declared his
conviction openly that it would prove fruitless, and "that they with
their adherents, would be sacrificed before reaching Derne." For these
opinions there were certainly strong grounds; but knowing as he did,
that Yusuf had manifested the utmost uneasiness ever since he had been
informed of his brother's intended expedition, how could Mr. Lear have
supposed that no impression favorable to the United States had been
made on him, by the capture of Derne and the defeat of his army? We
have certainly a right here to suspect the existence of prejudice or
of personal feeling, or of too great a disinclination to acknowledge
the erroneousness of previous assertions. That "a deep impression had
in reality been made on the Pasha by the heroic bravery of the few
Americans at Derne, and by the idea that the United States had a large
force and immense supplies at that place," he indeed afterwards
admitted, and endeavored from thence to make an arrangement favorable
to Hamet. From the terms of Rodgers's letter already quoted, it
appears that he was by no means desirous to negotiate until the Pasha
should have been humbled; and he declares in another letter, that he
never had entertained any apprehensions for the lives of the
prisoners. It is therefore possible, that had not Barron before his
relinquishment, taken such decided steps with regard to the
abandonment of Hamet's cause, and (at least apparently) induced Mr.
Lear to enter upon the negotiation with Yusuf, those measures might
have met with some opposition from Rodgers, which delicacy under the
actual circumstances forbade.

The Spanish Consul boarded the Essex immediately on her arrival off
Tripoli; Mr. Lear informed him that he had come at the Pasha's request
to treat for peace, but that the terms which had been already proposed
through him were inadmissible, and that unless they were put aside
entirely, no progress could be made in the affair. The Consul returned
to Tripoli, and came on board again on the 29th, bringing a commission
from the Pasha to treat on the principal points of accommodation;
Yusuf relinquished all demands of payment for peace, and offered to
restore the prisoners for a hundred and thirty thousand dollars, the
Tripolines in the hands of the Americans being given up gratis. Mr.
Lear replied by other propositions, which were--that the prisoners
should be restored on both sides, the Americans immediately, the
Tripolines as soon as they could be brought from America and Sicily
where they then were; that as the Americans exceeded the Tripolines in
number by about two hundred, the sum of sixty thousand dollars would
be paid as ransom for the balance in favor of the Pasha; and that a
treaty of peace should then be made on mutually honorable and
beneficial terms. After some difficulties, Yusuf agreed to these
propositions, except that he refused to give up his prisoners until
the Tripolines were ready to be delivered to him in return for them.

This was probably only a pretence to gain time. Indeed, within the
preceding year, the question between the United States and Tripoli had
been materially changed. The Americans had appeared in such force in
the Mediterranean, that they could no longer be regarded as
supplicants for peace, and the great object was to obtain the
liberation of their captive fellow-citizens; on the other hand, the
Pasha had suffered so much from the blockade and the expenses of the
war, that he was desirous to have it terminated on as good terms as he
could obtain. Hamet's success at Derne had much increased his anxiety,
and knowing that it was entirely due to the assistance of the
Americans, he was determined not to give up the advantages he
possessed by means of the prisoners, without securing in return the
withdrawal of this important aid from his brother's cause; for this
reason he wished to have the treaty of peace made before the execution
of any other measures. As to the restoration of his own subjects who
were in the hands of the Americans, he was entirely indifferent; often
declaring when exchange was proposed, "that he would not give an
orange apiece for them."

On the 1st of June, Bainbridge came on board, under guaranty of
Mahomet D'Ghies and the Danish Consul. He assured Mr. Lear that Yusuf
would not consent to surrender the prisoners, until a treaty of peace
were made. As the objects of the Americans were to obtain the
liberation of their countrymen and security for their commerce and
navigation in future, it was not worth while to oppose this, and
Bainbridge was directed to inform the Pasha, that if the terms
proposed were accepted, a negotiation would be immediately entered
into for a treaty, with any proper person duly authorized by him, but
that no farther communication would be held with the Spanish Consul.
Yusuf upon this accordingly commissioned Mr. Nissen to confer with Mr.
Lear on the terms of the treaty; instructing him specially to have an
article inserted, stipulating that the American forces should be
withdrawn from Derne, and that efforts would be used to persuade Hamet
to leave the Tripoline dominions. This stipulation was agreed to by
Mr. Lear, who, however insisted that the Prince's family, who still
remained in the Pasha's hands, should be restored to him. Yusuf
objected and the negotiation was almost at a stand; at this crisis the
Nautilus arrived from Malta, bringing notices of Eaton's farther
successes at Derne, and also information of the arrival of additional
forces from the United States. Rodgers here expressed his anxiety to
try the effect of farther offensive operations against him; but Mr.
Lear "would not suffer the business to be broken off and leave his
countrymen longer in slavery," and therefore consented that _time
should be allowed for the delivery of Hamet's family_. The
difficulties between him and the Pasha were then removed and the
preliminaries were assented to by both parties. Mr. Lear landed
directly after, and on the 4th of June 1805, corresponding with the
6th of the first month of Rabbia of the year of the Hegira 1220, a
_Treaty of Peace and Amity between the United States of America and
the Pasha, Bey and subjects of Tripoline Barbary_, was signed at
Tripoli.

By this treaty, firm and inviolable peace and sincere friendship was
to exist between the two nations; the prisoners were to be returned on
each side, sixty thousand dollars being paid by the Americans for the
difference in number against them; the forces of the United States, in
hostility against the Pasha at Derne or elsewhere in his dominions,
were to be withdrawn, and no supplies to be given by the Americans
during the continuance of the peace, to any of his subjects who may be
in rebellion against him; the Americans were to use all means in their
power to persuade Hamet to retire from the Tripoline territory, but
they were to use no force or improper means to that effect, and in
case he should thus retire, the Pasha was to deliver up to him his
wife and children. The stipulations respecting commerce and
navigation, the rights of citizens and of consuls of either party in
the territories of the other, the assistance to be given to stranded
vessels, the protection to be afforded to vessels pursued by an enemy,
&c. were placed on the most equal footing; and it was moreover
declared, that in case a war should hereafter break out between the
two parties, the prisoners taken on either side should not be made
slaves, but should be returned at a stated ransom. This provision was
at least harmless, and it held out inducements to humane conduct.

The American prisoners were sent on board the squadron, immediately
after the signing of the treaty, and the Constitution frigate was sent
to Malta and Syracuse for the money to be paid as ransom and the
Tripolines. The American flag was again hoisted in the town, a Consul
was installed, and the inhabitants testified their pleasure on the
termination of a war by which they had so severely suffered.

This pacification has proved most advantageous for the Americans; no
tribute has been since paid by them to Tripoli, nor has any infraction
of the treaty been made either by the government, or the subjects of
that regency, without full indemnification having been promptly
obtained for it. The Pasha has indeed always appeared ready to do or
to submit to any thing, rather than have another war with the United
States. There is however every reason to suppose that the peace might
have been made on terms more honorable to the Americans; and it is
difficult to conceive what proper motives could have induced their
commissioner, to offer a sum of money as ransom for the prisoners,
with so strong a force at his disposal, and with the finest province
of the Tripoline dominions actually in the hands of his countrymen.
The proposition must certainly have surprised Yusuf, who had up to
that moment received from him nothing but expressions of a fixed
determination to seek peace only at the cannon's mouth.

Although it was expected that the information conveyed by the Hornet
would have induced Eaton and the other Americans to evacuate Derne,
still it was thought proper to despatch the frigate Constellation to
that place, with accounts of the peace which had been concluded; it
carried also one of Yusuf's officers, who was empowered to proclaim a
general amnesty, and her captain was instructed to receive Hamet and
his immediate followers on board, should they choose to accompany him.

The communications previously received by the Hornet had prepared
Eaton for these results; and he had instantly made known to Hamet the
critical state in which his affairs were placed; the poor Prince very
naturally exclaimed, that "to abandon him then, was to co-operate not
with him, but with his brother"--and seeing that it would be
impossible for him to prosecute the war, after the withdrawal of the
American forces, he prepared to leave Derne with them whenever they
should go. Eaton, however, could not bear "to strike the flag of his
country in presence of an enemy, who had not merited the triumph, and
to see the unbounded confidence placed by the inhabitants in the
American character, sink into contempt and eternal hatred;" he had,
therefore, resolved not to give up the advantages already obtained at
Derne, and carefully concealing his apprehensions, continued to pursue
the measures best calculated to advance the success of the enterprise.
In this determination he seems to have been seconded by Captain Hull,
and the other officers of the ships on the station, who had been
induced by the declarations of Commodore Barron and Mr. Lear, to
expect that an opportunity would have been afforded them in the
approaching season to chastise the insolence of the Pasha, and fully
establish the reputation of the Americans in the Mediterranean.

The Constellation arrived off Derne on the 11th of June, and it being
at once supposed that she brought supplies and troops in aid of Hamet,
the hopes of his partizans were excited to the highest pitch, while
the Tripolines were so much dismayed, that they broke up their camp in
haste, and retreated to the distance of fifteen miles from the town.
When Eaton had examined the despatches brought by her, he saw at once
that it would be a nice and difficult task to embark the Christians
with Hamet and his followers in safety, as the inhabitants would place
but little confidence in the Pasha's amnesty, and might be disposed to
sacrifice their lives in revenge for this apparent desertion. He
therefore took measures to conceal the real state of affairs; he
ordered the troops to be inspected, distributed ammunition and
rations, and sent off spies as if in anticipation of an attack. At
night, patroles were placed to cut off all communication between the
battery near the sea, which was occupied by the Christians and the
town; the Constellation's boats came to the wharf, and the Christians,
to their great astonishment, were all embarked and rowed off to the
frigate, except the Americans. A message was then sent to Hamet,
requesting an interview; he understood what was meant and instantly
came with his retinue; they entered the boats, which had by that time
returned, the Americans followed, and last of all went Eaton, just in
time to escape the soldiery and inhabitants, who learning what was
going on, rushed in distraction to the beach. Finding themselves
deserted by those who had led them to take up arms against their
tyrannical master, their rage burst forth in execrations against Hamet
and his infidel friends. In the morning, the Tripoline agent landed
and proclaimed amnesty to those who would return to their allegiance;
but the place was already nearly deserted; the Arabs had plundered it
of all that could be carried away and retreated to the mountains,
accompanied by many of the inhabitants; those who remained rejected
the terms of pardon offered them, and prepared to defend themselves to
the last from the tops of their houses. What was their fate we have
been unable to learn. At noon, on the 13th of June, Eaton writes, "In
a few minutes, we shall lose sight of this deserted city, which has
experienced as strange a reverse in as short a time, as ever recorded
in the disasters of war." The Constellation arrived in a few days at
Syracuse, where the men who had served with Eaton at Derne were paid
off. The whole expenses of the expedition amounted to about forty
thousand dollars.

A few words will suffice to trace the subsequent history of Hamet. It
has been stated that provision was made in the treaty of June 4th, for
the restoration of his family; but when he demanded them, his brother
refused to comply or to give him any assistance whatever. He had been
aided by Eaton, and by the orders of the Commodore of the squadron, he
received two hundred dollars per month for the support of himself, and
fifteen or twenty dependants in Syracuse. Two thousand four hundred
dollars were afterwards appropriated by Congress, for his "immediate
and temporary relief." The American Consul at Tripoli was also
instructed to require the delivery of his family; he did so, but in
reply a paper was exhibited, which proved to be a secret article
signed in due form by Mr. Lear, on the day after the conclusion of the
treaty, by which it was stipulated, that Yusuf should not be required
to give up his brother's wife and children, until the expiration of
four years, during which, Hamet was to evince his peaceful
disposition, and his determination not to disturb the tranquillity of
the Tripoline dominions. Of this article, no copy, and indeed no
notice whatever, had been transmitted by Mr. Lear to his Government;
whether from miscarriage or from other causes is not ascertained. The
Consul was however ordered to urge the delivery of the family by the
Pasha, and to endeavor to obtain some arrangements for their support
and that of Hamet. This was at length effected through the aid of
Mahomet D'Ghies; and on the 25th of October, 1807, his wife and
children arrived at Syracuse in an American sloop of war, with the
exception of one of the daughters, who had married the Bey Mahomet,
Yusuf's eldest son; an offer was also made by the Pasha, to settle a
handsome allowance on his brother, provided he would establish his
residence in Morocco. This Hamet positively refused, demanding at
least the restoration of his former governments of Derne and Bengazi;
after some difficulties Yusuf consented to his demand, and he went to
Derne in 1809, where he passed the remainder of his life in quiet, as
Bey of the two Eastern Provinces. Eaton immediately resigned his
situation as navy agent, and returned to the United States, where he
was universally received with interest and attention; but never
recovered his equanimity; he had been as he conceived, disappointed in
the opportunity of distinguishing himself, and moreover unjustly
robbed of his share in the credit of reducing the Pasha to terms. His
natural irritability was increased, and he was on many occasions
tempted to assert his claims, in a manner which savored of
boastfulness. His own peaceful country offered no field for the
display of his peculiar talents; he had no taste for the quiet
occupations of the farm, or for the petty intrigues and wordy war of
politics; he tried both and failed. He became involved in pecuniary
embarrassments, his spirits deserted him, and he sought for
consolation in the bowl. Those who knew him only at this period,
represent him as an intemperate disagreeable vain-glorious man, and
the few friends who followed him to the grave in June 1811, had reason
to regret that he had not died earlier.



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ANECDOTES OF PATRICK HENRY.

_From the Manuscripts of the late David Meade Randolph_.


The birth of party spirit has been variously conjectured: the result
of the Richmond Convention for the adoption of the Federal
Constitution, was one of its imputed parents. In the evening of the
day of the final vote, General Meade and Mr. Cabell assembled the
_discontents_ in the old Senate Chamber; and after a partial
organization of the party, a deputation was sent to Patrick Henry
inviting him to take the chair. The venerated patriot accepted.
Understanding that it was their purpose to concert a plan of
resistance to the operations of the Federal Government, he addressed
the meeting with his accustomed animation upon important occasions;
observing, "he had done his duty strenuously, in opposing the
Constitution, in the _proper place_,--and with all the powers he
possessed. The question had been fully discussed and settled, and,
that as true and faithful republicans, they had all better go home!
They should cherish it, and give it fair play--support it too, in
order that the federal administration might be left to the
untrammelled and free exercise of its functions:" reproving, moreover,
the half suppressed factious spirit which he perceived had well nigh
broken out. The impressive arguments of Mr. Henry produced the
gratifying effect he had hoped for.

       *       *       *       *       *

The purity of Henry's republicanism was such, as when dining with his
brother Col. John Syme, at the Rocky Mills, during a May session of
the Circuit Court held by Judge Iredell in Richmond, the company,
composed of very respectable characters of both parties--'THE PEOPLE'
as the first toast, upon removing the cloth, was pronounced very
audibly by the host. Mr. Henry pushing his old black wig aside, as was
his custom when much excited;--and, with _elbows akimbo!_ exclaimed,
"What--brother, not drink GENERAL WASHINGTON? as we used to do!--for
shame brother, for shame;"--and filled up his glass with a bumper of
Thomson's Madeira, announcing the name of WASHINGTON.



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

YOUNG ROSALIE LEE.


    I love to forget Ambition
  And Hope, in the mingled thought
  Of valley and wood and meadow,
  Where whilome my spirit caught
  Affection's holiest breathings;
  Where, under the skies, with me
  Young Rosalie roved--aye drinking
  From Joy's bright Castaly.

