Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 2, January, 1836
Author: Various, Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 2, January, 1836" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

MESSENGER, VOL. II., NO. 2, JANUARY, 1836 ***


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.
1835-6.


{69}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II.  RICHMOND, JANUARY, 1836.  NO. II.

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



SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY AND PRESENT CONDITION OF TRIPOLI, WITH SOME 
ACCOUNTS OF THE OTHER BARBARY STATES. NO. X.--(Continued.)


The writer of these Sketches endeavors to give _entire_ in each 
number, some distinct portion of the history of the Barbary States; 
this however is in some cases impracticable, either from want of time 
on his part, or from want of place in the sheets of the Messenger. The 
present number will contain merely the conclusion of the portion, 
commenced in the last, so that the next, may embrace the whole of the 
war between France and Algiers.

       *       *       *       *       *

In a country where the establishment of innocence or guilt depends 
much less on the weight and character of evidence, than on the 
interests or influence of those possessing power, and where punishment 
is entirely disproportioned to offence, no unfavorable inference could 
be fairly drawn from the flight of the accused. The D'Ghies family had 
been uniformly the friends of the Americans, and Hassuna although 
suspected of too much devotion to the interests of France, upon the 
whole bore a fair character, and was on terms of social intimacy with 
the family of Mr. Coxe. The charge against him was of a strange 
nature, and one not likely to be substantiated; he protested that he 
was innocent of all improper conduct with regard to the unfortunate 
traveller, that the British Consul was anxious to procure his 
destruction from motives of personal enmity, and that his only desire 
was to go to England where he could easily clear himself from all 
imputations. Nor could any feelings of peculiar delicacy towards the 
British Consul be expected to influence Mr. Coxe on this occasion. The 
efforts made by Warrington in 1818 to rescue Morat Rais, after the 
attack on the American Consul, have been already noticed; he had also 
in 1828 endeavored, though ineffectually, to protect Dr. Sherry an 
Englishman who had circulated a story that the frigate Philadelphia 
was burnt by Maltese hired for the purpose by the Americans; and he 
had on various other occasions advanced pretensions to superiority 
over the Consul of the United States, which were unfounded and 
insulting.

Under these circumstances, Mr. Coxe resolved to protect the fugitive 
minister, and he therefore immediately wrote a letter to the Pasha, in 
which he requested a _Teskera_ or written assurance under the seal of 
the State, that no attempt would be made to molest Hassuna; stating at 
the same time, that he only required what was frequently granted to 
the other Consuls. No answer having been made to this request, it was 
repeated on the 7th of August. On the 9th the Pasha replied by letter 
that he could not grant the warrant for Hassuna's safety, as the 
affair was one of great importance between himself and the British 
Government, and in which the American Consul was in no wise concerned; 
he added that if Mr. Coxe could obtain Warrington's permission in 
writing to interfere in the case and deposite it with him, he would 
make no farther objection, and that the American Consul "might however 
keep Hassuna in his house until the affair should be decided."

Mr. Coxe was naturally indignant at the terms of this letter, by which 
his exercise of a right allowed to other Consuls, was made to depend 
upon the will of the representative of Great Britain; and the more so 
as he had reason to suspect, that it had been dictated by Warrington 
himself. To keep Hassuna in his house until the affair was decided, 
would be merely to act as his jailer until the hour of his execution; 
for the Pasha it was well known would not scruple to declare him 
guilty of theft or murder if the British Consul should require it, and 
it would be scarcely reconcileable either with principle or usage, to 
continue to protect a man, after his conviction of such crimes 
according to the forms of law of the country.

Fortunately at this moment the American sloop of war Fairfield had 
just entered the harbor of Tripoli, and her commander Captain Parker, 
after examining the circumstances of the case as far as known, agreed 
to receive Hassuna on board his ship, and to conduct him to some place 
from which he could with safety proceed to England. Being anxious 
however to secure themselves from charges of improper conduct on the 
part of the Government, the plan was privately intimated to Yusuf, and 
they were not disappointed in their expectations, that he would 
rejoice at being thus delivered from the difficulty. The guards were 
indeed doubled on that night, and they patroled the streets leading 
from the American Consulate to the harbor, but this was only intended 
to deceive Warrington; for Hassuna was safely conducted on board the 
Fairfield, in the dress of a Christian, without any interruption from 
the numerous parties of soldiers whom they met on the way.

When Hassuna's evasion was known in Tripoli, the utmost joy was 
manifested by the inhabitants, and he received on board the Fairfield 
the visits of Hadji Massen and of many other principal persons of the 
city, who congratulated him openly on his escape from the vengeance of 
the British Consul. The Fairfield remained in Tripoli until the 14th 
of August, during which period every attention was received by her 
officers from the Pasha and his Court; she then sailed for Tunis, and 
from that place to Port Mahon, where Hassuna left her; but instead of 
proceeding to England as he had declared to be his intention, he went 
by way of Spain to France in which country he has since resided.

On the 10th of August Mr. Warrington addressed a most angry epistle to 
the American Consul, in which after asserting that D'Ghies had been 
"proved guilty of fraud and theft and suspected of murder," and taking 
it "for granted that the Commander of the Fairfield must be perfectly 
well acquainted with the delinquency of the fugitive," he requested 
that his letter should be shown to Captain Parker; declaring in 
conclusion that should the criminal escape from justice the whole 
responsibility would rest upon Mr. Coxe, and the case {70} be 
submitted to the American Government. Mr. Coxe replied on the 11th 
that he had yet to learn how and when the guilt of Hassuna had been 
established; and that although he deeply lamented the fate of Major 
Laing, yet his feelings should not prevent him from maintaining the 
honor of his flag, nor induce him to submit to any dictation. On 
receipt of this answer Col. Warrington entered a protest in the name 
of his Government against Mr. Coxe's interference in the affair; the 
Pasha also addressed a letter on the 12th to the American Consul, in 
which he declared that person answerable for all the consequences of 
Hassuna's departure, and expressed his resolution to complain to the 
Government of the United States on the subject. This letter although 
bearing the seal of the Pasha, was written in Italian in the hand of 
the Chancellor of the British Consulate, and delivered by Vanbreugel 
the Consul of the Netherlands who was known to be devoted to the 
service of Warrington. These circumstances rendered it extremely 
probable that the letter was drawn up by the British Consul and merely 
sealed by Yusuf as a peace offering, particularly as the British flag 
was again displayed on the following day in token of reconciliation. 
Under this impression Mr. Coxe replied on the 14th, that so far from 
fearing inquiries as to his conduct, he had already submitted the 
circumstances to the consideration of his Government, not doubting 
that it would approve a course by which the Pasha of Tripoli "had been 
indirectly saved from great trouble and uneasiness." Here the American 
Consul's agency in the affair terminated; a few days after Yusuf at a 
private audience, expressed the most friendly feelings to Mr. Coxe, 
and hinted his satisfaction at having been thus happily extricated 
from so disagreeable a situation.

Meanwhile Mohammed D'Ghies remained in the house of Baron Rousseau. On 
the 12th of August Colonel Warrington accompanied by some other 
Consuls, made a formal demand on the Baron for the delivery of Major 
Laing's papers, exhibiting the deposition of D'Ghies in support of his 
proceedings. Rousseau appeared to be highly indignant at this demand, 
and Mohammed on seeing the declaration which was said to have been 
made by him, denied all knowledge of it; having been assured however 
that no injury would be done to him, he left his asylum and in the 
presence of the Pasha and the greater part of the Consular corps, he 
repeated the assertion first made to the Bey, declaring at the same 
time that his subsequent denial had been extorted from him by the 
French Consul, who had threatened otherwise to expel him from his 
house. Baron Rousseau upon this struck his flag, and immediately 
embarked with his whole family for France, without deigning to make 
any reply to the accusations preferred against him; his departure 
while the affair was undetermined, and he had nothing to fear but 
exposure, was certainly not calculated to produce an impression in his 
favor.

Soon after the French Consul had quitted Tripoli, the persons whom the 
Pasha had summoned from the South arrived, and were examined in the 
presence of the British and other Consuls. It would be unfair to 
condemn any man on the testimony of Moors and Arabs, as those people 
appear to be morally incapable of giving a correct account; 
particularly too when as in this case the examination was exclusively 
conducted by those who were opposed to the accused. From the accounts 
of Col. Warrington, it appears to have been clearly established by 
their examinations, that the papers of Major Laing were received by 
Hassuna about the spring of 1828; of their having been delivered by 
him to the French Consul no direct evidence has been adduced besides 
the declaration of Mohammed D'Ghies. Many collateral circumstances 
however united to confirm this statement, and even Mr. Coxe 
notwithstanding all the prepossessions which he may be supposed to 
have entertained in favor of Hassuna and against Colonel Warrington, 
admitted to the latter on the 20th of November 1829, his conviction 
that the communications of the unfortunate traveller had been thus 
disposed of.

This affair excited much attention in Europe when the circumstances 
became known there. The British Ambassador at Paris was instructed by 
his Government, to demand from that of France, explanations with 
regard to the conduct of its Representative in Tripoli. A commission 
was accordingly instituted at Paris, which after interrogating 
Rousseau and examining the proofs presented, declared the charge 
against him to be wholly without foundation, and that against Hassuna 
D'Ghies to be unsupported by sufficient evidence. The Government of 
Great Britain appears to have been satisfied with this decision; the 
measures adopted by France in consequence of it will be hereafter 
related. The London Quarterly Review however, in which several 
articles relative to Laing had already appeared, protested against the 
report of the commission; the number of that periodical for March 
1830, contains a statement of the circumstances which occurred in 
Tripoli so partial, so unjust, and accompanied with such illiberal 
remarks with regard to Mr. Coxe, that some notice of it seems here to 
be necessary.

From the minuteness with which many of the events are detailed in this 
Review, and the apparent precision as to dates, it is probable that 
the materials were furnished by Colonel Warrington himself: yet the 
statement is defective with regard to several important particulars; 
facts with which the British Consul was undoubtedly acquainted, and 
which might have given a different color to the case, are omitted; and 
there are errors calculated to lessen confidence in accounts not 
confirmed by other testimony than the assertion of the Reviewer. One 
of these errors is remarkable, and it is not easy to conceive that it 
arose from accident. In the Review it is said that the Pasha made his 
declaration respecting the receipt of the papers by Hassuna and their 
delivery to the French Consul, on the 5th of August; that in 
consequence of this, D'Ghies had taken refuge in the American 
Consulate on the 9th, and had been transferred on the same night to 
the Fairfield, which sailed the day after. Thus Mr. Coxe is 
represented as having acted with so much haste, that it was impossible 
for the Pasha or Colonel Warrington to explain the motives of their 
desire to arrest Hassuna, or to take any measures for proving his 
guilt until he was beyond their reach. Now from the official documents 
of the American Consulate, it appears that D'Ghies sought an asylum 
there on the 20th of July, that he was placed on board ship on the 9th 
of August, and that the Fairfield remained in the harbor until the 
14th; he therefore passed nearly three weeks in the house of Mr. Coxe, 
during which the Pasha was twice requested {71} to give an assurance 
for his safety such as had been often granted in similar cases to 
Consuls of other Powers; he was not placed on board the Fairfield 
until an invasion of the Consular dwelling was reasonably apprehended, 
and he continued in the port five days afterwards on board that ship. 
These circumstances must have been known to the person who furnished 
the materials for the article, and should in honor have been stated 
correctly.

The motives assigned in the Review for Hassuna's intercepting the 
papers, are that he had arranged some plan either for destroying Major 
Laing, or for extorting money from his friends in order to insure his 
safe return; that this plan had been discovered by the traveller, and 
that D'Ghies, learning that his schemes had been thus penetrated by 
the person who was their principal object, had suppressed the 
communications in order to prevent the exposure of his villainy. This 
supposition appears to be founded chiefly, if not entirely, on a 
passage in one of the letters received from Laing, intimating the 
discovery of some treachery on the part of those about him; the charge 
that Hassuna had been accessory to the murder of the traveller, is to 
be attributed only to the enmity of Warrington, as nothing has been 
elicited in any way calculated to confirm it. With regard to the 
French Consul's share in the affair, the Reviewer after citing some 
plausible reasons for believing him to have been implicated, and many 
which are utterly futile, seems to consider that he may have been 
induced to such dishonorable conduct purely from desire to obtain 
distinction by appropriating to himself in some way, the results of 
Laing's expedition. The grounds for this opinion are that Rousseau had 
for some time previous, been engaged in researches concerning the 
interior of Africa, upon which subject he not only corresponded with 
scientific societies in France, but also conducted a journal in 
Tripoli.

The Reviewer however in all these accounts and conjectures, is careful 
to forget that Hassuna was the Prime Minister of Tripoli, that 
political reasons may have impelled him to prevent the delivery of the 
papers, and that he may have acted in the whole affair conformably 
with the usages not only of Tripoli, but of almost every Government in 
Europe. A British officer engaged in exploring the interior of Africa, 
may well have been the object of suspicion at Tripoli. Has scientific 
research been even ostensibly the only motive for such expeditions? 
Would Major Laing have been permitted to proceed under this pretext 
through certain parts of Russia? Would a French or Russian officer 
until lately have been allowed to visit British India? The Tripoline 
Government did not dare refuse a passage to the English traveller 
through its dominions; his actions were doubtless observed, and it was 
proper that they should have been; his letters may have been opened, 
may have been found to contain matter the communication of which would 
be dangerous to the state, may have been in consequence destroyed, may 
have been even delivered to a Consul of another Power. Such things are 
constantly done in St. Petersburg, in Vienna, in Paris, and in many 
other places, and although they cannot be defended, yet it is scarcely 
fair to brand the African Minister with infamy for that which is daily 
practised by Metternich, Nesselrode and Thiers.



A PÆAN.


  How shall the burial rite be read?
    The solemn song be sung?
  The requiem for the loveliest dead,
    That ever died so young?

  Her friends are gazing on her,
    And on her gaudy bier,
  And weep!--oh! to dishonor
    Her beauty with a tear!

  They loved her for her wealth--
    And they hated her for her pride--
  But she grew in feeble health,
    And they _love_ her--that she died.

  They tell me (while they speak
    Of her "costly broider'd pall")
  That my voice is growing weak--
    That I should not sing at all--

  Or that my tone should be
    Tun'd to such solemn song
  So mournfully--so mournfully,
    That the dead may feel no wrong.

  But she is gone above,
    With young Hope at her side,
  And I am drunk with love
    Of the dead, who is my bride.

  Of the dead--dead--who lies
    All motionless,
  With the death upon her eyes,
    And the life upon each tress.

  In June she died--in June
    Of life--beloved, and fair;
  But she did not die too soon,
    Nor with too calm an air.

  From more than fiends on earth,
    Helen, thy soul is riven,
  To join the all-hallowed mirth
    Of more than thrones in heaven--

  Therefore, to thee this night
    I will no requiem raise,
  But waft thee on thy flight,
    With a Pæan of old days.

E. A. P.



CHARLOT TAYON.


It is curious to speculate on the infinite variety of causes which 
have influence in the formation of character; on the numerous 
diversities which are found under different circumstances; and the 
multiplicity of qualities, which, in their various combinations, make 
up each whole. What any man might have become under different 
training, or with different fortunes, it is vain even to conjecture. 
Yet we cannot refrain from _speculating_ on the change which 
circumstances might have made in the characters and destinies of many, 
who "crawl from the cradle to the grave" unregarded and unknown.

Poor old Charlot Tayon! I have often puzzled myself to tell to what 
class of men he belonged by nature. Illiterate, uncultivated, 
ignorant, bred up on the outermost verge of civilized life, and 
spending all the prime of youth and manhood far beyond it, it was hard 
to tell {72} whether this rude training had encouraged or retarded the 
growth of those qualities which made him in my eyes a remarkable man.

A native of upper Louisiana, he had entered, in early youth, into the 
service of the king of Spain as a private soldier. His corps was one 
of those whose duties condemned them to pass their days in the wild 
prairies, which, extending from the neighborhood of the Mississippi to 
the Rio del Norte, serve rather as the range than the habitation of 
small but numerous bands of Indians. Such a life is of course a life 
of toil, hardship, and danger. The qualities which fit a man to 
encounter these, are, under other circumstances, rewarded by fame. 
Even in scenes so remote, they do not always fail of a reward, which 
to him who receives it seems like fame. His few companions are his 
world, and their applause is to him the applause of the world. He 
perils every thing to win it, and, having fought his way to the head 
of a company of rangers, is as proud, and with good reason, as 
Wellington himself of all his honors, purchased at less expense of 
hardship or danger. It is thus that I account for the unequalled pride 
of this poor old man, associated as it was in his uncultivated mind 
with all that lofty courtesy which so surely accompanies a just sense 
of unquestioned and unquestionable merit.

I have said that he began life as a common soldier. A campaign of hard 
service was rewarded by the rank of fourth corporal. Another gave him 
the third place among these humble but important officers. In eight 
years he rose, step by step, and year by year, to the rank of first 
sergeant. Three more placed him, by the like regular gradations, at 
the head of his company.

As this was an independent corps, serving at a distance from the 
settlements, and only returning to them at long intervals, his station 
was one of great responsibility. This he assumed boldly, and exercised 
freely. Incapable of fear, he was not easily withheld from danger by a 
distant authority, and, relying on the brave man's maxim, "that 
success in war justifies a breach of orders," he made little scruple 
of disregarding his, whenever an opportunity of striking a blow 
presented itself. On some such occasion he incurred the displeasure of 
his immediate superior, the commandant at St. Charles. To this worthy, 
the success which exposed the impolicy of his own cautious prudence, 
was by no means a justification for disobedience. He accordingly 
recalled Tayon, imprisoned him, and sent him in chains to New Orleans.

Here the history of his imputed offence was so creditable to him, and 
the bearing of the rude soldier so forcibly struck the intendant, that 
his persecutor was deposed, and the prisoner returned in triumph, 
bearing with him a commission as commandant of the post.

This was, in his estimation, the acmé of greatness to a subject. Of 
the unapproachable majesty of the "King his master," as he delighted 
to call him, he might have formed some such conception as we have of 
angelic natures. But among mere men of common mould, he had seen 
nothing, until his forced journey to New Orleans, and had perhaps 
never imagined any thing above the dignity that encircled the 
commandant at St. Charles.

There is nothing strange in this. An officer at once judicial and 
executive, supreme in both capacities, always acting in person, and 
enforcing his authority by the summary processes of despotism, is an 
awful personage in his province. Though but a king of Liliput, he is a 
king to Liliputians, and especially to himself. Such was Charlot Tayon 
in his own estimation; he truly "bore him like a king," and when the 
throne of his power was removed from under him, he lost nothing of 
majesty in his fall. He was neither Dionysius at Corinth, nor 
Bonaparte at St. Helena. He was neither familiar, nor peevish, nor 
querulous, but sat himself down, in quiet poverty, in a cottage on the 
edge of the village over which he had reigned.

I saw him but seldom, but always delighted to converse with him. I 
found him uniformly affable, courteous and communicative. Though too 
self-respectful to talk gratuitously about himself, a little address 
alone was necessary to make him do so. He spoke not a word of English, 
but though illiterate, (for he could not read) his French was 
remarkably pure and euphonical. French has often seemed to me the 
appropriate language for monkeys. In his mouth it was the language of 
a man. Speaking slowly, deliberately, and calmly, in a strong, stern, 
sustained tone, with a countenance which bore no trace even of a 
by-gone smile, there was more to strike the ear, and awaken the 
imagination, in his manner, than in that of any man I ever saw. The 
_tout ensemble_ spoke an ever present, deep, but proud and 
uncomplaining sense of wrong unutterable and irreparable. His figure, 
except on horseback, was awkward and ungainly. He was very old, and 
moved with difficulty. His short legs and arms, his broad bony hands, 
and his huge Roman nose, reminded me always of the legs, claws, and 
beak of a paroquet. His features, however, were not bad, though harsh. 
A deep-set dark grey eye surmounted by a shaggy brow, and a mouth 
firmly compressed and flat, were in perfect keeping with the rest of 
his face, and in character with the man. His dress was uniformly a 
blue cotton hunting shirt and trowsers, with moccasins on his feet, 
and a blue cotton handkerchief tied on his head in what is called the 
French fashion, with the ends hanging far down his back. In this garb 
his centaur figure, mounted on the back of a wild horse, was certainly 
one of the most picturesque I ever saw.

I once drew from him a sort of sketch of his life. It was little more 
than a confirmation of what I had heard from others. This I have 
already mentioned. But his manner, and the ideas which escaped from 
him, gave me more insight into his character. His was the first 
example I had ever seen of loyalty, not originating in personal 
attachment, wholly uninfluenced by personal considerations, adopted as 
a principle, but cherished into a passion. I doubt if he knew whether 
the king he served was king of France or of Spain, and am very sure 
that he knew no difference between Charles 3d, Charles 4th, and 
Ferdinand. Whoever he was, he was "_Le Roi mon maitre_." As such he 
always spoke of him to the last, owning no other allegiance, 
acknowledging no other political obligation but the will and pleasure 
of the "king his master." Was he therefore malcontent?--just the 
reverse. "The king my master laid his commands upon me, to deliver up 
the post which he had done me the honor to place under my authority, 
to an officer appointed to receive it on behalf of the government of 
the United States; and I obeyed {73} him. He gave me to understand at 
the same time that it was his pleasure that I and my people should 
submit to the authority of the United States, and conform to their 
laws, and I have obeyed him. You see me quietly acquiescing in the new 
order of things, and endeavoring in all things to regulate myself by 
your laws; and I do so, because the king my master has commanded it."

There was nothing in his manner of saying this, betokening that 
restiveness with which men submit to what they cannot help. He seemed 
merely to find a satisfaction in rehearsing the principles by which he 
had always professed to be governed, and contemplating the conformity 
between these and his actions.

At the time of the cession of Louisiana to the United States, the old 
man was in comfortable circumstances. The best house in the village 
was his, and he had slaves and several arpens in the common field.[1] 
But he had now fallen on evil days. He scorned to acquire any 
knowledge of the language, laws, and customs of the new masters of the 
country, and desired only to live in retirement and obscurity. But he 
could not help having some dealings with the world, and the management 
of these he committed to an only son, who had acquired a considerable 
proficiency both in our language and laws.

[Footnote 1: An arpen is the French acre. In the sense in which the 
word is here used, it means an allotment of land, in the common field 
of a village, of an arpen in breadth, and usually forty arpens in 
length. Three or four of these contiguous to each other, enclosed by 
the common ring fence, and brought under the plough, were sufficient 
to supply as much of the necessaries and comforts of life as the 
simple peasantry of that country had any idea of.]

But if Master Louis excelled his father in these things, he was as 
much his inferior in every honorable and manly virtue. In short, a 
greater knave never breathed, as soon appeared by his so managing the 
old man's affairs as to reduce him to want. At the same time his 
craft, though sufficient to defraud his father, was no defence against 
the superior art of the adventurers who flocked to the country. He too 
was reduced to poverty, and spurned by his father, detested by his 
countrymen, and despised by the Anglo-Americans, his name was a 
by-word of scorn. But he still bustled about, trafficking in every 
thing he could lay his hands upon, negotiating bargains between new 
comers and the old inhabitants, and cheating both as often as he 
could. But the profits of his villainy were small, for he was too 
cautious to venture on any bold measure.

At length, however, the fiend he served seemed to have betrayed him 
into the hands of his enemies. At the opening of one of the terms of 
St. Charles' Court, I found his name on the criminal docket. I looked 
for the charge, and found it to be for stealing a slave. This was a 
capital offence, and I at once concluded that Louis' time was come. He 
had not a friend on earth. No witness could be expected to soften a 
word of testimony; no juror would do violence to his conscience for 
his sake, and he had therefore no hope but in innocence; and nothing 
could be more improbable than that.

The trial came on. In a corner of the room I observed a cluster of the 
poor peasantry of the village huddled together with looks of concern 
and awe, occasionally muttering in low and earnest tones. They are a 
good-natured people, and I was not surprised to see, as I supposed, 
some tokens of relenting toward poor Louis. But I was soon led to put 
a different construction on their manner, when I caught a glimpse of a 
figure sitting with the head bowed between the knees, which I at once 
recognized as that of the culprit's father.

As the cause proceeded, the excited interest of the old man came in 
aid of his pride, and he at length raised himself; made signs to those 
around him to stand aside, and thus sat full before me. He was pale 
and ghastly, and his eye was sunken, fixed, and rayless. With a 
countenance betokening stupor, like that of one just recovering from a 
stunning blow, he appeared to look on without seeing, and to listen 
without hearing.

It turned out that Louis' case was not so bad as I had apprehended. 
The prosecution was conceived in folly or malice, for the slave had 
been taken on a claim of property, by the advice of a lawyer. Of 
course I had but to say a few words to the jury, and he was acquitted.

This turn of the case was so sudden, that the poor Frenchmen, who 
understood only a word here and there, were unprepared for it, and 
began among themselves an eager jabbering, which at length awakened 
the faculties of the old man. He caught a few words, and then seemed, 
for the first time, to listen understandingly to what he heard. But 
whatever emotion he felt was either repressed by self-command, or 
buried in the depth of conscious abasement. He soon rose, and left the 
room, followed by the little party that had surrounded him.

The next morning I happened to be passing through the bar-room of the 
house I lodged in, and as I entered the door, I heard the bar-keeper 
say, "Here he is." I looked up. There was only one other person 
present, and his back was to me. Turning at the moment, I saw that it 
was old Charlot. I immediately approached him, accosting him with 
marked courtesy. He seemed not to hear me, but tottered toward me, 
looking up in my face with a dim lack-lustre eye, as if endeavoring to 
distinguish who I was. As I accosted him, extending my hand, he laid 
hold of it and drew himself forward, still gazing on me with the same 
fixed inquiring look. "_C'est Monsieur le Juge?_" asked he, in a 
subdued and tremulous voice. At the moment his eye found the answer to 
his question, and, before I could speak, he had fallen on his knees, 
and my hand was pressed to his lips, and bathed in tears which rained 
from his wintry eyes. I was inexpressibly shocked, and more humbled in 
his humiliation than at any other moment of my life.

I raised him with difficulty, and in a voice choked by tears, he tried 
to speak. I knew what he would say, and replied to his meaning. "You 
have no cause to thank me," said I. "Your son had done nothing for 
which he could lawfully be punished; his acquittal was inevitable, and 
he has merely received sheer justice at my hands." While I spoke, he 
recovered himself enough to speak. "Ah! Monsieur," said he, "that is 
true. But in the case of a poor wretch, hated and despised by all, who 
neither has, nor deserves to have a friend on earth, is not mere 
justice something to be thankful for? Bad as he is, he is my only son, 
and I must have leave to thank you."

I led the poor old man to a seat, and tried as soon as possible to 
change the conversation, and lead his mind {74} to the topics on which 
I had before heard him dwell with pleasure. A question about his 
friend and comrade, the famous Philip Nolan, effected my object. His 
dim eye for a moment flashed up like the last flickering of an 
expiring lamp, and he became eloquent in praise of the companion of 
his youth, his fellow in arms, and partner in innumerable dangers. The 
excitement soon died away, but it subsided into calmness and 
self-possession. He rose, and took his leave with recovered dignity of 
manner. He tottered to the door, and to his horse, a half-broken colt, 
which he mounted with difficulty. As he touched the saddle, he became 
a new creature. His infirmities had disappeared, and he was now a part 
of the vigorous and fiery animal he bestrode. There he sat, swaying 
with every motion of the prancing horse, restraining his impatience 
with a skill and grace too habitual to forsake him, and with an air 
which betokened a momentary flush of pride. He was like Conrad 
restored to the deck of his own ship. I could not see his face, but I 
had pleasure in thinking that the excitation of the moment might 
operate as a cordial to his drooping spirit. I looked after him as he 
passed up the street in a curvetting gallop, with his head-gear 
streaming on the wind, and bethought me that I might never see him 
again.

I was not mistaken. The blow that brought him to his knees before any 
but his God, or "the king his master," had crushed his heart. He never 
held up his head again, and was soon at rest. The prevalence of the 
Catholic religion among the French has preserved one spot sacred to 
the men and customs of other days, and there he lies.



LINNÆUS AND WILSON.


Fisher Ames has remarked, that it is as difficult to compare great 
men, as great rivers. He might have found a happier illustration; but 
the meaning is obvious, that whilst distinguished men bear to each 
other some points of resemblance, they are remarkable for points of 
discrepancy. Johnson traced lines of analogy and contrast between 
Dryden and Pope, whilst Playfair did the same between Newton and 
Leibnitz. Plutarch led the way in this kind of writing, but his 
parallels were occasionally more fanciful than true.

In many things antiquity has excelled; but in natural science and in 
works of fiction, the palm is due to modern times. Cuvier and Pliny, 
could not be impartially measured, without giving to the former a 
decided advantage. The light which fell on the latter was dim, in 
comparison with that by which the philosopher of France was guided in 
his researches. Persian monarchs might formerly have been amused by 
the tales which adulation told in their presence; but Sir Walter Scott 
has redeemed fiction from many of the purposes to which it has been 
applied.

Among the scores of men who have devoted their talents to natural 
science, Linnæus and Wilson are not the least conspicuous, and they 
bore a likeness to each other in the obscurity of their origin. The 
first was the son of a Pastor, who lived in a village of Sweden, and 
partly sustained his family by cultivating a few beds of earth. The 
manse (to use a word familiar in Scotland,) has more than once been 
the birth place of genius, as Thomson, Armstrong, and the translator 
of the Lusiad could have testified. The latter was descended of a line 
of peasantry--but they both evinced that science has palms to bestow, 
on all by whom they shall be nobly attempted and fairly won, whilst 
she leaves it to kings to adorn the undeserving with hereditary 
titles.