    I think of the valley and river,
  The old wood bright with blossoms;
  Of the pure and chastened gladness
  Upspringing in our bosoms;
  I think of the lonely turtle
  So tongued with melancholy;
  And the hue of the drooping moonlight,
  And the starlight pure and holy!

    Of the beat of a heart most tender;
  The sigh of a shell-tinct lip,
  As soft as the land tones, wandering
  Far leagues, over ocean deep;
  Of a step, as light in its falling,
  On the breast of the beaded lea,
  As the fall of the fairy moonlight,
  On the leaf of yon tulip tree.

    I think of these and the murmur
  Of bird and katadyd,
  Whose home is the grave yard cypress,
  Whose goblet the honey-reed;
  And then I weep! for Rosalie
  Has gone to her early rest;
  And the green-lipped reed and the daisy,
  Suck sweets from her maiden breast.

L. L.

_Winchester, Va._



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STRAY LEAVES.


      See'st thou yon withered tree,
      Which stretches towards the sea,
      Its long and ghastly arms--
      Does it not say to thee,
      How speedily shall flee,
      Thy now so envied charms.

      That forehead high
      In the dust shall lie,
      And that soft dark eye
      Shall be shrivelled and dry;
      And those pearly teeth,
      Shall be trodden beneath,
      The foot of the idle passer-by.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Change the subject, change the measure,
  Sing not of death--let life and pleasure
  Be the theme of Poet's lay;
  Our earth contains full many a treasure--
  Let us seek them while we may.

  Fill the glass with yellow juice,
  Of Rhine's old banks, the rich produce;
  Or let the ruby claret flow,
  Or Portugal's dark streams unloose--
  They all bring joy and banish woe.

    Let not woman enter here,
    Woman brings but pain and care,
    Woman smiles but to deceive,
    In woman's tears let none believe.

    Love is folly--fill the glass,
    In mirth and glee, the hours we'll pass.
    The smiling vine alone is true,
    The grape's pure tears none ever rue.



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BERENICE--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.


Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform.
Overreaching the wide horizon like the rainbow, its hues are as
various as the hues of that arch, as distinct too, yet as intimately
blended. Overreaching the wide horizon like the rainbow! How is it
that from Beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness?--from the
covenant of Peace a simile of sorrow? But thus is it. And as, in
ethics, Evil is a consequence of Good, so, in fact, out of Joy is
sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day,
or the agonies which _are_, have their origin in the ecstasies which
_might have been_. I have a tale to tell in its own essence rife with
horror--I would suppress it were it not a record more of feelings than
of facts.

My baptismal name is Egæus--that of my family I will not mention. Yet
there are no towers in the land more time-honored than my gloomy,
grey, hereditary halls. Our line has been called a race of
visionaries: and in many striking particulars--in the character of the
family mansion--in the frescos of the chief saloon--in the tapestries
of the dormitories--in the chiseling of some buttresses in the
armory--but more especially in the gallery of antique paintings--in
the fashion of the library chamber--and, lastly, in the very peculiar
nature of the library's contents, there is more than sufficient
evidence to warrant the belief.

The recollections of my earliest years are connected with that
chamber, and with its volumes--of which latter I will say no more.
Here died my mother. Herein was I born. But it is mere idleness to say
that I had not lived before--that the soul has no previous existence.
You deny it. Let us not argue the matter. Convinced myself I seek not
to convince. There is, however, a remembrance of ærial forms--of
spiritual and meaning eyes--of sounds musical yet sad--a remembrance
which will not be excluded: a memory like a shadow, vague, variable,
indefinite, unsteady--and like a shadow too, in the impossibility of
my getting rid of it, while the sunlight of my reason shall exist.

In that chamber was I born. Thus awaking, as it were, from the long
night of what seemed, but was not, nonentity at once into the very
regions of fairy land--into a palace of imagination--into the wild
dominions of monastic thought and erudition--it is not singular that I
gazed around me with a startled and ardent eye--that I loitered away
my boyhood in books, and dissipated my youth in reverie--but it _is_
singular that as years rolled away, and the noon of manhood found me
still in the mansion of my fathers--it is wonderful what stagnation
there fell upon the springs of my life--wonderful how total an
inversion took place in the character of my common thoughts. The
realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only,
while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn,--not the
material of my every-day existence--but in very deed that existence
utterly and solely in itself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Berenice and I were cousins, and we grew up together in my paternal
halls--Yet differently we grew. I ill of health and buried in
gloom--she agile, graceful, and overflowing with energy. Hers the
ramble on the hill side--mine the studies of the cloister. I living
within my own heart, and addicted body and soul to the most intense
and painful meditation--she roaming carelessly through life with no
thought of the shadows in her path, or the silent flight of the
raven-winged hours. Berenice!--I call upon her name--Berenice!--and
from the grey ruins of memory a thousand tumultuous recollections are
startled at the sound! Ah! vividly is her image before me now, as in
the early days of her light-heartedness and joy! Oh! gorgeous yet
fantastic beauty! Oh! Sylph amid the shrubberies of Arnheim!--Oh!
Naiad among her fountains!--and then--then all is mystery and terror,
and a tale which should not be told. Disease--a fatal disease--fell
like the Simoom upon her frame, and, even while I gazed upon her, the
spirit of change swept over her, pervading her mind, her habits, and
her character, and, in a manner the most subtle and terrible,
disturbing even the very identity of her person! Alas! the destroyer
came and went, and the victim--where was she? I knew her not--or knew
her no longer as Berenice.

Among the numerous train of maladies, superinduced by that fatal and
primary one which effected a revolution of so horrible a kind in the
moral and physical being of my cousin, may be mentioned as the most
distressing and obstinate in its nature, a species of epilepsy not
unfrequently terminating in _trance_ itself--trance very nearly
resembling positive dissolution, and from which her manner of recovery
was, in most instances, startingly abrupt. In the meantime my own
disease--for I have been told that I should call it by no other
appellation--my own disease, then, grew rapidly upon me, and,
aggravated in its symptoms by the immoderate use of opium, assumed
finally a monomaniac character of a novel and extraordinary
form--hourly and momentarily gaining vigor--and at length obtaining
over me the most singular and incomprehensible ascendancy. This
monomania--if I must so term it--consisted in a morbid irritability of
the nerves immediately affecting those properties of the mind, in
metaphysical science termed the _attentive_. It is more than probable
that I am not understood--but I fear that it is indeed in no manner
possible to convey to the mind of the merely general reader, an
adequate idea of that nervous _intensity of interest_ with which, in
my case, the powers of meditation (not to speak technically) busied,
and, as it were, buried themselves in the contemplation of even the
most common objects of the universe.

To muse for long unwearied hours with my attention rivetted to some
frivolous device upon the margin, or in the typography of a book--to
become absorbed for the better part of a summer's day in a quaint
shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry, or upon the floor--to lose
myself for an entire night in watching the steady flame of a lamp, or
the embers of a fire--to dream away whole days over the perfume of a
flower--to repeat monotonously some common word, until the sound, by
dint of frequent repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the
mind--to lose all sense of motion or physical existence in a state of
absolute bodily quiescence long and obstinately persevered in--Such
were a few of the most common and least pernicious vagaries induced by
a condition of the mental faculties, not, indeed, altogether
unparalleled, but certainly bidding defiance to any thing like
analysis or explanation.

Yet let me not be misapprehended. The undue, intense, and morbid
attention thus excited by objects in their own nature frivolous, must
not be confounded in character with that ruminating propensity common
to all mankind, and more especially indulged in by persons of ardent
imagination. By no means. It was not even, as might be at first
supposed, an extreme condition, or exaggeration of such propensity,
but primarily and essentially distinct and different. In the one
instance the dreamer, or enthusiast, being interested by an object
usually _not_ frivolous, imperceptibly loses sight of this object in a
wilderness of deductions and suggestions issuing therefrom, until, at
the conclusion of a day-dream _often replete with luxury_, he finds
the _incitamentum_ or first cause of his musings utterly vanished and
forgotten. In my case the primary object was _invariably frivolous_,
although assuming, through the medium of my distempered vision, a
refracted and unreal importance. Few deductions--if any--were made;
and those few pertinaciously returning in, so to speak, upon the
original object as a centre. The meditations were _never_ pleasurable;
and, at the termination of the reverie, the first cause, so far from
being out of sight, had attained that supernaturally exaggerated
interest which was the prevailing feature of the disease. In a word,
the powers of mind more particularly exercised were, with me, as I
have said before, the _attentive_, and are, with the day-dreamer, the
_speculative_.

My books, at this epoch, if they did not actually serve to irritate
the disorder, partook, it will be perceived, largely, in their
imaginative, and inconsequential nature, of the characteristic
qualities of the disorder itself. I well remember, among others, the
treatise of the noble Italian Coelius Secundus Curio "_de amplitudine
beati regni Dei_"--St. Austin's great work the "City of God"--and
Tertullian "_de Carne Christi_," in which the unintelligible sentence
"_Mortuus est Dei filius; credibile est quia ineptum est: et sepultus
resurrexit; certum est quia impossibile est_" occupied my undivided
time, for many weeks of laborious and fruitless investigation.

Thus it will appear that, shaken from its balance only by trivial
things, my reason bore resemblance to that ocean-crag spoken of by
Ptolemy Hephestion, which steadily resisting the attacks of human
violence, and the fiercer fury of the waters and the winds, trembled
only to the touch of the flower called Asphodel. And although, to a
careless thinker, it might appear a matter beyond doubt, that the
fearful alteration produced by her unhappy malady, in the _moral_
condition of Berenice, would afford me many objects for the exercise
of that intense and morbid meditation whose nature I have been at some
trouble in explaining, yet such was not by any means the case. In the
lucid intervals of my infirmity, her calamity indeed gave me pain,
and, taking deeply to heart that total wreck of her fair and gentle
life, I did not fail to ponder frequently and bitterly upon the
wonder-working means by which so strange a revolution had been so
suddenly brought to pass. But these reflections partook not of the
idiosyncrasy of my disease, and were such as would have occurred,
under similar circumstances, to the ordinary mass of mankind. True to
its own character, my disorder revelled in the less important but more
startling changes wrought in the _physical_ frame of Berenice, and in
the singular and most appalling distortion of her personal identity.

During the brightest days of her unparalleled beauty, most surely I
had never loved her. In the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings,
with me, _had never been_ of the heart, and my passions _always were_
of the mind. Through the grey of the early morning--among the
trellissed shadows of the forest at noon-day--and in the silence of my
library at night, she had flitted by my eyes, and I had seen her--not
as the living and breathing Berenice, but as the Berenice of a
dream--not as a being of the earth--earthly--but as the abstraction of
such a being--not as a thing to admire, but to analyze--not as an
object of love, but as the theme of the most abstruse although
desultory speculation. And _now_--now I shuddered in her presence, and
grew pale at her approach; yet, bitterly lamenting her fallen and
desolate condition, I knew that she had loved me long, and, in an evil
moment, I spoke to her of marriage.

And at length the period of our nuptials was approaching, when, upon
an afternoon in the winter of the year, one of those unseasonably
warm, calm, and misty days which are the nurse of the beautiful
Halcyon,[1] I sat, and sat, as I thought alone, in the inner apartment
of the library. But uplifting my eyes Berenice stood before me.

[Footnote 1: For as Jove, during the winter season, gives twice seven
days of warmth, men have called this clement and temperate time the
nurse of the beautiful Halcyon.--_Simonides_.]

Was it my own excited imagination--or the misty influence of the
atmosphere--or the uncertain twilight of the chamber--or the grey
draperies which fell around her figure--that caused it to loom up in
so unnatural a degree? I could not tell. Perhaps she had grown taller
since her malady. She spoke, however, no word, and I--not for worlds
could I have uttered a syllable. An icy chill ran through my frame; a
sense of insufferable anxiety oppressed me; a consuming curiosity
pervaded my soul; and, sinking back upon the chair, I remained for
some time breathless, and motionless, and with my eyes rivetted upon
her person. Alas! its emaciation was excessive, and not one vestige of
the former being lurked in any single line of the contour. My burning
glances at length fell upon her face.

The forehead was high, and very pale, and singularly placid; and the
once golden hair fell partially over it, and overshadowed the hollow
temples with ringlets now black as the raven's ring, and jarring
discordantly, in their fantastic character, with the reigning
melancholy of the countenance. The eyes were lifeless, and lustreless,
and I shrunk involuntarily from their glassy stare to the
contemplation of the thin and shrunken lips. They parted: and, in a
smile of peculiar meaning, the teeth of the changed Berenice disclosed
themselves slowly to my view. Would to God that I had never beheld
them, or that, having done so, I had died!

       *       *       *       *       *

The shutting of a door disturbed me, and, looking up, I found my
cousin had departed from the chamber. But from the disordered chamber
of my brain, had not, alas! departed, and would not be driven away,
the white and ghastly _spectrum_ of the teeth. Not a speck upon their
surface--not a shade on their enamel--not a line in their
configuration--not an indenture in their edges--but what that brief
period of her smile had sufficed to brand in upon my memory. I saw
them _now_ even more unequivocally than I beheld them _then_. The
teeth!--the teeth!--they were here, and there, and every where, and
visibly, and palpably before me, long, narrow, and excessively white,
with the pale lips writhing about them, as in the very moment of their
first terrible development. Then came the full fury of my _monomania_,
and I struggled in vain against its strange and irresistible
influence. In the multiplied objects of the external world I had no
thoughts but for the teeth. All other matters and all different
interests became absorbed in their single contemplation. They--they
alone were present to the mental eye, and they, in their sole
individuality, became the essence of my mental life. I held them in
every light--I turned them in every attitude. I surveyed their
characteristics--I dwelt upon their peculiarities--I pondered upon
their conformation--I mused upon the alteration in their nature--and
shuddered as I assigned to them in imagination a sensitive and
sentient power, and even when unassisted by the lips, a capability of
moral expression. Of Mad'selle Sallé it has been said, "_que tous ses
pas etaient des sentiments_," and of Berenice I more seriously
believed _que tous ses dents etaient des idées_.

And the evening closed in upon me thus--and then the darkness came,
and tarried, and went--and the day again dawned--and the mists of a
second night were now gathering around--and still I sat motionless in
that solitary room, and still I sat buried in meditation, and still
the _phantasma_ of the teeth maintained its terrible ascendancy as,
with the most vivid and hideous distinctness, it floated about amid
the changing lights and shadows of the chamber. At length there broke
forcibly in upon my dreams a wild cry as of horror and dismay; and
thereunto, after a pause, succeeded the sound of troubled voices
intermingled with many low moanings of sorrow, or of pain. I arose
hurriedly from my seat, and, throwing open one of the doors of the
library, there stood out in the antechamber a servant maiden, all in
tears, and she told me that Berenice was--no more. Seized with an
epileptic fit she had fallen dead in the early morning, and now, at
the closing in of the night, the grave was ready for its tenant, and
all the preparations for the burial were completed.

With a heart full of grief, yet reluctantly, and oppressed with awe, I
made my way to the bed-chamber of the departed. The room was large,
and very dark, and at every step within its gloomy precincts I
encountered the paraphernalia of the grave. The coffin, so a menial
told me, lay surrounded by the curtains of yonder bed, and in that
coffin, he whisperingly assured me, was all that remained of Berenice.
Who was it asked me would I not look upon the corpse? I had seen the
lips of no one move, yet the question had been demanded, and the echo
of the syllables still lingered in the room. It was impossible to
refuse; and with a sense of suffocation I dragged myself to the side
of the bed. Gently I uplifted the sable draperies of the curtains.

As I let them fall they descended upon my shoulders, and shutting me
thus out from the living, enclosed me in the strictest communion with
the deceased.

The very atmosphere was redolent of death. The peculiar smell of the
coffin sickened me; and I fancied a deleterious odor was already
exhaling from the body. I would have given worlds to escape--to fly
from the pernicious influence of mortality--to breathe once again the
pure air of the eternal heavens. But I had no longer the power to
move--my knees tottered beneath me--and I remained rooted to the spot,
and gazing upon the frightful length of the rigid body as it lay
outstretched in the dark coffin without a lid.

God of heaven!--is it possible? Is it my brain that reels--or was it
indeed the finger of the enshrouded dead that stirred in the white
cerement that bound it? Frozen with unutterable awe I slowly raised my
eyes to the countenance of the corpse. There had been a band around
the jaws, but, I know not how, it was broken asunder. The livid lips
were wreathed into a species of smile, and, through the enveloping
gloom, once again there glared upon me in too palpable reality, the
white and glistening, and ghastly teeth of Berenice. I sprang
convulsively from the bed, and, uttering no word, rushed forth a
maniac from that apartment of triple horror, and mystery, and death.

       *       *       *       *       *

I found myself again sitting in the library, and again sitting there
alone. It seemed that I had newly awakened from a confused and
exciting dream. I knew that it was now midnight, and I was well aware
that since the setting of the sun Berenice had been interred. But of
that dreary period which had intervened I had no positive, at least no
definite comprehension. Yet its memory was rife with horror--horror
more horrible from being vague, and terror more terrible from
ambiguity. It was a fearful page in the record of my existence,
written all over with dim, and hideous, and unintelligible
recollections. I strived to decypher them, but in vain--while ever and
anon, like the spirit of a departed sound, the shrill and piercing
shriek of a female voice seemed to be ringing in my ears. I had done a
deed--what was it? And the echoes of the chamber answered me "what was
it?"

On the table beside me burned a lamp, and near it lay a little box of
ebony. It was a box of no remarkable character, and I had seen it
frequently before, it being the property of the family physician; but
how came it _there_ upon my table, and why did I shudder in regarding
it? These were things in no manner to be accounted for, and my eyes at
length dropped to the open pages of a book, and to a sentence
underscored therein. The words were the singular, but simple words of
the poet Ebn Zaiat. "_Dicebant mihi sodales si sepulchrum amicæ
visitarem curas meas aliquantulum fore levatas._"[2] Why then, as I
perused them, did the hairs of my head erect themselves on end, and
the blood of my body congeal within my veins?

[Footnote 2: My companions told me I might find some little
alleviation of my misery, in visiting the grave of my beloved.]

There came a light tap at the library door, and, pale as the tenant of
a tomb, a menial entered upon tiptoe. His looks were wild with terror,
and he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, husky, and very low. What
said he?--some broken sentences I heard. He told of a wild cry heard
in the silence of the night--of the gathering together of the
household--of a search in the direction of the sound--and then his
tones grew thrillingly distinct as he whispered me of a violated
grave--of a disfigured body discovered upon its margin--a body
enshrouded, yet still breathing, still palpitating, still alive!

He pointed to my garments--they were muddy and clotted with gore. I
spoke not, and he took me gently by the hand--but it was indented with
the impress of human nails. He directed my attention to some object
against the wall--I looked at it for some minutes--it was a spade.
With a shriek I bounded to the table, and grasped the ebony box that
lay upon it. But I could not force it open, and in my tremor it
slipped from out my hands, and fell heavily, and burst into pieces,
and from it, with a rattling sound, there rolled out some instruments
of dental surgery, intermingled with many white and glistening
substances that were scattered to and fro about the floor.



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACT

From the Reminiscences of a Western Traveller.


"I presume," said I, "that having so long resided in Kentucky, you
must have had some acquaintance with Indian warfare."

"I had no occasion," he replied, "to come to Kentucky to learn that. I
may say, that I have had something to do with it all my life, and it
had to do with me before I was born."

The speaker was a tall, handsome man, uncommonly stout, with an
appearance of great strength, perfect health, and a quiet good humor,
which disposed him to be communicative, merely by way of obliging.
Though by no means garrulous, I had discovered that he was ready to
tell whatever another might be desirous of hearing. He spoke with that
strong accent, and deliberate tone, which characterize the Scotch
Irish race, and which always, to my ear, conveys a promise that what
is said will be said distinctly and clearly.

Here then was the very man I wanted. I had left the peaceful scenes of
the Atlantic coast, expecting, not indeed to "roam through anters vast
and deserts wild," in my western tour, (for my maps and gazetteer had
taught me better,) but to find some traces of the scenes, which but a
few years before, had made it dangerous for a white man to set his
foot where we now rode along securely. My eye had eagerly scanned
every object which afforded promise of food to my young and eager
imagination; but as yet I had found none. The soft beauty and
exuberant fertility of the country, need only the touch of
civilization to take from it every appearance of wildness, and I could
hardly bring myself to believe that it had been so lately the haunt of
the prowling savage. My enthusiasm was consequently much damped; but
it was not extinguished, and these last words of my companion blew it
into a flame. A well directed question soon drew him out.

"I was born," said he, "among the mountains of Virginia. I never saw
my father. He was killed at the battle of Point Pleasant, just before
I came into the world. That is the reason why I said that Indian
fighting had to do with me before I was born. But that was not all;
many years before that, the Indians made a break on our settlement,
and carried off my oldest brother, and kept him."

"Did you never see him again?"

"I suppose I have, but I did not know it at the time." As he said
this, a gloom came over his countenance, which checked my
inquisitiveness, and he rode on, perhaps a mile, in moody silence. At
length his brow cleared, and he again spoke, but in a somewhat
saddened tone.

"It is something strange; I am not superstitious, and yet it seems to
me, as if at times, when people are in great distress of mind, they
are apt to say things that turn out almost like a prophecy. It was a
great grief to my mother, the loss of her child, and the longer she
lived the more she mourned after him. He was quite small when they
took him; and they carried him away over the lakes, so far, that they
never heard where he was, until he was almost grown up, a perfect wild
man. My mother was a religious woman; and the thought of his being
brought up among savages, where the word of God could never reach him,
went to her heart. She said, it was always borne upon her mind that he
was not dead, and that he would grow up among those vile wretches, to
be the death of his own father, and perhaps to die at last by the hand
of one of his own brothers. When they raised a party to follow the
Indians, she _would_ go with them, and all the way, she said, she
looked and looked, in hopes to see where they had dashed out her poor
child's brains against a tree. It was the only comfort she hoped for,
and that was denied her.

"As I told you, they never heard of him till he was near or quite a
man; and that was just before Dunmore's war. There was no chance to do
any thing towards getting him home at that time, for it was dangerous
to go near the Ohio. Indeed, all they knew was, that there was a white
man of about his age among the Indians, who answered to his name. It
was not until after the peace that we knew certainly all about him.

"Well! he was at the battle of the Point, fighting among the
Shawanees; and there my father was killed. When my mother heard that
he had been there, you may be sure her own words came back to her. No
body knew who killed my father. But why not he as well as another?
Flesh and blood could not have made her believe that it was not he.

"Just after that I was born, and then again my mother took it into her
head that I had come into the world to revenge my father's death.
There was no great comfort in that thought, you may be sure; so as
soon as the war was over, they tried all they could to get my brother
back. He was told that my father was dead, and had left a good estate;
and that he was the heir at law; (for you know that my father died
under the old law,) but it all would not do. He was a complete Indian,
and had an Indian wife and children that he would not leave. But he
had kind feelings for us all, and sent us word to take the estate; for
he wanted nothing but his rifle.

"Well! my mother died; and I and a brother a little older than me,
sold out and went to Kentucky. Where we settled was a dangerous
frontier near the Ohio, and the Indians once or twice every year,
would come over and strike at us. Then we would raise a party, and
follow them away almost to the lakes; and after we got strong enough,
we commonly kept a smart company ranging about on that side of the
river. Sometimes we volunteered; sometimes we were drafted; sometimes
one went; sometimes another. One year my brother went, and had a fight
with the Indians. Afterwards we heard that our wild brother was in
that fight, and was badly wounded. The next year I went out, and we
had a fight, and my poor brother was there again, and _he was
killed_."

He ceased speaking, and again sunk into a gloomy silence, which none
of us were disposed to interrupt. At length he said, in a softened
voice, "Thank God! I was spared one thing. I never think of it, that
it does not make the cold chills run over me. It was the night before
the battle. We had been following hard upon the trail all day, and
just before night we came up with them. But we did not let them see
us, and lay back till they had camped for the night. We knew we could
find them in the dark by their fires. Sure enough we soon saw the
light, and crawled towards it. The word was to attack at day light. In
the meantime every man was to keep his eye skinned, and his gun in his
hand, and not to fire on any account till the word was given. But in
this sort of business every man fights, more or less, on his own hook;
and if a fellow only kills an Indian, they never blame him. There they
were, all dead asleep, around their fire; and we standing looking at
them, almost near enough to hear them snore. You may be sure we did
not breathe loud. Well! while I was standing off on one flank,
watching them with all my eyes, up gets one, and stands right between
me and the light. Up came my rifle to my face. It was against orders,
but I never had shot at an Indian, and how could I stand it? My hand
was on the trigger, when the figure turned, and I saw the breasts of a
woman. You may be sure I did not shoot. It was my brother's daughter,
as I afterwards learned."

This story required no comment. It admitted of none. The ideas it
suggested was such as reason could neither condemn nor justify. We
could only muse on it in silence. At length, the other stranger, who,
like myself, had listened attentively, said, "I too was once within an
ace of shooting a woman."

I started at this, and turned to reconsider the speaker. I had already
scrutinized him pretty closely, and had formed a judgment concerning
him, which these words quite unsettled. The idea that he had been
familiar with scenes, where every man must make his hand guard his
head, had never entered my mind. He was indeed formidably armed,
carrying a brace of pistols in his belt, and another in his holsters.
The handle of a dirk peeped through the ruffle of his shirt, and a
rifle on his shoulder completed his armament. I had been of course
struck with an equipment so warlike, but attributed it to excess of
caution. The mildness and elegance of his manners had fixed him in my
mind, as one bred up in the scenes of peaceful and polished life,
where, in youth, he had heard so much of the perils of the country he
was now traversing, as to suppose it unsafe to visit it without this
load of weapons. I certainly had never seen a man of more courteous
and gentlemanlike demeanor; and though his countenance gave no token
of one "acquainted with cold fear," I had nevertheless, emphatically
marked him as a man of peace. He was the oldest man in company, but
deferential to all, accommodating, obliging, and, on all occasions,
modestly postponing himself, even to such a boy as I was. He seemed
now to have spoken from a wish to divert the painful thoughts of our
companion, and, in answer to an inquiring look from me, went on with
his story.

"It was nearly thirty years ago," said he, "I was travelling from
Virginia through the wilderness of Kentucky, then much infested by
Indians. I had one companion, an active, spirited young man, and we
were both well mounted and well armed. Vigilance alone was necessary
to our safety, and as we had both served a regular apprenticeship to
Indian warfare, we were not deficient in that. We soon overtook a
company of moving families, who had united for safety. The convenience
of the axes of the men, in making fires, and of the women in cooking,
determined us to join them. We camped together every night; and as we
derived great advantage from the association, we tried to requite it
by our activity and diligence as scouts and flankers. We commonly rode
some distance ahead, so as to give them time to prepare in case of
attack; depending on our own diligence and skill to guard against
surprise.

"Riding thus one day, a mile or two in advance, we were suddenly
startled by an outcry from behind, which was not to be mistaken. We
immediately drew up, and presently saw our party hurrying towards us,
in great confusion and alarm, whipping up their teams, and only
stopping long enough to say that they were pursued. The rear was
therefore now our post, and, waiting till they had all passed, we
dismounted,--hid our horses, took trees, and awaited the enemy. I did
not wait long, until I saw the head and shoulders of a figure above
the undergrowth, rushing at full speed towards me. My rifle was at my
cheek, and a steady aim at the advancing figure made me sure of my
mark, when an opening in the brushwood showed me the dress of a
female. She was the wife of one of the wretches who had just passed
us, completely spent and sinking with fatigue. Had there been Indians
she must have perished. As it was, her appearance showed the alarm to
be false; so I took her up behind me, and we went quietly on, in
pursuit of her dastard husband, to whose _protection_ I restored her."

In speaking these last words, the face of the speaker underwent, for a
moment, a change, which told more than his story. The tone of scornful
irony too, which accompanied the word _protection_, gave a new face to
his character. As I marked the slight flush of his pale and somewhat
withered cheek, the flash of his light blue eye, the curl of his lip,
and a peculiar clashing of his eye-teeth as he spoke; I thought I had
rarely seen a man, with whom it might not be as safe to trifle.

The day was now far spent; and as the sun descended, we had the
satisfaction to observe that he sank behind a grove, that marked the
course of a small branch of the Wabash, on the bank of which stood the
house where we expected to find food and rest.

None but a western traveller can understand the entire satisfaction
with which the daintiest child of luxury learns to look forward to the
rude bed and homely fare, which await him, at the end of a hard day's
ride, in the infant settlements. There is commonly a cabin of rough
unhewn logs, containing one large room, where all the culinary
operations of the family are performed, at the huge chimney around
which the guests are ranged. The fastidious, who never wait to be
hungry, may turn up their noses at the thought of being, for an hour
before hand, regaled with the steam of their future meal. But to the
weary and sharp set, there is something highly refreshing to the
spirits and stimulating to the appetite. The dutch oven, well filled
with biscuit, is no sooner discharged of them, than their place is
occupied by sundry slices of bacon, which are immediately followed by
eggs, broken into the hissing lard. In the mean time, a pot of strong
coffee is boiling on a corner of the hearth; the table is covered with
a coarse clean cloth; the butter and cream and honey are on it; and
supper is ready.

  "Then horn for horn they stretch and strive."

It makes me hungry now to think of it; and I am tempted to take back
my word and eat something, having just told my wife I wanted no
supper. But it will not do. I have not rode fifty miles to-day, and my
table is so trim and my room so snug that I have no appetite.

But it is only in the first stage of a settlement, that these things
are found. By and by, mine host, having opened a larger farm, builds
him a house, of frame-work or brick, the masonry and carpentry of
which show the rude handy-work of himself and his sons. He now employs
several hands, and the leavings of their dinner will do for the supper
of any chance travellers in the evening. A round deep earthen dish, in
which a bit of fat pork or lean salt beef, crowns a small mound of
cold greens or turnips, with loaf bread baked a month ago, and a tin
can of skimmed milk now form the travellers supper. It is vain to
expostulate. Our host has no fear of competition. He has now located
the whole point of wood land crossed by the road, and no one can come
nearer to him, on either hand, than ten miles. Besides, he is now the
"squire" of the neighborhood, with "eyes severe," and "fair round
belly with _fat bacon_ lined;" and why should not the daily food of a
man of his consequence be good enough for a hungry traveller?

It was to a house of this latter description that we now came. No one
came out to receive us. Why should they? We took off our own baggage,
and found our way into the house as we might.