They both appear to have lived for a time out of their element, for 
the one had well nigh been sent to the awl, whilst the other was a 
weaver in Paisley. But the taste of Linnæus was early formed, whilst 
that of the ornithologist was not developed, until comparatively late 
in life. The biography of the Swede is full of incidents to show that 
his passion for plants took its rise in infancy, and grew with his 
years. The circumstances of his father being unexpectedly improved, 
the new residence of the Pastor was embellished by a garden, and 
though gardening had been his business, it now became an amusement. 
When the parent was employed among his plants, the son was seen by his 
side, drawing from paternal instruction, the elements of that science 
in which he was destined to excel. But the Ornithologist betrayed no 
early predilection for the branch of knowledge to which he 
subsequently became devoted. It was not until he had expatriated 
himself, and killed for his own sustenance, one of our forest 
birds--that the high resolve was formed of consecrating himself to the 
investigation of the feathered tribes. There is something striking in 
this event. An exile from Scotland, driven by poverty to seek an 
asylum on our shores, not knowing to what destiny his steps were 
tending, is reminded by an incident of the claims of science on his 
personal services. He had seen the birds of his own country, which 
Grahame had celebrated in one of his poems; but it is probable that 
the dishevelled plumage of the one alluded to deeply affected his 
mind. To an accident we owe a series of galvanic experiments, and the 
discovery of the law of gravitation; and if this be so, it is not to 
be wondered at, that to an event seemingly unimportant we should owe 
the enlargement of Ornithology.

Linnæus and Wilson made but small attainments in any other branch than 
the department in which each of them became eminent. The first was 
conspicuous in his medical profession, but this was the result of 
adventitious circumstances. He gained some acquaintance with 
Mineralogy, and even explored the province of Dalecarlia as a kind of 
Peripatetic Lecturer--but this branch belongs to Natural Science. He 
was sent in youth to an academy, with a view to prepare for the sacred 
office; but his habits, though marked by innocence, unfitted him for 
its duties. He appears to have been deficient in what Phrenologists 
call the organ of language, and especially in the acquisition of the 
modern tongues; but whilst others were becoming familiar with words, 
he was ruminating by Lake Helga, and stripping Lake Wetter of its 
plants, that the tribes of the North might learn to speak in flowers, 
and thereby resemble in traits of sentiment and imagination the 
caravans of the East. The attainments of the Ornithologist were from 
his circumstances necessarily limited. Confusion is generally 
consequent on education which has not discipline for its basis. Before 
Wilson left Scotland he attempted poetry, and some of his productions 
were attributed to Burns; but this kind of mistake is frequently made 
by the partiality of friends. {75} The poetical productions of the 
Ornithologist are not entitled to much consideration; at least his 
temperament in this respect was more vividly displayed in action than 
in verbal expression. Both possessed remarkable powers of analysis, 
and in each the elements of taste were mingled in such a way as to 
turn the scale in favor of science rather than of imagination. The 
genius of both moved in a limited but perfect circle. That filled by 
the Botanist was stocked with herbs and the foliage of the Zones, 
surmounted by the golden flowers of the Line--and all held together by 
a diamond chain, whilst the choice assemblage was enlivened by the hum 
of the insect tribes. The other filled by the Ornithologist, was 
supplied from the air, and he crowded within its circumference birds 
of emerald and ruby grain, in the centre of which the Eagle was 
poised, whilst his ear was regaled by the song chanted at intervals 
from the curling vines of the Tropics, or the volume of melody from 
the woodlands of his adopted country. Each of them eventually 
insulated his mind to his vocation, and this is better than dispersing 
mental power over various pursuits. They thus reduced their genius to 
something of an integral kind, without the appendage of fractional 
parts.

Linnæus was not without decided advantages in those opportunities 
which foster intellect, promote emulation, and give impulse to genius. 
Hannah More has remarked that the best kind of education is drawn from 
the conversation of well-informed parents. It has been stated that the 
Botanist enjoyed this privilege in an eminent degree. His father took 
unusual pains to mature his mind, and though subjected to occasional 
disappointments, he met with friends even in Professors, who had 
sagacity to discern the sphere which he was one day to occupy. He 
found his way to the University of Lund, and subsequently to the one 
at Upsal, where lectures were delivered on his favorite science, and 
botanical gardens were open to his inspection. We are at a loss to 
imagine in what circumstances more delightful a scholar could have 
been placed, than those in which Linnæus was placed when he took up 
his abode at Hartecamp, the villa of his friend Cliffort, near 
Haerlem. Here he found books of science, and works of taste, exotic 
shrubs mingled with indigenous plants, museums filled with gems from 
the mines of Golconda, and cabinets full of shells culled from the 
grottos of the sea, and from the beaches of distant oceans. But truth 
constrains us to place the Ornithologist in the back ground of this 
picture. We find him struggling with penury from the beginning, and 
even traversing the moors of Scotland in search of a precarious 
subsistence. No university opened to him its ancient gates and 
cloistered cells. No man of wealth placed aviaries under his 
superintendence, and decoyed for his use speckled birds into the 
captivity of some sylvan Paradise. After his removal to this country 
he met with friends, but like himself, they were for the most part 
penniless. Among them, Joseph Dennie is worthy of mention--a man 
prompt to encourage every good design. He was at that time editor of 
the Port Folio, and through the medium of that work he served the 
cause of Ornithology. Dennie was the pioneer of literature in this 
country, and he is to be measured by the quality rather than the 
quantity of his works. He wrote no brilliant poems or ingenious tales, 
no dissertations in which philosophy led the way, and no historical 
works in which imposing events were arranged for the eye of posterity; 
but his Lay Preacher will always bear witness to the graceful 
structure of his mind.

Linnæus and Wilson both encountered hardships in the attainment of 
their purpose. Scotland treated the one, and Sweden the other, with 
unfeeling neglect; but the Botanist seems to have suffered most from 
the jealousy of rival Professors. It is singular that envy should so 
often disturb the quiet of men devoted to liberal pursuits; but Newton 
permitted some of his works to lie by him unpublished for years, 
because he dreaded critical attacks; and the quarrels of Addison and 
Pope were the subject of merriment to the people of their day. The 
toils of the Botanist introduced him to the perils of the Lulean 
desart. This rugged district was faithfully explored by the Swede; and 
in performing this journey, he drew subsistence from the milk of the 
reindeer, reconnoitered the hills and dells of Lapland, adventurously 
gathered moss from the brow of the precipice, and filled his herbarium 
with plants that rose among the rocks of the waterfall. He descended 
dangerous rivers in his boat; but this was the only journey in which 
Linnæus appears to have suffered much personal inconvenience. His 
subsequent tours through France, Germany and England, were excursions 
of pleasure, on which he went to enjoy the triumphs awarded to genius. 
But rugged as was the Lapland desart, the Ornithologist traversed 
desarts more extensive. Though poverty forbade the attempt to explore 
our forests, he disregarded its monitions, and we find him passing 
through the vale of Wyoming, and encircling the Lakes that indent the 
interior of New York, and then standing by those inland seas that roll 
on our northern borders. He descended the Ohio in his lonely skiff--he 
searched the islands which picture its waves--he paused in sight of 
smoke curling from the wigwam--he drew the chain of science around the 
copse, and slept in the green saloons of our wilderness. He was a 
Stoic of the woods as to personal suffering, but a Platonist at the 
same time in the mellow sensibilities of his nature.

They were both instructors of youth, but under circumstances widely 
different. The one was a preceptor of youth in the sequestered nooks 
of Pennsylvania; the other became the dignified lecturer from beneath 
a canopy spread over him by regal munificence. The one taught the 
elements of Education--the other enlarged on the lore of Science. As 
an instructor, Linnæus was the more successful. He resembled in some 
measure the Greek philosophers who taught in the suburbs of Athens, 
and he made Hammarby a kind of Swedish Lyceum. He possessed a 
remarkable talent for waking into action the latent enthusiasm of his 
pupils. What custom could have been more inspiring than the one he 
introduced at Upsal, of dividing his pupils into bands, and enjoining 
it on the leader of each to sound a horn when a plant should be 
discovered, never before seen by the fervid eye of science. This 
enthusiasm accounts for the fact, that his pupils subsequently 
explored so many countries, and investigated their floral kingdoms, 
whilst one of them accompanied Sir Joseph Banks round the world, and 
sounded his bugle among the islands of the Pacific.

{76} They both enlarged the limits of Science. Before the time of the 
Swedish philosopher, Botanists had arisen in different countries; and 
from the earliest periods, studies based on the objects of nature must 
have drawn attention both for ornament and use. Lord Bacon, from the 
elevation which he occupied above the rest of his species, looked far 
into the wonders of Natural History; but Linnæus took entire 
possession of the green and flowery land, and led in the tribes of men 
to enjoy its fragrance and pluck its fruit. The poetical affections 
have from the infancy of time been associated with vernal buds and 
flowers. Poetry, when it assumes the form of language, is the melody 
which the mind makes when the imagination is excited by objects in the 
frame-work of nature, or by events susceptible of picturesque 
representation. In the floral games men were acting from ideal 
impulses, and they were doing the same through the ages of chivalry. 
They thus furnished materials out of which Tasso reared his immortal 
work. But it is one thing to look at objects as they sparkle through 
the medium of the imagination, and another to open on the same objects 
the eye of science. Many have celebrated the loves of the Shells who 
have not understood Conchology, and Darwin understood Plants 
scientifically without comprehending them poetically. But Linnæus 
possessed astonishing invention, and he easily detected the errors of 
ancient systems, and convinced mankind of the superiority of that 
system which bore the seal of his own imperishable mind. In like 
manner the Ornithologist did not strike out into ways entirely novel, 
but he extended paths on which men had hitherto gone for the 
acquisition of knowledge. He has greatly enlarged our views of the 
history and habits of the feathered race. From the mountain's height, 
as well as in the deepest recesses of the wilderness, he stretched out 
his hand and clasped the blue and purple bird, that our intellectual 
pleasures might be augmented.

Of these distinguished men, the success of Linnæus in life was by far 
the more conspicuous. He eventually reached every desire which he 
could at any time have cherished. His Professorship at Upsal yielded 
him a revenue equivalent to his wants. He thrust forth from thence 
pupils in successive companies; but distance did not diminish the 
veneration in which they held his person. Foreign countries sent him 
the symbols of admiration--literary associations vied with each other 
in doing him honor--and kings bestowed on him the title of nobility. 
But it is probable that the rural life of Tully and Pliny strongly 
impressed his imagination, for his highest ambition was to possess a 
villa. He purchased Hammarby, which, under his direction, became 
stocked with the productions of every clime. Here he held a kind of 
rural court, and, to use his own language, was happier than any 
Eastern Sultan. Kings and nobles sent presents to his villa, whilst 
pilgrim students detached for his use twigs from the Sabine farm, and 
leaves from the tomb of Pausilippo. The Celtic flower and the Turkish 
vine met in his green-house, and the bird marked by the hues of the 
Tropics, found a home on his lawn. But there is a contrast to this in 
the circumstances of the Ornithologist too painful to be distinctly 
traced; and he was one of the few who have lived for that gratitude 
which reaches its object only in the grave.

In that piety due from a creature to his Maker, Linnæus appears to 
have surpassed the Ornithologist. The Swedish naturalist was 
remarkable for his gratitude, and he often mentioned in glowing words 
the way in which he had been led to results and discoveries so 
important. He felt his dependence when buried in the solitude of the 
desart--nor did he forget to rear an altar at Hammarby. But the 
Ornithologist probably excelled him in some moral qualities, and among 
them was disinterestedness. The love of money was a passion too strong 
with Linnæus, and too feeble for his own comfort with Wilson--and 
neither of them, in this particular, struck the _golden medium_. The 
sensibility of the Ornithologist was likewise more refined than that 
of the Botanist. Linnæus was buried in the Cathedral of Upsal, with a 
pomp which kings alone could bestow; but Wilson was not indifferent to 
the spot in which he should repose. In going into battle an Admiral 
once thought of a tomb in Westminster Abbey--and Napoleon wished to 
lie on the Seine, among the French people whom he had loved so well; 
but the Ornithologist desired to be buried where the birds could find 
access to his grave.

Each of these distinguished men created an æra in Natural History. 
Some philosophers have associated their names with the heavenly 
bodies, and we are reminded of them whenever we lift our thoughts to 
the milky way, or to the planets as they turn in on their bright 
pilgrimage to share the evening repose of our world. Of some we are 
reminded by the balmy air, or by the insects which make it vocal; and 
we call others to remembrance when we look on the Peruvian Lama, or 
the stately Lion: but so long as the earth shall evolve its Plants, 
the Swedish sage cannot be forgotten--and so long as the birds can 
chant a note, the Druid of Ornithology shall not want a requiem.



LOVE AND POETRY.


  They bid me Poetry resign--the mandate I obey:
  Farewell, forever then farewell, to the inspiring lay.
  I go to other happiness--in a bright and sunny clime
  I'll rove amid the orange groves, the olive, and the vine.

  I'll sing and dance to merry strains of some Italian band--
  I'll dream no more of Poetry, nor of "my native land;"
  And as the gondolier doth guide me home from mirth and song,
  My thoughts shall with the gondola glide undisturbed along.

  I'll live for fêtes and operas--I'll haunt the masquerade,
  And all sweet visions of the Lyre shall from my memory fade;
  And Love--(for that were Poetry)--I must resign: apart
  The Lyre and Love can ne'er exist within the human heart.

  And now once more I bid adieu to all thy tender joys
  Sweet Muse, and fly to festive scenes--to folly, mirth and noise;
  But ne'er amid these labyrinths, do I expect to find
  A solace for the loss of Love and Poetry combined.


{77}


A FAIRY TALE.


Down in a deep recess of the loveliest valley upon the face of the 
earth there was a tiny grotto cut in the solid crystal. The few rays 
of light that penetrated through its deep shade, fixed in its vaulted 
roof an unfading rainbow. Its floor was inlaid with many colored 
pebbles of the smallest size, which Fairy hands had brought from the 
neighboring stream. Its sides were hung with tapestry wrought by the 
same delicate fingers, and in colors more vivid than ever dyed a 
painter's brush, representing the benevolent deeds of the fairest and 
kindest of their race. Here might be seen one of those beneficent 
little creatures replacing, for the weary bee, the load of wax he had 
lost in his flight; and another busied in scattering again, on the 
wing of the restless butterfly, the golden dust which the gay 
flutterer had brushed off by a too close contact with his own favorite 
flower; and yet a third, unallured by beauty, but urged by kindness, 
exerting all the energies of her delicate frame to assist the 
industrious ant home with her heavy burthen. Within the grotto was a 
couch formed by the bright feathers of the hummingbird; and, above it, 
hung a canopy of film spun by Fairy hands before the first beams of 
the morning sun could dissolve their work, and while yet every thread 
was strung with pearls. But what was the beauty of the spot compared 
with the excelling loveliness of her that dwelt within? She belonged 
to the most fragile of all the race, one of those who are fabled to 
have sunk beneath the weight of a single grain of wheat. The pencil of 
no mortal artist would be delicate enough to trace her features, and 
human language is too imperfect to describe the surpassing loveliness 
of this ethereal being. The gossamer strung with tiny pearls, and 
floating on the herbage of an autumnal morning, surpassed not in 
lightness the ringlets on her shoulder; and her footstep could only be 
traced by its displacing the golden dust from the flower, as she 
tripped from petal to petal, giving them their colors with a brush 
steeped in the dyes of Fairy-land. For her ministry was amidst the 
brightest part of creation, and her happiness to do offices of 
love--to raise the drooping head of the thirsty flower-cup, and bring 
it the freshest dew-drop of the morning. To be prepared for her 
ministry she had been placed by Titania upon this lower earth--but she 
was first bathed in the fountain of Oblivion, and thus separated from 
her former existence. Yet there still remained in her soul some faint 
recollections of the land of her home, falling upon her spirit sweet 
as the dying strains of music sometimes wafted to the wanderer from 
his native shore when he is leaving it forever. Still there was a void 
left in the soul of this Fairy inhabitant of earth. The yearnings of 
her heart told her she was an exile, though she knew not the land 
whence she came. Her Queen, in pity to her loneliness, formed for her 
a being suited to her love. On awakening one morning she beheld at the 
door of her grotto the loveliest object upon which her eyes had ever 
rested. It was that brightest of flowers, the _Lily of the 
Valley_--but such a one as never before sprung from the dark bosom of 
the earth. The dazzling purity of its blossoms seemed to mingle like 
moonbeams with the twilight of the morning, and its delicate green 
stem bent gently towards her as if seeking her affection. When the 
rising rays of the sun pierced even the depths of this shadowy valley, 
the soft green leaves of the Lily shaded the grotto from their 
influence.

It would be impossible to describe the love that filled the heart of 
our little Fairy for the beautiful flower--for we have not yet known 
what it is to be alone in a strange world without a kindred tie, or 
any thing to which the heart can cling, and which it may claim for its 
own. Now this was the Fairy's flower. She had not gone to seek it, but 
it had sprung up on her own threshold. All the day long was now bright 
to her. Her first thoughts, when she awoke, were to see if her Lily 
still stood in its loveliness before her, and then she moistened her 
lips with the dew that hung ever freshly from its silvery bells. The 
days rolled on, and our little Fairy heeded not their course. She knew 
not that they were bearing with them the brightness of Spring--for her 
existence had known no Winter. But heeded or unheeded, the days rolled 
on. Spring and Summer were gone, and Autumn was fading into Winter. 
The dazzling brightness of the Lily deepened into an unearthly hue, 
and its head was bowed with more than pensive grace. It was a bright 
morning, towards the last of Autumn, when our Fairy, awakening, looked 
towards her lovely favorite. But it was gone. She arose in haste, and 
beheld only a little heap of dust where her flower once grew. Alas! 
words cannot describe the anguish of her heart. There was a 
darkness--a mystery--in the fate of her beloved, which she could not 
unravel, and it fell so coldly upon her spirit, that she believed 
Winter was enclosing her heart also in its frost-work, and she wept 
for another home, where winter should come no more. But at length the 
destroyer passed away, and the bright things of the earth shot up 
again to meet the joyous Springtime. The voice of gladness was heard 
once more from the lofty mountain to the humble valley. Our little 
Fairy felt its influence--she felt the frost-work melt from her heart, 
and she wondered if she could love any flower again as she had loved 
her departed Lily.

And again, almost in the same spot, there sprung up a _Heart's Ease_, 
so bright and glowing that it seemed the very offspring of Joy. At 
first our Fairy would not trust herself to love it. She remembered 
that Winter would come again, and she thought, too, the new flower 
wanted the loveliness of her Lily. But invariably her heart smiled 
beneath its influence, and there was Springtime once more in her soul. 
The recollection of Winter passed from her mind, as the ice before the 
sun. But again Summer ripened into Autumn, and that, in its turn, was 
changed into Winter, and again the little Fairy was left alone. She 
beheld one morning her bright little gem of a flower set in the 
brilliants of frost, and sparkling as gaily as if the light still came 
from within. She hastened to dissolve with her breath the diamond 
fetters of her favorite, but alas! their weight had been too heavy for 
the little creature, and it fell with them to rise no more.

The Fairy wept--but not so bitterly as erewhile. She knew the Spring 
would come again with fresh flowers; and when it _did_ come she beheld 
a sweet _Mignonette_ spring up on her threshold, but so different in 
beauty from her former favorites that she turned from it in 
disappointment. Yet when the humble flower filled her grotto with 
fragrance, and insensibly its {78} sweetness stole into her heart, and 
possessed it with a delightful tranquillity she had never experienced 
before, her soul fainted within her when she remembered that Winter 
would snatch away from her _this_ loved one as it had done her _other_ 
loved ones before. And in truth, but a few brief months, and the blast 
had swept over this fragile flower, leaving no trace of its existence 
but the perfume it exhaled with its last breath, on the gale that bore 
it into eternity.

Now it was that our poor little Fairy felt a dreariness, not to be 
shaken off, fall heavily upon her spirits. She wished no longer for 
Spring. She wished never again to fix her heart upon the perishing 
flowers of Earth. The shadow of mortality seemed to have fallen even 
upon her bright little grotto, and she sighed for another home.

And now the time of her sojourn was over. Lying down upon her downy 
couch she slept. After a while, opening her eyes, she found herself in 
Fairy-land, and her heart told her that this was indeed her home. 
Those dim recollections of a former existence that had formerly 
floated in her mind, now revived with all the vividness of reality; 
and what she had believed to be but ideal forms of beauty, she now 
found to be the images of things familiar in a previous state of 
being. Even her beloved Lily, so fair yet so fleeting, was but the 
type of one that grew in Fairy-land in glorious and imperishable 
beauty. She saw here, too, thousands of her own race busied in 
gathering up the evanescent sweets of earthly flowers to embody them 
in forms of divine loveliness, unchangeable by the frosts of Winter, 
and springing up forever in sempiternal beauty. And now our Fairy was, 
for the first time, a happy Fairy. The longings of her heart were 
satisfied. She was an exile no more. She had found a home utterly free 
from the chilling shadows of mortality.



THE WAGONER.


  I've often thought if I were asked
  Whose lot I envied most--
  What one, I thought most lightly tasked
  Of man's unnumber'd host--
  I'd say, I'd be a mountain boy,
  And drive a noble team, Wo, hoy!
        Wo, hoy! I'd cry,
        And lightly fly
        Into my saddle seat;
        My rein I'd slack--
        My whip I'd crack--
        What music is so sweet?

  Six blacks I'd drive, of ample chest,
  All carrying high the head;
  All harness'd tight, and gaily drest
  In winkers tipp'd with red--
  Oh yes, I'd be a mountain boy
  And such a team I'd drive, Wo, hoy!
        Wo, hoy! I'd cry,
        The lint should fly--
        Wo, hoy! you Dobbin! Ball!
        Their feet should ring
        And I would sing,
        I'd sing my fal de rol.

  My bells would tingle, tingle ling,
  Beneath each bear-skin cap;
  And as I saw them swing and swing,
  I'd be the merriest chap--
  Yes, then I'd be a mountain boy
  And drive a jingling team, Wo, hoy!
        Wo, hoy! I'd cry--
        My words should fly,
        Each horse would prick his ear;
        With tighten'd chain
        My lumbering wain
        Would move in its career.

  The golden sparks, you'd see them spring
  Beneath my horse's tread;
  Each tail, I'd braid it up with string
  Of blue, or flaunting red;
  So does, you know, the mountain boy
  Who drives a dashing team, Wo, hoy!
        Wo, hoy! I'd cry
        Each horse's eye
        With fire would seem to burn;
        With lifted head
        And nostril spread
        They'd seem the earth to spurn.

  They'd champ the bit, and fling the foam,
  As on they dragged my load;
  And I would think of distant home,
  And whistle upon the road--
  Oh would I were a mountain boy--
  I'd drive a six-horse team, Wo, hoy!
        Wo, hoy! I'd cry--
        Now by yon sky,
        I'd sooner drive those steeds
        Than win renown,
        Or wear a crown
        Won by victorious deeds!

  For crowns oft press the languid head,
  And health the wearer shuns,
  And Victory, trampling on the dead,
  May do for Goths and Huns--
  Seek them who will, they have no joys
  For mountain lads, and Wagon-boys.



SACRED MELODY.


  By the rivers of Babel we flung
    Ourselves on the earth in despair--
  Our harps on the willow-trees hung,
    And wept for thee, Zion, afar.

  For those who had made us their prey,
    And bore us as captives along,
  Then proudly demanded a lay--
    To sing them, oh! Zion, thy song!

  But the spoiler shall ask it in vain:
    We will not this triumph accord--
  He never shall list to the strain
    That wafted the praise of the Lord.

  For perish the hand that would string
    The harp, unremembering thy woe,
  And cursed be the tongue that would sing,
    Oh! Zion, thy songs for the foe.


{79}


SENSIBILITY.


"Still in tears!" said Margarette Claremont, as she entered the parlor 
after a walk. "Which is it now, my dear Alice, Werther or Madam de 
Stael's Corinna?"

"Neither," answered Alice. Margarette looked over her shoulder, and 
saw that the book her cousin held was a volume of Kotzebue's plays, 
and that "Self-Immolation" was the one that engrossed her attention.

"How prodigal you are of your tears, dear cousin!" said 
Margarette,--"and how you _waste_ your sensibilities on these 
high-wrought, and ultra-sentimental fictions! Will not your health be 
impaired, and your mind enervated by such excess of indulgence?"

"I fear no such results," said Alice,--"and should blush at the 
obduracy of my heart, should it fail of being moved when reading works 
in which such deep feeling is portrayed."

"Weep as much for legitimate sorrow as you will, Alice--even when 
portrayed in fictitious narrative, but do not expend your sympathies 
on scenes such as never did, and never will occur in the world." Alice 
made no reply, as Margarette turned and ran up stairs, but the thought 
of her heart was--"I am thankful I am not a stoic! thankful that my 
feelings are not congealed."

Alice Lansdale and Margarette Claremont were both orphan nieces of the 
wealthy bachelor Mr. Claremont, with whom they resided. The former was 
the daughter of his only sister. Her parents died when she was quite 
young, and consigned her, destitute of property, to the care of her 
uncle, with whom she had now resided several years. Margarette was the 
daughter of his only brother. She had been an orphan but few months, 
during which period she had been domesticated in the family of Mr. 
Claremont, to whom had been committed the guardianship of herself, and 
her ample fortune.

"Have you nearly got through with your play, Alice?" said Margarette, 
as she re-entered the parlor. Alice made no answer, as she sat with 
her head leaning on one hand, her book spread on the table before 
her,--while the other hand held a handkerchief that was ever and anon 
applied to her eyes. Margarette advanced, and leaned on the back of 
her chair.

"How much longer are you going to read, Alice?" asked Margarette.

"Why can't you be quiet, and leave me undisturbed?" said Alice.

"Because I have something to tell you," answered Margarette.

"About goody Mason's lame finger, I suppose," said Alice.

"No--about two elegant looking young men I saw in the street an hour 
since,"--said Margarette.

"Who were they?" enquired Alice, without raising her eyes from her 
book.

"I do not know,--but from your description, I conjectured them to be 
your cousin Hubert and the _Black Prince_, as you call him."

"Why did not you tell me this before?" said Alice, springing on her 
feet. "They will be here immediately; cousin Hubert at least,--and 
here I am, looking like a fright, with eyes as red as a toper's! Why 
could you not have told me when you first came in?"

"I had been talking with Susan Hall, and forgot it," said Margarette. 
"And after all, perhaps it is not them."

"O, I know it is!--they were expected very soon. But tell me how the 
one you took to be the Black Prince looked, and I shall know at once 
if it was him."

"Tall--yet hardly as tall as his companion--with black hair, black 
eyes, and an acre of black whiskers; and--pardon me--a dash of 
impudence in his expression--at least I thought so, as I passed him."

"O, it must be him," said Alice, "though if it be, the latter part of 
your description is only your own imagination. But why do I linger 
here, when I must try to make myself look decent to see them? for 
cousin Hubert, at least, will come,"--and she left the room with a 
sigh.

Scarcely half an hour had passed ere Alice was summoned, according to 
her expectations, to meet her cousin, and Mr. Gordon, the _Black 
Prince_.

The young men made a long call,--for Alice had much to ask them of 
what they had seen and learned, during their absence; and they had 
much that was interesting to communicate. They had scarcely closed the 
door behind them, after taking leave, ere Alice exclaimed--

"Is he not a divine creature, cousin Margarette?"

"Which of them?" asked Margarette.

"Which! you stupid creature!--as if you knew not which I meant!--But 
which of them do you like best?"

"I was most pleased with your cousin's conversation," Margarette 
replied.

"Why?" asked Alice. "I am sure Gordon converses elegantly."

"He has words enough at command," said Margarette,--"but a scarcity of 
ideas; and those he has are not weighty. While listening to him I 
could not help thinking it was like dressing a little four-penny doll, 
in a large robe of silver tissue. Mr. Montague's conversation was 
really entertaining and instructive."

"I expected you to be severe, _of course_," said Alice, "yet I think 
you can find no fault with his manners."

"He is quite at his ease, and appears a gentleman, certainly," said 
Margarette, "yet his manners did not please me. There was too much 
show--he was _too_ easy--has too much manner; and, if I may judge from 
one interview, he is not at all wanting in self-complacency."

"Cousin Hubert's quiet way suited your singular taste better, I dare 
say," said Alice.

"It certainly did--for he did not appear to be thinking of himself. 
His manners to-day were truly polished and refined; and if they arise 
from his heart, as I hope they did, I should judge very favorably of 
the man."

"I suppose you think him best looking, too!" said Alice--"best dressed 
and all!"

"In person they are both elegant young men," said Margarette, "but Mr. 
Montague's dress certainly suited me best,--as I doubt whether to be 
comfortable is not his first object in the choice of his apparel. As 
for Mr. Gordon, he must make dress a study. You see, Alice, as I had 
nothing to do but look and listen, I could learn a good deal of them 
in the hour and a half that they were here."

"Well, as you _studied_ them, do let me know what you think of their 
faces."

{80} "I have told you enough for once," said Margarette, "wait for the 
remainder till I see them again--perhaps I may change my opinion."

"No, no," said Alice,--"let me have it now--When you change your 
opinion, you can let me know it.--What of their faces?"

"Mr. Gordon, then," said Margarette, "knows that he is handsome,--and 
he has studied the exterior of his head so much, that I should fear he 
has somewhat neglected the interior."

"And what of cousin Hubert's?"

"I think his head very fine--very classical. His face is decidedly 
intellectual--his eyes uncommonly good."

"And what of his mouth and teeth?" said Alice.

"Peculiarly handsome," said Margarette. "And now, as you can possibly 
have no more questions to ask, pray let me know your opinion."

"You must have known that a long time. Cousin Hubert is--I can't say 
what he is--but just what I approve; and as for Gordon, he is the 
divinest creature alive!"

While this conversation was going on in Mr. Claremont's parlor, one 
not dissimilar was carried on in the street betwixt the gentlemen, 
Montague and Gordon.

"Who is this new cousin of yours, Montague?" asked Gordon.

"I cannot claim her as a relation," said Montague. "She is cousin to 
my cousin only, and a perfect stranger to me."

"_N'importe_," said Gordon. "But what do you think of her?"

"I have not had time to form an opinion," said Montague.

"You received some kind of impression, necessarily," said Gordon. "No 
one can be almost alone with a stranger for an hour or more, and not 
form some idea of what the character may be."

"She is certainly very silent and reserved," said Montague. "Her 
countenance denotes intellect,--but she appears cold, and has a 
loftiness that is repelling.--I fear she may prove wanting in that 
sensibility, of which cousin Alice has so abundant a share."

"O, she is a block of marble--a bank of snow--a statue of ice," said 
Gordon. "There would be infinite amusement in trying whether the 
marble would yield! the snow melt! the ice thaw!--She is a new variety 
of the species. I have seen nothing like her!"

"You admire her," said Montague. "I do exceedingly," said Gordon.

"Your taste has much changed," observed Montague. "It is but a short 
time since you were in raptures about my cousin, and they appear to be 
exceedingly unlike."