On entering, I was struck with the appearance of the party, as their
figures glimmered through the mingled lights of a dull window and a
dim fire. Each individual, though seated, (and no man moved or bad us
welcome) wore his hat, of shadowy dimensions; a sort of family
resemblance, both in cut and color, ran through the dresses of all;
and a like resemblance in complexion and cast of countenance marked
all but one. This one, as we afterwards found, was the master of the
mansion, a man of massive frame, and fat withal, but whose full
cheeks, instead of the ruddy glow of health, were overcast with an
ashy, dusky, money-loving hue. In the appearance of all the rest there
was something ascetic and mortified. But landlord and guest wore all
one common expression of ostentatious humility and ill-disguised
self-complacency, which so often characterizes those new sects, that
think they have just made some important discoveries in religion. Mine
host was, as it proved, the Gaius of such a church, and his guests
were preachers of the same denomination. I have forgotten the name;
but they were not Quakers. I have been since reminded of them, on
reading the description of the company Julian Peveril found at
Bridgnorth's.

When we entered, our landlord was talking in a dull, plodding strain,
and in a sort of solemn protecting tone, to his respectfully attentive
guests. Our appearance made no interruption in his discourse; and he
went on, addressing himself mainly to a raw looking youth, whose
wrists and ankles seemed to have grown out of his sleeves and
pantaloons since they were made. Where the light, which this young man
was now thought worthy to diffuse, had broken in upon his own mind, I
did not learn, but I presently discovered that he came from "a little
east of sunrise," and had a curiosity as lively as my own, concerning
the legends of the country.

"I guess brother P----," said he, "you have been so long in these
parts, that it must have been right scary times when you first came
here."

"Well! I cannot say," replied the other, "that there has been much
danger in this country, since I came here. But if there was, it was
nothing new to me. I was used to all that in Old Kentuck, thirty years
ago."

"I should like," said the youth, "to hear something of your early
adventures. I marvel that we should find any satisfaction in turning
from the contemplation of God's peace, to listen to tales of blood and
slaughter. But so it is. The old Adam will have a hankering after the
things of this world."

"Well!" replied our host, "I have nothing very particular to tell. The
scalping of three Indians, is all I have to brag of. And as to danger;
except having the bark knocked off of my tree into my eyes, by a
bullet, I do not know that I was ever in any mighty danger, but once."

"And when was that?"

"Well! It was when we were moving out along the wilderness road. You
see it was mighty ticklish times; so a dozen families of us started
together, and we had regular guards, and scouts, and flankers, just
like an army. The second day after we left Cumberland river, a couple
of young fellows joined us, one by the name of Jones, and I do not
remember the other's name. I suppose they had been living somewhere in
Old Virginia, where they had plenty of slaves to wait on them; and it
went hard with them to make their own fires, and cook their own
victuals; so they were glad enough to fall in with us, and have us and
our women to work and cook for them. But a man was a cash article
there; and they both had fine horses and good guns; and, to hear them
talk, (especially that fellow Jones,) you would have thought, two or
three Indians before breakfast, would not have been a mouthful to
them. We did not think much of them, but we told them, if they would
take their turn in scouting and guarding, they were welcome to join
us."

At this moment, our landlady, who was busy in a sort of shed, which
adjoined the room we sat in, and served as a kitchen, entered, and
stopping for a moment, heard what was passing. She was a good-looking
woman, of about forty-five, with a meek subdued and broken hearted
cast of countenance. I saw her look at her husband, and as she
listened, her face assumed an expression of timid expostulation, mixed
with that sort of wonderment, with which we regard a thing utterly
unaccountable, but which use has rendered familiar.

Her lord and master caught the look, and bending his shaggy brow,
said, "I guess the men will want their supper, by the time they get
it."

She understood the hint, and stole away rebuked; uttering
unconsciously, in a loud sigh, the long hoarded breath which she had
held all the time she listened. Her manner was not intended to attract
notice; but there was something in it, which disposed me to receive
her husband's tale with some grains of allowance. He went on thus:

"The day we expected to get to the crab-orchard, it was their turn to
bring up the rear. By good rights, they ought to have been a quarter
of a mile or so behind us; and I suppose they were; when, all of a
sudden, we heard the crack of a rifle, and here they come, right
through us, and away they went. I looked round for my woman and I
could not see her. The poor creature was a little behind, and thought
there was no danger, because we all depended on them two fire eaters
in the rear, to take care of stragglers. But when they ran off, you
see, there was nobody between her and the Indians; and the first thing
I saw, was her, running for dear life, and they after her. I set my
triggers, and fixed myself to stop one of them; and just then, her
foot caught in a grape vine, and down she came. I let drive at the
foremost, and dropped him; but the other one ran right on. My gun was
empty; and I had no chance but to put in, and try the butt of it. But
I was not quite fast enough. He was upon her, and had his hand in her
hair; and it was a mercy of God, he did not tomahawk her at once. He
had plenty of time for that;--but he was too keen after the scalp;
and, just as he was getting hold of his knife, I fetched him a clip
that settled him. Just then, I heard a crack or two, and a ball
whistled mighty near me; but, by this time, some of our party had
rallied, and took trees; and that brought the Indians to a stand. So I
put my wife behind a tree, and got one more crack at them; and then
they broke and run. That was the only time I ever thought myself in
any _real_ danger, and that was all along of that Jones and the other
fellow. But they made tracks for the settlement."

"Have you never seen Jones since?" said the mild voice of the
courteous gentleman I have mentioned.

"No; I never have; and it's well for him; though, bless the Lord! I
hope I could find in my heart _now_ to forgive him. But if I had ever
come across him, before I met with you, brother B----;" (addressing a
grave senior of the party who received the compliment with
impenetrable gravity;) "I guess it would not have been so well for
him."

"Do you think you would know him again, if you were to see him?" said
my companion.

"It's a long time ago," said he, "but I think I should. He was a
mighty fierce little fellow, and had a monstrous blustering way of
talking."

"Was he any thing like me?" said the stranger, in a low but hissing
tone.

The man started, and so did we all, and gazed on the querist. In my
life, I never saw such a change in any human face. The pale cheek was
flushed, the calm eye glowed with intolerable fierceness, and every
feature worked with loathing. But he commanded his voice, though the
curl of his lip disclosed the full length of one eye tooth, and he
again said, "look at me. Am not I the man?"

"I do not know that you are," replied the other doggedly, and trying
in vain to lift his eye to that which glared upon him. "I do not know
that you are?" muttered he.

"Where is he? where is he," screamed a female voice; "let _me_ see
him. _I'll_ know him, bless his heart! _I'll_ know him any where in
the world."

Saying this, our landlady rushed into the circle, and stood among us,
while we all rose to our feet. She looked eagerly around. Her eye
rested a moment on the stranger's face; and in the next instant her
arms were about his neck, and her head on his bosom, where she shed a
torrent of tears.

I need not add, that the subject of the Landlord's tale, was the very
incident which my companion had related on the road. He soon made his
escape, cowed and chop-fallen; and the poor woman bustled about, to
give us the best the house afforded, occasionally wiping her eyes, or
stopping for a moment to gaze mutely and sadly on the generous
stranger, who had protected her when deserted by him who lay in her
bosom.

The grave brethren looked, as became them, quite scandalized, at this
strange scene. It was therefore promptly explained to them; but the
explanation dissipated nothing of the gloom of their countenances.
Their manner to the poor woman was still cold and displeased, and they
seemed to forget her husband's fault, in their horror at having seen
her throw herself into the arms of a stranger. For my part, I thought
the case of the good Samaritan in point, and could not help believing,
that he who had decided that, would pronounce that her grateful
affection had been bestowed where it was due.



We are permitted by RICHARD RANDOLPH, ESQ. to publish the following
extract, from a Journal kept by his father, the late _David Meade
Randolph_, when a Student at _William & Mary College_ in 1779 under
the patronage of PROFESSOR ANDREWS. It is a curious anecdote and will
be read with interest.

WASHINGTON'S BIRTH NIGHT.


On the 22d February, 1779, the students of William & Mary College, and
most of the respectable inhabitants of Williamsburg, prepared a
subscription paper for celebrating Washington's birth night; and the
pleasure of presenting it, was confided to _certain students_
immediately under the patronage of Professor Andrews.

Governor Henry was first waited on, and offered the paper: he refused
his signature! "_He_ could not think of any kind of rejoicing at a
time when our country was engaged in war, with such gloomy prospects."
Dudley Digges, and Bolling Starke, members of the Council, were both
waited on by the same persons, and received less courteous denials,
and similar excuses.

The ball, nevertheless, was given at the Raleigh. Colonel Innis, more
prominent than any other member of the association, directed its
proceedings. It was thought proper to enliven the occasion by
discharges of cannon. There were two pieces at the shop of Mr. Moody
that had lately been mounted. There was a Captain commanding a company
of soldiers, under the orders of Governor Henry; but the cannon were
under no other care or authority at the time, than that of Mr. Moody
the mechanic. Colonel Innis, with a party seconded by Colonel Finnie,
brought the two pieces before the door of the Raleigh. On the way from
the shop to the Raleigh, not two hundred yards, Colonel Innis saw
Captain Digges passing up the street. Whilst the party concerned were
collecting powder, and preparing for firing. Lieutenant Vaughan
appeared before the Raleigh with a platoon, demanding possession of
the cannon. He was carried in; took some punch; and said that he was
ordered by Captain Digges to take away the pieces, by force, if they
were not surrendered peaceably. This was refused. Vaughan repeated his
orders: He was prevailed upon to return to his quarters, and report to
Capt. Digges. Captain Digges waited on the Governor, and reported the
state of things; and soliciting instructions how to proceed. The
Governor referred Captain Digges to his own judgment. Captain Digges
went immediately to the _Arena_, where, in the pride of his power,
with sixty men, he drew up in form; and demanded the cannon at the
point of his bayonets! Innis stept up to Captain Digges, and shaking
his cane at him, swore that he would _cane him_, if he did not depart
instantly with his men! This enraging Digges,--he said that if the
pieces were not surrendered, he _would fire upon the party_. Innis
_repeating_ his _threat_,--ordered Finnie to charge the cannon with
_brick bats_: the mob in the street, and the gentlemen of the ball,
re-echoing the order. The pieces were soon charged with brick bats:
Innis all the while firmly standing by the Captain at the head of his
men, _daring him to fire!_ After some delay, the Captain retreated
with his men; and the evening closed with great joy.

Next day, Innis was arraigned before the Hustings Court, for Riot!
confronted by the valiant Captain Digges. During the proceedings, when
Innis replied to the charge, Digges in the body of the Court, and
Innis in the Bar--among other particulars characteristic of the
Colonel's temper and genius, he swore "it made no odds whether Captain
Digges wore a red coat, or a black coat, he would _cane him!_" The
case was attended with no farther particulars. Innis facing the Court,
and repeating his threats; till at length he was dismissed, and
triumphantly walked out of Court, attended by most of his friends, who
had shared the honors of the preceding night.



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FROM THE DIARY OF A REVOLUTIONARY OFFICER.

MR. WHITE,--I embrace the opportunity afforded, by the transmission of
my subscription for the "_Messenger_," to furnish you with a small
contribution to the pages of that excellent periodical. Neither
leisure nor ability, at present, allows me to present any original
composition; but I feel confident that nothing I have to offer, could
be more interesting and acceptable to your readers, than the following
extract from the "_Manuscript Diary of a Revolutionary Officer_" which
has recently been placed in my hands. It is expected that the whole
will be transcribed in a _fac simile_ as to style, and so on, and
presented to the Historical Society at an early period.

The writer was, I believe, a lieutenant in the Southern army. He was a
native and resident of Powhatan county, Virginia, where his
descendants still reside. He was a captain at the taking of
Charleston, South Carolina, and composed the Diary referred to, while
confined by the British as a prisoner of war. The Diary commences with
a statement of the events which led to the surrender of the American
army, and exhibits at length the official correspondence of General
Lincoln and Sir Henry Clinton on the occasion.

We may admire the devotion and bravery of our forefathers, recount in
terms of poetical exaggeration their heroic achievements, and dwell
with fond recollection on their memories, but we can never form an
accurate idea of their feelings, any correct conception of their
sufferings, or properly estimate our debt of gratitude, until we can
enter more fully into the _minutiæ_ of those events which general
history relates. So long therefore, as it is praiseworthy (and long
may it be so,) to set before our eyes the examples and characters of
revolutionary patriots, will it be interesting to examine such records
as the following.

Yours, truly.

*** ***

_Union Seminary, Pr. Ed. Va. 1835_.


SURRENDER OF CHARLESTON.

[The correspondence and articles of capitulation are omitted.]


MAY 12th, 1780. One company of British and one company of Hessian
grenadiers marched in and took possession of the town work. At one
o'clock our garrison were paraded, and at two were marched out with
their drums beating, but we were not allowed to beat a British
march.... after which two regiments of British grenadiers and light
infantry marched in town. The commissary of prisoners, Major Stewart
of the sixty-third regiment, came and got a list of the officers' and
soldiers' names. He then asked for our second line. We told him that
every soldier of our garrison fit for duty, he then saw paraded in
that line. He said "that it was impossible for such a small army to
defend the town and themselves, from ten thousand British troops: you
certainly have more than these." Our answer was, we have not.--Thus an
army of not more than _three thousand troops_, composed of regular
soldiers, militia, sailors and marines, defended our post thirty-one
days, closely besieged _by ten thousand_ British soldiers. The _want
of provisions_ and proper rest, at last obliged us to fall into the
hands of our enemies. Our soldiers were marched into the barrack's
yard, where was a British guard waiting to receive them. The men were
permitted to go out, as many as would ask leave. The officers had
leave to go to their old quarters that evening; accordingly I went to
my bomb proof, and pulled off my clothes. This was the first night for
the space of fifty-five days past, I pulled off my clothes to go in
bed. I went to bed, but could not rest for reflecting on my present
condition of life.[1]

[Footnote 1: As we do not value our forefathers of the revolution for
their literature end refinement, I transcribe the Diary as I find it,
making only those corrections as to punctuation, which are necessary
to perspicuity.]

13th. We removed to a house in town, and are allowed to walk the
streets. We are much in want of provisions; almost in a starving
condition.

15th. We are yet continued in our quarters without one morsel _of
provision allowed us_ since we capitulated. This afternoon we were in
some measure relieved from hunger, by means of a poor sheep a Hessian
was driving by our quarters, that ran round the house and went in our
cellar, and was immediately concealed by some of our waiters. The
Hessian hunted some time for his poor sheep but could not find it, and
we soon made some good hot soup [from the poor sheep].

16th. I was invited to breakfast with Mr. Elliot in town.

17th. [Parole to Haddrel's Point.] "I do hereby acknowledge myself to
be a prisoner of war upon my parole to his Excellency Sir Henry
Clinton, and that I am hereby engaged, until I shall be exchanged or
otherwise released therefrom, to remain at the barracks at Haddrel's
Point, or within six miles thereof, without crossing any river, creek,
or arm of the sea. And that in the mean time, I shall not do, or cause
any thing to be done prejudicial to the success of his Majesty's arms,
or have intercourse with his enemies; and that upon a summons from His
Excellency, or other person having authority, I shall surrender myself
to them, at such time and place as I shall hereafter be required.
Witness my hand."

18th. We have continued here four days without receiving any supply of
provision, except what we caught from the water.

JUNE 22d. A flag arrived from North Carolina, for permission to send
supplies to their troops in captivity, which was granted.


CELEBRATION OF JULY 4, 1780.

[With all their discouragements, these unfortunate men were not too
much depressed to celebrate this day. I do not recollect to have seen
any notice of its celebration at a period earlier than this. It is
interesting to see how it was regarded by those who suffered in the
cause it commemorates.]

JULY 4th. This day was appointed for a general meeting of the officers
at Haddrel's Point, to celebrate the Independency of the Thirteen
United States of America. The following TOASTS were drank on the
occasion:

  1st. The Free and Sovereign Independent States of America.

  2d.  The Honorable the Continental Congress.

  3d.  His Most Christian Majesty the King of France.

  4th. His Most Catholic Majesty the King of Spain.

  5th. May impartial justice guide the other powers of Europe.

  6th. Stability and firmness to the Alliance between France and
       America.

  7th. Gen. Washington and the American Army.

  8th. The American Navy.

  9th. The American Ministry at Foreign Courts.

  10th. _May the States of America be always found a sure refuge and
        an asylum against despotism and oppression._

  11th. May the sword never be drawn but in the cause of justice.

  12th. The immortal memory of those patriots and warriors who have
        fallen in the present war, in defence of the rights of
        mankind.

  13th. Our brethren in captivity, suffering in the glorious cause of
        liberty.

From each toast there followed a discharge of _thirteen pistols_ and
three cheers. That night the barracks were illuminated.

July 5th. The enemy was much exasperated from our yesterday's
transactions. Capt. Roberts of the sixty-third regiment, who commanded
at Fort Arbuthnot, wrote to General Patterson, who commanded in
Charleston, informing him "the rebel officers on Haddrel's Point could
not be satisfied with celebrating _their supposed day_ of independency
by illuminating the barracks, but must fire small arms," which he
thought too great "an indulgence for rebel prisoners," and that we had
been guilty of a breach of our paroles.

6th. General Patterson wrote to General Moultrie and enclosed Captain
Roberts' letter, ordering a return of the names of the officers who
were at the head of the affair on the 4th instant. Likewise ordering
every pistol in our possession to be sent to Fort Arbuthnot. [After
considerable difficulty, it appears the pistols were given up, but no
names accompanied them. The prisoners were threatened with close
confinement for such behaviour in future. How differently are we
situated!]



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Copy of a Manuscript written but not published at the period of the
Missouri Question, 1821_.

JONATHAN BULL AND MARY BULL.


Jonathan Bull and Mary Bull who were descendants of Old John Bull, the
head of the family, had inherited contiguous estates in large tracts
of land. As they grew up and became well acquainted, a partiality was
mutually felt, and advances on several occasions made towards a
matrimonial connection. This was particularly recommended by the
advantage of putting their two estates under a common superintendance.
Old Bull however as guardian of both, and having been allowed certain
valuable privileges within the estates, with which he was not long
content, had always found the means of breaking off the match, which
he regarded as a fatal obstacle to his secret design of getting the
whole property into his own hands.

At a moment favorable as he thought for the attempt, he brought suit
against both, but with a view of carrying it on in a way that would
make the process bear on the parties in such different modes, times
and degrees, as might create a jealousy and discord between them.
Jonathan and Mary had too much sagacity to be duped. They understood
well Old Bull's character and situation. They knew that he was deeply
versed in all the subtleties of the law, that he was of a stubborn and
persevering temper, and that he had moreover a very long purse. They
were sensible therefore that the more he endeavored to divide their
interests, and their defence of the suit, the more they ought to make
a common cause, and proceed in a concert of measures. As this could
best be done by giving effect to the feelings long entertained for
each other, an intermarriage was determined on and solemnized, with a
deed of settlement as usual in such opulent matches, duly executed;
and no event certainly of the sort was ever celebrated by a greater
fervor or variety of rejoicings among the respective tenants of the
parties. They had a great horror of falling into the hands of Old
Bull; and regarded the marriage of their proprietors under whom they
held their freeholds, as the surest mode of warding off the danger.
They were not disappointed. United purses, and good advocates
compelled Old Bull, after a hard struggle, to withdraw the suit, and
relinquish forever, not only the new pretensions he had set up, but
the old privileges he had been allowed.

The marriage of Jonathan and Mary was not a barren one. On the
contrary every year or two added a new member to the family; and on
such occasions the practice was to set off a portion of land
sufficient for a good farm to be put under the authority of the child
on its attaining the age of manhood; and these lands were settled very
rapidly by tenants going as the case might be from the estates,
sometimes of Jonathan, sometimes of Mary, and sometimes partly from
one and partly from the other.

It happened that at the expiration of the nonage of the 10th or 11th
fruit of the marriage, some difficulties were started concerning the
rules and conditions, of declaring the young party of age, and of
giving him as a member of the family, the management of his patrimony.
Jonathan became possessed with a notion that an arrangement ought to
be made that would prevent the new farm from being settled and
cultivated, as in all the latter instances, indiscriminately by
persons removing from his and Mary's estate, and confine this
privilege to those going from his own; and in the perverse humor which
had seized him, he listened moreover to suggestions that Mary had some
undue advantage from the selections of the head stewards which
happened to have been made much oftener out of her tenants than his.

Now the prejudice suddenly taken up by Jonathan against the equal
right of Mary's tenants to remove with their property to new farms,
was connected with a peculiarity in Mary's person not as yet noticed.
Strange as it may appear, the circumstance is not the less true, that
Mary when a child, had unfortunately received from a certain African
dye, a stain on her left arm which had made it perfectly black, and
withal somewhat weaker than the other arm. The misfortune arose from
her being prevailed on to let a ship from Africa, loaded with the
article, enter a river running through her estate, and dispose of a
part of the noxious cargo. The fact was well known to Jonathan at the
time of their marriage; and if felt as an objection, it was in a
manner reduced to nothing by the comely form and pleasing features of
Mary in every other respect; by her good sense and amiable manners;
and in part perhaps by the large and valuable estate she brought with
her.

In the unlucky fit however which was upon him, he looked at the black
arm, and forgot all the rest. To such a pitch of feeling was he
wrought up, that he broke out into the grossest taunts on Mary for her
misfortune; not omitting at the same time to remind her of his long
forbearance, to exert his superior voice in the appointment of the
head steward. He had now, he said, got his eyes fully opened, he saw
every thing in a new light, and was resolved to act accordingly. As to
the head steward, he would let her see that the appointment was
virtually in his power; and she might take her leave of all chance of
ever having another of her tenants advance to that station. And as to
the black arm, she should, if the color could not be taken out, either
tear off the skin from the flesh, or cut off the limb: For it was his
fixed determination, that one or the other should be done, or he would
sue out a divorce, and there should be an end of all connection
between them and their estates. I have, he said, examined well the
marriage settlement, and flaws have been pointed out to me, that never
occurred before, by which I shall be able to set the whole aside.
White as I am all over, I can no longer consort with one marked with
such a deformity as the blot on your person.

Mary was so stunned with the language she heard that it was sometime
before she could speak at all; and as the surprise abated, she was
almost choked with the anger and indignation swelling in her bosom.
Generous and placable as her temper was, she had a proud sensibility
to what she thought an unjust and degrading treatment, which did not
permit her to suppress the violence of her first emotions. Her
language accordingly for a moment was such as these emotions prompted.
But her good sense, and her regard for Jonathan, whose qualities as a
good husband she had long experienced, soon gained an ascendancy, and
changed her tone to that of sober reasoning and affectionate
expostulation. Well, my dear husband, you see what a passion you had
put me into. But it is over now, and I will endeavor to express my
thoughts with the calmness and good feelings which become the relation
of wife and husband.

As to the case of providing for our child just coming of age, I shall
say but little. We both have such a tender regard for him and such a
desire to see him on a level with his brethren as to the chance of
making his fortune in the world, that I am sure the difficulties which
have occurred will in some way or other be got over.

But I cannot pass so lightly over the reproaches you cast on the color
of my left arm; and on the more frequent appointment of my tenants
than of yours, to the head stewardship of our joint estates.

Now as to the first point; you seem to have forgotten, my worthy
partner, that this infirmity was fully known to you before our
marriage, and is proved to be so by the deed of settlement itself. At
that time you made no objection whatever to our union; and indeed how
could you urge such an objection, when you were conscious that you
yourself was not entirely free from a like stain on your person. The
fatal African dye, as you well know, had found its way into your abode
as well as mine; and at the time of our marriage, had spots and specks
scattered over your body as black as the skin on my arm. And although
you have by certain abrasions and other applications, taken them in
some measure out, there are visible remains which ought to soften at
least your language when reflecting on my situation. You ought surely,
when you have so slowly and imperfectly relieved yourself from the
mortifying stain, although the task was comparatively so easy, to have
some forbearance and sympathy with me who have a task so much more
difficult to perform. Instead of that you abuse me as if I had brought
the misfortune on myself, and could remove it at will; or as if you
had pointed out a ready way to do it, and I had slighted your advice.
Yet so far is this from being the case, that you know as well as I do,
that I am not to be blamed for the origin of the sad mishap; that I am
as anxious as you can be to get rid of it; that you are as unable as I
am to find out a safe and feasible plan for the purpose; and moreover,
that I have done every thing I could in the mean time, to mitigate an
evil that cannot as yet be removed. When you talk of tearing off the
skin or cutting off the unfortunate limb, must I remind you of what
you cannot be ignorant, that the most skilful surgeons have given
their opinions that if so cruel an operation were to be tried, it
could hardly fail to be followed by a mortification or a bleeding to
death. Let me ask too, whether, should neither of the fatal effects
ensue, you would like me better in my mangled or mutilated condition,
than you do now? And when you threaten a divorce and an annulment of
the marriage settlement, may I not ask whether your estate would not
suffer as much as mine by dissolving the partnership between them? I
am far from denying that I feel the advantage of having the pledge of
your arm, your stronger arm if you please, for the protection of me
and mine; and that my interests in general have been, and must
continue to be the better for your aid and counsel in the management
of them. But on the other hand you must be equally sensible that the
aid of my purse will have its value, in case Old Bull or any other
rich litigious fellow should put us to the expense of another tedious
law suit. And now that we are on the subject of loss and gain, you
will not be offended if I take notice of a report that you sometimes
insinuate, that my estate, according to the rates of assessment, does
not pay its due share into the common purse. I think, my dear
Jonathan, that if you ever entertained this opinion you must have been
led into it, by a very wrong view of the subject. As to the direct
income from rents, there can be no deficiency on my part; the rule of
apportionment being clear and founded on a calculation by numbers. And
as to what is raised from the articles bought and used by my tenants,
it is difficult to conceive that my tenants buy or use less than
yours, considering that they carry a greater amount of crops to
market, the whole of which, it is well known, they lay out in articles
from the use of which the bailiff regularly collects the sum due. It
would seem then that my tenants selling more, buy more; buying more,
use more; and using more, pay more. Meaning, however, not to put you
in the wrong, but myself in the right, I do not push the argument to
that length, because I readily agree that in paying for articles
bought and used, you have beyond the fruits of the soil on which I
depend, ways and means which I have not. You draw chiefly the interest
we jointly pay for the funds we were obliged to borrow for the fees
and costs the suit Old Bull put us to. Your tenants also turn their
hands so ingeniously to a variety of handicraft and other mechanical
productions, that they make not a little money from that source.
Besides all this, you gain much by the fish you catch and carry to
market; by the use of your teams and boats in transporting and trading
on the crops of my tenants; and indeed in doing that sort of business
for strangers also. This is a fair statement on your side of the
account, with the drawback however, that as your tenants are supplied
with a greater proportion of articles, made by themselves, than is the
case with mine, the use of which articles does not contribute to the
common purse, they avoid in the same proportion, the payments
collected from my tenants. If I were to look still further into this
matter and refer you to every advantage you draw from the union of our
persons and property, I might remark, that the profits you make from
your teams and boats, and which enable you to pay your quota, are in
great part drawn from the preference they have in conveying and
disposing of the products of my soil; a business that might fall into
other hands, in the event of our separation. I mention this, as I have
already said, not by way of complaint, for I am well satisfied that
your gain is not altogether my loss in this more than in many other
instances; and that what profits you immediately may profit me also in
the long run. But I will not dwell on these calculations and
comparisons of interest, which you ought to weigh as well as myself,
as reasons against the measure to which you threaten a resort. For
when I consult my own heart, and call to mind all the endearing proofs
you have given of yours being in sympathy with it, I must needs hope
that there are other ties than mere interest, to prevent us from ever
suffering a transient resentment on either side, with or without
cause, to bring on both, all the consequences of a divorce;
consequences too which would be a sad inheritance indeed for our
numerous and beloved offspring.

As to the other point relative to the head stewards, I must own, my
worthy husband, that I am altogether at a loss for any cause of
dissatisfaction on your part or blame on mine. It is true, as you say,
that they have been oftener taken from among my tenants than yours;
but under other circumstances the reverse might as well have happened.
If the individuals appointed, had made their way to the important
trust, by corrupt or fallacious means; if they had been preferred
merely because they dwelt on my estate, or had succeeded by any
interposition of mine contrary to your inclination; or finally, if
they had administered the trust unfaithfully, sacrificing your
interests to mine, or the interests of both to selfish or unworthy
purposes, in either of these cases, you would have ground for your
complaints. But I know Jonathan that you are too just and too candid
not to admit that no such ground exists. The head stewards in question
could not have been appointed without your own participation as well
as mine. They were recommended to our joint choice by the reputed
fairness of their characters, by their tried fidelity and competency
in previous trusts, and by their exemption from all charges of impure
and grasping designs; and so far were they from being partial to my
interest at the expense of yours, that they were rather considered by
my tenants as leaning to a management more favorable to yours than to
mine. I need not say that I allude to the bounties direct and indirect
to your teams and boats, to the hands employed in your fisheries, and
to the looms and other machineries, which without such encouragements
would not be able to meet the threatened rivalships of interfering
neighbors; I say only, that these ideas were in the heads of some of
my tenants. For myself I should not have mentioned them but as a
defence against what I must regard as so unfounded a charge, that it
ought not to be permitted to make a lasting impression.

But laying aside all these considerations, I repeat, my dear Jonathan,
that the appointment of the head steward lies as much, if not more,
with you than with me. Let the choice fall where it may you will find
me faithfully abiding by it, whether it be thought the best possible
one or not, and sincerely wishing that he may equally improve better
opportunities of serving us both, than was the lot of any of those who
have gone before him.

Jonathan who had a good heart, as well as a sound head and steady
temper, was touched with this tender and conciliatory language of
Mary; and the bickering which had sprung up ended as the quarrels of
lovers _always_, and of married folks _sometimes_ do, in an increased
affection and confidence between the parties.



For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MARRYING WELL.


PHILADELPHIA, 1835.

_My Dear Miss H----_,--

I fully agree with you in the high character you have given of the
"Southern Literary Messenger,"--some numbers of which I have had the
pleasure of reading, and join most heartily with you in the wish that
it may meet with the success it so eminently deserves. But what shall
I say in reply to your request to write something for its columns? You
are aware that nothing "_mediocre_" can find its way there; and you
are as well aware that I have seldom or never been charged with the
sin of authorship. Your requests however are commands; and although I
may fail to give to the subject I have selected, sufficient interest
to induce the editors to yield it a place in their paper, yet will I
indulge the hope that as it is a true story, it may prove useful to
yourself, for the truths it reveals,--though lacking the ornament to
make them acceptable to the general reader.

It is not necessary to give a "local habitation" to those whose brief
story I am about to record. For all the purposes for which I have
called them up, you may suppose them to have lived in either Albany or
Richmond; for in many respects these cities are very much alike. Each
is situated on a noble river, and is the capital of a state. Each has
in its vicinity, hills and valleys, and landscapes of picturesque
beauty and grandeur, amid whose romantic and love inspiring scenes
many a sigh has been breathed and many a vow offered in vain.
Notwithstanding these places thus resemble each other, I would here
observe that you are not at liberty to be particular in your choice,
because you may have known or heard of persons and events in either of
them similar to those here described. What happens in one place may
happen in another, and he who travels far and wide will find the human
family every where agitated by the same feelings and the same
passions, and that all the elements that enter into the history of the
world, may be found in any one town or village, directing and
controlling the destinies of its inhabitants.