"True,--and Miss Claremont therefore excites the deeper interest. She 
will require some labor, some ingenuity to make her dissolve. Alice, 
pardon me, is always _melted_."

"Alice has strong sensibilities," said Montague, "and is as 
unsophisticated as a child. She hides none of her feelings."

"Did you notice Miss Claremont's smile," asked Gordon.

"I did, and confess it was very beautiful. Her whole face smiled, and 
seemed to beam with delight. But it was so evanescent, I scarcely 
caught it, ere it was gone."

"A slight shade of sadness was the prevailing cast of her 
countenance," said Gordon.

"She has recently lost a most excellent father," said Montague. "You 
noticed she was in mourning."

"Could an unfeeling heart lodge beneath that smile?" asked Gordon.

"The source of the smile might be the head--not the heart," answered 
Montague.

"I will never believe it--at least not till I try whether she has a 
heart or not," said Gordon.

"Very well," said Montague. "I told you in the beginning, I had not 
had time to form an opinion."

Between the two young men who held this conversation, there was as 
strong a contrast as could be between a noble-minded, well-educated, 
well-principled young man, and an _exquisite_ of the first water. 
Gordon was quite free from all gross irregularities, but he had no 
principle of action; no motive beyond present gratification. The Bible 
was Montague's counsellor and guide; and he was endeavoring so to live 
on earth, as to live forever in Heaven. The young men had been much 
together in boyhood, and afterwards at the university; and though the 
difference in their characters grew broader, and more strongly marked 
every day, yet their intimacy in some degree continued. Montague was 
interested in the welfare of his early associate; and Gordon, though 
often angry at the warnings, exhortations, and reproofs of his friend, 
could not endure the idea of relinquishing his friendship. He really 
had a kind of affection for Montague; and he felt that it gave him 
additional consequence to be permitted to call such a man _friend_. 
Some months previous to the period now spoken of, Montague had been 
called on business to a distant part of the country; and Gordon, 
having nothing to do, offered to accompany him, and they had now just 
returned, after an absence of half a year. Montague had his fortune to 
make; Gordon inherited one from his father.

One morning about a week after his return, Montague called at Mr. 
Claremont's, where he was a frequent visiter. He was not quite as 
cheerful and conversable as usual, and after trying a long time to 
draw him out, Alice said--

"You are depressed this morning, Hubert. What is the matter?"

"I have just witnessed a scene of distress, that I cannot get out of 
my mind," said Montague.

"What was that?" asked Alice.

"It was an Irish family that occupy a hovel about half a mile from 
hence. The family consists of the father, Patrick Delanty, his wife 
and six children, the eldest a daughter, not more than thirteen years 
of age. They have been but few weeks in town, and are wretchedly poor. 
The wife is ill of a raging fever, and the two youngest children of 
measles, from which the others are but just recovered. Delanty is 
obliged to be out at day-labor, to keep his family from starvation; so 
that all the care and labor of nursing the sick, and looking after the 
other children, devolve on the eldest daughter, and a boy, two or 
three years younger.-- Such poverty--such squalid and complicated 
misery, I have never before witnessed."

"Poor creatures!" said Alice. "But why will they {81} leave their 
native land, and come here among strangers, where no one cares for 
them, to endure such misery?"

"To get rid of greater misery at home, cousin Alice!" said Montague.

"O, they are much to be pitied, poor creatures!"--said Alice; "but 
there are such hordes of them, that it is impossible to afford them 
effectual relief."

Montague said no more, as he found that the sympathetic cord in his 
cousin's heart was not touched. He just cast his eyes on Margarette, 
who was sitting, busily at work, in a recess at the opposite end of 
the room, to see if her compassion was awakened: but she was 
diligently plying her needle,--and but for the motion of her hand, he 
thought she looked exceedingly as if she were made of stone! 
"Heartless! unfeeling!" he thought, and almost murmured, as he arose 
and precipitately took leave.

The day next but one, Montague was again at Mr. Claremont's. Neither 
of the young ladies mentioned the Delantys; for Alice was wholly 
engrossed in a new novel,--and Montague concluded that Margarette had 
not even heard that there were any such people. But his own heart was 
too full of them, not to speak of their situation.

"Cousin Alice," said he, "you are so compassionate that I wonder you 
do not ask after the welfare of the poor Irish family."

"O, poor creatures! how are they? I have thought of them several times 
since you were here, and wished they had stayed in their own country, 
among their own friends, that they might be properly looked after. 
Have you seen them since you were here last, cousin Hubert?"

"Yes--yesterday, and again this morning."

"And how are they?"

"The children are somewhat better, but the mother still very ill. The 
family, however, together, are more comfortable than when I first saw 
them. Some young lady has kindly visited them, and not only in some 
measure relieved their pressing necessities, but given judicious and 
salutary advice to the daughter about the management of their affairs. 
When they described her to me, I felt a hope that it was you, cousin 
Alice."

"O no, Hubert, I could not go--such a scene of suffering would have 
shaken me all to pieces. Really I do not think I could bear it! But 
how did they describe the young lady?"

"As neither tall nor short, with a beautiful face, and a '_raal Irish 
heart_'--kind as an angel!" said Hubert,--and he glanced his eyes 
toward Margarette, to ascertain if there were any look of 
consciousness in the expression of her face; but she was looking over 
the morning paper, and at that moment exclaimed--

"Dunlap and Miss Reed are married, Alice."

"How could I, even for a moment, suspect it might be her?" thought 
Montague. "She cares no more for them than if they were reptiles!"

"Who could it be, cousin Hubert?" asked Alice. "Did you not ask them 
if they knew her name?"

"I did--but they knew nothing of her but her kindness, of which they 
could not say enough. She even made the bed, with her own hands, and 
put fresh linen upon it, which she brought with her for the purpose, 
for the sick mother, who told me of it with tears of gratitude in her 
eyes."

"Well indeed she might!" cried Alice. "Think of what an office for a 
young lady!--such a combination of disease and filthiness! If I hear 
of any young lady in town, sick of a fever, I shall at once know who 
was Mrs. Delanty's nurse."

"May Heaven preserve her health," said Montague with fervor. "Persons 
of less active kindness could much better be spared; and the community 
would suffer little loss, were they laid on a bed of sickness."

"Very true," said Alice. "Yet there are very few, who can with 
propriety be called young _ladies_, who are capable of rendering such 
services. One might be ready to relieve suffering if it existed under 
less disgusting circumstances; but for a delicate female to encounter 
such dirt, and disease, and poverty at once, is too much!"

"Firm principle, a truly feeling heart, and a self-denying spirit, 
could alone enable a delicate woman to do it," said Montague,--"and 
these could!" He looked around to ascertain whether Margarette had 
really left the room, and then added--"And pardon me, my dearest 
cousin, if I suggest to you, that would you strive to conquer that 
extreme sensibility, which makes you shrink from scenes of suffering, 
and constrain yourself to witness and relieve distress, in your own 
person, you would render yourself, at once, far more happy and useful, 
if not more interesting. _Active benevolence_ is one great secret of 
happiness." At this moment Mr. Claremont entered the room; the 
conversation turned to other subjects, and Montague soon took leave.

Mr. Gordon had not kept himself aloof from Mr. Claremont's, during 
this period; on the contrary, he had called frequently--as frequently 
as he dared, and reconnoitred to the best of his ability to ascertain 
the vulnerable part of Margarette's character, while he had brought 
all his small arms into successive requisition. His first and most 
natural effort was by flattery,--by which it is said all women may be 
subdued; and perhaps they may, _and all men too_, provided it be of 
the right kind, and administered in the right manner. But here Mr. 
Gordon completely failed. He was too gross; his colors were too 
glaring; there was no soft shading away,--nothing to touch the heart, 
through the medium of a refined taste; and Gordon found, though he 
knew not why, that he excited disgust instead of pleasure. He wondered 
that what he had ever found so efficacious with other young 
ladies--what would have caused the cheek of Alice to glow, and her eye 
to sparkle, was so powerless here. "I said she was a new variety of 
the species," thought he, "and I must try again." And he did try 
again--first by doing her silent homage,--breathing near her ear the 
deep-drawn sigh, and casting upon her the look of warm admiration and 
deep interest. But he soon closed his pantomime, as Margarette 
_heeded_ not, even if she _heard_ his sighs; and his impassioned 
glances were completely thrown away, as they rarely met her eye,--and 
when they did, seemed not to be understood. The next attempt was to 
aid in gratifying her in her favorite recreations, and in the 
indulgence of her taste. "Was Miss Claremont fond of prints?" 
"Particularly so." "He was very happy! He had a choice collection--and 
would fetch over his portfolio for her examination." "Was there any 
book in his library that Miss Claremont would like to read? He had the 
most approved editions of all modern authors, and it {82} would afford 
him great pleasure if Miss Claremont would make a selection from among 
them, of any thing new to her." "He was very obliging--but her uncle's 
library was large, and well selected, affording sufficient 
intellectual nourishment for years--beside that he purchased every new 
work of merit." "Miss Claremont was an equestrian. He had a palfrey 
that would rival Margaret of Cranstoun's, which was entirely at her 
service." "He was exceedingly kind--but Mr. Claremont had one that was 
at once so spirited and gentle, that on his back she felt entirely at 
ease." Poor Gordon knew not what next to do. He had racked his 
invention to render himself agreeable and necessary--not only in the 
ways above enumerated--but by being always observing, and ready to 
perform any little personal service that might be requisite, such as 
handing a glass of lemonade, fetching a fan, picking up a stray glove, 
or placing a chair in a more desirable situation. He had actually 
labored hard, and had not advanced one step; and the only 
gratification that attended his exertions, was the obvious uneasiness 
of Alice, who pined under the loss of his attentions. A half 
suppressed sigh often struck on his ear; and a tear, as he thought, 
filled her eye, as she witnessed his marked devotion to Margarette. 
But for this sweet incense to his vanity, and his own boasting to 
Montague, that he was resolved not to be defeated, he would have 
relinquished so hopeless a pursuit. But pride and vanity impelled him 
onward; and although he could devise no new mode of attack, he 
determined to watch opportunities, and avail himself of any 
circumstance that might occur in favor of his design. As the _heart_ 
of Mr. Gordon was a thing entirely out of the question, except as it 
occasionally fluttered with gratified vanity, or was momentarily 
depressed with mortification at want of success, his _head_ was 
entirely free to devise plans in the best manner his abilities would 
allow, and watch opportunities with the most perfect coolness.

Mr. Montague had by degrees become interested in watching the result 
of Gordon's various modes of attack; and notwithstanding he had been 
rather displeased with the apparent coldness of Margarette's 
character, he felt gratified that she did not yield to the arts of 
Gordon. Not that he was in the least jealous of his friend's general 
success with women; nor that he had any personal wishes relative to 
Margarette; but he did wish to see one woman who was not to be won by 
mere external graces and accomplishments, and the little arts and 
blandishments that are usually so successful. His interest in Gordon's 
progress, led him to notice Margarette more particularly than he 
would, perhaps, otherwise have done. Gradually, and unconsciously, he 
was taking her up as a study; and the more he observed her, the more 
interesting did the study become. "She is a perfect enigma!" thought 
he. "I can never decide whether the variations in her countenance have 
their origin in the head or the heart. Her smile is the brightest--the 
most joyous--the most beautiful I ever beheld! and yet there is 
something in it that leads me to fear that it is like the brilliancy 
of the diamond--cold, while it dazzles! She seems not easily moved; 
and yet, while silently engaged in her work, I have seen her color 
fluctuate, while others have been discussing an interesting subject. 
She knows, at least, how to appreciate true greatness, for I have seen 
her eyes speak volumes when a magnanimous action has been mentioned 
before her. And, at any rate, I admire the firmness with which she 
repels that small artillery that is so generally successful, when 
levelled against her sex!"

       *       *       *       *       *

One evening quite a circle of friends collected at Mr. Claremont's, 
among whom were both Montague and Gordon. Gordon secured a seat 
between Alice and Margarette, while Montague stood apart from them, 
listening to the general conversation, but now and then casting a 
glance at the trio, in which he took so much interest. The 
conversation at length fell on reading. Some expressed a preference 
for one class of reading, some for another; but a large majority of 
the company decided that biography was the most instructive, 
interesting, and entertaining. This resulted in a discussion of whose 
biography was most valuable, when a gentleman remarked, "that the life 
of Lord Nelson was the most interesting work he had ever read."

"Is it the book or the man, you so much admire?" asked one of the 
company.

"O, both--but the man particularly. His heroism charmed me."

"O do not name him," said Mr. Claremont. "I sicken with disgust when I 
read the fulsome panegyrics bestowed on him; and the numberless 
monuments raised to his memory in Great Britain."

"He was a most noble creature!" said Gordon, in a rather low tone to 
Margarette. She cast on him a look of the most withering coldness, not 
unmingled with contempt, but made no reply, as she listened to learn 
what further her uncle would say.

"No wonder they are proud of him, and raise monuments to his memory," 
said the gentleman who had first spoken of Nelson. "He secured more 
honor to the British navy than any hero from the reign of Elizabeth to 
the present time."

"Talk not of his heroism, or the glory he acquired for Britain," said 
Mr. Claremont. "Devoured by ambition, did he fight for the good of his 
country? or to attain individual honor? Was he not continually whining 
and complaining that his services were not sufficiently requited? 
Depend on it, he would not have thought the crown of England an 
unreasonable reward! And in his character as a hero, lies all the 
honor he can claim. As a private man, he was despicable. Though he 
could conquer the enemies of his country, he resigned himself without 
resistance to the dominion of the basest passions, and was guilty of 
that, which in _unrefined_ New England, would have caused him to be 
hooted from society. Perfidious! hypocritical! base!--his character 
was stained with vices of the deepest dye,--and my astonishment can 
only be exceeded by my indignation, when in English publications I see 
him spoken of, and that by pious persons--Madam More, for one--as the 
"_immortal Nelson!_"--a being to be looked up to with admiration!"

"You are warm, Mr. Claremont," observed one of his friends.

"Perhaps I am, sir; and on this subject I wish others were as warm as 
myself. To eulogize such men as Lord Nelson, and hold them up to youth 
as fit objects for admiration and imitation, is laying the axe at the 
root of all morality. It is not, indeed, going softly to work, like a 
Rousseau, or Voltaire, to undermine the {83} foundation of their 
virtue, but demolishes the whole fabric at once, by telling them, that 
if capable of performing a few brilliant actions, such a halo will 
shine around them, as will entirely conceal from the eyes of every 
beholder their want of sincerity, truth, fidelity, or moral honor. Wo 
to my country, when the public sentiment shall be so far corrupted, as 
to think that heroism, and what is known by the name of _glory_, can 
compensate for the want of true, consistent, undying virtue!"

Montague chanced to be looking at Margarette when Mr. Claremont began 
to speak, and the look she gave Mr. Gordon fixed his attention upon 
her, though he heard not the remark that called it forth. He watched 
her countenance with deep interest, as it gradually lighted up to a 
glow of admiring approbation, strangely intermingled with a shade of 
sadness. "I will have her opinion on this subject from her own lips," 
thought he; and placing himself near her, he said--

"What is your opinion of Lord Nelson, Miss Claremont?"

"O, exactly the same as my uncle's," said Margarette. "And how could 
it be otherwise? when I have so often heard my dear father express 
sentiments exactly similar. He very carefully taught me, never to let 
any external glory, any meretricious glare, blind me to real defects, 
or to the want of intrinsic and solid excellence." Her eye, as she 
finished speaking, sparkled through a tear, which was not unobserved 
by either Montague or Gordon.

"There is, then, a fountain of feeling within," thought Montague, as 
he still looked upon her--"A fountain of deep, pure, noble feeling!"

"By Jupiter, there is a tear!" thought Gordon--"and Montague has had 
the good fortune to call it forth. Who would have thought, that to 
talk of Lord Nelson, was the way to touch her heart? I would have 
given a thousand dollars, rather than he should have had this 
triumph!"

       *       *       *       *       *

One morning Montague called at Mr. Claremont's, but found that both 
the young ladies were out. Mr. Claremont, however, was in the parlor, 
and he and Montague had passed a very pleasant half hour, ere Alice 
and Margarette came in. Margarette bade Montague 'good morning'--but 
Alice just nodded at him, and hastened to her uncle, and seating 
herself on his knee, exclaimed--

"Dear uncle, I am so glad you are in! I want to ask a great favor of 
you."

"What is that, my dear?" said Mr. Claremont.

"I am half afraid to tell," said Alice, "you will think me so 
extravagant. But, dear uncle, Margarette and I have seen the two most 
beautiful pearl necklaces at Wendall's, you ever beheld!"

"And you want them?"

"O, I do, most sadly," said Alice.

"And do you, Margarette?"

"I think not, sir," said Margarette--while Alice at the same moment 
cried--

"O, Margarette can have whatever she wants, she is so rich!--not a 
poor beggar like your own Alice, dependent on the bounty of another 
for every thing"--and bursting into tears, she hid her face on her 
uncle's shoulder.

  "Sweet sensibility, O, la!
   I heard a little lamb cry, bah!"

said Mr. Claremont. "Come, Alice, don't cry about it, but tell me the 
price of the necklaces."

"How can I," said the sobbing Alice, "when you make such cruel sport 
of my feelings? Indeed, uncle, it is cruel!"

"I never make sport of your feelings, my dear, when there is any thing 
that ought to awaken them," said Mr. Claremont. "But come, tell me the 
price of the pearl necklaces."

"They are fifty dollars apiece."

"Whew!" said Mr. Claremont. "And so I must spend a hundred dollars to 
adorn the necks of my nieces?"

"O, Margarette can buy her own, you know uncle, and so you will have 
to give away but fifty."

"I hold Miss Claremont's purse-strings, you know," said Mr. Claremont, 
"and I shall serve you both alike. Margarette's, as well as yours, 
must be the gift of her uncle."

"I do not wish for one, my dear sir," said Margarette, but Mr. 
Claremont heeded her not, and opening his pocket book, gave them fifty 
dollars each. Alice loaded her uncle with kisses and thanks, while it 
was with evident reluctance that Margarette took hers in her hand. But 
as some ladies at that instant entered the room, without saying more, 
she put it in her purse. As soon as the visiters had withdrawn Alice 
went to her chamber, and Margarette seized the opportunity of being 
alone with Mr. Claremont, to restore to him the fifty dollars.

"My dear sir," said she, "I cannot accept this money, and should have 
declined it at the moment, only I could not explain before strangers. 
You will relieve me greatly by taking it again."

"By no means, my dear--I should be much pleased that you and Alice 
should have necklaces alike."

"But I do not want a necklace, sir, and should feel very badly to 
spend fifty dollars on a useless ornament."

"Then purchase something else with it, Margarette."

"I am in want of nothing, sir, and had much rather restore it to you."

"Can you find no use for it, my dear?" asked Mr. Claremont.

"O yes, sir--I could find enough to do with this, and ten times more. 
But perhaps you would think it injudiciously expended."

"What should you do with it, Margarette?" asked Mr. Claremont.

"Give every cent of it away, sir," Margarette replied.

"Very well," said Mr. Claremont. "It is yours, my dear, to throw at 
the birds, if you please. I can depend on your judgment and 
principles, that it will not go to indulge idleness or vice."

"O, I thank you most sincerely, my dear uncle," said Margarette with 
warmth--"in behalf of those who are suffering from want. It will give 
me great delight to be your almoner."

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a very narrow lane ran past the foot of Mr. Claremont's 
garden, in which stood a little hut, occupied by a poor, but pious old 
man, who earned a scanty livelihood by gardening. He was known all 
ever the town by the title of _Commodore_, merely because {84} in his 
youth he had commanded a fishing-smack. Montague had one evening 
walked some way out of town; and on his return, intending to pass an 
hour at Mr. Claremont's, he passed through this lane as the shortest 
way to his house. In passing the Commodore's domicil, which stood on 
the lower side of the lane, he cast his eyes in at the window, which 
had neither shutter nor curtain, and by a glimmering fire-light saw 
the old man sitting in his arm chair by the fire, while a female sat 
on a low stool beside him, who seemed to be doing something to his 
foot, which lay across her lap. Montague halted an instant, for there 
was something about the female figure, although enveloped in a large 
shawl and hood, that reminded him of Margarette. But her back was 
toward him, and the fire-light was so dim, that he remained in doubt 
whether or not it was she. "If it is her," thought he, as he walked 
on--"If it is her, performing such an office for the poor old 
Commodore, it may, after all, be her who visits the Delantys." As he 
came out of the lane, he met an acquaintance, with whom he conversed a 
minute or two, and then proceeded to Mr. Claremont's.

On entering the parlor, he found the little domestic circle complete. 
Mr. Claremont was engaged in a volume of Brewster's Encyclopedia; 
Alice with Malvina, over which she was shedding a torrent of 
tears,--and Margarette with her knitting work. "It was not her, after 
all," thought Montague; "but who could it be? she had not the air of a 
rustic!" After receiving Mr. Claremont's cordial welcome, he advanced 
toward his cousin, and closing her book with gentle violence, said--

"If you sustain no other injury, my dear Alice, you will inevitably 
ruin your eyes by reading while you weep so profusely. I wish you 
would relinquish novels as I fear they do you little good. Their 
general tendency is to enervate rather than strengthen the character." 
"I wish you could persuade her to relinquish them, Mr. Montague," said 
Mr. Claremont. "I am satisfied that that class of reading, only 
increases in Alice that sensitiveness which is already too strong. It 
will degenerate into weakness, and I know of few things more to be 
dreaded than a _sickly sensibility_."

"Why should you suppose that the reading of novels would produce that 
effect, more than the scenes of real life?" said Alice, "when it is 
universally conceded, that no genius can ever reach the truth."

"I can tell you why, Alice," said Montague. "In reading works of the 
imagination, persons of feeling unconsciously identify themselves with 
the favorite character; and then in a day or two, and sometimes in a 
few hours, their feelings are taxed with those scenes of sorrow and 
excitement, which in real life are scattered through months, or 
perhaps years. The greater part of life is made up of comparative 
trifles, which make little demand on the feelings, and scenes of 
sorrow and excitement are 'few and far between,' like the convulsions 
of the elements--which, though often distressing, and sometimes 
disastrous, are, on the whole, highly beneficial. But were the 
elements always at war, nature would soon sink to dissolution; and so 
if the mind and the heart were constantly raised to a state of high 
excitement, their energies would soon be exhausted, and the corporeal 
part would soon sink in the conflict. Do you read novels, Miss 
Claremont?" inquired Montague.

"Sometimes, but not often," Margarette replied.

"And do they affect you as they do cousin Alice?"

"Affect her?" cried Alice--"no, indeed! I never saw her moved to 
tears, by reading, but once in my life."

"And pray what was she then reading?" asked Montague, with a smile.

"A little penny tract, called 'Old Sarah, the Indian Woman'"--said 
Alice. "Over that she actually wept!"

"Did you read the tract, cousin Alice?"

"Yes--from mere curiosity, after witnessing the wonderful effect it 
produced."

"And did it call forth your tears?"

"No, certainly not!--Sarah was a good old creature, to be sure, but 
there was nothing in the tract to touch one's sensibility; and I could 
never conceive what there was in it, that so moved Margarette."

"Pho, pho, Alice," said Mr. Claremont, "Margarette is not the Stoic 
you represent her. I caught her no longer ago than this very morning, 
with a tear in her eye, while reading."

"My dear uncle," said Margarette, in a supplicating tone, while the 
pure blood in her cheeks rushed to her temples.

"What _was_ she reading, uncle?" cried Alice.

"None of your lackadaisical nonsense, you may be certain, Alice," said 
Mr. Claremont. "She was reading a newspaper."

Alice laughed outright.

"Not so laughable an affair, neither, my dear," said Mr. Claremont, 
"as she was reading of the bravery and sufferings of the poor 
unfortunate"----

"Dear uncle!" again ejaculated Margarette.

"Poles," added Mr. Claremont, without noticing the interruption.

"The Poles? O yes," said Alice. "There was 'Thaddeus of Warsaw'--he 
was a divine creature! Well might one weep at the recital of his 
sufferings!"

"Doubtless, my dear--but Margarette's sympathies were moved by 
sufferings of a more recent date than his--by the narrative of bravery 
and suffering in all their nakedness--unadorned with the romance and 
poetry that Miss Porter has thrown around her hero. And to tell you 
the plain truth, Alice--I _do_ like that sensibility better, that 
sympathizes with the actual miseries of our fellow creatures, even 
though there be nothing elegant, or poetic about them, than that which 
has tears only for some high-wrought tale of fictitious woe--the 
afflictions of some fallen prince, or the sorrows of some 
love-stricken swain, or lovelorn damsel."

"That, dear uncle, is as much as to say," said Alice, while her voice 
was choked with rising emotion--"that I can feel for sorrows of no 
other kind, and that you like Margarette's sensibility better than you 
do mine! I suppose you love her, too, more than you do your own poor, 
lone Alice! I feel that she is stealing every one's affection from me, 
though I love with so much more ardor than she does!" and she burst 
into tears.

All present felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and Margarette, who was 
really distressed, resolved to give a new turn to the conversation. 
Alice had seated herself on Mr. Claremont's knee, and thrown both her 
arms around his neck--so leaving him to soothe her wounded feelings in 
his own way, Margarette asked Montague some question, as foreign as 
possible to their recent conversation. The effort succeeded--the tears 
of Alice {85} were soon dried, and the remainder of the evening passed 
very pleasantly.

       *       *       *       *       *

One evening Montague and Gordon met the Claremont family, with a small 
select party, at the house of a friend. Gordon, as usual, secured a 
seat next Margarette, who was also attended by Alice, who had learned 
that to be near her, was the surest way to be near the idol of her 
imagination, _the Black Prince_. Montague likewise stood near them; 
for he was beginning to find, that there was something extremely 
attractive, even in Margarette's apparent coldness; or rather, that it 
was peculiarly interesting to observe marks of deep feeling, under so 
calm, so placid an exterior. Gordon recollected the conversation 
concerning Lord Nelson, and the effect produced on Margarette; and 
resolving in his turn to find a passage to her sensibilities, led the 
conversation to heroes and great men. He made some very eloquent 
remarks, as he apprehended, on heroism and greatness, which had 
previously been arranged with great care.

"Whom do you consider truly great men, Mr. Gordon?" asked Alice.

"Alexander--Louis the Fourteenth--Napoleon--Voltaire and Lord Byron," 
said Gordon. "Each in his turn, and in his own way, has dazzled the 
whole world!"

"Dazzled, but not enlightened!" said Montague.

Margarette looked up with one of her brightest smiles, and Montague 
felt, at the bottom of his heart, that it was _warm_, as well as 
brilliant.

"By Vesta," thought Gordon, "she has rewarded him for those two words, 
with that smile, which I have made such useless efforts to obtain! and 
_he_ has made no effort at all!--I abandon her!"

"Whom do you esteem great men, Mr. Montague?" inquired Margarette.

"O, there have been hosts of them in the world," answered Montague; 
"but perhaps it would be better to tell you what I call true 
greatness, than to name those whom I esteem great. True greatness, I 
apprehend, consists in conquering or in duly restraining the ruling 
passion; in forgiving an injury, when we have fair opportunity for 
avenging ourselves; in sacrificing our own feelings and interests for 
the good of others; in that benevolence that leads to a forgetfulness 
of _self_, in efforts to promote the happiness and welfare of 
mankind."

"The world will hardly subscribe to your explanation of _greatness_," 
said Gordon, with something like a sneer, "and few are _great!_"

"Few are--but many might be," said Montague. "Every one who foregoes 
his own personal good, for the good of others; who forgets his own 
happiness, in efforts to promote the happiness of those around him, 
and who will not be turned aside from his purpose by the obstacles, or 
the unkindness, or the ridicule with which he meets, is _great_."

"Who sees such greatness?" asked Gordon.

"It has sometimes been conspicuous on earth, as in the case of Howard, 
Peter the Great of Russia, Wilberforce, Clarkson, Mrs. Fry, and 
multitudes of others," said Montague. "But no matter whether it is 
seen by the world or not, provided its influence be felt. And there is 
no one, capable of moral action, who has not almost daily 
opportunities for exercising true greatness and magnanimity of soul; 
and should every one improve the opportunity, the wilderness of this 
world would soon  be like Eden, and her deserts like the garden of the 
Lord!'"

Margarette's countenance again beamed with pleasure and approbation, 
as she said--"Moral grandeur, would then be your definition of 
greatness, Mr. Montague?"

"It would."

"And the only true one, according to my apprehension," said 
Margarette, "and I have often had the pleasure of seeing it 
exemplified. And this moral greatness leads to sublimity of thought," 
she added. "It expands the soul, and elevates the conception. As an 
instance: I once attended a prayer meeting, where was a man who had no 
more than ordinary capacity, and who knew nothing beyond the 
cultivation of his little farm, and the path to heaven. He could 
scarcely read intelligibly. Being called on to lead in the devotions 
of the evening, he knelt down, and began in this manner--'O, thou, who 
lightest up heaven!' To me, it was like a shock of electricity! I have 
thought of it a thousand times since, and doubt whether Byron, with 
all his genius, in his happiest moment of poetic inspiration, ever had 
so sublime a conception."

"Would you like to examine the prints on the centre table, Miss 
Lansdale?" asked Gordon, rising, and offering her his arm. With a 
heart buoyant as the thistle's down, Alice accepted the proffered arm, 
and Montague secured the seat she vacated.

"There is nothing here that you have not seen a hundred times," said 
Gordon--"but I panted to get into a warmer latitude. The north pole 
has few charms for me, notwithstanding its brilliant corruscations. By 
the way, is this cousin of yours ever warmer than the summit of Mont 
Blanc?"

"Why ask _me_ such a question?" said Alice.

"Because I thought you would be likely to know," answered Gordon.

"She is much admired and beloved," said Alice, with a sigh. "I wish I 
had her power over the heart!"

"Admired she may be--but beloved is she?" said Gordon.

"You surprise me, Mr. Gordon," said Alice. "I thought--I feared--I 
mean I conjectured"--and she stopt short.

"What did you think, fear, or conjecture, Miss Lansdale?" asked 
Gordon.

"O nothing--nothing of any consequence," said she, with real or 
assumed embarrassment.

"Now be frank, sweetest Alice," said Gordon, tenderly pressing her 
arm, which was still locked in his, to his side--"be frank, and tell 
me kindly what you thought."

"Why I knew that you admired my cousin, and I feared--pshaw--I mean 
that I thought you loved her," and she sighed again.