Leaving however, to the historian and the philosopher, the task of
writing the history of the world, and developing the secret springs of
human action, and to sager heads to read them, than that of my fair
correspondent,--I will only ask your attention to what will be more
congenial to your wishes, and a more easily understood subject, a tale
of "Ladye Love," in which some of my younger friends and feelings were
deeply interested.

During our schoolboy days, I became acquainted with George Marley; but
we will pass over his earlier years, until he had arrived at the age
of twenty. As it is not my intention to enter upon a particular
analysis of form and features, mind or manners, I will leave your
imagination to make George whatever you please, not incompatible with
a "marvellously proper" young man, tall and straight, with raven locks
and eagle eye--with all those high intellectual qualities, and that
deep moral rectitude, which wins admiration and commands esteem. Two
years before I have here introduced him to you, George's father was
considered one of the most wealthy merchants in the city, and George's
education and hopes were in accordance with his high expectations. But
a series of disasters to which commercial property is so very liable,
swept away from Mr. Marley every thing he possessed but the honorable
and virtuous character of himself and his family. At the time of his
father's misfortune George was taken from school, and placed in a
merchant's counting house, to qualify him for the active career of
life thus early forced upon him--a career in which he must depend upon
his own exertions for success, and in which he must win for himself,
and by himself, whatever he might obtain of fortune or of fame.

In the particular circumstances of his situation at this time, I am
aware there is nothing to excite your sympathy. Many thousands of
young men enter upon the active scenes of life under more
disadvantages than these--without friends, without a good education,
without early habits of propriety and rectitude, and yet reach to the
highest eminence and renown; and why might not George Marley? The
answer is simply, he _loved!_ and would not love inspire him with
stronger and more powerful motives for exertion and success?

Isabella Barclay was, if ever there was, a perfectly lovely girl. She
was one of those fair creatures that occasionally are seen among us,
but which seem to belong to a higher order of beings than those
inhabiting this lower world. It is not wonderful therefore that George
Marley should love her, or that she should love him. They did love,
truly--devotedly. They were too young to conceal it; there was no
cause for concealment. Every body knew it; their parents knew it, and
sanctioned it--and why should they not? Previously to the failure of
Mr. Marley, they were equal in fortune, in education, and in all that
could give promise of a certain and happy union. Although Mr. Marley
had fallen from affluence to comparative poverty, yet himself and his
family continued to enjoy the respect of all their acquaintance; and
the particular friendship that had existed between Mr. Marley and Mr.
Barclay, and their respective families, to all appearance suffered no
interruption.

The misfortunes of Mr. Marley, although it had blighted the hopes of
George, had no effect on Isabella but to excite her pity and
strengthen her love. She was too young to calculate chances or
consequences--she had not loved George for his father's wealth, but
for himself; and while he remained the same, her affections were
immutable. Thus reasoned this pure and amiable girl; and for the two
years that elapsed from the time of the unfortunate failure of Mr.
Marley, up to that at which we commenced our tale, George was happy in
the expectation of ere long being enabled to raise his own fallen
fortune, and happier in the tried sincerity of his Isabella's love.

I need not stop to tell you of the thousand hopes and fears, pleasures
and pains, our lovers suffered or enjoyed: I suppose they were such as
are common to all the votaries of the fickle God. Their attachment had
commenced at school, and we have continued it until he had arrived at
the age of twenty, and she seventeen, and at no time had any
interruption to its progress taken place. If you have paid any
attention to these love affairs, you will have observed the great
difference there is between those where the attachment commences early
in life, and the parties grow up together, forming and moulding their
feelings, their wishes, their amusements, their tastes, their whole
heart and soul, by the same model; and those "whom accident or blind
chance" bring together, and from some peculiarity of form or mind, for
a while deem themselves in love with each other. With the former, it
is the web of their existence, which, once broken, can never be woven
again; with the latter, it is "like a lady's glove," put off as easily
as it is put on, and with whose last sigh passes away all its
pleasures and its pains, leaving no "wreck behind." As that of George
and Isabella was of the former kind, and as no objection had been made
on the inequality of their fortunes, and as he was about to enter into
business for himself under the fairest prospects, their marriage when
they should arrive at a proper age, was looked for by themselves and
all others as beyond the reach of doubt or contingency. What
contingency could happen? Their known engagement, his constant
attention, and her acknowledged affection for him, formed an
impassable barrier to the advances that otherwise would have been made
by many who admired her. Indeed, you and I would suppose that no one
would attempt to mar their promised happiness, or wish to win hearts
that had so long beat for each other, and each other only. Yet did the
spoiler come! and where will he not come? Since he first found his way
into the Garden of Eden, and blasted the happiness of our common
parents, where is the paradise some spoiler has not entered? where the
scene of love and harmony he has not attempted to break up and
destroy?

In the particular city to which we have alluded, there lived a
bachelor of upwards of double the age of George Marley, although his
appearance was younger than his age would have indicated; with few
personal attractions, he had but little education; and no more of
common sense, or any other kind of sense, than fitted him for the
accumulation of wealth. As he sustained a respectable character, was
called rich, and lived in a style of comparative splendor, he was of
course one of the good society of the city, and a desirable match for
any daughter a mother wished to sell to the highest bidder. If Mr.
Simson, for such was this gentleman's name, ever had had any feelings
of the heart--if he ever was susceptible of a pure and holy love; the
associations, habits, and pursuits of his whole life, had long since
deadened them all, or made them subservient to his will, an article of
trade or commerce, of marketable value, to bestow them on the wife of
his bosom, as a Pacha bestows his on the last fairest slave his wealth
has purchased. But you may ask what Mr. Simson has to do with the
loves of George and Isabella? Ah! my dear girl, old, ignorant and cold
hearted as he may be, he is the arbiter of their fate. It is in his
power to give them years of happiness, or it is in his power to blight
their buds of promise, and send them prematurely to their graves! and
why? because he is _rich!_ I know your young heart rejects the
supposition that such a man would, or could, break their bonds of
mutual love, that thus seemed to have been formed and strengthened
under the auspices of heaven,--that he by any means could "pluck from
the brows of their innocent love, the rose, and place a blister
there." I know you anticipate that he will appropriate a part of his
wealth to establish George in business, or will die and leave it all
to him; that thus he will be enabled to wed his Isabella, and their
lives thenceforth "go merry as a marriage bell." Alas! how little do
we know of ourselves or our destiny! how unseen or mistaken may be the
path that leads to high and happy places, or that which leads to
misery and despair!

Nothing is more painful to my mind, than to witness a beautiful girl
thrown into the alluring and deceptive scenes of life without a
mother's guardianship. No other heart can sympathise with her, no
other hand direct her course. She does not feel for them, and they
cannot feel with her! Others may warn and advise her, but none but a
mother's watchful eye can perceive, and a mother's tender care guard
or direct her young affections. Isabella had a mother. But Mrs.
Barclay was a woman of the world. In early life she may have loved,
and that love may have been successful and happy; or she may have
married for convenience, to gratify some darling passion, and never
have known the deep feelings of a long cherished affection. No matter
what was the history of her younger days, they had passed away, and
with them all their sympathies and all their influence. She was now a
woman of the world--a _fashionable lady_. She loved her daughter, and
to make that daughter happy was the chief object of her care. The
notions of happiness entertained by this worthy matron, was such as
thousands and thousands believe, yet never find true. The show, the
glare of wealth and its attendants, the unsatisfying yet exciting
routine of fashionable life, were to her every thing; and that calm,
pure and virtuous happiness which springs in the heart, and is
cherished by its high and heavenly attributes, were to her unknown, or
as nothing. With such views, it was not to be expected that she would
look upon the attachment of George and Isabella in the most favorable
light, or promote its continuance, when it interfered with any other
more splendid prospect that might offer. Such a prospect did offer;
and that being who of all others should have directed her young and
unsuspecting offspring in the path of truth and rectitude; by a course
of deceptions, endeavored to induce Isabella to forsake her first and
only love, and unite herself to one who was incapable of loving her,
and who she could never love--to Mr. Simson! George was early apprised
of her purpose, and did all a true and noble mind could do, to avert
the blow she was preparing for him. His fears were always lulled by
the unwavering love of Isabella, and her vows of constancy. He
believed her true, and she believed herself true. But the continual
and insidious efforts of her mother and her fashionable friends,
poisoned her mind; and, tired of their importunities, she at length
yielded to their persuasions. George was too proud to let the world
triumph in the prostration of his hopes; as soon therefore as he was
assured of her infidelity, he set sail for South America.

Isabella's abandonment of George, and her affiance to Mr. Simson, were
events soon known, and as soon attracted the attention of their
acquaintance. It was perceptible to every one, that her character had
passed away with him who had so long given it its tone and direction.
Freed from him who had from her infancy been the source and the
companion of all her pleasures, she visited every public and private
amusement or assembly, and was every where remarkable for her vivid
and reckless gaiety. Those who judged by appearances deemed her happy
in her new situation; but those who looked beneath the surface, saw
only in these wild demonstrations of joy, the vain efforts to banish
from her heart "the worm that dyeth not."

Some months after the departure of George, Mr. Simson and Isabella
were married. From the time the latter had broken her vows to George,
all intimacy between her and myself had ceased. I was not therefore at
her wedding, but it was said to be numerous and brilliant--the bride
splendidly decorated, lovely, and the gayest of the gay.

For a few short years after her marriage, although I lived in a
distant part of the country, I could hear of Isabella, now Mrs.
Simson. For sometime she apparently luxuriated in the golden vision,
for which had been sacrificed her earliest and fondest anticipations.
She gave the largest parties, and the most splendid fetes, and the
fashionable world pronounced her marriage _fortunate_. But soon this
illusory existence vanished, and I learned, what nothing can conceal,
that the decay which halteth not had settled itself upon her beautiful
form. A few months and she was confined to her house, and then to her
room, and then to her bed--and then came from her a brief but
thrilling letter, ardently desiring me to come to her before she died.
I did go; and did hear from her dying lips, how a mother's mistaken
love had made her faithless, and of the years of hopeless and bitter
anguish that followed and dragged her down to the grave. I have stood
by the dying bed of friends and relations--I have seen the last
struggle of a father, of brothers and sisters, and for all of these I
have had deep sorrow. But it was in the presence of that broken
hearted sufferer, and from the revealings and monitions of her
departing spirit, I learned that enduring lesson of life, which time
nor circumstance can ever obliterate. Yes! my dear girl; it was there
I received that lesson which I have so often endeavored to impress
upon your mind,--to guard you against the snares that are every where
spread by those who have wrecked their own happiness, to draw the
young and thoughtless into the vortex of their own dazzling but
heartless pleasures. Could you have been in that chamber, and have
seen and known how one so lovely, and whose morning of life was so
fair, had been snatched from the world of her bright
dreams,--prostrating in her fall all the years of earthly bliss that
might have been hers, and all the proud aspirations, the promised
felicity of him, the betrothed of her heart,--you would never again
breathe one sigh, or one wish,--or weaken one chord of pure affection,
for all that wealth and fashion can promise or bestow.

A few days after this interview, she left this world of trouble,--and
the papers of the day, announced in the usual manner,--Died, on the
---- instant, of a "pulmonary complaint," Mrs. Simson, wife of Mr.
---- Simson; and who thought otherwise? who of all that surrounded
her, could deem she had a _heart_ to _break_? Thus she passed away;
and the world, busied with its own little and great schemes, soon
ceased to remember that she had ever lived, or loved, or died.

With Isabella ends our tale. And it is only necessary in conclusion to
say, that George never knew how fully and fearfully she had atoned for
her fatal error. Before I had an opportunity of communicating to him
my last painful interview with her,--and her prayers for his happiness
and forgiveness, he had fallen in the struggle of South America for
liberty and independence. Mrs. Barclay is still alive, and so is Mr.
Simson, though now some ten years older than when he led Isabella a
victim to the altar. I presume he is still in the market; he is ten
years older, he is ten years richer, and thus doubly desirable to
those mothers who _love_ their daughters, and wish to have them _well
married_.

I have endeavored to be as brief as possible, but my letter has
extended itself too long, and yet I fear it is too short to make that
impression I could wish. I cannot but hope, however, that Isabella's
fate will awaken in your breast, as it did in mine, those reflections
that will lead you justly to appreciate how false and empty are the
world's opinions, when compared with the conscientious dictates of our
own calm and unbiassed judgment,--and determine you to choose that
life whence rises and flows the streams of all our earthly happiness.
If I have failed, and that flower which now blooms so fair and
fragrant by the banks of Powhatan, should be plucked by a hand
insensible to its sweets, to ornament some princely hall, and wither
amid all its splendor, then you may recollect the warning voice, and
think of one, though humble, who would have sacrificed every other
hope of happiness to cherish that flower--you may then remember----

B----.



For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCH OF VIRGINIA SCENERY.

The following Sketch of Virginia Scenery is sent with the hope the
author will excuse the liberty taken, as it was written without the
slightest idea of its being ever published, by a traveller through
some of the scenes of Western Virginia:--


"It was a charming evening--the sky was almost cloudless, and the
sultry air of summer seemed to be gradually giving way to the cool and
refreshing breezes of autumn. Accompanied by a few companions and some
persons acquainted with the surrounding country, I ascended the large
and romantic rock near the village of Rockymount, known by the name of
the '_Bald Knob_.' This rock is about 200 feet above the level of the
water, and the ascent exceedingly steep and difficult. Its name is
indeed descriptive of its general character and appearance, which are
calculated to strike more by its novelty of height and rugged aspect,
than its beauty of herbage or richness of attire.--We wound up among
ledges of rock, and now and then found our progress retarded by the
intervention of some stunted cedars and oaks, which had clung to a
soil which would seem hardly able to afford any sustenance, except to
the moss, long celebrated for its fondness for the flinty rock. This
moss, consisting of several rich and beautiful species, has wove a
seeming carpet of the most vivid green, and surpasses in softness the
finest fabrics of the Turkish looms. Delighted and amused, we strolled
from cliff to cliff, gazing on the works of Omnipotence, which arose
around, above, beneath us, and feasting our delighted senses on the
rich magnificence of the scenes presented from its summit. The lofty
mountains dimly seen from afar; the 'rural cottages' in the vales
below; the smoke richly curling from the unseen hamlets among the
lofty trees; the startling sound of the huntsman's gun re-echoed from
the rocky heights--were an assemblage of pleasures rarely enjoyed by
so short an excursion. The 'Peaks of Otter,' appeared with much
distinctness and beauty, while a rich and variegated cloud seemed to
rest on their summit, as though it had stooped to gaze with us on
their magnificent heights. A branch of the Alleghany is also visible
between two lofty hills, and the blue tints that rested on its brow,
contrasted with the glowing greens of the adjacent forests, presented
to the eye a grateful and pleasing variety of shade.--The picturesque
village of Rockymount appears to much advantage from this rock, and
the country around is one of much wild and romantic beauty. Long did
we gaze on the works of nature's God,--displayed in majestic, rural,
and beautiful scenes; and then turning from these glorious
manifestations of wisdom and power, traced the names of many a
youthful swain and maid, who had chiselled out their initials on the
flinty rock, urged no doubt by the puerile ambition of being
remembered long after they had ceased to roam among its rocky alcoves.
There could the poet's soul catch sparks of inspiration from nature's
open volume, and the painter's pencil vainly strive to touch with
living lines his there _faithless_ canvass. 'Who can paint like
nature?' would echo from each lovely object; and man, in all his pride
of nature and of art, shrink from the task of copying her rich and
gorgeous dyes. There would the Christian pour out his soul in
adoration and praise; and, lost in contemplation of the Hand that
raised the mountains and spread out the plain, stoop not to draw his
sources of delight from the _poorer, yet still rich_ pleasures
afforded to the carnal mind. The fanciful may, aided by this sketch,
catch a glimpse of the beauties of the scenes,--but let them, like me,
view them as they are, and they will own how far the reality exceeds
the most vivid colorings of even a wild and enthusiastic admirer of
the works of nature's God."