"O no, I could never love a block of marble, even if moulded into a 
Venus," said Gordon. "Believe me, sweet Alice, there must be some 
signs of sensibility--some little warmth of feeling, to awaken the 
affections of my heart. I could never love the twin-sister to the 
snow, and such I take Miss Claremont to be."

       *       *       *       *       *

{86} "So you are going to take an airing this morning, Commodore!" 
said Montague, as he saw the old man getting into a wagon in the 
street.

"Yes, Squire; you see I am taken from my work"--holding out a lame 
foot--"and so I am going on some business into the country."

"How long have you been lame? and what is the matter with your foot?" 
asked Montague.

"I sprained it a fortnight ago, sir--and it is almost the same as well 
now--only Miss Margarette made me promise not to try to use it too 
soon."

"Miss Margarette?--Margarette Claremont?" said Montague. "Does she 
advise you about your lameness?"

"Yes, and more than that, Mr. Montague, for, under Providence, she has 
cured it. There hasn't been a day since I hurt it, in which she has 
not come and tended it herself, bathing it with her own little hands, 
in a medicine she brought a-purpose. I couldn't put her off, Mr. 
Montague! And when she has so patiently and kindly sat, with the old 
man's foot in her lap, I'll tell you what I thought; I thought--here 
is the very spirit of Him who said--'If I, then, your Lord and Master, 
have washed your feet, ye ought also to wash one another's feet'--and 
the tears ran down my old cheeks whether I would or no."

There was a slight rising in Montague's throat, but he checked it, and 
inquired--"How far the Commodore was going."

"I don't know exactly, Squire, as I am going to buy a cow, and want to 
hunt up a pretty good one."

"A cow!" said Montague--"What in the world can you do with a cow?"

"Why, she isn't for my own use, Mr. Montague, though she is to be kind 
o' mine--but that's neither here nor there, and I must be going, as I 
want to get back in good season. Good day, Squire," and the Commodore 
drove off.

A few days after this, when Montague was one morning at Mr. 
Claremont's, it came into Alice's mind to inquire after his 
_protégés_, the Delanty's.

"O, they are all well, and in comparatively comfortable 
circumstances," said Montague. "They have found a very kind friend, 
who has furnished them with comfortable clothing, besides lending them 
a cow. Should they be the survivors, I think they would canonize her," 
added he, smiling.

"Her!" said Alice. "Is it a lady, then?"

"Yes, the same young lady that I told you assisted in nursing the 
mother. I wish you could hear them express their gratitude, in their 
own emphatic dialect, with their strong Irish feelings?"

"It is strange who it can be," said Alice. "Have they not yet found 
out?"

"It seems she has been very careful to conceal her name," said 
Montague, "as they have not yet learned it. But yesterday I was there, 
and they pointed her out to me, as she at that moment chanced to pass 
by."

"And did you know her, Hubert?" eagerly inquired Alice.

"I did,"--said Montague, "but I did not tell them, as she seems so 
desirous to 'do good by stealth,' and would doubtless 'blush to find 
it fame'--and neither will I tell _you_, cousin Alice,"--he added, as 
Margarette cast on him a look of mingled distress and supplication.

"Now that is the most provoking thing I ever knew you do, cousin 
Hubert!" said Alice. "But I will find out, if I go to Delanty's on 
purpose!"

"But I tell you they do not know, Alice; and beside, if a motive of 
_benevolence_ would not draw you to them, when they were in distress, 
pray do not let so poor a one as _curiosity_ procure them a visit, now 
that they are comparatively happy."

Margarette stayed by most perseveringly this morning. She would have 
given almost any thing would Alice have left the room, if only for one 
minute. Great was her satisfaction when her cousin hastily rose, 
saying--"I entirely forgot to send Mrs. Frost the pattern of my new 
pelerine. I must do it this moment."

She had scarcely closed the door, ere Margarette said, "I must do away 
the mistake under which you labor, Mr. Montague. The Delantys are 
indebted to my uncle, and not to me. I was only the channel through 
which his bounty flowed."

"Mr. Claremont was then Mrs. Delanty's nurse!" said Montague, smiling.

"O no, not that--but the clothing and the cow were purchased with his 
money."

"I understand it perfectly," said Montague. "I have seen my cousin's 
neck, encircled by a pearl-necklace; but Miss Claremont preferred 
relieving the sufferings of a poor Irish family, to adorning her own 
person."

"But Mr. Montague!" said Margarette.

"But Miss Claremont!" said Montague, laughing.

"Very well," said Margarette, in great perplexity what to say,--"you 
must think as you will."

"I _will_ think as I _must_," said Montague,--"and bid you good 
morning."

       *       *       *       *       *

A few weeks after the above conversation took place, Mr. Claremont, on 
returning from a morning's ride, was thrown from his horse, a few rods 
from his own door, and was brought in, apparently lifeless. At the 
appalling spectacle, both his nieces obeyed the impulse of nature, and 
turned to fly. But Margarette had scarcely begun her retreat, ere she 
returned. "I must face it," thought she, "however dreadful! kind 
heaven sustain me!" Without much apparent agitation, she gave 
directions, and assisted in conveying her uncle to his room; and 
before medical aid could arrive, employed herself in examining his 
limbs, to ascertain whether they were broken, and then in chafing his 
hands and head, to produce, if possible, some signs of life. All 
beside herself, seemed nearly delirious from fright.

The news of the accident flew like wild-fire, and in twenty minutes 
Montague was at the house. He found Alice in the parlor, walking the 
floor, and wringing her hands, in an agony of distress, constantly 
exclaiming--"my dear uncle!"--"my poor, dear uncle." In answer to 
Montague's hasty inquiries, she exclaimed--

"O, he is dead!--my dear, _dear_ uncle!--and what will become of his 
own poor Alice?--doubly--doubly an orphan?"

Montague hastened to Mr. Claremont's room, hopeless of learning any 
thing of his situation from his cousin. The physician and surgeon were 
both there, and there was Margarette--pale as a statue, and apparently 
as firm, supporting her uncle's head on her bosom. There was a 
deathlike silence in the room, while the medical gentlemen were 
endeavoring to {87} restore animation; while all feared that their 
endeavors would prove useless. A groan at length announced that the 
vital spark was not extinguished, and Mr. Claremont opened his eyes on 
his niece.

"Dear uncle," said Margarette, "do you know me?"

"Margarette!" murmured Mr. Claremont.

"Away with her, Mr. Montague," said the physician--"she is gone!"

Montague clasped her in his arms, and bore her out of the room, while 
a servant hastened after with restoratives. "She must be mine!" 
thought Montague, as he supported her lifeless frame, while the 
servant resorted to the usual means of restoration,--"she must be 
mine! Such benevolence without ostentation,--such firmness and deep 
feeling,--such exalted worth and true humility, are a rare 
combination! She must be my own!"

Mr. Claremont was scarcely able to leave his room, to which he was 
confined several weeks, ere Montague asked him, if he would bestow 
upon him his niece.

"Yes, take her Montague," said Mr. Claremont,--"take her as the 
choicest treasure one man ever bestowed on another. I know no man but 
yourself, worthy of her hand and heart."

An almost convulsive pressure of the hand, was the only sign of 
gratitude Montague could give.

Well, who was at the wedding?--and when did it take place?--It took 
place in a few months, and a large company was assembled,--for Mr. 
Claremont hated a private wedding. The Black Prince was one of the 
guests.

"Are they not a beautiful--a fine-looking couple, Mr. Gordon?" said 
Alice, after the _great cake_ was cut, and the congratulations were 
over.

"O, yes"--said Gordon--"as fine pieces of statuary as one could wish 
to look upon! Montague, indeed, has _fire_ enough--the more fortunate 
for him, for a deal it must have taken to thaw the ice of your 
cousin!"

"They are both a little singular," said Alice, "yet they love each 
other tenderly. How happy they will be! How sweet life _must be_, when 
congenial hearts are thus united forever!"

"Yes,--perhaps so--but after all, sweet Alice, it is better to do, as 
you and I do--love each other, and still be free!--I would not link my 
fate with that of any woman in the world. I am quite sure, that I 
should hate even you, sweetest,--angel as you are, could you call me 
husband. O, there is something killing to all romance, in the very 
sound of that word!--Do you not agree with me, dearest?"

Alice could not utter a syllable--but cast on him a heart-rending look 
of mingled disappointment, mortification and 
astonishment!--"False!--ungrateful! cruel!"--at length she 
murmured--and hastened to her chamber, at once to indulge and conceal 
the bitterness of her feelings.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Alice is mourning herself to death, for that worthless, heartless 
Gordon," said Margarette to Montague, some time after their marriage.

"She is doing what she has ever done," said Montague--"thinking only 
of herself, and cherishing feelings that are totally destructive of 
all that is valuable in character."

"She has keen sensibility," said Margarette.

"But it is all expended on herself," said Montague. "Her sensibility 
results in good to no one, for she has no _sympathy_. Her character 
used to interest me, until I saw it contrasted with one so much more 
valuable--so much more exalted!--It was you, my dearest wife, who 
first taught me the strong distinction betwixt _sympathy_ and 
_sensibility_,--and how utterly useless the latter is, when 
unaccompanied by the former. With Alice, it is not love for Gordon, 
but _self-love_ that is the cause of her thus pining. Let some other 
romantic looking knight appear, and sue for her hand, and her 
affections would be at once transformed. Should no such one appear, 
she will by degrees degenerate into a peevish, useless, discontented, 
burdensome old maid. And the best advice I could give to any young 
lady of great sensibility, and who would be either useful or happy, 
is--That she should strive to forget her own sorrows, whether _real_ 
or _imaginary_, and expend her sympathies on the afflictions and 
distresses of her fellow-creatures. By so doing, the benevolence of 
her heart would be constantly expanding, until she would on earth 
approximate to the character of an angel,--and when the summons came, 
would drop the garment of mortality, and shine a seraph in eternal 
day."

S. H.



There is little merit in the following lines besides that rare merit 
in poetry, _their truth_. They were written in the place of the 
writer's nativity, where he had at length settled down, after an 
absence of thirty years. They were written in a house just purchased, 
and from which the former owner had not yet removed his family, and 
were inserted in the Album of his daughter. She was young, beautiful, 
accomplished, newly married, and wealthy. Though confined to her room 
by bad health, she was preparing for a voyage to Europe, since happily 
accomplished.


TO ------.


    We met as strangers, Lady, tho' the scenes
  On which thine eyes first opened, were the same
  To which the sports of childhood, and the hopes
  Of Manhood's flattering dawn, had bound my heart
  With cords of filial love indissoluble.
  We part as strangers, tho' the self-same roof
  So long has sheltered both. I hear thy voice--
  I hear thy fairy step--and trace the print
  Of the soft kiss, with which thy lip has prest
  My infant's cheek; and see her little hands
  Rich with the gifts thy kindness has bestowed.
  And this is all: but there is more than this
  That with a link of sympathy connects
  My heart with thee, as if some common lot,
  Some common spell of destiny had bound
  Our fates in one. And we have much in common.
  The hope that guides thy steps to distant lands,
  In quest of pleasures, such as boundless wealth,
  And friends, and youth, and peerless beauty promise--
  How much unlike the stern necessity,
  Which drove me forth to roam thro' desarts wild,
  And on the confines of society,
  Where the fierce savage whets the vengeful knife
  'Gainst cultivated brutes more fierce than he,
  Through hardship, toil and strife, to win my bread!     {88}
  But O! to leave the scenes of happy youth--
  The Father's sheltering roof, the Mother's care,
  The blithe play-fellows of our childish sports,
  The gay companions of our gladsome hours,
  The cherished friend, whose sympathy consoled
  The petty griefs, that, like a fleecy cloud,
  But dimmed the sunshine of our spring of life,
  And, having shed its freshness on the heart,
  Melted away, leaving the scene more fair;--
  To lose all these!--what is it but the type
  Of that last fatal wrench, that tears the heart
  At once from all we love; and in one doom,
  One common bond of sympathy, unites
  The unnumbered victims, who in every rank,
  Through every walk, throng to the gates of Death?
  May we not deem that the fond Mother's heart,
  Though couched in bliss celestial, yet will yearn
  To her deserted Child? And will not thine,
  Where'er thy steps may roam, true to the pole
  Of all thy young affections, point thy thoughts
  To the fair scenes, clothed by thy fairy hand
  With every charm of hue, and scent, and shade,
  Thyself the brightest ornament? O yes!
  From the rich isle, where science, art and wealth
  Have crowded every joy, the ravished sense,
  And heart, and mind can covet; from the plains
  Of France the beauteous; from the vine-crowned hills
  That in the glassy bosom of the Rhine
  Their blushing fruitages reflected see;
  From classic Italy, the "marble waste"
  Of desecrated fane, and ruined tower,
  And silent palaces, where once the doom
  Of empires was decreed, the heart will turn
  To _Home_. The trackless wild, where foot of man
  Has never broke the silence with its tread,
  Is not more lonely than the thronging scene,
  The "peopled solitude," where jostling crowds
  Elbow their way, regardless that we look
  Upon their strife--unconscious that we live.
  The moss-grown rock, that in the savage dell
  Has frowned for ages on the silent scene,
  In its drear loneliness reflects our own,
  And seems to give a kind of sympathy;
  But stony hearts have none.
                      Known! yet unknown!
  There is a strange mysterious interest
  Follows the form, that flitting through the gloom
  Of twilight, half concealed, and half disclosed,
  Glides silently away; and such a spell
  Upon my memory, thy shadowy image
  In traces faint but indestructible
  Has sketched. And I would be remembered too,
  Not as I am, for thou hast never known me,
  But as I fain would have thee fancy me.
  And I shall be remembered--for the scenes
  On which thy memory will love to dwell,
  Are now my care. 'Tis mine to dress the vine
  Which trained by thee its graceful foliage,
  Gratefully spread to shelter thee: The flower
  That mourns thy absence, watered by my hand,
  Shall lift its drooping head and smile; and thou
  In fancy shalt behold its blue eye glistening
  Brighter through tears; and, with an answering smile,
  And answering tear, thine own bright eye will bless me.
    Then mayst thou think how I, my wanderings o'er,
  Have found my way back to my native bowers,
  Among the few whom Time and Fate have left
  Of early friends, to render up my breath,
  And lay my bones beneath the turf, where once
  My musing childhood strayed. And thou wilt think,
  That fortune yet may have in store for thee,
  Like destiny. For who so well may claim
  To rest beneath the shade, to pluck the rose,
  Or, on the mossy bank reclined, inhale
  The violet's balmy breath? And trust me, Lady,
  Should clouds o'ercast the sunny sky that shines
  So bright above thee; should a stormy fate,
  Whelming thy hopes, cast thee a shipwrecked wanderer,
  Wounded and bleeding, on thy native shore,
  These are the scenes in which thy heart will seek
  And find its consolation. Where besides
  Is _Sympathy_ so tender--_Love_ so kind--
  _Religion_ so sincere? Where else has _Hope_
  So learned to look, with cheerful confidence,
  On worlds beyond the grave? Where else does _Faith_
  So show its _Love to God_ by _Love to Man_?

B. T.



POPULAR EDUCATION.


Towards the close of the sixteenth century, Galileo, while seated in 
the Cathedral of Pisa, had his attention attracted by the swinging of 
a lamp suspended from the ceiling. Observing that it performed its 
vibrations apparently in equal times, whether moving over small or 
great arcs, he was led to the investigation of the laws of its 
oscillation, and thus called the attention of philosophers to an 
instrument, which in the multiplicity of its applications has since 
proved of incalculable benefit to mankind.

It seems strange that a motion so familiar as the vibration of a 
suspended body had never before attracted the notice of observing 
minds; and still more strange would it seem, if, after its laws had 
been discovered, and its important practical applications ascertained, 
it had never been applied to its useful purposes. Yet has mankind very 
generally down to the present day, thus neglected an instrument of 
more extensive application than the pendulum. I allude to _Popular 
Education_, an agent certainly the most important of any that can be 
applied to the melioration of the condition of the human race. That 
knowledge is power, stands in no need of proof or formal illustration. 
It may be assumed as axiomatic. But if we reason from the conduct of 
mankind, we shall be led to the conclusion that the aphorism applies 
only when society is viewed in its constituent parts, and not when the 
whole mass is regarded. Still speculatively it is allowed to be of 
general application. How is this inconsistency to be reconciled? Has 
the importance of Education become one of those propositions which 
from being universally admitted, have ceased to interest the curiosity 
or engage the attention of mankind? Has the policy of former ages of 
keeping in ignorance the great body of the people, in order that they 
might be the more readily oppressed by the enlightened few, who held 
the reins of government, grown into a custom too inveterate for the 
more enlarged speculations of modern times to remove? These inquiries 
we will not pursue, but will proceed to offer some observations on the 
advantages of Popular Education.

{89} Under Popular Education may be included an acquaintance with 
Reading, Writing, English Grammar, Geography, and the leading 
principles of Science; such information in fact as would enable the 
people to avail themselves of the lessons contained in books, and to 
discharge with ease and propriety the various avocations of common 
life. The advantages of Popular Education as thus defined are so 
diversified and so connected with the whole intertexture of society, 
as to render it impracticable on the present occasion to trace them 
out fully. Only some of its most striking effects on the condition of 
the people can be noticed. My purpose however will be effected, if I 
shall succeed in directing the attention of my young friends, many of 
whom will shortly engage in the busy scenes of life, to a subject 
fraught with interest to our common country, to a cause which, in the 
various stages they may occupy in society, will demand their liberal, 
zealous and patriotic support.

By the general diffusion of information, superstition will be banished 
from amongst the people. Superstition has been defined, "the error of 
those, who in their opinion of the causes on which the fate of men 
depends, believe or disbelieve without judgment or knowledge." It is a 
compound of the credulity and fears of men--a monster truly of 
frightful mien--destructive of the happiness of individuals, by 
continually presenting to the mind imaginary causes of terror, and 
associating with the most common occurrences of life, the dread of 
impending calamity--no less destructive of the welfare of nations, by 
affording an agent which designing men will ever be ready to employ in 
effectuating their schemes of oppression. It is indeed the fulcrum on 
which ambition may gain a leverage for moving the moral world. The 
feelings to which it gives rise are of a uniform character, and when 
they pervade a whole people, to address them effectually no great 
diversity of means are required. Hence the important part it has 
played in the subversion of kingdoms and revolutions of empires. 
Examples need not be adduced to illustrate its pernicious influence on 
individual and national happiness. It stands in bold relief on almost 
every page of history; three-fourths of the habitable globe are at 
this day living monuments of its power. The rest is still marked by 
the traces of its slow retreat.

The only effectual barrier to the desolating influence of superstition 
is to be found in the diffusion of Popular Education. Teach men that a 
_sequitur_ is not necessarily an effect, and they will cease to regard 
many of the ordinary occurrences of life as portentous because they 
have once been accidentally conjoined with misfortunes. They will 
cease to regard those phenomena of the material world which present 
nature in aspects awful and sublime, as ominous of convulsions in the 
moral or political world.

The influence of the enlightened few will never be able to banish 
superstition from the unenlightened multitude. To eradicate it the 
torch of knowledge must be lit in every mind. So far from 
superstitious prejudices being removed by the authority of 
philosophers, they are contracted by them from the illiterate, through 
the influence of early education, and are persisted in through a 
disposition in the human mind to regard with some degree of favor that 
which has been believed in all ages, however absurd in reason. Addison 
affords a remarkable instance of the influence of popular belief over 
a philosophic mind. We learn from the Spectator[1] that he did not 
entirely refuse his assent to the existence of ghosts, apparitions and 
witchcraft. In the time of this eminent writer, a period distinguished 
in the history of English Literature, there was scarce a village in 
England in which witchcraft was not accredited; so little authority 
did the great men of that age, who by their writings have had an 
acknowledged influence on the moral improvement of the nation, exert 
in eradicating superstition from the minds of the unenlightened common 
people.

[Footnote 1: Nos. 110 and 117.]

Education exerts a negative agency in promoting human happiness by 
removing superstition, one of its greatest enemies. But by expanding 
the mind to more enlarged conceptions of the order and beauty of the 
universe, it makes a real addition to the sum of human enjoyments. Our 
capacities are at best but extremely limited. It has been permitted to 
us however, to explore the threshold of the labyrinth of nature. Our 
discoveries present us at every step with ends wisely and beneficently 
planned, and means adapted with the most admirable simplicity and 
economy to the production of those ends. No human investigation has 
ever advanced so far as to point out aught of error in the arrangement 
of the system of things around us. Every thing, whose purpose we can 
understand, bears the impress of wisdom. How elevating to the mind of 
man to rise from the contemplation of this visible order, to a Being 
on whom we can rely with the utmost surety as having arranged every 
thing, not only in our small planet but in the whole immensity of 
creation, with the same admirable wisdom and economy which our limited 
faculties enable us to trace in the small part which falls under our 
immediate inspection! Yet to the vulgar mind is denied this ennobling 
feeling. The ignorant man

                      "marks not the mighty hand
  That ever-busy wheels the silent spheres;
  Works in the secret deep; shoots, streaming, thence
  The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring:
  Flings from the sun direct the flaming day;
  Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth;
  And as on earth this grateful change revolves,
  With transport touches all the springs of life."

It is true, all people, all nations have acknowledged a Supreme Being. 
But wherever the human mind has been enthralled by ignorance, he has 
been acknowledged rather as a being of Terror than as a being of 
Benevolence. 'Tis Education that endues men's minds with a just sense 
of the attributes of the Supreme Being, and brings them acquainted 
with their own high destiny, and is in truth, as it has been defined 
to be, the "handmaid of Religion."

Among an educated people morality and private virtue must flourish. 
For in the language of Lord Bacon, "learning disposeth the 
constitution of the mind not to be fixed in the defects thereof, but 
still to be susceptible of growth and improvement." The human mind is 
endowed with a variety of passions, implanted in it for the wisest 
purposes, but requiring the control of reason not to run into excesses 
destructive of individual happiness and the peace of society. A 
cultivated mind not only controls the impetuosity of those passions 
which hurry onward into crime and misery, but peculiarly {90} 
encourages the growth of those benevolent affections whose 
gratification rests on prospective good. In the constitution of the 
mind experience shows the striking fact (and it pleads forcibly in 
favor of the general diffusion of Education among the people) that the 
growth of the malevolent affections is nurtured by ignorance, and that 
of the benevolent by knowledge. The former are more truly the 
instinctive affections and generally operate under immediate stimuli. 
The latter may be termed the rational affections, for their stimuli 
are often remote and chiefly felt by the mind, which traces the 
relations of things and sees the intimate connexion of virtue with 
individual and general happiness.

The diffusion of Education will heighten and extend the pleasures of 
social intercourse, pleasures which truly "exalt, embellish, and 
render life delightful." Regard for a moment the condition of the 
savage in that intercourse with his fellows, where sensual indulgences 
and rude exultation in the slaughter of his enemies, constitute the 
chief of that happiness which their society affords. Think of the aged 
and infirm parent falling under the parricidal hand, because forsooth 
his limbs are no longer active in the chase, his arm no longer nerved 
to deal the deadly blow to an insulting adversary. Think of the sick 
and afflicted, deserted in their last moments and left to expire 
without the hand of friendship to close the dying eye. Think of woman, 
formed to soothe, to polish and refine our ruder natures, doomed to a 
degrading servitude, and thought worthy only to minister to the 
passions of their haughty lords. From this rude society turn to that 
of civilized life. Benevolence spreads her arms to embrace the human 
race. Sympathy awakens at the notes of woe. Charity forgets not her 
work of love, but visits the habitation of poverty and wretchedness, 
and with a generous hand relieves want and soothes the wounds of 
adversity. Filial piety softens the pillow of declining age. Whilst 
friendship and affection wait upon the couch of sickness, forgetful of 
fatigue, contagion and death. In scenes of health and prosperity, 
peace and joy reign--mutual confidence and endearment characterize 
domestic life--rational enjoyment marks the social circle, nurturing 
feelings which strengthen the bonds imposed upon mankind by mutual 
wants and mutual dependance. Lovely woman holds her just 
ascendancy--shines alike in every relation of life--a voluntary homage 
paid to her charms--her smile encouraging to virtuous enterprise and 
noble achievement--her frown chilling the ardor of even hardy 
insolence and impious daring. Does this contrast result from 
difference in mental cultivation? History presents it as the primary 
cause. Ignorance and barbarism, as applied to nations, may in fact be 
considered as convertible terms. But if in reference to social 
intercourse, such effects as those which civilized society presents, 
are the results of the increase and diffusion of knowledge among the 
comparatively small portion of mankind who enjoy its immediate 
advantages, what might we not expect from the general spread of 
information among the whole body of the people?

Turning from society to the individual in his solitary moments, 
knowledge is no less the friend of human happiness. It affords 
materials from which the activity of the mind weaves a pleasing 
entertainment, when friends are no longer present to cheer with their 
social converse, and when the appetites revolt by reason of satiety 
from sensual indulgences. A book may beguile the tedium of a gloomy 
day, draw the mind abroad, and prevent its dwelling on imaginary ills 
that more truly destroy happiness than real misfortunes. The mind must 
have its excitement; and if it is not endued with that degree of 
knowledge necessary to stimulate inquiry, and afford a relish for 
books, it is liable to seek for this excitement in the brutalizing 
indulgences of the sensual appetites or in the uncontrolled movements 
of the passions. By furnishing the minds of the people with the due 
degree of elementary instruction, the best security will be afforded 
of their minds being usefully or innocently employed, instead of being 
perverted to their own misery and the disturbance of the public 
tranquillity.

Such are some of the moral effects of Education. Its diffusion among 
the people tends to improve their individual and social happiness. It 
is likewise the great instrument of improvement in the arts and 
sciences. Discoveries and inventions are said to be the product of the 
age in which they are made, rather than of the individuals who are 
immediately instrumental in bringing them forward. But are they not 
dependant more on the spread of knowledge among the people at large, 
than on any unusual advancement in learning among philosophers 
themselves? Speculative philosophy has done much in promoting useful 
inventions and discoveries. But on the other hand, how much that is 
really useful do we not owe to the active minds of those engaged in 
the ordinary vocations of life, and who never had the advantages of 
instruction in the higher branches of science? It would be a curious 
and interesting inquiry to trace out the numerous improvements in the 
arts and sciences, for which we are indebted to geniuses rising 
superior to the disadvantages of fortune and early education. The list 
of such names as Ferguson, Watt, Scheele, would be found to swell the 
catalogue of those whose exertions have contributed to enlarge the 
field of science, and extend the power of man over the physical 
creation. Genius is confined to no rank--it is to be found in all the 
grades of society. Spread elementary instruction among the people, 
extend to them the means of improvement, and superior minds wherever 
fortune may have placed them, will not long remain in obscurity. Their 
inherent vigor will break through difficulties, surmount obstacles, 
and supply the deficiences occasioned by the want of a collegiate 
education. In order too that profit be derived from the improvements 
of scientific men, the minds of the people must be sufficiently imbued 
with information to appreciate their labors, and to throw off 
prejudices and break through established customs so far as to adopt in 
practice what speculation teaches will be useful. Many important 
discoveries made in preceding ages, when the mass of the people were 
sunk in ignorance, have been lost to us, because there was not that 
diffusion of information necessary for preserving and handing them 
down. It may be said that science has nothing to fear from such a 
state of things for the future, since the press and other means of 
diffusing information preclude all danger of any of its discoveries 
being lost. We readily admit the great advantages afforded by the 
press and the extensive intercourse between different parts of the 
world in preserving and transmitting knowledge. But how many 
discoveries which contained the germs of future {91} sciences have 
been made and neglected for the want of a proper depository in a 
cultivated and enlightened community? Scarcely a branch of science can 
be mentioned, in tracing the history of which, we cannot refer back to 
some neglected discovery which was its real origin. But neglect has 
not been the only impediment to the progress of science. The 
difficulties which the fathers of science had to contend with, in the 
prejudices of the people, at the revival of letters, are familiar to 
all. The propagation of the true doctrine of the solar system exposed 
Galileo to the persecution of the age in which he lived. Yes--not the 
illiterate only--the learned Cardinals of the seventeenth century (if 
they deserve the title of learned) compelled him, under pain of the 
awful terrors of the Inquisition, to abjure his conviction of the most 
sublime truth in science. And while Philosophy must drop a tear over 
this weakness in one of her most distinguished promoters, every friend 
of human happiness must regret that ignorance, or execrate that 
bigotry which could impose such degradation on one of the greatest 
geniuses of any age.

Inventions and discoveries owe their origin to chance, or some happy 
idea suddenly striking the mind, or to patient reflection and 
experiment. Those accidents that lead to them are as liable to occur 
to one individual as another. But to the uncultivated mind they occur 
and pass away without exciting one profitable reflection, without 
drawing the attention to those relations of cause and effect, which 
being pursued under different circumstances might lead to important 
discoveries in the arts and sciences. Accidents however occurring to 
individuals of cultivated minds, have led not only to important 
solitary discoveries, but to the origin of new sciences, and the 
formation of new systems of existing sciences. The origin of the 
science of Galvanism is too familiar to be repeated. It is well known 
that it was owing to accident. Accident likewise suggested to Haüy his 
beautiful system of Crystalography. It is said that whilst examining a 
collection of minerals, he dropped a beautiful specimen of calcareous 
spar crystalized in prisms, which was broken by the fall. He observed 
with astonishment that the fragments had the smooth regular forms of 
the rhomboid crystals of Iceland spar. "I have found it all he 
exclaimed:" for at this moment he conceived the fundamental idea of 
his new system. Thus, an accident which to ordinary minds would have 
been productive only of regret for the destruction of a beautiful 
specimen in mineralogy, was to the philosophic mind of Haüy the 
occasion of the most real delight; for it led him to a discovery which 
he saw was to be of importance to science. The circumstances of the 
early life of Haüy enforce strongly the importance of diffusing 
information among the people, sufficient to afford them the means of 
advancing in improvement, and to enable them to turn the accidents 
that are continually occurring in life, to the benefit of mankind. He 
was born in obscurity, the son of a poor weaver, and we are indebted 
to the _primary schools_ in Germany for the evolution of his genius, 
and the valuable contributions made by him to science.

The diffusion of information among the people will be favorable, not 
only to the progress of discovery, but also to excellency in the 
mechanic arts. It is maintained by many that the practical artist does 
not require the aid of science. Manual dexterity indeed can be 
acquired by practice only, but yet a moderate share of scientific 
information will render skill more available. Every artist in fact, by 
experience, acquires that portion of science which is necessary for 
excellence in his art; but it is at the expense of much time and many 
failures. By the diffusion of Popular Education, this information 
would become a standing fund upon which artists could draw in pursuing 
their different occupations, without having to derive it from the slow 
lessons of experience.

By raising the standard of education among the people, the standard 
would be raised among the learned also; for what is termed learning is 
only a relative quality. The whole extent of human knowledge is 
insignificant in comparison with the infinity of truths which remain 
undiscovered or unobserved. The heights and depths of science, which 
in our pride we fondly imagine we have explored, only strike us with 
astonishment because we compare them with that even surface along 
which ignorance plods. As the progress of information advances, the 
greater is that portion of knowledge which becomes the heritage of the 
people. By the mere intercourse of society, much knowledge is 
diffused, independently of that which is spread by the regular 
institutions for learning; and the quantum of this erratic knowledge 
rises in a greater ratio than the general intelligence of the people. 
In this country a century back, the assertion that the sun remains 
stationary, or nearly so, and the earth by its revolutions gives 
occasion to day and night, and the rotation of the seasons, would 
probably have been heard with astonishment, and received with 
incredulity by the mass of the people; because their senses, and the 
common use and acceptation of language led them to believe the 
reverse. Yet what novice at the present day, enlightened in comparison 
with a period of one hundred years back, would require to be informed 
of a truth so well known? This important truth has, like many other 
scientific truths, become familiar to every member of society. The 
information thus diffused, would be increased by raising the standard 
of education among the people. Much of that knowledge which before 
constituted a part of the stock peculiar to the learned, would become 
the common property of the people at large. The former would 
necessarily conform to a higher standard of acquirements. The plan of 
instruction in colleges and universities would become more liberal and 
extensive: for on this condition would depend the distinction of their 
alumni from the uninitiated.

The education of the people presents itself in an interesting light, 
when viewed in connexion with our political institutions. The study of 
history and mankind shows the essential connexion of light and 
liberty. Wherever solid learning has prevailed, governments have been 
best administered, and the people have been most happy. And on the 
other hand the most barbarous, rude and uncultivated nations have been 
most subject to tumults, seditions and changes. In all governments 
learning exerts a most favorable influence, by impressing on the minds 
of rulers the true character of their station, and on the minds of the 
people a just sense as well of their rights, as of their duties 
towards the established authority. But in our government the 
intelligence of the people is the very soul of its existence. There 
are here no distinctions of {92} rank--no great interests artificially 
balanced against each other, to keep the body politic _in equilibrio_. 
Our government recognizes but one class--the people; and but one 
interest--the interest of the people. To the good of the people the 
exertions of all must be directed; and this end, to be clearly 
discerned, and steadily pursued, requires the public mind to be 
enlightened. The constitutional distribution of the powers of 
government, constitutes the basis of a political system the most 
admirable which human wisdom has yet devised--a system which, duly 
administered in its several parts, tends more than any other to 
maintain the natural equality and liberty of man, and to promote the 
welfare and happiness of the people. But the just operation of our 
political system requires that the powers distributed to the several 
departments be kept within their proper sphere of action. Experience 
shows that written constitutions are in themselves an insufficient 
barrier to the encroachments of men in power. Ambition and interest 
can easily, by construction and implication, from the most limited 
grants of power, derive authority for the most arbitrary and 
oppressive acts. This evil has been provided against as far as 
practicable, in the separation of the powers, and the organization of 
the different departments of the government. But another check which 
our system contemplates, and certainly one of the most effectual in 
its operation, is to be found in the intelligence and vigilance of the 
people. Sovereignty residing with them, it is their opinion which must 
in all cases determine finally, what and how much power has been 
delegated, and to which government, and which department of government 
it has been committed. Measures affecting deeply the public interests 
must often be decided by a few voices in the state and national 
legislatures. Over these decisions the people exert a controlling 
influence. How important then is it that they be sufficiently 
enlightened to discern their true interests--to distinguish between 
sectional and general good--and with that spirit of liberality which 
free institutions engender, to submit to temporary and local evil, in 
consideration of permanent and general advantage!

But it may be asked, has not experience shown that a very moderate 
share of intelligence, in the great mass of the people, is sufficient 
for the harmonious and beneficial operation of our republican system? 
Have not the people, as they have advanced in intelligence, shown 
themselves less capable of self-government than their predecessors? To 
these questions it may be answered, that no precise degree of general 
intelligence can be marked as the point at which the people become 
capable of self-government; but the very nature of a republican 
government supposes them to be enlightened, and common sense dictates 
that by extending the breadth of that foundation on which the whole 
fabric rests, the best security is obtained for its permanency. Let us 
dismiss the narrow notion that degeneracy is the necessary 
accompaniment of learning and refinement. It is true, the boasted 
republics of antiquity, at the golden period of their literature, sunk 
into servitude. But their degeneracy and their overthrow were not the 
effects of their literature; they were only accidental concomitants. 
They were either overwhelmed by external force, or sunk at length the 
victims of their own policy. Rome, by her policy of subjecting all 
nations to her sway, neglected the sources of prosperity contained 
within her own bosom. By the spoils of foreign conquest the city 
became enriched--rapine became honorable--the provinces were 
plundered--wealth was acquired without labor--luxury and 
licentiousness prevailed--useful employments were neglected, (for the 
poor subsisted by the _largesses_ of the ambitious great)--every thing 
was venal. The morality of the state became rotten to the core. 
Ambitious demagogues, with their mercenary followers, overturned the 
institutions of their country. Rome sunk--yes, even _in spite of_ her 
refinement.

But no just comparison can be instituted between ancient republics and 
our own, in relation to the causes which produced the overthrow of the 
former, and those which may endanger the permanency of the latter. The 
theories of ancient and modern republics are essentially different. 
The science of government has become better understood than formerly, 
and a more liberal policy marks the practice of rulers. Statesmen have 
discovered that the prosperity of nations is dependant on the wise 
administration of their internal concerns. Wars have become less 
frequent and less dangerous to the existence of nations. And the 
modern mode of warfare has given to cultivated infinitely the 
superiority over rude and uncultivated nations. With these advantages, 
the fruits of science in our favor, we need not dread the fate of 
bygone republics; we need not fear that the progress of intelligence 
and refinement will occasion that degeneracy which has been falsely 
attributed to them on a superficial view of the history of ancient 
nations. The passions of men will indeed continue to operate as they 
ever have done: but the diffusion of information among the people will 
be the surest means of counteracting their evil tendency, or directing 
them to proper objects.

Late events in the history of our republic have indeed shaken the 
faith of some in regard to the permanency of our institutions. At its 
origin, we were united by external dangers and the common defence of 
our liberties. At a later period, the adjustment of foreign relations, 
and the development of our system of government, interested the 
attention of rulers and people. But now we have been for some time at 
peace with foreign nations--our national character has been 
established abroad--and the settlement of most subjects in controversy 
with other countries, together with the gradual extinction of the 
national debt, have given place to a more immediate attention to our 
internal concerns. Legislation on sectional interests has brought the 
public sentiment of the North and South into conflict. Organized 
opposition to the exercise of powers claimed by congress, has 
threatened the very permanency of the Union. But the patriotism which 
directed the councils of our fathers is not yet fled. The wisdom of 
our legislators, aided by an enlightened public sentiment, has happily 
averted the danger. Let us not rest in security however. The 
diversified interests of our wide-spread country will continue to give 
rise to legislation which will excite popular discontents, and 
conflicts of public opinion, in relation to the delegated powers of 
the federal government. A grievous evil confined to one portion of the 
Union, threatens at no distant day to test the strength of the bonds 
which bind us together. The tendency of the feelings beginning {93} to 
be developed among our northern brethren, cannot be mistaken. Free 
from slavery themselves, the relations in which it stands to our 
citizens and our government cannot be rightly estimated by them. 
Abstract speculation, mistaken philanthropy, fanatic zeal in the cause 
of freedom, may exclaim--the rights of man must be vindicated--the 
crusade must be commenced against the violators of 
humanity--opposition must be borne down by the strong arm of 
government. But let the day come when a northern majority shall in 
madness interfere in this delicate subject, and our union as freemen 
is gone forever. Civil war and bloodshed will deface and destroy the 
beautiful proportions of the temple of freedom. The Cæsar of America 
will arise to bind together the disjointed fragments of the edifice 
with the chain of Despotism.

Means for averting these ills are to be sought. Where shall we look 
for them except in the general diffusion of intelligence among the 
people? Spread knowledge among the people, and their minds will be 
awakened to a due sense of the value of our free institutions. They 
will be quick to detect ambition, aiming under a false pretence of 
public utility, at private aggrandizement. They will be ready in 
discerning the true interests of the nation, however designing men may 
endeavor to blind their perception. They will cultivate that liberal, 
compromising spirit, which submits to partial evil for the general 
good. Yea, they will cherish that patriotism which in the hour of 
danger will stand by the republic, and seal with the blood of freemen 
the "_esto perpetua_" of the Union.



TRANSLATION.


There are few exercises of poetical talent more frequent than 
translations of the Odes of Horace; and there is perhaps none of these 
on which more men have tried their pens, than the 22d of the first 
book. Of all that we have ever met with, we think none superior to the 
following. Were it even inferior to the best efforts of the well 
trained pupils of Eton or Westminster, it would be interesting as the 
production of a Virginian. It was written some sixty years ago, as a 
school exercise by a pupil in the grammar school of William and Mary. 
We find it in the hand writing of J. Randolph of Roanoke, on the blank 
leaves of an old copy of Horace, where it is recorded that the age of 
the writer was fourteen. Comparing it with the early compositions of 
Pope or Byron, the reader will be apt to ask, "What became of the 
author?" The answer will be found in the history of the Polish wars, 
in which he acted a conspicuous part. Late in life he returned to his 
native country, and lived and died in voluntary obscurity. It is 
believed that few men possessed more of the confidence and esteem of 
the unfortunate monarch to whom he devoted his services than _General 
Lewis Littlepage_.

We have no reason to believe that these lines were ever published. 
They are all that remain of an extraordinary man, and we are pleased 
to think that by giving them a place in the Messenger, they may be 
preserved.

  Fuscus, the Man, whose quiet heart
    No conscious crimes molest,
  Needs not the Moor's envenomed dart,
    To guard his guiltless breast.

  Safe he may range Getulia's sands,
    Virtue and Peace his guides,
  Or where the desart Garma stands,
    Or famed Hydaspes glides.

  Late, as I ranged the Sabine Grove,
    Beyond my usual bounds,
  And, void of care, I sang my Love,
    In soft melodious sounds,

  Sudden I met, without defence,
    A Wolf in fierceness bred;
  But, awed by peaceful innocence,
    The savage monster fled.

  Not scorched Numidia's thirsty fields,
    Where tawny Lions feed,
  Nor warlike Daunia's dreary wilds,
    So dire a monster breed.

  Remove me far from cheerful day,
    To night and endless shades,
  Where not a bright celestial ray
    The awful gloom pervades:

  Or place me near the solar blaze,
    Beneath the burning Zone,
  Where no refreshing breeze allays
    The influence of the Sun.

  Still shall the memory of my Love,
    Her soft enchanting smile,
  Her charming voice, my woes remove,
    And all my cares beguile.



VERSES.

Written during an Excursion among the Alleghany Mountains.


  How calm and glorious is the hour of night
    In these uncultured solitary wilds,
  When o'er each lowly vale and lofty height
    The full-orb'd moon in cloudless lustre smiles.

  Those lofty mountains with their forest green
    And craggy summits tow'ring to the sky--
  How proudly do they rise o'er all the scene,
    And lift the thoughts from earth to muse on high!

  And yon pure rivulet that pours along,
    Playing and sparkling in the moon-beams clear--
  How sweet the music of its vesper song
    In tuneful cadence falls upon the ear!

  And hark! the roar of these far spreading woods,
    Sinking or rising as the winds sweep by!
  Myriads of voices fill these solitudes,
    And send the notes of melody on high.

  While all his works with one accord rejoice,
    And pour forth praises to the Great Supreme,
  Shall man unmoved withhold his nobler voice
    Nor glow with raptures on the glorious theme?

  His bounteous goodness all creation fills,--
    Even these wild woods where solitude prevails;
  He sends his dews upon the untrodden hills,
    And flowers he scatters o'er the lonely vales.    {94}

  Scenes unfrequented by the feet of men
    Display his goodness, and proclaim his might:
  He feeds the wild deer in the secret glen,
    And the young eagles on the craggy height.

  His mighty arm the vivid lightning speeds,
    And bursts the clouds that o'er the hills impend:
  The mountain stream through distant lands he leads
    And Joy and Melody his steps attend.

  To trace his wonders through each varying clime,
    And all his mercies to the sons of men,
  Fills the rapt soul with ecstacy sublime
    Beyond the effort of the poet's pen.

  O Solitude! how blissful are the hours
    Among thy shades in heavenly musing past,
  When Nature leads us through her secret bowers,
    And Contemplation spreads the rich repast.

  Among the haunts of men the thoughtful mind
    That fain would rise above the things of earth,
  Finds its bold flights on every hand confined,
    By care distracted, and seduced by mirth.

  But in the deep and solemn hour of night
    The soul luxuriates in a scene like this:
  From cliff to cliff she wings her daring flight
    O'er foaming cataract or dark abyss.

  Or else, uplifted o'er the things of time,
    By heavenly Faith from all her bonds set free,
  Among the fields of ether soars sublime,
    And holds communion with the Deity.

  Oh! how transporting is the glorious thought
    That He whose power controls yon worlds above,
  Is ever nigh--and ever found when sought
    To save and bless us with a father's love.

  Even his chastisements are with mercy fraught,
    And seal instruction on the attentive mind.
  Driven by disease these distant shades I sought,
    And all the fruitless cares of life resigned:

  'Twas there He met me, and in mercy healed
    The raging fevers that my strength deprest,
  His love paternal to my soul revealed,
    And swell'd the tide of rapture in my breast.

  Oh! then, my heart, may'st thou continual turn
    To Him whose power alone can guide thy ways:
  May love divine upon thine altar burn,
    And every thought and feeling speak His praise.



LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. VII.

  He was too good for war, and ought to be
  As far from danger, as from fear he's free.--_Cowley_.


"You are an accomplished Lovelace, Lionel!" said one of a merry 
throng, collected around a wine table. "Poor Miss Ellen Pilton is now 
fondly trusting to your mellow song of flattery and promise. Here's to 
her health! and to that of every pretty woman with a silly heart, and 
a credulous ear."

"'Tis pledged," cried I, forgetting every feeling of honor in the 
incense offered to my vanity, "and may each of you be equally 
successful."

The words were scarcely uttered by me, nor had the glass touched my 
lips, ere I received a violent blow in the face, which sent me reeling 
to the extremity of the room. Rising with shame from my debasing 
posture, I encountered the eye of Pilton, fixed on me with a firm, 
cool, and deliberate gaze, and in an instant, my dirk was pointed to 
his heart. I looked in his face with a stern, malignant, and merciless 
triumph, yet his color neither blanched--nor did his countenance 
quail. "Let him alone!" cried twenty voices, "he is unarmed, give him 
fair play;" and I thank God, that in the tempest of my rage I was 
sufficiently alive to this appeal to my manhood, suddenly to throw the 
vulgar weapon away.

"Base coward!" cried I, "I will not assassinate you--but remember that 
your blood alone, can cleanse this foul and dastardly assault."

"You have insulted my sister," he replied, "and I have punished your 
falsehood. I fear neither your attempt at assassination--nor the 
resentment of that baseness which can trample on unprotected 
innocence. Remember, Mr. Granby, that the blow which you received was 
from a brother's hand! and if you be a gentleman, your infamy will be 
deepened by the seething recollections of your own conscience."

"You have done wrong Lionel!" said many voices, "tell him, that you 
did not see him enter the room when the toast was offered, or you 
would not have wounded his feelings."

"Who dictates to me?" said I,--"who measures my honor? who controls my 
revenge? for whoever dare treat me with such impertinent freedom, I 
will hold as an enemy, whom I will pursue to the grave. As for you, 
Mr. Pilton--you will _understand_----_to-morrow_."

My couch that night was one of utter wretchedness, and my revenge was 
lashed into bitterness, by the whip of sleepless conscience. That I 
should in a moment of folly have committed an act disgraceful to a 
gentleman--that I should, under the excitement of puerile vanity, have 
offered myself to the just resentment of my enemy--that I should thus 
foolishly lose the "vantage ground," which I had long and anxiously 
sought--that I should be stung and tortured by a consciousness of 
impropriety--and that I should bear on my proud cheek, the scorching 
blush of a public insult, were feelings which conspired to humble and 
cheapen me to the lowest point of mental and personal degradation.

Where duelling is a passion--and where public opinion calls it 
chivalry, it is easy to procure a second, and I was saved the trouble 
of seeking one by the voluntary offer of the young man who had given 
the offensive toast to my vanity. Early on the next morning, the 
warlike missive, graced with the usual courtesies, was sent to Pilton, 
and in a short time I received the following answer--a brief, though 
comprehensive commentary on the truisms and philosophy of cowardice.


_Sir_--I cannot--I will not fight a duel. I owe duties to my country, 
my God, and my family, dependent on a life which none but a fool would 
idly risk. I am not sufficiently base to murder you--nor am I silly 
enough to offer my life to your malignant revenge. I have no right to 
kill you--therefore, I shall not attempt it. I {95} chastised you, as 
I shall do every man, who acts in a similar manner, for an insult to 
the reputation of a sister. Sustained by an approving conscience--and 
a mind honestly alive to a sense of its own dignity, I am prepared to 
defend myself from every attack of brutality and malice.

                                      Your ob't servant,
                                        EDMUND PILTON.

  _Lionel Granby, Esq._


"Why did you suffer Pilton to refuse the challenge? Was it not 
delivered in proper form? and did you not assure him that there was no 
alternative?"

"It was with difficulty," replied my second, "that I could induce him 
to receive your note, and when he informed me of his refusal to fight, 
I called him a coward, and threw a glass of water into his face. 
Provoked to some spirit by the grossness of my insult, he struck me 
with a cane; I aimed a pistol at his bosom which unfortunately 
flashed; and he terminated my visit, by caning and kicking me down 
stairs. I am more deeply insulted than you are. What shall I do? How 
shall I act to obtain satisfaction?"

My second's reception added more gall to my wounded pride, and I 
resolved to coerce Pilton into a fight, by attacking him, whenever we 
should meet. I crushed his letter with my heel, and, throwing it into 
the fire, I watched it twisting and crackling amid the blaze. Ere it 
had wasted itself into ashes, Arthur Ludwell, almost breathless, 
entered my room.

"I feel deeply, dear Lionel," said he taking my hand, "for your 
situation, and regret that you have not sent for me, and demanded my 
assistance. I have waited on Pilton, who declares that he will make an 
apology for his blow, if you will say that you were ignorant of his 
presence in the room, when the toast was pledged. All who have heard 
of the affray know very well, that this was the fact; for you would 
not wantonly wound that exquisite sensibility which a brother alone 
can feel. It would be honorable on your part to express the truth, and 
it is magnanimous in Pilton to offer his reconciliation."

"And am I then so degraded, so contemptible, and so humble, that you 
can thus cruelly taunt me, and, with the harlotry of insidious 
friendship, counsel me to vilify my name, and commit a debasing 
suicide on my own character? Must I make an apology to a brute--one 
who is a disgrace to manhood's spirit--and who has rotted into life, 
on the dunghill of selfishness? Must I succumb to him, whom I have 
hated with long, unbroken, and relentless abhorrence? Must I be deaf 
to that fearful curse with which his malice blighted the freshness of 
my boyhood--which burnt on the tablet of memory, and graven in letters 
of blood, now agonizes my brain, and swells through my heart? Must I 
be recreant to my name, and family--forget that blow which will ever 
tingle on my cheek, and basely creep through life a reptile coward? 
Take back your treacherous friendship, if this be its infamy, and 
remember, Mr. Ludwell, that in one moment you have crushed every 
feeling of affection, and on its ruins, have arisen an eternal 
contempt for your duplicity, and a damning scorn for your character."

"Hear me, dear Lionel!" said he, bursting into tears, "and forgive 
that advice which sprung from a heart tenderly alive to every thing 
connected with your interest. Control your rage, and listen to the 
voice of that friend who will sacrifice life, and surrender every 
thing he has on earth, for your reputation. Pardon the intrusion of my 
counsel, and I will forgive your suspicions. Come, give me your hand, 
and let me not believe that you have a bad heart."

"What right sir! have you to allude to my heart, whatever it may 
be?--no imputation shall be cast on it, by a weeping coward. I shall 
hold you answerable," said I quitting the room--"for the baseness of 
your insinuation, and I can assure you that an ocean of hypocritical 
tears will not protect you."

So soon as I could procure a pen, I addressed a cruel and fiend-like 
letter to Arthur, demanding an humble apology--and an explicit 
disavowal of his insult, and in the event of his refusal, my second 
was authorised to make a _speedy arrangement_. "Let him not (concluded 
my letter) see your womanly accomplishments, for he is prepared to 
scorn the weakness, and loathe the duplicity of your tears."

The same second whom Pilton's attack had maddened into a demoniac rage 
for blood, bore my challenge to Arthur; and when he returned, I saw 
his eye kindled into animation at the hope of a certain fight. "Here 
is a letter for you! Ludwell is true game. You cannot retract your 
challenge, and he will be forced to meet you! I will clean the 
pistols, while you write family letters and starve; for the odds are 
against you, if you dine or eat any thing." While he busied himself in 
searching for the pistols, I opened and read with feelings of stern 
contempt, the letter of Arthur.


_My dear Lionel_,--Take back your challenge, and do not force me to 
meet _you_ in combat. I cannot refuse it, for I have not firmness of 
mind to do an act which my reason suggests, and my heart approves. I 
am afraid of that public opinion which would execrate me as a coward, 
and trample me into infamy, ere I had stept into manhood. In spite of 
your unkind letter, I still love you with the candor and truth of a 
boy's heart, and I think now more deeply of the innocent hours of our 
early days, when friendship united us, and sincerity hallowed the 
union. You know that I cannot make an apology under a threat. Retract 
it, and I will humble myself, if by such means I can regain your 
wonted affection.

                                 Your friend,
                                       ARTHUR LUDWELL.


"Return!" said I to my second, "and inform Mr. Ludwell that if he do 
not consent to fight, I will proclaim him as a coward, and publish his 
whining letter to the world. He, with every other man who dare sustain 
Pilton, is my enemy."

We met! 'Twas a mild and peaceful evening when we approached the 
field, and the setting sun was rejoicing like a bridegroom in the 
blushing embrace of the trembling horizon. Its quivering rays were 
reflected in shadowy lines, through the foliage of the forest, while 
the scarlet fruit of two old holly trees--the mute records of many a 
duel--lent the only cheering aspect to the frightful solitude of the 
scene. Our seconds having retired a short distance, for the purpose of 
arranging the usual ceremonies, we were left standing near each other. 
I was proud and inflexible, yet I felt my heart throbbing with 
anguish, and long-prized friendship, and when I looked on his serene 
and {96} dignified countenance, the jeweled days of our childhood 
flashed before me--when I was untainted by revenge--and uncursed by 
hatred,--when I was lifted above the darkness of human passion--when 
hope illuminated the airy future, and pleasure grasped the unalloyed 
fruition of reality. I thought not of my own death--of that dreamless 
and sodden sleep, from whose ghastly phantasm wisdom sinks into 
horror--of that dark insensibility to warm and mantling life--to 
light, hope, and love--a shadowless, impenetrable and boundless 
desart. Could I destroy the life of him, who with tireless truth had 
ever joyed in my joys--and sorrowed in my sorrows? Could I crush and 
scatter into nothingness, the full harvest which his ambition had 
garnered--the gems of mind--the sparkling thoughts of genius--the rich 
treasures of learning--and bankrupt the accumulated spoils of wisdom? 
Could I seize from the fœtid riot of the grave the animated 
countenance, the brave, generous and affectionate heart, or call back 
from the eternal prison of death, the gifted mind, and the eloquent 
brow? I reasoned with a memory which could not be recreant, and of the 
result of that duel my heart is guiltless?

Our seconds, having finished their conversation, now approached, and 
placed the pistols in our hands, Arthur holding his in a perpendicular 
position, and mine according to the latest improvement, and the 
repeated suggestions of my second, being directed to the earth.

"I cannot consent to fire?" said I, "while Mr. Ludwell stands directly 
in the line of that tree, it gives me a great advantage!"

"It makes no difference, Lionel!--Mr. Granby," said Arthur, suddenly 
correcting himself, "I care not in what posture, or situation I 
stand." His second now advanced and placed him in a position, the 
advantage of which did not escape the keen eye of my friend, who 
turned me around twice, before he confessed himself satisfied with my 
attitude. The word "_fire_" was now given, and almost at the same 
moment our pistols were discharged, Arthur having fired his into the 
air, while I in raising mine, had involuntarily aimed it directly at 
my antagonist. The ball struck him I know not where, but I saw him 
reel backwards, stagger, and laying hold of a bush near him, stumble, 
and fall to the earth.

"I demand another fire," said his friend, "he is able to stand, and I 
claim the privilege." "Mr. Ludwell cannot fire again," replied my 
second, "for he has thrown away his shot."

"I resign my right," interrupted Arthur! "and Lionel, I forgive you. 
If I recover, I will forget all--and dying, you have my unalloyed 
friendship. Leave this frightful place as soon as possible, for you 
may be arrested; and do not fear, for I shall yet recover, and we will 
be friends again." These words were uttered by him in a faint, though 
distinct voice; his features were nerved with his usual lofty dignity 
of countenance, yet his eye quivered with a flitting light, and a dark 
and unearthly color fell, like a wintry cloud, over the radiance of 
his brow. I could not so far divest myself of pride, as to confess in 
presence of our seconds that my fire had been accidental, nor could I, 
even at that trying moment, reconcile it to myself to be an exception 
to that general rule, which requires that a challenger shall never 
throw away his fire. Motioning to our friends to retire, I approached 
Arthur, and leaning over him, I whispered the simple truth. A 
momentary smile flashed over his pallid countenance, and grasping my 
hand in an ecstacy of delight, he said, "I knew it! I believe you! I 
was confident that you did not fire intentionally!" He was here 
interrupted by my second who exclaimed "the civil authorities!" I 
looked round, and through the dim twilight, I saw a crowd of 
ill-dressed people rapidly approaching us. I knelt down, and asking 
forgiveness once more from my injured friend, fled with the burning 
brand of Cain on my forehead--an humbled and heart-broken man!



UNKNOWN FLOWERS.

  "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen."


  Oh! many are the unknown flowers,
  By human eyes unseen,
  That bloom in nature's woodland bowers,
  Of bright and changeless green.
  The brightest flowers earth ever knew,
  Of lovely breath, and brilliant hue,
  Are sparkling there with morning dew,
  Or bright with summer showers--
  Above them tower the forest trees,
  And o'er them blows the gentle breeze,
  And by them many a mountain stream
  Runs eddying thro' its banks of green,
  And to each bud that o'er it bends
  A drop of pearly radiance lends,
  Dashes its sides with snowy spray,
  Then hurries on its course away--
  The wood-bee revels on their sweets,
  And 'neath their leaves the bright Fay sleeps;
  And by them bounds the gentle deer
  So full of life, so full of fear:
  And lovely birds, whose brilliant wings
  Are bright with hues of brighter things,
  Make music in those woodland bowers,
  Those Edens of the unknown flowers.

MORNA.



SONNET TO ********.

BY ALEXANDER LACY BEARD, M.D.


  I will not leave thee! no by heaven I swear,
  Although thy soul be stained with guilt and shame,
  I will not leave thee! for by me it came--
  Then cheer up, sweet one, shudder not with fear;
  From my own side, thy form they shall not tear;
  I will not leave thee! one undying flame
  Burns in my breast!--will ever burn the same,
  'Mid sorrow's storm, and darkest hour of care.

  O that some far off, dark, and desart isle,
  To man a stranger and his heartless pride,
  Would take us to its bosom lone and wild,
  Where I, unwatched, could wander by thy side,
  Soothed by thy voice and gladden'd by thy smile,
  Rich in thy love so long and deeply tried.



A. W. Schlegel says, that in a German drama is the following stage 
direction. "He flashes lightning at him with his eyes, and exit." (_Er 
blitzt ihn mit den augen an._)


{97}


METZENGERSTEIN.
A TALE IN IMITATION OF THE GERMAN.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

  Pestis eram vivus--moriens tua mors ero.
                                    _Martin Luther_.


Horror and Fatality have been stalking abroad in all ages. Why then 
give a date to the story I have to tell? I will not. Besides, I have 
other reasons for concealment. Let it suffice to say, that at the 
period of which I speak, there existed, in the interior of Hungary, a 
settled although hidden belief in the doctrines of the Metempsychosis. 
Of the doctrines themselves--that is, of their falsity, or of their 
probability--I say nothing. I assert, however, that much of our 
incredulity--as La Bruyére says of all our unhappiness--"_vient de ne 
pouvoir etre seuls_."

But there were some points in the Hungarian superstition which were 
fast verging to absurdity. They--the Hungarians--differed very 
essentially from their Eastern authorities. For example. "_The soul_," 
said the former--I give the words of an acute and intelligent 
Parisian--"_ne demeure qu'un seul fois dans un corps sensible: au 
reste--un cheval, un chien, un homme même n' est que la ressemblance 
peu tangible de ces animaux._"

       *       *       *       *       *

The families of Berlifitzing and Metzengerstein had been at variance 
for centuries. Never before were two houses so illustrious mutually 
embittered by hostility so deadly. Indeed, at the era of this history, 
it was observed by an old crone of haggard and sinister appearance, 
that "fire and water might sooner mingle than a Berlifitzing clasp the 
hand of a Metzengerstein." The origin of this enmity seems to be found 
in the words of an ancient prophecy--"A lofty name shall have a 
fearful fall when, like the rider over his horse, the mortality of 
Metzengerstein shall triumph over the immortality of Berlifitzing."