J. W. C.

_September, 1832_.



  From the Scottish Literary Gazette.

COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE.


There lived in a country not a thousand miles from Edinburgh, a decent
farmer, who, by patient industry and frugality, and without being
avaricious, had made himself easy in circumstances. He enjoyed life
without being profuse; for he tempered his enjoyments with moderation.
At the age of sixty, he still retained the bloom of health on his
cheek. He lived till that age a bachelor; but his household affairs
were regulated by a young woman, whose attentive zeal for her master's
interest made it easy for him to enjoy his home without a wife. She
was only in the character of his humble servant, but she was virtuous
and prudent. Betty allotted the tasks to the servants in the house,
performed the labor within doors, during harvest, when all the others
were engaged. She saw every thing kept in order, and regulated all
with strict regard to economy and cleanliness. She had the singular
good fortune to be at once beloved by her fellow-servants, as well as
respected and trusted by her master. Her master even consulted her in
matters where he knew she could give advice, and found it often his
interest to do so. But her modesty was such, that she never tendered
her advices gratuitously. Prudence regulated all her actions, and she
kept the most respectful distance from her master. She paid all
attention to his wants and wishes; nor could a wife or daughter have
been more attentive. When he happened to be from home, it was her
province to wait upon him when he returned, provide his refreshment,
and administer to all his wants. Then she reported to him the
occurrences of the day, and the work which had been done. It did not
escape her master's observation, however, that, though she was anxious
to relate the truth, she still strove to extenuate and hide the faults
of those who had committed misdemeanors. Her whole conduct was such,
that, for the period of fifteen years, the breath of slander dared not
to hazard a whisper against her.

It happened, however, that a certain _maiden_ lady in the neighborhood
had cast an eye upon the farmer. She was the niece of a bachelor
minister, and lived at the manse in the character of housekeeper. But,
with all opportunity to become a competitor with Betty, she could
never gain her character. Those people who want personal attractions
take strange means of paying court, and endeavoring to open the way
for themselves. What they cannot effect by treaty, they endeavor to do
by sapping. Scandal is their magazine, by which they attempt to clear
their way from all obstructions. This maiden lady made some sinister
remarks, in such a way, and in such a place, as were sure to reach the
farmer's ear. The farmer was nearly as much interested for the
character of his servant as he was for his own, and so soon as he
discovered the authoress, made her a suitable return. But he made
ample amends to Betty for the injury she had suffered, and, at the
same time, rewarded her for her services, by taking her for his wife.
By this event, the lady, whose intentions had been well understood,
and who had thought of aggrandizing herself at the expense and ruin of
poor Betty, found that she had contributed the very means to advance
her to the realization of a fortune she had never hoped for. May all
intermeddlers of the same cast have the same punishment: they are
pests to society.

Betty's success had created some speculation in the country. Though
every one agreed that Betty deserved her fortune, it was often
wondered how such a modest, unassuming girl had softened the heart of
the bachelor, who, it was thought, was rather flinty in regard to the
fair sex. Betty had an acquaintance, who was situated in nearly the
same circumstances as herself, in being at the head of a bachelor
farmer's house; but it would appear that she had formed a design of
conquering her master. If Betty used artifice, however, it was without
design. But her neighbor could not, it would appear, believe that she
had brought the matter to a bearing without some stratagem; and she
wished Betty to tell her how she had gone about "courting the old
man." There was, withal, so much native simplicity about Betty, and
the manner of relating her own courtship and marriage is so like
herself, that it would lose its _naïveté_ unless told in her own
homely Scotch way. Betty, into all, had a lisp in her speech, that is,
a defect in speech, by which the _s_ is always pronounced as _th_,
which added a still deeper shade of simplicity to her manner; but it
would be trifling to suit the orthography to that common defect. The
reader can easily suppose that he hears Betty lisping, while she is
relating her story to her attentive friend.

"Weel, Betty," says her acquaintance, "come, gi'e me a sketch, an'
tell me a' about it; for I may ha'e a chance mysel'. We dinna ken
what's afore us. We're no the waur o' ha'ein' some body to tell us the
road, whan we dinna ken a' the cruiks and thraws in't." "Deed," says
Betty, "there was little about it ava. Our maister was awa at the fair
ae day selling the lambs, and it was gey late afore he cam' hame. Our
maister verra seldom steys late, for he's a douce man as can be. Weel,
ye see, he was mair herty than I had seen him for a lang time; but I
opine he had a gude merket for his lambs, and ther's room for excuse
whan ane drives a gude bergen. Indeed, to tell even on truth, he had
rather better than a wee drap in his e'e. It was my usual to sit up
till he cam' hame, when he was awa. When he cam' in and gaed up
stairs, he fand his sipper ready for him. 'Betty,' says he, very
saft-like. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'what has been gaun on the
day--a's right, I houp?' 'Ouy, sir,' says I. 'Very weel, very weel,'
says he, in his ain canny way. He ga'e me a clap on the shouther, and
said I was a gude lassie. When I had telt him a' that had been dune
throu' the day, just as I aye did, he ga'e me another clap on the
shouther, and said he was a fortunate man to ha'e sic a carefu' person
about the house. I never had heard him say as muckle to my face
before, tho' he aften said mair ahint my back. I really thocht he was
fey. Our maister, when he had gotten his sipper finished, began to be
verra joky ways, and said that I was baith a gude and bonny lassie. I
kent that folks arna' themsels whan in drink, and they say rather mair
than they wad do if they were sober. Sae I cam' awa' doon into the
kitchen.

"Twa or three days after that, our maister cam' into the
kitchen--'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'come up
stairs; I want to speak t'ye,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae
I went up stairs after him, thinking a' the road that he was gaun to
tell me something about the feeding o' the swine, or killing the
heefer, or something like that. But whan he telt me to sit doun, I saw
there was something serious, for he never bad me sit doun afore but
ance, and that was whan he was gaun to Glasgow fair. 'Betty,' says he,
'ye ha'e been lang a servant to me,' says he, 'and a gude and honest
servant. Since ye're sae gude a servant, I aften think ye'll make a
better wife. Ha'e ye ony objection to be a wife, Betty?' says he. 'I
dinna ken, sir,' says I. 'A body canna just say hou they like a
bargain till they see the article.' 'Weel, Betty,' says he, 'ye're
very right there again. I ha'e had ye for a servant these fifteen
years, and I never knew that I could find fau't wi' ye for onything.
Ye're carefu', honest, an' attentif, an'--.' 'O, sir,' says I, 'ye
always paid me for't, and it was only my duty,' 'Weel, weel,' says he,
'Betty, that's true; but then I mean to mak' amens t'ye for the evil
speculation that Tibby Langtongue raised about you and me, and forby,
the warld are taking the same liberty: sae, to stop a' their mouths,
you and I sall be married.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I; for what cou'd
I say?

"Our maister looks into the kitchen another day, an' says, 'Betty,'
says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'I am gaun to gi'e in our
names to be cried in the kirk, this and next Sabbath.' 'Verra weel,
sir,' says I.

"About eight days after this, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says
he. 'Sir,' says I. 'I think,' says he, 'we will ha'e the marriage put
owre neist Friday, if ye ha'e nae objection.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says
I. 'And ye'll tak' the grey yad, and gang to the toun on Monday, an'
get your bits o' wedding braws. I ha'e spoken to Mr. Cheap, the
draper, and ye can tak' aff onything ye want, an' please yoursell, for
I canna get awa that day.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I.

"Sae I gaed awa to the toun on Monday, an' bought some wee bits o'
things; but I had plenty o' claes, and I cou'dna think o' being
'stravagant. I took them to the manty-maker, to get made, and they
were sent hame on Thursday.

"On Thursday night, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,'
says I. 'To-morrow is our wedding-day,' says he, 'an' ye maun see that
a' things are prepared for the denner,' says he, 'an' see every thing
dune yoursel,' says he, 'for I expect some company, an' I wad like to
see every thing feat and tiddy in your ain way,' says he. 'Verra weel,
sir,' says I.

"I had never ta'en a serious thought about the matter till now; and I
began to consider that I must exert mysel to please my maister and the
company. Sae I got every thing in readiness, and got every thing
clean--I cou'dna think ought was dune right except my ain hand was
in't.

"On Friday morning, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,'
says I. 'Go away and get yoursel dressed,' says he, 'for the company
will soon be here, and ye maun be decent. An' ye maun stay in the room
up stairs,' says he, 'till ye're sent for,' says he. 'Verra weel,
sir,' says I. But there was sic a great deal to do, and sae many grand
dishes to prepare for the dinner to the company, that I could not get
awa', and the hail folk were come afore I got mysel dressed.

"Our maister cam' doun stairs, and telt me to go up that instant and
dress mysel, for the minister was just comin doun the loan. Sae I was
obliged to leave every thing to the rest of the servants, an' gang up
stain, an' pit on my claes.

"When I was wanted, Mr. Brown o' the Haaslybrae cam' and took me into
the room among a' the gran' fouk, an' the minister. I was maist like
to fent; for I never saw sae mony gran' folk together a' my born days
afore, an' I didna ken whar to look. At last, our maister took me by
the han', an' I was greatly relieved. The minister said a great deal
to us--but I canna mind it a'--and then he said a prayer. After this,
I thought I should ha'e been worried wi' folk kissing me,--mony a yin
shook hands wi' me I had never seen afore, and wished me much joy.

"After the ceremony was o'er, I slipped awa' doun into the kitchen
again amang the rest o' the servants to see if the dinner was a'
right. But in a wee time our maister cam' into the kitchen, an' says,
'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'ye must consider
that ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he; 'and therefore
ye must come up stairs and sit amongst the rest of the company,' says
he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae what could I do, but gang up stairs
to the rest of the company, an' sit doun among them? I sat there in a
corner, as weel out o' sight as I could, for they were a' speaking to
me or looking at me, an' I didna ken how to behave amang sic braw
company, or how to answer them. I sat there till it was gey late, and
our maister made me drink the company's healths, and they gaed a'
away.

"When the company were a' gaen awa', I went doun to the kitchen, and
saw that every thing was right; and after I put a candle into my
maister's bed-room, I took another, and gaed away up to my ain wee
room, in the garret. Just whan I was casting aff my shune, I hears our
maister first gang into his ain room, and then come straight awa' up
towards mine. I think I can hear him yet, for it was siccan
extraord'nar thing, and I never saw him there afore; and every stamp
o' his feet gaed thunt, thunt to my very hert. He stood at the cheek
o' the door, and said, very saftly, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says
I--'But what brought ye here, sir,' says I. 'Naething,' says he.
'Verra weel, naething be it, sir,' says I. 'But,' says he, 'remember
that ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he. 'Verra weel,
sir,' says I; 'I will remember that.' 'And ye must come down stairs,'
says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I; for what could I do? I had always
obeyed my maister before, and it was nae time to disobey him now.

"Sae, Jean, that was a' that was about my courtship or marriage."



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMINISCENCE:

OR, STORY OF A SHIPWRECK.


In the year 1797, I left the United States, having under my control a
new clipper built schooner of about eighty tons, bound to Cape
Francais, in the island of St. Domingo, with a cargo, chiefly
munitions of war, for the colonial government of that island. The
harbor of Cape Francais is one of the best in the world,--capacious,
safe, and of easy access; the entrance under a high point of land,--on
the side of which is a strong fortification called Fort Picolet, which
completely commands the pass. Above the fort, on very elevated ground,
was placed the observatory, in view of the town, although two or three
miles distant.

England being then at war with France, and having the command of the
West India seas, the direct intercourse of the island with France was
rare and uncertain--European news generally reaching them by the way
of the United States. My business at the Cape being nearly finished,
it became necessary, for a particular mercantile speculation, that I
should return to the United States by the way of St. Thomas. Three or
four days before I was prepared to sail, early one forenoon, I
observed all at once a singular excitement in the streets,--drums
beating, alarm guns firing, &c. Upon making inquiry into the occasion,
I was informed that the signals at the observatory indicated a fleet
to windward standing for the port. The leading frigate was soon seen
from the town, making signals to the fort, and without molestation
stood directly in, and proved to be a squadron from France, under the
command of Commodore Barney, with a number of prizes in company, which
altogether made a very imposing appearance. The day before I had
intended to leave the Cape, I was accosted in the street by a stout
sailor looking man, who civilly inquired if I had not a vessel in port
bound to St Thomas, and could he get a passage in her--adding, that he
was an Englishman, had been captain of one of the brigs then in port,
captured by Commodore Barney, on his passage out from Liverpool to
Barbadoes; and as he had not been armed he was not held as a prisoner,
but turned ashore pennyless, to shift for himself as he best
might--that could he get to St. Thomas, he could raise funds by bills
on his consignees at Barbadoes, and would pay whatever the charge
might be for his passage up. I told him I believed that it was the
custom for unfortunate seamen to receive assistance from their
fellows, without thinking of recompense--that he was entirely welcome
to a passage; and as the schooner would leave the port early the next
morning, I would give him a note to the captain, and advise him to
take his baggage and go immediately on board. He observed that his
baggage was easily removed--that although he had considerable property
on board of the brig when captured, belonging to himself, the captors
had left him nothing but a sailor's bag to take care of. Next morning
we left Cape Francais, with a view of beating up to St Thomas. This is
a voyage of some difficulty, being a distance of some six or seven
hundred miles, with the trade wind dead ahead. Navigators of those
seas know that in this passage there is a dangerous reef of sunken
rocks, whose sharp points rarely reach the surface, called the Silver
Keys, lying about midway between the northeast part of the island of
St. Domingo, and the cluster of islands, keys and shoals, east of
Turk's Island; and although the passage is probably a hundred miles
wide, and the reef covers but a small space, yet many a fine vessel
has been wrecked thereon. Knowing perfectly well the existence and
location of this dangerous reef, and making my own observations on the
run of the vessel, I had calculated on the third night that we were
out--that if we neither saw nor heard any thing of it by midnight, we
should have passed it; I therefore kept the deck until that hour, when
concluding all was safe, went below. I had got to sleep, when I was
awoke by the vessel's bottom and sides rubbing violently against the
rocks. I immediately got upon deck, and looking round found we were in
a most perilous situation; on all sides surrounded by rocks, which
were plainly known by the waves gently breaking upon them. The moon
was near her full, occasionally obscured by passing clouds--the wind
moderate. The schooner was instantly put about, under the expectation
of finding the way out by which we entered; she had only got cleverly
under way when she went bows on, upon a sunken sharp pointed rock, and
remained stationary. An immediate examination was made, when it was
discovered that the rock had penetrated her bottom, and the water was
pouring in. Our situation was in the highest degree alarming--the
schooner evidently lost, and no chance for our safety but the boat,
which for a vessel of eighty tons could not be large. There was nine
of us, the captain, mate, English captain, myself and five colored
seamen. Fortunately the weather was mild; the vessel quietly hanging
to the rock, and not filling very fast, gave us time to make our
arrangements. The boat was launched, a mast and sail prepared, short
stanchions nailed to her gunwale, and a strip of sail cloth attached
thereto, for the purpose of raising her sides, to prevent the spray of
the sea washing in. We took also on board, the ship's compass, a bag
of biscuit, a keg of water, and some bottles of brandy. No baggage was
permitted. My own dress was shirt, pantaloons, shoes, hat, and an old
surtout coat. I had taken the precaution to secure the papers relative
to the voyage, my watch, and about sixty Spanish dollars tied up in a
shot bag; the bag of dollars I made fast to the ringbolt in the boat's
stern. We were probably a couple of hours in making those
preparations. At length the schooner being nearly full of water, we
settled ourselves in the boat and left her,--the captain, who steered,
and myself in the stern sheets, the mate and English captain next, two
of the seamen midships, with tin cans to bail the water out as it
should splash in, the others forward. I had little expectation that
the boat could possibly live as deeply loaded as she was, and such I
believe was the opinion of all on board,--for the first two or three
hours there was not a dozen words spoken. It was our object to make
the island of St. Domingo, from which we were fifty or sixty miles
distant, as soon as possible. To effect this all our exertions were
used; but so miserably rigged as we were, and so deep withal, that we
could do little more than run before the wind. Our oars were some how
or other of little use. On the first day we made, that is we had a
very distant view of land, on our larboard bow, which we supposed to
be Point Isabella, the most northern part of the island of St.
Domingo; the wind would not permit us to reach it. In the evening we
had a severe squall; the wind blew, the waves increased; we lowered
our sail, just sufficient to keep before the wind. Soon it commenced
raining hard, the waves were stilled, we rode out the storm, and began
to breathe more freely--entered into conversation, and entertained
hopes of our ultimate safety, by getting to land somewhere, or being
picked up; but neither land nor vessel appeared during the whole of
the second day, we still running before the wind, making as much
southing as the nature of our equipment would permit. On the morning
of the third day we found ourselves off Monti Christi, and might
probably have reached the land; but by this time we had become
confident in our power to sustain ourselves, and determined to run for
Cape Francais, which then lay direct to leeward, and which we reached
in perfect safety about three o'clock that afternoon. Thus terminated
a voyage of about two hundred and fifty miles, in about sixty hours,
in the open sea, and in a small boat so deeply loaded, that her
gunwale, on an even keel, could not be above four inches above the
water--leaving us in a complete state of destitution; not a man but
myself had saved any thing but the clothes around him.