To be sure the words themselves had little or no meaning. But more 
trivial causes have given rise--and that no long while ago--to 
consequences equally eventful. Besides, the estates, which were 
contiguous, had long exercised a rival influence in the affairs of a 
busy government. Moreover, near neighbors are seldom friends--and the 
inhabitants of the Castle Berlifitzing might look, from their lofty 
buttresses, into the very windows of the Chateau Metzengerstein. Least 
of all was the more than feudal magnificence thus discovered 
calculated to allay the irritable feelings of the less ancient and 
less wealthy Berlifitzings. What wonder, then, that the words, however 
silly, of that prediction, should have succeeded in setting and 
keeping at variance two families already predisposed to quarrel by 
every instigation of hereditary jealousy? The prophecy seemed to 
imply--if it implied any thing--a final triumph on the part of the 
already more powerful house; and was of course remembered with the 
more bitter animosity on the side of the weaker and less influential.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although honorably and loftily descended, 
was, at the epoch of this narrative, an infirm and doting old man, 
remarkable for nothing but an inordinate and inveterate personal 
antipathy to the family of his rival, and so passionate a love of 
horses, and of hunting, that neither bodily infirmity, great age, nor 
mental incapacity, prevented his daily participation in the dangers of 
the chase.

Frederick, Baron Metzengerstein, was, on the other hand, not yet of 
age. His father, the Minister G----, died young. His mother, the Lady 
Mary, followed quickly after. Frederick was, at that time, in his 
fifteenth year. In a city fifteen years are no long period--a child 
may be still a child in his third lustrum: but in a wilderness--in so 
magnificent a wilderness as that old principality, fifteen years have 
a far deeper meaning.

The beautiful Lady Mary! How _could_ she die?--and of consumption! But 
it is a path I have prayed to follow. I would wish all I love to 
perish of that gentle disease. How glorious! to depart in the hey-day 
of the young blood--the heart all passion--the imagination all 
fire--amid the remembrances of happier days--in the fall of the 
year--and so be buried up forever in the gorgeous autumnal leaves!

Thus died the Lady Mary. The young Baron Frederick stood without a 
living relative by the coffin of his dead mother. He placed his hand 
upon her placid forehead. No shudder came over his delicate frame--no 
sigh from his flinty bosom. Heartless, self-willed, and impetuous from 
his childhood, he had reached the age of which I speak through a 
career of unfeeling, wanton, and reckless dissipation; and a barrier 
had long since arisen in the channel of all holy thoughts and gentle 
recollections.

       *       *       *       *       *

From some peculiar circumstances attending the administration of his 
father, the young Baron, at the decease of the former, entered 
immediately upon his vast possessions. Such estates were seldom held 
before by a nobleman of Hungary. His castles were without number--of 
these the chief in point of splendor and extent was the "Chateau 
Metzengerstein." The boundary line of his dominions was never clearly 
defined--but his principal park embraced a circuit of fifty miles.

Upon the succession of a proprietor so young--with a character so well 
known--to a fortune so unparalleled--little speculation was afloat in 
regard to his probable course of conduct. And, indeed, for the space 
of three days the behavior of the heir out-heroded Herod, and fairly 
surpassed the expectations of his most enthusiastic admirers. Shameful 
debaucheries--flagrant treacheries--unheard-of atrocities--gave his 
trembling vassals quickly to understand that no servile submission on 
their part--no punctilios of conscience on his own--were thenceforward 
to prove any security against the remorseless and bloody fangs of a 
petty Caligula. On the night of the fourth day, the stables of the 
Castle Berlifitzing were discovered to be on fire: and the unanimous 
opinion of the neighborhood instantaneously added the crime of the 
incendiary to the already hideous list of the Baron's misdemeanors and 
enormities.

But during the tumult occasioned by this occurrence, the young 
nobleman himself sat, apparently buried in meditation, in a vast and 
desolate upper apartment of the family palace of Metzengerstein. The 
rich although faded tapestry-hangings which swung gloomily upon the 
walls, represented the shadowy and majestic forms of a thousand 
illustrious ancestors. _Here_, rich-ermined priests, and pontifical 
dignitaries, familiarly seated with the autocrat and the sovereign, 
put a veto on the wishes of a temporal king--or {98} restrained with 
the fiat of papal supremacy the rebellious sceptre of the Arch-Enemy. 
_There_, the dark, tall statures of the Princes Metzengerstein--their 
muscular war-coursers plunging over the carcass of a fallen 
foe--startled the steadiest nerves with their vigorous expression: and 
_here_, again, the voluptuous and swan-like figures of the dames of 
days gone by, floated away in the mazes of an unreal dance to the 
strains of imaginary melody.

But as the Baron listened, or affected to listen to the gradually 
increasing uproar in the stables of Berlifitzing--or perhaps pondered 
upon some more novel--some more decided act of audacity--his eyes 
became unwittingly rivetted to the figure of an enormous, and 
unnaturally colored horse, represented in the tapestry as belonging to 
a Saracen ancestor of the family of his rival. The horse itself, in 
the foreground of the design, stood motionless and statue-like--while 
farther back its discomfitted rider perished by the dagger of a 
Metzengerstein.

On Frederick's lip arose a fiendish expression, as he became aware of 
the direction his glance had, without his consciousness, assumed. Yet 
he did not remove it. On the contrary he could by no means account for 
the singular, intense, and overwhelming anxiety which appeared falling 
like a shroud upon his senses. It was with difficulty that he 
reconciled his dreamy and incoherent feelings with the certainty of 
being awake. The longer he gazed, the more absorbing became the 
spell--the more impossible did it appear that he could ever withdraw 
his glance from the fascination of that tapestry. But the tumult 
without becoming suddenly more violent, with a kind of compulsory and 
desperate exertion he diverted his attention to the glare of ruddy 
light thrown full by the flaming stables upon the windows of the 
apartment.

The action, however, was but momentary--his gaze returned mechanically 
to the wall. To his extreme horror and astonishment the head of the 
gigantic steed had, in the meantime, altered its position. The neck of 
the animal, before arched, as if in compassion, over the prostrate 
body of its lord, was now extended, at full length, in the direction 
of the Baron. The eyes, before invisible, now wore an energetic and 
human expression, while they gleamed with a fiery and unusual red: and 
the distended lips of the apparently enraged horse left in full view 
his sepulchral and disgusting teeth.

Stupified with terror the young nobleman tottered to the door. As he 
threw it open, a flash of red light streaming far into the chamber, 
flung his shadow with a clear outline against the quivering tapestry; 
and he shuddered to perceive that shadow--as he staggered awhile upon 
the threshold--assuming the exact position, and precisely filling up 
the contour of the relentless and triumphant murderer of the Saracen 
Berlifitzing.

To lighten the depression of his spirits the Baron hurried into the 
open air. At the principal gate of the Chateau he encountered three 
equerries. With much difficulty, and at the imminent peril of their 
lives, they were restraining the unnatural and convulsive plunges of a 
gigantic and fiery-colored horse.

"Whose horse? Where did you get him?" demanded the youth in a 
querulous and husky tone of voice, as he became instantly aware that 
the mysterious steed in the tapestried chamber was the very 
counterpart of the furious animal before his eyes.

"He is your own property, Sire"--replied one of the equerries--"at 
least he is claimed by no other owner. We caught him flying, all 
smoking and foaming with rage, from the burning stables of the Castle 
Berlifitzing. Supposing him to have belonged to the old Count's stud 
of foreign horses, we led him back as an estray. But the grooms there 
disclaim any title to the creature--which is strange, since he bears 
evident marks of having made a narrow escape from the flames."

"The letters W. V. B. are also branded very distinctly on his 
forehead"--interrupted a second equerry--"I supposed them, of course, 
to be the initials of Wilhelm Von Berlifitzing--but all at the Castle 
are positive in denying any knowledge of the horse."

"Extremely singular!" said the young Baron, with a musing air, and 
apparently unconscious of the meaning of his words--"He is, as you 
say, a remarkable horse--a prodigious horse! although, as you very 
justly observe, of a suspicious and untractable character----Let him 
be mine, however," he added, after a pause--"perhaps a rider like 
Frederick of Metzengerstein, may tame even the devil from the stables 
of Berlifitzing."

"You are mistaken, my lord--the horse, as I think we mentioned, is 
_not_ from the stables of the Count. If such were the case, we know 
our duty better than to bring him into the presence of a noble of your 
family."

"True!" observed the Baron drily--and at that instant a page of the 
bed chamber came from the Chateau with a heightened color, and 
precipitate step. He whispered into his master's ear an account of the 
miraculous and sudden disappearance of a small portion of the 
tapestry, in an apartment which he designated: entering, at the same 
time, into particulars of a minute and circumstantial character--but 
from the low tone of voice in which these latter were communicated, 
nothing escaped to gratify the excited curiosity of the equerries.

The young Frederick, during the conference, seemed agitated by a 
variety of emotions. He soon, however, recovered his composure, and an 
expression of determined malignancy settled upon his countenance, as 
he gave peremptory orders that a certain chamber should be immediately 
locked up, and the key placed in his own possession.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Have you heard of the unhappy death of the old hunter Berlifitzing?" 
said one of his vassals to the Baron, as, after the affair of the 
page, the huge and mysterious steed which that nobleman had adopted as 
his own, plunged and curvetted, with redoubled and supernatural fury, 
down the long avenue which extended from the Chateau to the stables of 
Metzengerstein.

"No!"--said the Baron, turning abruptly towards the speaker--"dead! 
say you?"

"It is indeed true, my lord--and, to a noble of your name, will be, I 
imagine, no unwelcome intelligence."

A rapid smile of a peculiar and unintelligible meaning shot over the 
beautiful countenance of the listener--"How died he?"

"In his rash exertions to rescue a favorite portion of his hunting 
stud, he has himself perished miserably in the flames."

"I--n--d--e--e--d--!"--ejaculated the Baron, as if {99} slowly and 
deliberately impressed with the truth of some exciting idea.

"Indeed"--repeated the vassal.

"Shocking!" said the youth calmly, and turned quietly into the 
Chateau.

       *       *       *       *       *

From this date a marked alteration took place in the outward demeanor 
of the dissolute young Baron Frederick Von Metzengerstein. Indeed his 
behaviour disappointed every expectation, and proved little in 
accordance with the views of many a manœuvering mamma--while his 
habits and manners, still less than formerly, offered any thing 
congenial with those of the neighboring aristocracy. He was never to 
be seen beyond the limits of his own domain, and, in this wide and 
social world, was utterly companionless--unless, indeed, that 
unnatural, impetuous, and fiery-colored horse, which he henceforward 
continually bestrode, had any mysterious right to the title of his 
friend.

Numerous invitations on the part of the neighborhood for a long time, 
however, periodically came in--"Will the Baron honor our festivals 
with his presence?" "Will the Baron join us in a hunting of the boar?" 
"Metzengerstein does not hunt"--"Metzengerstein will not attend"--were 
the haughty and laconic answers.

These repeated insults were not to be endured by an imperious 
nobility. Such invitations became less cordial--less frequent--in time 
they ceased altogether. The widow of the unfortunate Count 
Berlifitzing, was even heard to express a hope--"that the Baron might 
be at home when he did not wish to be at home, since he disdained the 
company of his equals: and ride when he did not wish to ride, since he 
preferred the society of a horse." This to be sure was a very silly 
explosion of hereditary pique; and merely proved how singularly 
unmeaning our sayings are apt to become, when we desire to be 
unusually energetic.

The charitable, nevertheless, attributed the alteration in the conduct 
of the young nobleman to the natural sorrow of a son for the untimely 
loss of his parents--forgetting, however, his atrocious and reckless 
behavior during the short period immediately succeeding that 
bereavement. Some there were, indeed, who suggested a too haughty idea 
of self-consequence and dignity. Others again--among whom may be 
mentioned the family physician--did not hesitate in speaking of morbid 
melancholy, and hereditary ill-heath: while dark hints, of a more 
equivocal nature, were current among the multitude.

Indeed the Baron's perverse attachment to his lately-acquired 
charger--an attachment which seemed to attain new strength from every 
fresh example of the animal's ferocious and demonlike propensities--at 
length became, in the eyes of all reasonable men, a hideous and 
unnatural fervor. In the glare of noon--at the dead hour of night--in 
sickness or in health--in calm or in tempest--in moonlight or in 
shadow--the young Metzengerstein seemed rivetted to the saddle of that 
colossal horse, whose intractable audacities so well accorded with the 
spirit of his own.

There were circumstances, moreover, which, coupled with late events, 
gave an unearthly and portentous character to the mania of the rider, 
and to the capabilities of the steed. The space passed over in a 
single leap had been accurately measured, and was found to exceed by 
an astounding difference, the wildest expectations of the most 
imaginative. The Baron, besides, had no particular _name_ for the 
animal, although all the rest in his extensive collection were 
distinguished by characteristic appellations. His stable, too, was 
appointed at a distance from the rest; and with regard to grooming and 
other necessary offices, none but the owner in person had ventured to 
officiate, or even to enter the enclosure of that particular stall. It 
was also to be observed, that although the three grooms, who had 
caught the horse as he fled from the conflagration at Berlifitzing, 
had succeeded in arresting his course, by means of a chain-bridle and 
noose--yet no one of the three could with any certainty affirm that he 
had, during that dangerous struggle, or at any period thereafter, 
actually placed his hand upon the body of the beast. Instances of 
peculiar intelligence in the demeanor of a noble and high spirited 
steed are not to be supposed capable of exciting unreasonable 
attention--especially among men who, daily trained to the labors of 
the chase, might appear well acquainted with the sagacity of a 
horse--but there were certain circumstances which intruded themselves 
per force, upon the most skeptical and phlegmatic--and it is said 
there were times when this singular and mysterious animal, caused the 
gaping crowd who stood around to recoil in silent horror from the deep 
and impressive meaning of his terrible stamp--times when the young 
Metzengerstein turned pale and shrunk away from the rapid and 
searching expression of his intense and human-looking eye.

Among all the retinue of the Baron, however, none were found to doubt 
the ardor of that extraordinary affection which existed on the part of 
the young nobleman for the fiery qualities of his horse--at least, 
none but an insignificant and misshapen little page, whose deformities 
were in every body's way, and whose opinions were of the least 
possible importance. He--if his ideas are worth mentioning at all--had 
the effrontery to assert that his master never vaulted into the 
saddle, without an unaccountable and almost imperceptible shudder--and 
that, upon his return from every long-continued and habitual ride, an 
expression of triumphant malignity distorted every muscle in his 
countenance.

One tempestuous night, Metzengerstein, awaking from a heavy and 
oppressive slumber, descended like a maniac from his chamber, and 
mounting in great haste, bounded away into the mazes of the forest. An 
occurrence so common attracted no particular attention--but his return 
was looked for with intense anxiety on the part of his domestics, 
when, after some hour's absence, the stupendous and magnificent 
battlements of the Chateau Metzengerstein, were discovered crackling 
and rocking to their very foundation, under the influence of a dense 
and livid mass of ungovernable fire.

As the flames, when first seen, had already made so terrible a 
progress that all efforts to save any portion of the building were 
evidently futile, the astonished neighborhood stood idly around in 
silent and apathetic wonder. But a new and fearful object soon 
rivetted the attention of the multitude, and proved how much more 
intense is the excitement wrought in the feelings of a crowd by the 
contemplation of human agony, than that brought about by the most 
appalling spectacles of inanimate matter.

{100} Up the long avenue of aged oaks which led from the forest to the 
main entrance of the Chateau Metzengerstein, a steed, bearing an 
unbonneted and disordered rider, was seen leaping with an impetuosity 
which outstripped the very Demon of the Tempest, and extorted from 
every stupified beholder the ejaculation--"horrible!"

The career of the horseman was indisputably, on his own part, 
uncontrollable. The agony of his countenance--the convulsive struggle 
of his frame--gave evidence of superhuman exertion: but no sound, save 
a solitary shriek, escaped from his lacerated lips, which were bitten 
through and through in the intensity of terror. One instant, and the 
clattering of hoofs resounded sharply and shrilly above the roaring of 
the flames and the shrieking of the winds--another, and, clearing at a 
single plunge the gateway and the moat, the steed bounded far up the 
tottering stair-cases of the Palace, and, with its rider, disappeared 
amid the whirlwind of chaotic fire.

The fury of the tempest immediately died away, and a dead calm 
sullenly succeeded. A white flame still enveloped the building like a 
shroud, and, streaming far away into the quiet atmosphere, shot forth 
a glare of preternatural light; while a cloud of smoke settled heavily 
over the battlements in the distinct collossal figure of--a horse.



THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.

[_From a Philadelphia Journal_.]

A PRIZE POEM--BY A VIRGINIAN.


              'Twas no longer day
              In an isle that lay
            Distant o'er ocean--far
            Beyond the western star,
            Under a sky unknown,
            All beautiful and lone.

            It was a fairy isle,
            Where summer's golden smile
  Shines on forever unchangingly,
    O'er its glittering vine-clad hills,
    Green valleys and cold limpid rills,
  And the encircling emerald sea.
    Oh! there are spirits that dwell
    In every wizard dell--
  Sweet forms that haunt each grottoed fount,
  Each fragrant vale and sunlit mount,
  And voices that whisper at even-tide,
  On the silver sands by the lone sea side.

  There came a youth to the shore alone,
  His step was light--his air was free,
  And his glittering eye flashed joyously--
  He knelt him down on the printless sand,
  And in the hollow of his hand,
  Dipped the clear waves, and o'er a stone,
  A curious greyish stone, that stood
  Just on the margin of the flood,
  He sprinkled the drops, and half-sung, half-spoke,
  In a low faint tone, that scarcely broke
  The hush that hung round that wild shore,
  The waters were silently creeping o'er--

            "Stars are weeping
              O'er the waves,
            Winds are sleeping
              In their caves--
            'Tis the hour,
              Then come to me,
            By love's power
              I conjure thee--
            Quickly come
              Unto me,
            From thy coral home
              Under the sea."

            "Beautiful spirit,
              Hear my call--
            Ocean! bear it
              To her hall
            Where she twines
              Her yellow hair
            By light that shines
              From diamonds there!
            Bid her come
              Unto me,
            From her coral home
              Under the sea."

       *       *       *       *       *

            "Does she wait to deck
              With gems her hair?
            Tell her I nothing reck
              Of jewels rare,
            Other than those eyes
              So wildly bright--
            They dim the starred skies
              With their purer light.
            Ocean Spirit come--
              Oh! come to me,
            From thy coral home
            Beneath the sea."
        He paused, and silent stood
        In listening attitude--
      His head bent forward, and his eye
      Gazing with fixed intensity;
            A low sad tone
              Came o'er the wave
            Like the wind's faint moan
              In a hollow cave,
  Throughout the echoing archways sighing,
  Then in mysterious whispers dying--
  And all was calm and still again,
  So still--the place might seem to be
  The grave of sound.--Oh! mournfully
  From the noiseless sands the youth turned then,
  And slowly upward from the shore
    His step retraced, with a heavy heart,
    And dimming eye, as those who part
  With something much loved and cherished of yore.

      Now at the foot of a mountain
        In the silence and shadow he stood,
      By the brink of the charmed fountain
        Whose dark and sullen flood
    Doth bring forgetfulness to those
    Who drink its wave, of all their woes.
              For thence he took
                The magic flower,
              And three times shook
                Its leaves of power,        {101}
              And muttered the word
                Which in our clime
              Hath not been heard
                Since the birth of Time--
              This done, 'tis said,
              If the youth or the maid
                Of thy heart be untrue,
              The leaves will fade
                And fall where they grew;
                Alas! he knew
    By this same never-erring token,
    That the faith of his ocean-love was broken.

  In mute surprise and grief the youth remained,
    Gazing upon the stalk unleaved and bare,
  Which still his hand unconsciously retained,
    Then proudly tossed it on the green sward there--
  "Thus," said he, "from my heart, false one, I cast
  The memory of thee and of the past."

  Now o'er the fountain's brim he stooped to lave
  His eager lip in the oblivious wave;
  But ere he had approached so near, his breath
  Might break the mirror sleeping calm beneath,
  Her image, in the beauty of a dream,
  Between him and the waters seemed to swim,
  And memories which his heart unconsciously
  Had garnered up, came o'er him hurriedly,
  In sweet succession, 'till his soul of feeling
  Thrilled like harp-strings o'er which the winds are stealing.
  He drew back, undecided--in dismay,
  And as, whene'er he strove, the vision smiled,
  So was he ever baffled and beguiled,
  Until at last he rose and went his way--
  Unhappy howsoe'er, he fancied yet
  _Nought could so joyless be as to forget_.

                      MORAL

  There must be something beautiful in wo
    That springs from love, else what is it that makes
  The heart, cling to its veriest sorrows so,
    And will not part with them until it breaks?
  Indeed love's pleasure with its pain so blends
    Like the warm sunset glow, and 'mid heaven's blue,
  We cannot tell where one begins or ends,
    Tho' each so totally unlike in hue.



ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAPTER III.


My task has been in part a task of selection. Many of the old Poets 
whose frequent beauties I have acknowledged, (at no time more than 
when occupied in the compilation of these papers,) have been passed 
over in silence. Herrick, the "honey-bee of letters"--Rare Drummond, 
hight "of Hawthornden"--Lovelace, whose Althea will live with Surry's 
Geraldine--and many other "names noble and bright" have met with bare 
mention. It cannot be expected then that I should rake up from the 
dung-hill of the day the Tennysons, the Montgomeries, the 
Blessingtons, etc. etc. with whose writings magazine readers are so 
conversant. These are "bad bardlings." But many will be passed by for 
whom I entertain much respect, and more love. Mrs. Norton, the elder 
Montgomery, Miss Landon, gentle and sad Grahame, are lights of no mean 
magnitude. But "in looking upon the moon the dimmer orbs are 
forgotten." I avail myself of this introductory paragraph to say, that 
this paper will be unlike those which have preceded it. Accurate 
research, and close examination into points of literary history, 
although necessary in treating of English Poetry in its earlier 
stages, are scarcely so in treating of the same subject in its later. 
The reason of this is evident. I shall therefore content myself with 
brief critical remarks, (_too_ brief, perhaps, to excite interest) and 
as a matter of less importance than in my former papers--with snatches 
of biography. This being the case, I fear that these papers will be 
thought trivial.

My last chapter ended with Pope. Passing over Swift and a few others, 
we come at once upon a worthy name.

I. James Thomson, the author of the _Seasons_ and other Poems of 
merit, was born in Roxburgshire, Scotland, in September, 1700. His 
father, a clergyman of small estate, died while the Poet was yet a 
boy; and, after a few years spent in obscurity, the son went to London 
as a literary adventurer. "By what gradation of indigence he became 
reduced to a Poet it would be vain to inquire." He did become 
"_reduced to a Poet_," however, and, after a season of want, he 
succeeded in selling his "Winter." Mr. Wheatley and Aaron Hill took 
active parts in his advancement, and Thomson was so blinded by 
gratitude for the kindness of the latter gentleman, that he flattered 
him without stint,--for which our poet no doubt underwent the 
repentance of Caliban on discovering the earthly quality of Stephano.

  ----------"What a thrice double ass
  Was I to take the drunkard for a God,
  And worship this dull fool."

His "Winter" was dedicated to Sir Spencer Compton, afterwards Viscount 
Pevensey--and twenty guineas were the price of the compliment. This 
poem soon became popular; so much so, that he was induced to publish 
his "Summer"--after which, "Spring" and "Autumn" followed in the order 
in which I write them. In 1727 he wrote "Britannia," a satirical poem, 
and "Sophonisba," a tragedy.[1] Other plays followed, several of which 
were suppressed by the licenser. Then came "Liberty," an elaborate and 
heavy poem. Thomson, at this stage of his affairs, was without funds 
or patronage. The Prince of Wales, however, having reduced his own 
fortunes to a condition almost as desperate as the Poet's, either from 
sympathy or from a supposition that the patronage of literature would 
be one means of gaining popular favor, employed Mr. Lyttleton to 
enlist Thomson. Our Poet, when the Prince on his first introduction 
familiarly inquired into his affairs, answered that 'they were in a 
more poetical posture than formerly'--whereupon he was presented with 
a yearly pension of 100_l_. After this he produced Agamemnon, a 
tragedy--Edward and Eleonora, a tragedy--Alfred, a mask--and the 
tragedy of Tancred and Sigismunda. Mr. Lyttleton having come into 
office, appointed him {102} surveyor general of the Leeward Islands. 
The salary appertaining to this office was something more than 
300_l_., and then it was that, unharassed by petty troubles, he 
finished his "Castle of Indolence."

[Footnote 1: Now only remembered from a rough parody on one of its 
verses. The play had excited high expectation, and was well received; 
but when the actor came to repeat--"O, Sophonisba, Sophonisba, O," a 
voice from the audience chimed in--"O, Jemmie Thomson, Jemmie Thomson, 
O," which for a time was a mouth-verse throughout the city.]

To this Poem I will confine myself in treating hurriedly of the 
writings of Thomson. His Seasons are too well known to call for 
comment--and his other works are (perhaps deservedly) out of the 
public recollection. The "Castle of Indolence" then, is a renewal of 
Spenser's best pictures--a renewal not only in its dreamy 
voluptuousness of character, but in its stanzaic peculiarities. It has 
been said that no other writers ever succeeded in acquiring the 
peculiar flow of Milton's blank verse, or the singular play of 
Spenser's old time rhythm. This is true with an exception. One half of 
the Castle of Indolence, if a little more antiquated, might be 
inserted among the cantos of the Faery Queene without detection. And 
this I hold to be no slight compliment to the later poet.

The Castle of Indolence was the work in which the idle Thomson gave 
words to his individual mood. A sluggard, he had a sluggard's visions. 
His visions of nature were of nature lulled into quietude. His 
landscapes sleep under quiet skies--his winds come from "the land of 
Drowsy Head." He reared shadowy battlements, and planted 
"sleep-soothing groves," under which lay

  "Idlesse in her dreaming mood."

And in such pictures the Poet rejoiced. But with this drowsy 
enchantment he mingled all the freshness of that age which, from its 
far distance in the past, takes upon itself the hue of far 
clouds--becoming in the eyes of men an age of gold. The freshness of 
which I speak is of the patriarchal age--

  "What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land,
   And pastured on from verdant stage to stage,
   Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage."

And this freshness retrieves the swooning and too sickly tone of a 
poem, all in all, inimitable.

If, reader, you wish an hour of forgetfulness, go to some quiet 
hollow, in the pleasant summer time, and after working thought and 
heart into the mood which can

  "Pour all the Arabian heaven upon our nights,"

hum such sleep-begetting verses as these:

   "Joined to the prattle of the purling rills
  Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
  And flocks were bleating from the distant hills,
  _And vacant shepherds piping in the dale_:
  And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,
  Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
  That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
  And _still a coil the grasshopper did keep_:
  Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

  And up the hills, on either side, a wood
  Of blackening pines aye waving to and fro,
  Sent forth _a sleepy horror thro' the blood_;
  And where this valley winded out below,
  _The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow_.
  A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,
  Of _dreams that wave before the half-shut eye_;
  And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
  Forever flushing round a summer sky:
  There, eke _the soft delights that witchingly
  Instill a wanton sweetness through the breast_,
  And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh."

Such soporific verses are of more worth than all the narcotics ever 
squeezed from the pores of the poppy. They sound like the trickle of 
rain from the eaves, or like the hum of bees about a tulip-tree in 
early summer.

Thomson died in August 1748, and was buried in the church of Richmond.

He is said to have been above the middle stature; somewhat corpulent; 
of a stupid look and repulsive appearance; taciturn in strange 
company, but sociable among his intimate friends; fixed in his 
attachments, and fervid in his benevolence. But he was too fat to be 
active; and often failed to bestow as well as obtain a favor through 
mere indolence. We have already seen that he wrote one poem on this 
vice; and reflecting upon its effects in his own affairs, he is said 
to have designed an eastern tale 'of the man who loved to be in 
distress.'

He has a cenotaph in Westminster Abbey.

II. The father of Edward Young was chaplain to William and Mary, and 
afterwards to Queen Anne--the latter of whom, when Princess royal, 
stood godmother to the Poet. Young, early in life, lost his father, 
and having fallen in with the wild Duke of Wharton, went with him to 
Ireland, where he remained long enough to acquire many of that young 
nobleman's dissipated habits. The impressions however of his childhood 
still had influence upon him, and in his worst hours he defended the 
Christian belief against the atheistical Tindall, and his cavilling 
companions.

In the least religious years of his life, he wrote a poem called "The 
Last Day." Indeed his mind was at all times rather dark and visionary. 
It is told of him that "while a mere boy, at Oxford, he would close 
his windows at mid-day, and compose by lamp light,"--with a skull upon 
his table.

Not lingering upon his many minor works--works now of no interest to 
the reader--we will pass on to his three greater ones--"Revenge," a 
tragedy--the "Night Thoughts"--and "Love of Fame," a series of 
satirical poems. Of the first it will be unnecessary to say more than 
that it still keeps possession of the stage. Of the "Night Thoughts," 
Blair and Johnson have both spoken in high terms. These, say they, are 
great poems, abounding with "rich and fervid thought expressed in a 
manner seldom turgid--often noble." And with this very brief notice, 
mindful of the long path before me, I will content myself and proceed 
to his satires. These, it strikes me, perhaps singularly, are our 
poet's best works. Swift has said of them that they should have been 
either "more merry or more severe," and the sententious brevity of 
this criticism has made it a popular one. Boileau sacrificed Tasso to 
an antithesis; wits suffer an epigrammatic point to outweigh real 
merit. We must make allowance therefore for the Dean's professional 
indifference to truth of criticism. Young's satires were much labored. 
They show it,--_ars_ NON _celat artem_; but this in satire is hardly a 
fault. We distrust the severity which we believe born of the hour's 
anger: we say the poet will repent of this hollow and unmerited 
invective when cool. But when a work bears about it the mark of labor, 
we hold it to be the offspring of a judicious and settled hatred of 
all that it castigates. Such a work oftenest has truth upon its face. 
This exposure of the laboring hand, then, is a merit in the satires 
before us. Of their epigrammatic {103} sententiousness, the reader may 
judge from a distich or two which I mean now to select from an 
indifferent page. Speaking of noblemen:

  "These stand for fame on their forefathers' feet,
   By heraldry proved valiant or discreet."

       *       *       *       *       *

  "Men should press forward in fame's glorious chase--
   Nobles look backward, and so lose the race."

       *       *       *       *       *

  "Titles are marks of honest men and wise--
   The fool or knave that wears a title lies."

       *       *       *       *       *

  "They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
   Produce their debt, instead of their discharge."

These are perhaps too frigid and naked. They have the cold insulation 
of the blocks in Mosaic. This in satire may be called "the being 
meritorious to a fault."

Young was something of an improvisatore, and almost the prettiest 
thing that I remember is a little sketch of a garden-scene during his 
courtship. One of the ladies referred to was Elizabeth, daughter of 
Lee, Earl of Litchfield; she afterwards became his wife.

"Sometime before his marriage, the poet walking in his garden at 
Welwyn, with his lady and another, a servant brought him word that a 
great person wished to speak with him. 'Tell him,' said the doctor, 'I 
am too happily engaged to change my situation.' The ladies insisted he 
should go, as his visitor was a man of rank, his patron and his 
friend; and as persuasion had no effect on him, they took him, one by 
the right hand, the other by the left, and led him to the garden gate. 
He then laid his hand upon his heart, and in the expressive manner for 
which he was so remarkable, uttered the following lines:

    "Thus Adam looked when from the garden driven,
     And thus disputed orders sent from heaven;
     Like him I go, but yet to go am loth--
     Like him I go, for angels drove us both.
   Hard was his fate, but mine still more unkind--
   His Eve went with him, but mine stays behind."

Passages occurred between our Poet and Voltaire while the latter was 
in England, and in these his powers of improvisation stood him in good 
stead. I will not quote instances.

Dr. Young has been reckoned an example of primeval piety, but gloom 
was mingled with it. When at his house in the country, he spent many 
hours among the tombs of his own churchyard. I have noticed his mode 
of study while at Oxford. These peculiarities betokened gloominess of 
temper, in spite of his occasional fondness for hunting and the 
bowling-green. "His wit was" more crushing than "poignant"--his poetic 
faculties were rather strong than beautiful.--Indeed his works often 
display a dark, stern roughness. In a word, he was a writer of a vast 
and sombre imagination--full of metaphor--rather 
metaphysical--sometimes obscure, and this rather from idea than 
expression; for his diction (as that of most great writers is,) was 
simple and healthy. He had the force of the later Pollock, without his 
extravagance--the melancholy of Kirke White, without his proneness to 
inane complaint; and in a word, possessed many merits with few 
failings.

Edward Young died in April, 1765, aged eighty-four years, and was 
buried beside his wife under the altarpiece of the church at Welwyn.

III. William Shenstone, of the Leasowes, in Hales Owen, a detached 
portion of Shropshire, was born in November, 1714. In early youth he 
manifested a great fondness for books--a fondness which increased upon 
him with years.

Shenstone did not write from necessity; and until summoned by the 
death, in 1745, of Mr. Dolman--a gentleman who appears to have been 
_in loco parentis_--to the management of his own estate, he lived "a 
restless life, flying to places of fashionable resort, and from one to 
another of these."

Four years before the death of Mr. Dolman, he had published two 
poems--The Judgment of Hercules, and The Schoolmistress--the latter of 
considerable merit. After retiring to his estate in Hales Owen, he 
wrote his elegies, odes, ballads, levities, &c. &c, the first of which 
have, more than any thing else, gained him his renown as a poet.

Shenstone passed many years of his life in embellishing his grounds at 
the Leasowes. Improving on the admirable lessons of Lord Bacon, he 
formed an Utopia at the foot of the Wrekin, and "became famous even on 
the continent for his taste in gardening." But with Shenstone as a 
gardener I have nothing to do. Of his poems, the Schoolmistress is the 
most amiable and natural. We find the simplicity of this combined with 
a querulous tenderness in his elegies. I scarcely know of any thing in 
the elegiac order so pretty and touching as the little poem in which 
he refers to the murder of Kenelm the Saxon boy, by a sister who had 
been his nurse, and who had doted on him--until an ambitious yearning 
after the crown of Mercia, and the words of a paramour, made her, 
while hunting among the Clent hills, "do murder on him"--on him whom 
an old chronicler has quaintly yet touchingly styled "the sunnye 
hayred brotherr of her hearte."

Shenstone was a poet of refined tastes. His fancy was polished, and he 
had trained himself well in the art of expression--if expression can 
be called an art. Like his brother poets, he worshipped at the shrine 
of love--often mingling the myrtle with the cypress. His Delia was no 
creature of the imagination. And like the Althea of Lovelace--like the 
nameless bringer of "wilde unrest" to Shakspeare--like her who was as 
a long-toothed viper at the heart of poor Lope de Vega; in fine, 
without multiplying "likes," Delia, if we are to judge from the poet's 
tone and life, did not love where she was best loved. Alas! when was 
woman as the rose which the nightingale serenades? When opened she her 
heart to song? Dante sung to Beatrice--Tasso made the name of Leonora 
D'Este famous on earth--Petrarch spun his heart into melody, and 
immortalized his Laura--Wyatt rhymed to Anne Boleyn. And how ended 
their wooings? Some worse--none better than that of Shenstone.

The letters of our author were thought by himself his best writings. 
Those to his friend Mr. Whistler, which he wrote with most care, were 
(to the poet's bitter regret) destroyed by Whistler's brother, "a Goth 
of a fellow."

William Shenstone died in February, 1763.

He is said to have been a man above the middle stature; somewhat 
clumsy in his appearance; careless in his dress, "as in every thing 
else but his grounds and his hair," which latter he adjusted in a 
particular {104} manner in defiance of fashion; kind to his domestics; 
generous to strangers; slow to take offence, and slow to forgive it.

His tomb is in the churchyard of Hales Owen.

IV. "Thomas Gray, eminent for a few poems that he has left, was born 
in London in 1716, and died in 1771. He was perhaps the most learned 
man in Europe, equally acquainted with the elegant and profound parts 
of science. A new arrangement of his poems, with notes and additions, 
was made and printed in 8vo. in 1799."

V. I pass over several great names, and come to one whose life was too 
short for the attainment of the fame to which nature gave him a title. 
Thomas Chatterton, "the marvellous boy," realized the fable of the 
nightingale, and sang with his breast against a thorn; but he grew 
weary of the world at eighteen, and removed himself from it. And we 
can hardly wonder that he should have done so, when we remember the 
sad end to which his boyish dreamings came among the garrets and 
filthy alleys of London. To fall at once from the high atmosphere, 
whither a poet's early longings draw him as with a golden chain--to 
find one's castles in air tumbling about one's ears--to feel the veins 
ache for want of a little bread--to be driven by that ache to the very 
cellars and stews of literature--to rake from some foul corner 
wherewithal to support life--are enough to break a spirit stouter even 
than that of Chatterton. It did break his spirit, and subvert the pure 
principles with which he began life. What stronger proof do we need of 
this, than that most amusing yet villainous instance of his 
calculating powers, in which he feels "thirteen shillings and sixpence 
worth of joy at the Lord Mayor's death?" A charity student in Bristol; 
an apprentice sleeping up in an attic with a foot-boy--"the marvellous 
youth" had dreams, and adventured to London in search of their 
fulfilment. Here he published a volume of poems purporting to be the 
remains of "one Rowley." These were full of crabbed spelling and 
black-letter phrases, and had so much the appearance of genuine 
antiquity, that the world was long divided upon the question of their 
origin. These poems are certainly known at the present day to have 
been forgeries by Chatterton. He wrote many other poems, chiefly 
characterized by a reckless and fiery tone of feeling--by a restless 
yearning after "a something to fill the void of a hurt spirit 
withal"--and by a dark melancholy, only at rare times lighted up by a 
gleam of his wild heart's yet wilder hopes. In London he entered upon 
the field of politics, and soon became a caterer for a party 
newspaper. Then followed the grinding meanness of booksellers and 
editors; and maddened by the consciousness that his genius was poured 
out only as water on the dust--that the exertions which he had trusted 
would make him great among men, did not suffice to clothe him and 
allay hunger,--maddened with the knowledge of these sad truths, are we 
to marvel that poor Chatterton should "have done his own death?"

Chatterton was not unlike Byron. The morbid misanthropy hanging 
unfixedly about the former--fully developed in the latter--was in both 
but a retort upon their fellows. Both had hearts which only detraction 
or cold neglect could harden into a hatred of humanity. Both threw out 
venom against their enemies. But whence came this venom? The 
affections of both were at one time as pure as the sap of the fabled 
honey-tree. It was only by a fermentation produced by the hot 
atmosphere of hostility or cruel slight, that the sap, once blander 
than honey, became a bitter poison.

Chatterton was like Byron too in many other respects,--in his hunger 
after immortality--in his alternations of excess and abstinence--in 
his self-consciousness of genius--and in the most dark and deistic 
views of death. Need I, after all that I have said of his ambition, 
his struggles, and his most reckless tone of writing, say that 
Chatterton's was a fiery and determined spirit? "His affections were 
subordinate to the sterner leanings of the brain. He had the stout 
soul and the tender heart of the old-time troubabour; but his heart 
was less tender than his soul was stout."

Chatterton could never have been happy. The presence of ambition--that 
brain-ache--would have made him miserable, had he lived beyond the 
green season of youth even to its gratification. But why do I say that 
he could have never been happy? There are surely more kinds of 
happiness than the one quiet kind of which Darby and Joan are a fit 
instance. Is there _not_ a thunder-storm kind? The mysterious joy 
which we see thrown from the heart to the face in the picture of 
"Byron on the sea-shore," is surely a species of happiness. 
Chatterton, with hope to support him, might have been happy in the 
darkest struggles of a dark career. With hope to support him! But 
"that was the misery." Despair came to him and he died, (not out of 
his boyhood) with no thought of future renown--with no thought but of 
present obscurity and present wretchedness.

But although he committed suicide with "no thought of future renown," 
he had scarcely been buried in a shell in the burying-ground of 
Shoe-lane Workhouse, before "honors began to gather about his memory." 
The famous Tyrwhitt published his poems, with a preface, introduction 
and glossary; a few years after, a very splendid edition was published 
by Dr. Mills, Dean of Exeter, with a dissertation and commentary; more 
lately, Southey, the best biographer of the age, has collected his 
works and written his life--and incidental tributes, without number, 
have been offered by great names at the pauper-shrine of "the boy of 
Bristol." There are some verses of his minstrel's song in "Ella," 
which may be considered as a personal elegy.

  "O sing unto my roundelay--
   O drop the briny tears with me;
   Dance no more at holiday--
   Like a running river be.
             My love is dead,
             Gone to his death-bed,
             All under the willow tree.

   Black his hair as the summer night,
   White his brow as the winter snow,
   Red his face as the morning light,
   Cold he lies in the grave below.
             My love is dead,
             Gone to his death-bed,
             All under the willow tree.

   Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
   Quick in the dance as thought can be--
   Deft his tabor--cudgel stout--
   O he lies by the willow tree.
             My love is dead,
             Gone to his death-bed,
             All under the willow tree.        {105}

   Hist, the raven flaps his wing
   To the night-mares as they go,
   And the death-owl hoarse doth sing,
   From the briared dell below.
             My love is dead,
             Gone to his death-bed,
             All under the willow tree."

I have little or no more to say of Thomas Chatterton; I have already 
said too much. But the heart rules the head when we look upon the 
wretched career--least wretched in its wretched end--of one fitted for 
the loftiest achievements. A rocket with "the wide sky" before it--the 
blaze and the flight of his genius was scarcely beyond the fogs that 
lie near earth. It fell, blackened, and scorched, and lightless, to 
the dust. Had "the marvellous boy" feared death more than he had been 
taught to fear life, the rocket would have been in "the wide sky," not 
in the dust--the wonder of men, not their pity.

Thomas Chatterton died in 1770, aged seventeen years and nine months.

VI. From the days of old Thomas the Rhymer the barren glens and bleak 
hills of Scotland have been holy earth. An essence strong and mystic, 
an invisible presence, a something undefined, but powerful, hangs 
above and rests upon them. "The mantle of _historic poetry_ is upon 
her soil!" and the floating and fragmentary images on this mantle--in 
their influence, like those upon the Arras tapestry in the haunted 
chamber of Monkbarns--fashion the dreams of one looking upon it 
rarely. The dreamer dreams of Wallace wight, and of the deeds of the 
Bruce--of Douglas "tender and true," and of the hardy feats of the 
moss troopers, whose homes were from Inck Colm to the Solway.

But the mantle of a milder poesy is too upon the Scottish valleys and 
hills! Shepherds have tuned the pipe to love among the hollows of 
Ettrick Wood--on the levels beside Yarrow--down by the shores of Loch
Lomond, Loch Katrine, Loch Leven and Loch ---- Apollo knows what! A 
poet has sat on Eildon hill, and forgotten the hand of Michael the 
conjurer in a vision of love. Move where you may you will see the 
marks of these. Their songs ring in your ears, as the voices of the 
musical doves of the Bahamas haunt him who visits their pebbly islets. 
I have now to speak of one who wound these two mantles 
together:--mingling the spirit of _martial frolic_[2] with the softer 
one of Eros.

[Footnote 2: There is a dash of merry _rattlingsomeness_ in the old 
Scottish spirit--that spirit which carried the Kerr and the Scott into 
the cattle lands South of the Tweed--rendering it a spirit rather of 
_martial frolic_ than of chivalry.]

Most readers are familiar with the life as well as poetry of Robert 
Burns. The son of a gardener--brought up to "the plough, scythe and 
reap-hook"--his mind took upon itself the sturdy simplicity of his 
occupation. Scarcely a moderate English scholar, unversed in "lore of 
books," he won himself a place as an author among the greatest men of 
his time. Burns, like Scott, was much indebted to the nursery tales of 
his childhood for his success in after life. The oak springs from an 
acorn--and an old crone's vagaries had a great share in making our 
ploughman a poet. "She had," he tells us in his brief autobiography, 
"the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning 
devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, 
kedyers, elf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, 
giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery."

The earliest composition that he read with pleasure was the Vision of 
Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning

  "How are thy servants blest, O Lord."

These he met with in Mason's English Collection, one of his 
school-books. He next read the Life of Hannibal, which taught him to 
strut after the recruiting drum and bagpipe; and the Life of Wallace, 
which made "his veins boil with a Scottish prejudice." From fourteen 
to sixteen he lived after a most wretched fashion--toiling at the 
plough, and oppressed by poverty.

At sixteen he fell in love, and his own description of the affair is 
so characteristic that I will quote it. "In my sixteenth autumn, my 
partner (in the harvest field) was a bewitching creature, a year 
younger than myself. She was a _bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass_. In short, 
she, altogether unwittingly to herself, initiated me into that 
delicious passion, which in spite of acid disappointments, gin-horn 
prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be first of human 
joys--our dearest blessing here below. How she caught the contagion I 
cannot tell. Yet medical people talk much of infection from breathing 
the same air, the touch, &c.; but I never expressly said I loved her. 
Indeed, I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter behind 
with her when returning in the evening from our labors; why the tones 
of her voice made my heart-strings thrill like an Æolian harp; and 
particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan, when I looked and 
fingered over her little hand, to pick out the cruel nettle stings and 
thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sung 
sweetly--and it was her favorite reel which I attempted giving an 
imbodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to imagine I 
could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and 
Latin: but my girl sung a song which was said to be composed by a 
country laird's son on one of his father's maids with whom he was in 
love; and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he--for 
excepting he could shear sheep and cast peats, his father living in 
the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. Thus with me 
began love and poetry, which at times have been my only, and till 
within the last twelve months my highest enjoyment."

His nineteenth summer was spent on a smuggling coast, where he learned 
"mensuration, surveying, dialling," &c. and improved in his knowledge 
of love and whiskey-drinking. "Yet early ingrained piety and virtue 
kept him for several years afterward rather within the line of 
innocence," notwithstanding that _Vive l'Amour et Vive la Bagatelle_ 
was his sole principle of action.

Harassed at length by pecuniary difficulties, and driven to the border 
of despair, Burns determined on running off to Jamaica to avoid "the 
horrors of a jail." Before putting this resolve into execution, he 
published a small edition of his poems by subscription. He cleared by 
this 20_l_. and gained some reputation. This sum came very seasonably, 
as without it he would have been compelled to indent himself for want 
of money to pay his passage. He had taken his place in a ship about to 
sail from the Clyde, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock, by "opening new 
prospects to {106} his poetic ambition," overthrew his runaway 
schemes, and led him to Edinburgh. There the Earl of Glencairn became 
his patron. His after life is well known.

Burns died in July 1796, and was buried with much state in the 
southern church yard of Dumfries.

The great misfortune of our poet's life was to want an aim. Without 
this, with a strong appetite for sociability, as well from native 
hilarity as from a pride of observation and remark, a constitutional 
melancholy or hypochondriasm made him shun solitude. Add to these 
incentives to social life, a reputation for bookish knowledge, 
(comparatively) a certain wild logical talent, and a strength of 
thought something like the rudiments of good sense, and it will seem 
no great wonder that "he was ever one in each companie where jollity 
and pleasaunce were held in esteeme."

Burns was full of a seeming independence of spirit. He breaks out into 
the most fiery expressions of contempt for the rich and the great. But 
we recognize in these rather the man of genius than the man of real 
independence. If in his real feelings he had been independent of the 
rich and the great, they might have gone their way and he would have 
gone his, we should have heard nothing of his scorn and disdain. These 
were dictated, not as they professed to be, by a spirit of 
independence, but by that which, wherever it exists, comes in 
abatement of independence--by pride.[3]

[Footnote 3: "A keen desire of aggrandizement in the eyes of others, a 
sensitive apprehension of humiliation in their eyes are the 
constituents of pride."]

Scotland has had an Allan Ramsay to revive the pastoral visions of 
Colin Clout--an earlier Drummond to transmit to posterity the _fresh 
philosophy_ of the olden time--a Leyden to haunt the "far east 
countries" with the pleasant traditions of Teviotdale--an Allan 
Cunningham to embody the spirit of the ancient Scottish romaunt in the 
sturdiest language of our own day--a Hogg to fill the Ettrick valleys 
with the echoes of his "trueful song"--a Scott to restore to the hills 
of Moffat and to the banks of the Annan the lance and the eye-haunting 
plume--a Scott to restore knight and monk, to castle and abbey, from 
the Skye to Melrose--a Scott to tell of old-time woes by Gallawater 
and by Yarrow--but Robert Burns has no master among these. The "Robin 
of Ayr had the richest song of them all."



SCENES FROM AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.

BY EDGAR A. POE.


I.

ROME. A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglione.

_Alessandra_. Thou art sad, Castiglione.

_Castiglione_. Sad!--not I.
  Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome,
  A few days more thou knowest, my Alessandra,
  Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!

_Alless_. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
  Thy happiness!--what ails thee, cousin of mine?
  Why didst thou sigh so deeply?

_Cas_. Did I sigh?
  I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
  A silly--a most silly fashion I have
  When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh?  (_sighing_.)

_Aless_. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
  Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
  Late hours and wine, Castiglione,--these
  Will ruin thee! thou art already altered--
  Thy looks are haggard--nothing so wears away
  The constitution as late hours and wine.

_Cas_. (_musing_.) Nothing, fair cousin, nothing--not ev'n deep
      sorrow--
  Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
  I will amend.

_Aless_. Do it. I would have thee drop
  Thy riotous company too--fellows low born!
  Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio's heir
  And Alessandra's husband.

_Cas_. I will drop them.

_Aless_. Thou must. Attend thou also more
  To thy dress and equipage--they are over plain
  For thy lofty rank and fashion--much depends
  Upon appearances.

_Cas_. I'll see to it.

_Aless_. Then see to it!--pay more attention, sir,
  To a becoming carriage--much thou wantest
  In dignity.

_Cas_. Much, much, oh much I want
  In proper dignity.

_Aless_. (_haughtily_.) Thou mockest me, sir!

_Cas_. (_abstractedly_.) Sweet, gentle Lalage!

_Aless_. Heard I aright?
  I speak to him--he speaks of Lalage!
  Sir Count! (_places her hand on his shoulder_) what art thou
      dreaming? he's not well!
  What ails thee, sir?

_Cas_. (_starting_.) Cousin! fair cousin!--madam!
  I crave thy pardon--indeed I am not well--
  Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
  This air is most oppressive!--Madam--the Duke!

_Enter Di Broglio_.

_Di Broglio_. My son, I've news for thee!--hey?--what's the matter?
      (_observing Alessandra_.)
  I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
  You dog! and make it up I say this minute!
  I've news for you both. Politian is expected
  Hourly in Rome--Politian, Earl of Leicester!
  We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit
  To the imperial city.

_Aless_. What! Politian
  Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?

_Di Brog_. The same, my love.
  We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
  In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him,
  But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
  Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth,
  And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.

_Aless_. I have heard much of this Politian.
  Gay, volatile, and giddy--is he not?
  And little given to thinking.

_Di Brog_. Far from it love.
  No branch, they say, of all philosophy
  So deep abstruse he has not mastered it,
  Learned as few are learned.

_Aless_. 'Tis very strange,
  I have known men have seen Politian
  And sought his company. They speak of him
  As of one who entered madly into life,    {107}
  Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.

_Cas_. Ridiculous! Now, _I_ have seen Politian
  And know him well--nor learned nor mirthful he.
  He is a dreamer and a man shut out
  From common passions.

_Di Brog_. Children, we disagree.
  Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
  Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
  Politian was a _melancholy_ man?  (_exeunt_.)


II.

The suburbs. Politian alone.

  This weakness grows upon me. I am faint
  And much I fear me ill--it will not do
  To die ere I have lived!--Stay--stay thy hand
  O Azrael, yet awhile!--Prince of the Powers
  Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me!
  O pity me! let me not perish now,
  In the budding of my hopes--give me to live,
  Give me to live yet--yet a little while:
  'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late
  Demanded but to die!--what sayeth the Count?

_Enter Baldazzar_.

_Bal_. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
  Between the Earl Politian and himself,
  He doth decline your cartel.

_Pol_. What didst thou say?
  What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
  With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
  Laden from yonder bowers!--a fairer day,
  Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
  No mortal eyes have seen!--_what_ said the Count?

_Bal_. That he, Castiglione, not being aware
  Of any feud existing, or any cause
  Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
  Cannot accept the challenge.

_Pol_. It is most true--
  All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
  When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
  Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
  A heaven so calm as this--so utterly free
  From the evil taint of clouds?--and he did say?

_Bal_. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir,
  The Count Castiglione will not fight,
  Having no cause for quarrel.

_Pol_. Now this is true--
  All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
  And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me
  A piece of service? wilt thou go back and say
  Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
  Hold him a villain--thus much, I prythee, say
  Unto the Count--it is exceeding just
  He should have cause for quarrel.

_Bal_. My lord!--my friend!------

_Pol_. (_aside_.) 'Tis he--he comes himself! (_aloud_.) thou reasonest
      well.
  I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message--
  Well!--I will think of it--I will not send it.
  Now prythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
  With whom affairs of a most private nature
  I would adjust.

_Bal_. I go--to-morrow we meet,
  Do we not?--at the Vatican.

_Pol_. At the Vatican.  (_exit Bal_.)
  If that we meet at all, it were as well
  That I should meet him in the Vatican--
  In the Vatican--within the holy walls
  Of the Vatican.  (_Enter Castiglione_.)

_Cas_. The Earl of Leicester here!

_Pol_. I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
  Dost thou not? that I am here.

_Cas_. My lord, some strange,
  Some singular mistake--misunderstanding--
  Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
  Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
  Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
  To me, Castiglione, the bearer being
  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
  Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
  Having given thee no offence. Ha!--am I right?
  'Twas a mistake?--undoubtedly--we all
  Do err at times.

_Pol_. Draw, villain, and prate no more!

_Cas_. Ha!--draw?--and villain? have at thee--have at thee then,
  Proud Earl!  (_draws_.)

_Pol_. (_drawing_.) Thus to th' expiatory tomb,
  Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
  In the name of Lalage!

_Cas_. (_dropping his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
      stage_.)
  Of Lalage!
  Hold off--hold off thy hand!--Avaunt I say!
  Avaunt--I will not fight thee--I dare not--dare not.

_Pol_. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
  Shall I be baffled thus?--now this is well,
  Exceeding well!--thou darest not fight with me?
  Didst say thou _darest_ not? Ha!

_Cas_. I dare not--dare not--
  Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name
  So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee--
  I cannot--dare not.

_Pol_. Now by my halidom
  I do believe thee!--Coward! I do believe thee!
  Thou darest not!

_Cas_. Ha!--coward!--this may not be!
(_clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is 
changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of 
the Earl_.)
                         Alas! alas!
  It is--it is--most true. In such a cause
  I am--I am--a coward. O pity me!

_Pol_. (_greatly softened_.) Alas!--I do--indeed I pity thee.

_Cas_. And Lalage------

_Pol_. Scoundrel!--arise and die!

_Cas_. It needeth not be--thus--thus--O let me die
  Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
  That in this deep humiliation I perish.
  For in the fight I will not raise a hand
  Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home--
                             (_baring his bosom_.)
  Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon--
  Strike home. I _will not_ fight thee.

_Pol_. Now s'Death and Hell!
  Am I not--am I not sorely--grievously tempted
  To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir!
  Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare    {108}
  For public insult in the streets--before
  The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee--
  Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee
  Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest--
  Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt thee,
  Dost hear? with _cowardice_--thou _wilt not_ fight me?
  By God! thou _shalt!_ (_exit_.)

_Cas_. Now this--now this is just!
  Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!



VIRGINIA.

Extracts from an unpublished Abridgment of the History of Virginia.


BARTHOLOMEW GOSNOLD.

This man's memory is closely identified with the history of this 
country, and his death was a sensible shock to the struggling 
destinies of Virginia. In the language of one of the historians, 
"Virginia had its origin in the zeal and exertions of Bartholomew 
Gosnold." He had early patronised the settlement of the Colony, while 
it was yet in embryo. He possessed a knowledge of the country not 
exceeded by any man of his time, which had been acquired by actual 
voyages to that region; and on his return, to the accuracy of his 
details of its real advantages, and to the ardor of his speculations 
upon its brilliant perspective, is mainly to be attributed the revival 
of the enterprise which had drooped with the misfortunes of Raleigh. 
The importance of the services of a man like Smith had not escaped his 
penetration, and he enlisted him in the expedition, by means most 
likely to engage the attention of an ardent and adventurous mind like 
Smith's--by opening to him schemes full of enterprise and danger, but 
full also of the promise of lasting fame. He had been the steadfast 
friend of Smith in all his persecutions before the Council; and 
although unable entirely to protect him, his known high standing with 
the company in England, to which they were all responsible, joined to 
his moderation and firmness on the spot, contributed much to assuage 
their dissensions, and operated as a partial check to the reckless 
depravity of Wingfield and his creatures.


SIR T. DALE.

Upon the whole this man's government in the colony, will rather be 
tolerated upon considerations of its expediency and utility, than 
applauded for its moderation and justice--impartiality will assent to 
the wisdom of his economy, illustrated by his subversion of the system 
of common stock, by which, without diminishing the amount of 
contribution exacted from the idle, he offered inducements and 
encouragements to the diligent, and thus effected the assurance of 
ample provision, independent of the natives--but aggressions upon the 
chartered and natural rights of mankind, find willing apologists 
enough among the sycophants and satellites of power, without receiving 
the sanction of history; and however his conduct may be extenuated by 
the admission that his office was rather one of ministry than 
authority, and that the forbidden power was precedent in the colony, 
that he rarely resorted to it, and only in extreme instances, there 
yet remains much to condemn in the adoption of martial law, and much 
to deplore in the fate of Abbot.


CAPTIVITY OF POCAHONTAS.

Pocahontas was among this people, (the Potommacks;) the reason of her 
absence from her father's court, is imperfectly afforded by the early 
historians. Stith conjectures "it was to withdraw herself from being a 
witness to the frequent butcheries of the English, whose folly and 
rashness after Smith's departure put it out of her power to save 
them." Probably she had been exiled by the displeasure of her father, 
for her partiality to the English; or he had confided her to the 
protection of the neighboring king, to secure her from the dangers of 
the war in which he was involved with the whites.

The temptation of possessing such an hostage as the princess, was too 
powerful to be restrained, by the few scruples of conscience that 
arise in the breast of a rude English sailor. Argall seduced 
Jappassas, by a paltry bribe, and Pocahontas was betrayed by her 
perfidious host into the hands of the English, to be led into 
captivity. Power was never yet at a loss for plausible pretexts to 
palliate its outrage on virtue: policy, expediency, necessity, are the 
hackneyed themes resorted to, to mitigate the merited reprobation; but 
the human heart will not be answered so. Insulted, not convinced, by 
the proffered palliative, it recoils from the false and unnatural 
subterfuge, and true to its connate susceptibilities, entertains 
forever the same sentiment of instinctive abhorrence. As long as the 
memory of the compassionate Pocahontas shall be cherished by a remote 
and admiring posterity in Virginia, so long will the unhallowed names 
of Argall and Jappassas be associated with deep and bitter 
execrations.


DEATH AND MEMORY OF POCAHONTAS.

The Princess died at Gravesend, on the eve of her departure for 
Virginia. The office of her panegyrist is confined to the merest 
details. The simplest narrative of her life, is the profoundest eulogy 
to her memory. Born in an age too rude to afford her the precepts and 
the instructions of virtue, while the condition of her sex seemingly 
precluded her from opportunities for the display of shining merit, she 
has yet left examples so signal, that after-times will best evince 
their progress to refinement, by their successful emulation of her 
mercy, redeeming and saving from captivity and death--and of her 
capacious charity, feeding a famished people from her hand--and that 
people a stranger and an enemy. The eye and the bosom of beauty 
suffused, and throbbing under the compassionate influence of pity--the 
prostrate attitude--the dishevelled hair--and the impassioned gaze of 
Pocahontas suing for the life of Smith at the feet of Powhatan--the 
timid and delicate maiden, heedless of the wonted terrors of her sex, 
rushing to save, through darkness and danger--Pocahontas at 
Ratcliffe's massacre, sheltering in her bosom the head of the boy 
Spillman, and warding with her naked hands the glancing tomahawks; 
these are passages of her eventful life, beyond the efforts of the 
pencil or the pen; and, without the aid of any coloring in the 
representation, melt the coldest hearts into acknowledgments of their 
moral influence and beauty.


JOHN SMITH.