Our return created a considerable sensation. I was quickly surrounded
by my acquaintances, anxious to hear the details of our misfortune,
and to offer their services in the most liberal manner. This was
naturally to be expected from my countrymen. There was however one
occurrence in a French gentleman, which I can never forget, and must
relate; he held some subordinate office under government. I had been
introduced to his family by a German who I had known in the United
States. This gentleman called upon me, and taking me aside from the
crowd by which I was surrounded, told me that he had just heard of my
misfortune, and had come to offer me any money I might want, to be
returned in my own way, and at my own convenience. Altogether his
manner was so kind and friendly, that I am sorry his name has entirely
escaped my memory. After very sincerely thanking him for his
friendship and generosity, I told him I had sufficient funds for my
immediate wants. Early next day I was called upon by two American
gentlemen, the one a Mr. Dodge, who from his long residence and good
character, was usually called "consul." They informed me that the
Americans at the Cape, resident and transient, hearing of the
misfortunes of myself and crew, had raised a subscription for our
relief, and that they had called upon me to know the numbers and
relative situation of those on board at the time of the disaster, to
enable them to make the distribution of the money raised, in the
fairest and most efficient manner. I informed these gentlemen that we
were not exactly objects of charity--that my funds were sufficient for
my purposes--that the captain had sold the boat which preserved us,
for thirty or forty dollars--that the mate could get employment if he
wished it, or could get a gratuitous passage home--that the colored
seamen could ship aboard American vessels in port, who were in want of
hands--but that there was one person shipwrecked with us, who was
particularly unfortunate: he was, or rather had been, the captain of
an English brig then in the harbor, a prize to Commodore Barney,
turned ashore with nothing but his clothes, and those lost in the
wreck; I was giving him a passage to St. Thomas, with a view of
placing him as near as I could to the place he was bound to; he was
now in an enemy's country, and entirely destitute. Mr. Dodge observed
that he would not consent to give the Englishman a dollar; that the
English cruisers were plundering and confiscating American property
wherever they could find it, and that they had almost ruined him. I
observed that I had correctly informed them of the situation of all
the persons in the vessel when wrecked, and that they, as the
distributors of the public contribution, would in course use their own
discretion. They left me. A few hours afterwards, the gentleman who
had accompanied Mr. Dodge returned alone. He told me that Mr. Dodge
had consented to let the Englishman in for a portion of the money
collected, and that he would share equally with the schooner's mate,
and that if I would bring him to Mr. Dodge's counting house, his quota
was ready for him. This I promised to do; and in the course of the day
fell in with our companion in misfortune, told him what had been done,
took him to the place designated, and introduced him to the gentlemen.
They counted out, as well as I remember, about sixty hard dollars, and
presented them to him. He gathered them up in a dirty handkerchief,
and thanked them for their kindness and liberality--in doing which he
was so much affected, that be burst into tears. We left the place
together; I parted from him in the street, and have never heard of him
since. In a few days I took passage on board an American schooner
bound for Philadelphia, and after a short passage, was peaceably under
quarantine in the river Delaware.

R.

_Alexandria, January 1835_.



SELECTIONS

From the Papers of the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society.


We have been permitted to transfer to our pages the subjoined papers
in possession of the Historical Society, which will doubtless afford
much gratification to our readers. The first is an extract from a
manuscript which was the property of the late venerable and learned
Chancellor Wythe, and seems to have been copied by him, or for his
use, from the "Breviate Book" of Sir John Randolph, who was attorney
general of the Colony in 1734. This extract contains biographical
sketches of John Holloway and William Hopkins, two prominent members
of the bar at that early period. The orthography of the original has
been preserved.

The second is an interesting record of the proceedings of a patriotic
band in Norfolk Borough and County in the early part of the
Revolutionary war, associated under the brief and imposing title of
"Sons of Liberty." This document breathes a noble spirit of resistance
to tyranny in our ancestors, which we may fondly hope their
descendants will never cease to cherish and emulate. It was presented
at the last meeting of the Society by Dr. Barraud, whose letter we
also take pleasure in publishing.

The third paper, is an authentic narrative of an Indian attack upon
Wheeling Fort in 1777, furnished by one of the survivors, who is now
living in the county of Brooke. This document was communicated by
William McCluney, Esq. of Wellsburg, and has once appeared in the
"Brooke Republican." Mr. McCluney states, that Captain Samuel Mason,
the commander of the fort, was afterwards the famous Mississippi
robber.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Taken from Sir John Randolph's Breviate Book.

On the 14th of December, 1734, died suddenly of a fit, John Holloway,
Esq., after having languished about ten months with a sort of
epilepsie at certain times of the moon, which had much impaired his
memory and understanding. He had practised in this court upwards of
thirty years, with great reputation for diligence and learning; and
was so much in the good opinion of the court, that I have, upon many
occasions, known him prevail for his clients against reasons and
arguments much stronger and better than his. His opinions were by most
people looked upon as decisive, and were very frequently acquiesced in
by both parties, those against whom he pronounced being discouraged
from disputing against so great authority. He practised with much
artifice and cunning, being thoroughly skilled in attorneyship; but
when his causes came to a hearing, he reasoned little, was tedious in
reading long reports of some cases, and little abridgments of others,
out of which he would collect short aphorisms, and obiter sayings of
judges, and rely upon them, without regarding the main point in
question, and arbitrarily affirm or deny a matter of law, which had
often too much weight, against the reason and difference of things. By
this method, he gained many causes which always gave him great joy;
but was as impatient if he lost one, as if it tended to a diminution
of his credit. He was blameable for one singular practice, in drawing
notes for special verdicts. He would state naked circumstances of
facts only, and leave it to the court to collect the matter of fact
out of them; so that, upon such verdicts, we have had many tedious
debates about what the fact was: whereas, if that had been found
positively as it should be, there would have been no need of a special
verdict. But against this I could never prevail. His greatest
excellence was his diligence and industry; but for learning I never
thought he had any, nor could it be expected he should. He had served
a clerkship; went a youth afterwards into the army in Ireland, in the
beginning of King William's reign; after that betook himself to
business, having got to be one of the attorneys of the Marshalsea
court; but not being contented with his income from that, turned
projector and ruined himself, which brought him first into Maryland,
and afterwards hither. I remember one particular instance, which
satisfied me his knowledge in the law was not very profound. An
ejectment was brought, (whether I was at first concerned in it I
forget,) and upon a special verdict the case was thus. A seized in fee
by deed, gave the land in question to B his daughter, for life, and
after her death, to her heirs forever. She sold it to the defendant,
and after her death, the plaintiff, B's heir, claiming as a purchaser
in remainder, brought this action to recover. When I saw this, I told
the plaintiff, who was my client, I could not say one word for him,
not knowing a more certain rule of law than this:--that where by will
or conveyance, any estate of freehold is given to the ancestor, and by
the same writing an estate is limited to his heirs, that makes a fee,
[heirs] being there a word of limitation, and not of purchase. Yet the
defendant, by this eminent lawyer's advice, gave up the land without
argument, upon the plaintiff's allowing him to remain in possession
some short time longer; when if the matter had been brought to a
hearing I would not have said one word. However, his reputation was
such, that he was universally courted, and most people thought
themselves obliged to him, if he would engage their side upon any
terms; and he really thought so himself. This gave him great
opportunities of exacting excessive fees; which I have heard he always
did, where the value of the thing in question would allow it: and
covered great blemishes in one part of his private life, besides many
imperfections of his mind, which any body might observe who knew any
thing of him. He was of a haughty, insolent nature; passionate and
peevish to the last degree. He had a stiffness in his carriage which
was ridiculous, and often offensive; and was an utter stranger to
hospitality. He was sincere in his friendship, where he professed
any,--but not constant; apt to change upon small provocations, and to
contract new friendship upon very slight grounds, in which he would be
very warm and ready to do all good offices. One of his greatest
defects was that he would always bring his opinion and friendship to
agree. But what he wanted in virtue and learning to recommend him, was
abundantly supplied by fortunate accidents. He was fourteen years
speaker of the House of Burgesses, and eleven years public Treasurer.
But in those he acted with little applause, and less abilities; though
he was three times chosen, and once unanimously. His management of the
treasury contributed to his ruin, and brought him to the grave with
much disgrace. I was always his friend, and had a great deal of reason
to believe him mine. Yet it was impossible to be blind to so many
imperfections. He died, little lamented, in the sixty-ninth year of
his age.

       *       *       *       *       *

In a few daies afterwards, in London, died William Hopkins, Esq. who
had practised in this court about eighteen years, and in that time, by
hard study and observation, he made a surprising progress; became a
very ingenious lawyer and a good pleader, though at his first coming
he was raw and much despised. But he had a carelesness in his nature,
which preserved him from being discouraged, and carried him on till he
came to be admired. He had a good foundation in school learning;
understood Latin and French well; had a strong memory, a good
judgment, a quickness that was very visible, and a handsome
person;--all mighty advantages. But his manner was awkward; his temper
sour, if it was to be judged by the action of his muscles; and was
given, too much given, to laugh at his own discourses.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_Norfolk, January 16th, 1835_.

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

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

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

OTWAY B. BARRAUD.

_To the President of the Historical and Philosophical Society of
Virginia._


PROCEEDINGS

Of the Sons of Liberty at Norfolk, 1766.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Signed to the foregoing--_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

T. D.

  J. H. _Secretary_.
  W. R. C. _Secretary_.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

  J. H. _Secretary_.
  W. R. C. _Secretary_.

The copy delivered is as follows:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copy--Test,

J. H. _Secretary_.

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

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

_Gentlemen!_

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

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

RICHARD BLAND.

_Jordan's May 8th, 1766_.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_Virginia, Borough of Norfolk, to wit:_

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

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

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

JOHN WILLIAMS, _C. C._

       *       *       *       *       *

ATTACK ON WHEELING FORT IN THE YEAR 1777.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

FASHIONABLE PARTIES AND LATE HOURS.

BY M. M. NOAH.


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

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

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

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

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

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



PRIDE, ENVY, AND HATE.


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



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

THE VILLAGE PASTOR'S WIFE.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

The sketch is finished--memory overpowers me.

C. L. H.



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THOUGHTS ON AFFECTATION.

  _For the benefit of all whom they may concern_.


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

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

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

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

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

ADORER.



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

WILLIS'S IMPRESSIONS OF LONDON.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I asked if her ladyship had known many Americans.

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

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

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

She had told me the same thing herself in Italy.

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

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

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

N. P. W.



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

B.

_Richmond, Feb. 1835_.



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

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


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

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

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

E. A. S.



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

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


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

H. M. WILLIAMS.



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND ME.


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

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

----.



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM.


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

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



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MOONLIGHT.


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

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

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

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

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



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO HOPE.


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

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

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



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO THE BIBLE.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ON SEEING THE JUNCTION OF THE SUSQUEHANNA AND LACKAWANNA RIVERS.


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

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

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

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

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

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Conn._

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



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HOPES AND SORROWS.


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

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



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE WANDERER.

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD, M.D.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUE RICHES AND GLORY.


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

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

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



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DEATH OF THE MOTHERLESS.

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


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

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

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

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Conn._



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER EIGHTH.

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


PARIS, ----.

_My dear Jane:_

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

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

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

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

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER NINTH.

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


PARIS, ----.

_My dear Jane:_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER TENTH.

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


PARIS, ----.

_Dearest Jane:_

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

[Footnote 2: Hall of the Throne.]

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

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

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

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

LEONTINE.



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

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

_Shee_.


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

  "Italian skies to English walls,"

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

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

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

G. C.

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



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE FROM FLORIAN.

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

M.

       *       *       *       *       *

BATHMENDI.

A PERSIAN STORY.


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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[It is needless to say, that _Bathmendi_, in the Persian tongue,
signifies _Happiness_.]



  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SCENE IN PARIS--1827.

BY A VIRGINIAN.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



LITERARY NOTICES.


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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

VATHEK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

LINES

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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



EDITORIAL REMARKS.


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

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

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

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

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

The "_Letters from a Sister_" will amply repay the reader; so also
will the article on the "_Fine Arts_"--and the "_Persian Story_,"
translated from the French of Florian.

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

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

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

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

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

Our readers will agree with us that the remaining pieces, particularly
the "_Extract from an Unfinished Poem_"--the lines "_To Hope_"--"_To
the Bible_"--"_Moonlight_"--and "_Hopes and Sorrows_," have each more
than ordinary claims to admiration.

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

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



TO CONTRIBUTORS, CORRESPONDENTS, &C.


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

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

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

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

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

FRA DIAVOLO.

_March 25, 1835_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_From the author of the "Note to Blackstone's Commentaries."_

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_Extract of a Letter from the Reviewer of Messrs. Adams' and Everett's
Orations_.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

LARRY LYLE.

_Winchester, Va._





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 7, March, 1835" ***

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