History is replete with examples of the vulgar great who have obtained 
high consideration in the world, by their lucky association with 
moving incidents, and who, without any intrinsic impulse, have tamely 
lent {109} themselves to the current of swelling events; nor are the 
instances rare, although rarely appreciated, of great virtue and 
capacity struggling in the tide of adversity, and sinking, not from 
any defect of their own resources, but by the depression of their 
fortune, and who have thus forfeited the world's applause, which 
awaits rather the prosperous than the deserving. But such is not the 
estimate of men and events which history owes to posterity; and in 
transmitting worth to fame, she should pay no adulation to fortune. In 
her discriminating page the character of John Smith will stand 
conspicuous, unclouded by the obscurity of the times, and the 
adversity of the events in which he acted and suffered--conspicuous 
for a constellation of high and shining attributes, such as at once 
inspire their possessor with the conception of great designs, and 
qualify him for their consummation. And his claims to reputation will 
not be tested merely by his achievements, when it is considered that 
his destinies confined him to a range of action too narrow for his 
capacity. How unjust to circumscribe his fame to the limits of a 
colony, whose faculties were capable to remove and extend the confines 
of empires! His glory dilates itself beyond the sphere to which it had 
been assigned by circumstances, and lays claim to the merit of any 
achievement possible to the greatest virtue.


CAPTIVITY OF SMITH.

Captain Smith was not aware of the stealthy approach of the Indians; a 
slight wound by an arrow was the first intimation he had of their 
presence.

In this peril, of a nature to quell the greatest courage, because its 
exercise must be hopeless, his energies did not desert him; seizing 
his Indian guide, he constrained him to serve as a shield against the 
missiles of the assailants--and interposing the Indian's person 
between himself and his enemies, he commenced his retreat in the 
direction of the canoe; but being obliged to make face to the Indians, 
his progress was consequently retrograde, and thus not being able to 
pick his way, he sunk through the ice to the waist in a morass. Here, 
embarrassed as he was, he slew with his musket three of the Indians, 
and for several hours kept the others at a distance, until fatigued 
with his fruitless efforts to extricate himself from the morass, and 
benumbed by the cold, he desisted from the idle contest. The Indians 
dared not yet approach him, until he had thrown his arms to a distance 
from him, when they raised him and carried him to a fire at the canoe, 
near which lay the dead bodies of his companions.

Smith, with the vague intention of gaining time, and of making a 
favorable impression upon his captors, endeavored to establish a 
communication with their chief, whom he propitiated by the offering of 
his pocket compass. The curiosity of the savage was forcibly roused by 
the apparent life in the vibrations of the needle, the motions of 
which were visible through the crystal, although it eluded his touch; 
but when the prisoner, by signs, and so much of their language as he 
had acquired, engaged his attention to the description of its 
properties and uses--how, by its indication alone, the solitary hunter 
could track his pathless way, in darkness, through the deepest 
forests, and direct his canoe through the expanse of waters to its 
destined point, and this by mysterious and inscrutable influence 
between the heavenly bodies and the little talisman he held in his 
hands, the Indian's faculties were absorbed in the recital, and he 
remained fixed in an attitude of mute and vague wonder.

       *       *       *       *       *



LADY LEONORE AND HER LOVER.


FYTTE I.

_Leonore_. Why art thou sad?

_Lover_.                     Sweet Leonore
  Come hither and list! On their golden shore
  Yon waters sing. The winds are nigh;
  They have swept all cloud from the starry sky;
  And a rare song-woof their fingers weave
  On earth--in air. 'Tis a pleasant eve!
  A magic is in wind, moon and star--
  A magic that winneth hearts afar
  To the days that are past. Come, best beloved,
  Look forth from this lattice: own the spell
  Which hath moved a spirit long unmoved--
  While I tell thee a tale I love to tell.

_Leon_. A tale thou lovest!

_Lover_.                   Aye, by my word!
  As her wail is dear to the shadow bird,
  Whose haunt is low in yon Linden glen,
  I love the tale of my grievous pain.
  The bird of the shadow will wail her wail--
  Come hither, sweet Lady, and list my tale;
  No word of my lip shall wound thine ear.

_Leon_. I will list thy story--but O, _not here!_
  This lattice!--Hast thou----

_Lover_.                      Forgotten?--no.
  Here--erst--when the moon--a bended bow--
  Rained its ray-arrows on wave and air,
  And their jewelled points illumed thy hair,
  I saw thy lips part, and heard thee say,
  Thou wouldst love me well till thy dying day.
  I am happy!--But Lady, thou wilt not blame
  This lip that sad words--sad words--brim o'er
  At thought of one whom I may not name.
  Wilt thou list my dark story, sweet Leonore?

_Leon_. I hear thee.

_Lover_.    The stars and the white-armed moon
  Are bright in heaven; and the breath of June
  In the faint wind liveth. On such a night,
  With the sky as blue, with the moon as bright,
  I roved with one by a lonely shore;
  _I have loved another_, sweet Leonore!

_Leon_. I hear thee!

_Lover_.    Wan were the brow and cheek
  Of her whose name I may not speak;
  And gentle the flow of her long fair hair;
  And her azure eye had a beauty rare.
  I won that girl to my doting heart:
  But a rival came, and his fiendish art
  Fell witheringly--as falls the dew
  On Brandon night. Her kinsman knew
  That 'twas a sinful and deadly stain--
  This last wild love--so not again
  Met they--the lovers--in peace or pain!
  --He who had won by his fiendish art
  Died mad; and _she_ of a broken heart.    {110}
  They made her a grave by our love's lone shore,
  And I laughed in strange mirth, sweet Leonore.

_Leon_. Alas!

_Lover_.      Yet a burning and restless pain
  Lived evermo' at my heart and brain.
  What balm sought I?--Forgetfulness,
  Ah!--wo is me! I had none to bless
  My desolate heart: no soothing tone
  To cheer my spirit seared and lone:
  No hand of love to clasp mine own.
  And anguish--great anguish dogged my step,
  Till I did swear me that a fiend
  Spake in mine ear with a hissing lip.
  I bared my brow to the haunted wind
  On wintry hills; and then in fear
  Would seek my couch most lone and drear,
  And mutter a name for the dead to hear.
  And in my mad dreams, sweet Leonore,
  I shuddered and moaned--"Pain evermore!"

_Leon_. Alas!

_Lover_.      But time wore fleetly on,
  And the lines were less deep on my forehead wan.
  I sought to bury my wrongs in wine;
  And I sought in the crowd where star-eyes shine
  For my thwarted heart a second shrine:--
  Yet _this_ in vain! I found it not,
  For naught from the book of Time mote blot
  The one black page, and Memory ever
  Dwelt, till my temples throbbed with fever,
  On that stained page and its letters wild.

_Leon_. And yet thou lovedst!

_Lover_.               A dream beguiled
  My life from anguish. Leonore!
  Canst thou unlock the mystic lore
  Of sleep and its visions dim and bright?
  I slumbered--in pain: the lingering blight
  Still lay on my spirit. I dreamed a dream!
  Like motes on the swell of a noonday beam,
  A thousand vague forms passed me by,
  Wheeling and circling hurriedly.
  These passed, and methought a lady bright
  Leant on my arm, and clasped my hand:
  Her chiselled temples were high and white;
  But her life did seem as a name in sand,
  With the waters near:--For her eyes were wild,
  And her long teeth glittered as she smiled,
  And her cheek was sunken. I ne'er had seen
  That lofty brow with its lily sheen,
  In my waking hours, and ne'er till then
  Had I heard what I yearned to hear again--
  That lady's voice!--Sweet Leonore,
  'Twas a gentle joy to linger o'er
  That dying one so fair and meek.
  While I gazed in love on her faded cheek,
  She shuddered and--died! I sprang, aghast,
  From my couch, and moaned.
            The strange dream passed--
  Passed from its seat on my troubled brain.
  I awoke to the forms of earth again.
  Time flew his soar, as Time aye flies;
  And I basked in the light of earthly eyes,
  Till, joyous of heart, and light of mood,
  I fled from naught save solitude.
  I laughed, and many a hoary head
  Shook thoughtfully, and wise men said--
  As stole vague fears of a stormy morrow--
  "Naught knoweth yon gallant _yet_ of sorrow."
  In a crowded hall, on a festive night--
  Aloof from the fears of dotard eld--
  I spake in the ear of a Lady bright,
  Whom--awake--I had ne'er, till then, beheld.
  _Thine_ was that ear: and much it moved
  The chords of my spirit, best beloved,
  To gaze on the peerless Leonore.
  Thou--_thou_ wast the Lady of the dream;
  And I unriddled the mystic lore
  Which mortal men a madness deem,
  And said, while my heart leapt joyously,
  "The dream was the voice of destiny.
  Kind Heaven hath sent this gentle one--
  This being of beauty--of beauty to atone
  For the viper's tooth: and she will be
  Through sorrow and joy, mine faithfully,
  Till the days of her life on earth are o'er"--
  And I wooed and won thee, Leonore.

  He ceased. The Lady turned her head,
  Her soft cheek flushed with a ruby fever--
  But she gazed in his face and meekly said,
  "As I love thee now will I love thee ever."

  Then passion came to the Lover's eye,
  And as he bowed him, tenderly,
  To kiss the brow of his Leonore,
  These words spake he--"Bliss evermore!"

  But constancy dwelleth not on earth,
  And this world's joy is of little worth,
  For we know that ere the birth of morrow,
  The cup may be changed for one of sorrow.
  This is a truth my heart hath learned,
  From one who loved, and then falsely spurned:
  This is a truth which all must know
  Whose lots are cast in this world of wo.

  A poet's thanks for thy courtesy,
  Thou gentle one, whose step with me
  Hath kindly been!

                    One fytte is done--
  Yet sith thus far we twain have gone,
  I'll "ply my wrest,"[1] then tell thee more
  Of the loves of the Lady Leonore.

L. L.

[Footnote 1: _Wrest_ was the name of the key used in tuning his harp 
by the ancient _Songleur_ or minstrel. "Ply my wrest" is an expression 
to be met with frequently in the early English poets.]



ENGLISH LANGUAGE IN AMERICA.


The preservation of a pure English diction is not sufficiently aimed 
at in America. Some are so entirely Britannic, as to receive every 
thing for legal tender in letters, which comes across the water. This 
is thenceforward duly '_marqué au coin_.' Others are so patriotically 
republican, as to set about the task of nursing the countless brood of 
cis-Atlantic words, into literary respectability. Both are in error. 
It is not enough to avoid Amercanisms; nor is it expedient to 
manufacture a pye-bald dialect, of vulgarisms and provincialisms, for 
the mere satisfaction of calling it our own. In England, no less than 
here, the language is growing to an unhealthy exuberance, and many of 
the words which {111} are fathered on the poor Americans, are 
distempered excrescences of the overgrown British trunk. Nothing but 
the appeal to a standard of former golden days of literature and 
classic taste, can save the noble tongue of freemen from becoming an 
unwieldy, cacophonious, inconsistent mass of crudities. How much more 
is there danger, lest the other party, by encouraging unauthorized and 
American inventions in language, lay the foundation for provincial 
dialects, which shall hopelessly diverge from one another, until the 
Mississippian and the Virginian shall be as diverse as were the 
Athenian and the Macedonian. What this difference was, may be seen at 
a glance even in Demosthenes on the crown; where the orator blunders 
in Attic, while he reads in the same breath a decree of the Byzantes 
in broad-mouthed Doric.

To some minds this may seem a trifling subject; like the countryman's 
nightingale in Catullus, '_vox et praeterea nihil_.' But, as Mirabeau 
said, _Words are things._ Language and thought act reciprocally. Unity 
of speech presupposes unity of thinking; but it also propagates it. 
Where provincial dialects begin to grow into languages, there is a 
corresponding divergence of national feeling. In our boundless 
country, after all our attempts to the contrary, this diversity of 
language will take place. It is now taking place. We begin to 
distinguish by his idiom and his pronunciation, the New Englander, the 
Southron, and the native of the great Western Valley. And there is no 
possibility of avoiding a separation of greater moment, without some 
common and acknowledged standard to which the appeal may be made; a 
standard not fabricated, but adopted--which shall be maintained by men 
of letters, in opposition to the immensely varying license of the 
illiterate mass in the respective districts of America.

Such a standard exists in the authorized classics of Great Britain. If 
we depart from this, we not only fall to pieces at home, but 
eventually sever our literature from that of the mother country; a 
mishap to be deprecated by every man who wishes his posterity to drink 
at "the well-spring of English, pure and undefiled," or who desires 
our American authors to be honored in Great Britain. We would not be 
such purists in language, as to stigmatize every word not found in 
Johnson. There is a fastidiousness on one side, as evil as the 
recklessness on the other. Fox rejected all words not found in Dryden, 
and Bulwer speaks of one so addicted to the Saxon element of our 
tongue, that his English stalks abroad "as naked as a Pict." New 
objects are discovered in nature, new distinctions are taken in 
science, new relations are discerned in ancient truths, and all these 
justify new words. But we are not in danger of pruning too close in 
this land of universal license. The purity and melody of our language 
are threatened from the side of indiscriminate adoption of needless 
words and phrases. The basest provincialisms begin to install 
themselves in works of reputed elegance; and grammatical solecisms are 
daily "being engrafted" on our stock. The last phrase is here inserted 
as a specimen, with our challenge to all the sciolists and misses who 
use it, to furnish an instance of a similar construction, in any 
writer of merit, from Robert of Gloucester to Sir James Mackintosh.

Provincialisms are cited abroad as Americanisms. Though "_I guess_" is 
often used by Locke in the Yankee acceptation, yet even in America it 
is confined to a particular region, where un-English phraseology is 
rife. So the sad abuse of that poetical word _evening_ to mean 
_afternoon_--an abuse which makes mere prose of such a verse as

  "Like a bright exhalation in the evening,"

is confined to a 'section' of our states. Mutual recrimination and 
banter tend to rub off these points of vulgarity, which show 
themselves most in such as move in narrow circles. No one State or 
District can justifiably throw stones, for we all live in glass 
houses. We have known a New Englander laugh at the Southern use of the 
word _clever_; ignorant utterly that the latter is the only English 
acceptation. And in like manner we knew a vagrant word-catcher to have 
in his list of Virginianisms _Good bye t' ye_, a phrase purely 
Shakspearian. The Philadelphian calls a certain savoury bird a 
_Quail_; according to Wilson, he is right, and the Marylander wrong in 
calling it a _Partridge_. But the Southron makes reprisals in the case 
of another sort of game, for he rightly calls that a _Hare_ which the 
North-man eats under the title of _Rabbit_. To speak of pronunciation 
would be endless. That of the South accords with England's best 
orators and dictionaries in all such words as _tutor_ vice 
_tootor_--_path_, _wrath_, _carpet_, _garden_, &c. Yet many sedulous 
students of Walker never find this out. Dr. Noah Webster would fain 
have us believe that orthoepy demands such sounds as _natur_, 
_featur_, _creatur_. We rejoice that even in Connecticut this 
barbarism is growing into discredit. The learned Doctor would also 
improve English so as to write _Savior_ for _Saviour_, _Bridegoom_ for 
_Bridegroom_, _Duelist_ for _Duellist_, and the like. We humbly crave 
leave to wait until any one English work can be produced in which 
these elegancies shall appear. It is an _English_, not an _American_ 
language which we are called upon to nurture and perfect. Let no 
scholar deem it beneath his dignity to aid in the work. Then we shall 
no longer see such a term as _firstly_ in a work on metaphysics, nor 
hear such a double adverb as _illy_ on the floor of Congress--no 
longer hear of an event's _transpiring_, before it has become public, 
nor of an argument being _predicated_ on such and such facts.

BOREALIS.



TO THE WOODNYMPHS.


  Ye Nymphs of the woodlands!
    I come to your bowers,
  Where the wild roses grow
    And the eglantine flowers:
  Where the trees and wild vines
    In their spring-dress arrayed,
  Entwine their green foliage
    And weave the cool shade.
  Oh! I come o'er the hills
    By the moon's dewy light--
  I come where the waters
    Gush sparkling and bright--
  Where the green woods are fresh,
    And the cool valleys cheered
  With the sweet mellow strains
    Of the wild forest bird.        {112}
  I come where the fountains
    Their freshness diffuse,
  And the flowers smile the sweetest,
    Impearled with the dews.
  In thy wild forest home,
    Oh! I come to inhale
  The pure balmy air
    And the health-breathing gale.
  Ye Nymphs of the woodlands!
    Then dress your green bowers:
  Bid vines spread their foliage,
    And Spring wake her flowers.
  Oh! bid your bright waters
    Gush sparkling along,
  And the wild forest bird
    Charm the valleys with song;
  For I come o'er the hills
    To thy cool shady courts,
  To quaff at thy fountains
    And join in thy sports.



CRITICAL NOTICES.


MRS. SIGOURNEY--MISS GOULD--MRS. ELLET.

_Zinzendorff, and other Poems. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, New York: 
Published by Leavitt, Lord & Co._ 1836.

_Poems--By Miss H. F. Gould, Third Edition. Boston: Hilliard, Gray & 
Co._ 1835.

_Poems; Translated and Original. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet. Philadelphia: 
Key and Biddle._ 1835.

Mrs. Sigourney has been long known as an author. Her earliest 
publication was reviewed about twenty years ago, in the North 
American. She was then Miss Huntley. The fame which she has since 
acquired is extensive; and we, who so much admire her virtues and her 
talents, and who have so frequently expressed our admiration of both 
in this Journal--we, of all persons--are the least inclined to call in 
question the justice or the accuracy of the public opinion, by which 
has been adjudged to her so high a station among the _literati_ of our 
land. Some things, however, we cannot pass over in silence. There are 
two kinds of popular reputation,--or rather there are two roads by 
which such reputation may be attained: and it appears to us an 
idiosyncrasy which distinguishes mere fame from most, or perhaps from 
_all_ other human ends, that, in regarding the intrinsic value of the 
object, we must not fail to introduce, as a portion of our estimate, 
the means by which the object is acquired. To speak less abstractedly. 
Let us suppose two writers having a reputation apparently equal--that 
is to say, their names _being equally in the mouths of the 
people_--for we take this to be the most practicable test of what we 
choose to term _apparent popular reputation_. Their names then are 
equally in the mouths of the people. The one has written a great 
work--let it be either an Epic of high rank, or something which, 
although of seeming littleness in itself, is yet, like the 
Christabelle of Coleridge, entitled to be called _great_ from its 
power of creating intense emotion in the minds of great men. And let 
us imagine that, by this single effort, the author has attained a 
certain quantum of reputation. We know it to be possible that another 
writer of very moderate powers may build up for himself, little by 
little, a reputation equally great--and this, too, merely by keeping 
continually in the eye, or by appealing continually with little 
things, to the ear, of that great, overgrown, and majestical gander, 
the critical and bibliographical rabble.

It would be an easy, although perhaps a somewhat disagreeable task, to 
point out several of the most popular writers in America--popular in 
the above mentioned sense--who have manufactured for themselves a 
celebrity by the very questionable means, and in the very questionable 
manner, to which we have alluded. But it must not be thought that we 
wish to include Mrs. Sigourney in the number. By no means. She has 
trod, however, upon the confines of their circle. She does not _owe_ 
her reputation to the chicanery we mention, but it cannot be denied 
that it has been thereby greatly assisted. In a word--no single piece 
which she has written, and not even her collected works as we behold 
them in the present volume, and in the one published some years ago, 
would fairly entitle her to that exalted rank which she actually 
enjoys as the authoress, _time after time_, of her numerous, and, in 
most instances, very creditable compositions. The validity of our 
objections to this adventitious notoriety we must be allowed to 
consider unshaken, until it can be proved that any multiplication of 
zeros will eventuate in the production of a unit.

We have watched, too, with a species of anxiety and vexation brought 
about altogether by the sincere interest we take in Mrs. Sigourney, 
the progressive steps by which she has at length acquired the title of 
the "American Hemans." Mrs. S. cannot conceal from her own discernment 
that she has acquired this title _solely by imitation_. The very 
phrase "American Hemans" speaks loudly in accusation: and we are 
grieved that what by the over-zealous has been intended as 
complimentary should fall with so ill-omened a sound into the ears of 
the judicious. We will briefly point out those particulars in which 
Mrs. Sigourney stands palpably convicted of that sin which in poetry 
is not to be forgiven.

And first, in the _character of her subjects_. Every unprejudiced 
observer must be aware of the almost identity between the subjects of 
Mrs. Hemans and the subjects of Mrs. Sigourney. The themes of the 
former lady are the unobtrusive happiness, the sweet images, the 
cares, the sorrows, the gentle affections, of the domestic 
hearth--these too are the themes of the latter. The Englishwoman has 
dwelt upon all the "tender and true" chivalries of passion--and the 
American has dwelt as unequivocally upon the same. Mrs. Hemans has 
delighted in the radiance of a pure and humble faith--she has looked 
upon nature with a speculative attention--she has "watched the golden 
array of sunset clouds, with an eye looking beyond them to the 
habitations of the disembodied spirit"--she has poured all over her 
verses the most glorious and lofty aspirations of a redeeming 
Christianity, and in all this she is herself glorious and lofty. And 
all this too has Mrs. Sigourney not only attempted, but 
accomplished--yet in all this she is but, alas!--an imitator.

And secondly--in points more directly tangible than the one just 
mentioned, and therefore more easily appreciated by the generality of 
readers, is Mrs. Sigourney again open to the charge we have adduced. 
We mean in the structure of her versification--in the {113} peculiar 
turns of her phraseology--in certain habitual expressions (principally 
interjectional,) such as _yea!_ _alas!_ and many others, so frequent 
upon the lips of Mrs. Hemans as to give an almost ludicrous air of 
similitude to all articles of her composition--in an invincible 
inclination to apostrophize every object, in both moral and physical 
existence--and more particularly in those mottos or quotations, 
sometimes of considerable extent, prefixed to nearly every poem, not 
as a text for discussion, nor even as an intimation of what is to 
follow, but as the actual subject matter itself, and of which the 
verses ensuing are, in most instances, merely a paraphrase. These were 
all, in Mrs. Hemans, mannerisms of a gross and inartificial nature; 
but, in Mrs. Sigourney, they are mannerisms of the most inadmissible 
kind--the mannerisms of imitation.

In respect to the use of the quotations, we cannot conceive how the 
fine taste of Mrs. Hemans could have admitted the practice, or how the 
good sense of Mrs. Sigourney could have thought it for a single moment 
worthy of her own adoption. In poems of magnitude the mind of the 
reader is not, at all times, enabled to include in one comprehensive 
survey the proportions and proper adjustment of the whole. He is 
pleased--if at all--with particular passages; and the sum of his 
pleasure is compounded of the sums of the pleasurable sensations 
inspired by these individual passages during the progress of perusal. 
But in pieces of less extent--like the poems of Mrs. Sigourney--the 
pleasure is _unique_, in the proper acceptation of that term--the 
understanding is employed, without difficulty, in the contemplation of 
the picture _as a whole_--and thus its effect will depend, in a very 
great degree, upon the perfection of its finish, upon the nice 
adaptation of its constituent parts, and especially upon what is 
rightly termed by Schlegel, the _unity or totality of interest_. Now 
it will readily be seen, that the practice we have mentioned as 
habitual with Mrs. Hemans and Mrs. Sigourney is utterly at variance 
with this unity. By the initial motto--often a very long one--we are 
either put in possession of the subject of the poem; or some hint, 
historic fact, or suggestion is thereby afforded, not included in the 
body of the article, which, without the suggestion, would be utterly 
incomprehensible. In the latter case, while perusing the poem, the 
reader must revert, in mind at least, to the motto for the necessary 
explanation. In the former, the poem being a mere paraphrase of the 
motto, the interest is divided between the motto and the paraphrase. 
In either instance the _totality_ of effect is annihilated.

Having expressed ourselves thus far in terms of nearly unmitigated 
censure, it may appear in us somewhat equivocal to say that, as 
Americans, we are proud--very proud of the talents of Mrs. Sigourney. 
Yet such is the fact. The faults which we have already pointed out, 
and some others which we will point out hereafter, are but dust in the 
balance, when weighed against her very many and distinguishing 
excellences. Among those high qualities which give her, beyond doubt, 
a title to the sacred name of poet are an acute sensibility to natural 
loveliness--a quick and perfectly just conception of the moral and 
physical sublime--a calm and unostentatious vigor of thought--a 
mingled delicacy and strength of expression--and above all, a mind 
nobly and exquisitely attuned to all the gentle charities and lofty 
pieties of life.

The volume whose title forms the heading of this article embraces one 
hundred and seventy-three poems. The longest, but not the best, of 
these is Zinzendorff. "It owes its existence," says the author, "to a 
recent opportunity of personal intercourse with that sect of 
Christians who acknowledge Zinzendorff as their founder; and who, in 
their labors of self-denying benevolence, and their avoidance of the 
slight, yet bitter causes of controversy, have well preserved that 
sacred test of discipleship 'to love one another.'" Most of the other 
pieces were "suggested by the passing and common incidents of 
life,"--and we confess that we find no fault, with their "deficiency 
in the wonderful and wild." Not in these mountainous and stormy 
regions--but in the holy and quiet valley of the beautiful, must 
forever consent to dwell the genius of Mrs. Sigourney.

The poem of Zinzendorff includes five hundred and eighty lines. It 
relates, in a simple manner, some adventures of that man of God. Many 
passages are very noble, and breathe the truest spirit of the Muse. At 
page 14, for example.

        --------------The high arch
  Of the _cloud-sweeping forest_ proudly _cast_ (casts)
  A solemn shadow, for no sound of axe
  Had taught the monarch Oak dire principles
  Of Revolution, or brought down the Pine
  Like haughty baron from his castled height.
  Thus dwelt the kings of Europe--ere the voice
  Of the crusading monk, with whirlwind tone
  Did root them from their base, with all their hosts,
  _Tossing the red-cross banner to the sky_.

Again at page 21, we have something equally beautiful, in a very 
different way. The passage is however much injured by the occurrence 
of the word 'that' at the commencement of both the sixth and seventh 
line.

        ------Now the infant morning raised
  Her rosy eyelids. But no soft breeze moved
  The forest lords to shake the dews of sleep
  From their green coronals. The curtaining mist
  Hung o'er the quiet river, and it seemed
  _That Nature found the summer night so sweet_
  _That 'mid the stillness of her deep repose_
  _She shunned the wakening of the king of day_.

All this is exquisite, and in Zinzendorff there are many passages of a 
like kind. The poem, however, is by no means free from faults. In the 
first paragraph we have the following:

          ------Through the _breast_
  Of that fair vale the Susquehannah roam'd,
  Wearing its _robe_ of _silver_ like a bride.
  Now with a noiseless current gliding slow,
  Mid the rich _velvet_ of its _curtaining_ banks
  It seemed to sleep.

To suppose the Susquehannah roaming through the _breast_ of any 
thing--even of a valley--is an incongruity: and to say that such false 
images are common, is to say very little in their defence. But when 
the noble river is bedizzened out in _robes of silver_, and made to 
wash with its bright waters nothing better than _curtains of velvet_, 
we feel a very sensible and a very righteous indignation. We might 
have expected such language from an upholsterer, or a _marchande des 
modes_, but it is utterly out of place upon the lips of Mrs. 
Sigourney. To liken the glorious objects of natural loveliness to the 
trappings and tinsel of artificiality, is one of the lowest, and at 
the same time, one of the most ordinary {114} exemplifications of the 
_bathos_. At page 21, these verses occur:

                     No word was spoke,
  As when the friends of desolated Job,
  _Finding the line of language all too short_
  _To fathom woe like his_, sublimely paid
  That highest homage at the throne of grief,
  Deep silence.

The image here italicized is striking, but faulty. It is deduced not 
from any analogy between actual existences--between woe on the one 
hand, and the sea on the other--but from the _identity of epithet_ 
(deep) frequently applied to both. We say the "deep sea," and the 
expression "deep woe" is certainly familiar. But in the first case the 
sea is actually deep; in the second, woe is but metaphorically so. 
Sound, therefore--not sense, is the basis of the analogy, and the 
image is consequently incorrect.

Some faults of a minor kind we may also discover in Zinzendorff. We 
dislike the use made by the poetess of antique modes of 
expression--here most unequivocally out of place. For example.

                _Where_ the red council-fire
  Disturbed the trance of midnight, long they sate.

  _What time_, with hatred fierce and unsubdued,
  The woad-stained Briton, in his wattled boat,
  Quailed 'neath the glance of Rome.

The versification of Zinzendorff is particularly good--always 
sweet--occasionally energetic. We are enabled to point out only one 
defective line in the poem, and in this the defect has arisen from an 
attempt to contract _enthusiasm_ into a word of three syllables.

                               He who found
  _This blest enthusiasm nerve his weary heart_.

There are, however, some errors of accentuation--for example:

  So strong in that mis_an_thrope's bosom wrought
  A frenzied malice.

Again--

            He would have made himself
  A green o_a_sis mid the strife of tongues.

We observe too that Mrs. Sigourney places the accent in _Wyoming_ on 
the second syllable.

  'Twas summer in Wy_o_ming. Through the breast,
  &c.

                     ------And the lore
  Of sad Wy_o_ming's chivalry, a part
  Of classic song.

But we have no right to quarrel with her for this. The word is so 
pronounced by those who should know best. Campbell, however, places 
the accent on the first syllable.

  On Susquehannah's banks, fair _Wy_oming!

We will conclude our remarks upon Zinzendorff with a passage of 
surpassing beauty, energy, and poetic power. Why cannot Mrs. Sigourney 
write always thus?

                       ------Not a breath
  Disturbed the tide of eloquence. So fixed
  Were that rude auditory, it would seem
  Almost as if a nation had become
  _Bronzed into statues_. Now and then a sigh,
  The unbidden messenger of thought profound,
  Parted the lip; or some barbarian brow
  Contracted closer in a haughty frown,
  As scowled the cynic, 'mid his idol fanes,
  When on Mars-Hill the inspired Apostle preached
  Jesus of Nazareth.

These lines are glowing all over with the true radiance of poetry. The 
image in italics is perfect. Of the versification, it is not too much 
to say that it reminds us of Miltonic power. The slight roughness in 
the line commencing "When on Mars-Hill," and the discord introduced at 
the word "inspired," evince an ear attuned to the _delicacies_ of 
melody, and form an appropriate introduction to the sonorous and 
emphatic closing--Jesus of Nazareth.

Of the minor poems in the volume before us, we must be pardoned for 
speaking in a cursory manner. Of course they include many degrees of 
excellence. Their beauties and their faults are, generally, the 
beauties and the faults of Zinzendorff. We will particularize a few of 
each.

On page 67, in a poem entitled Female Education, occur the following 
lines:

      ----Break Oblivion's sleep,
    And toil with florist's art
  To plant the scenes of virtue deep
    In childhood's fruitful heart!
  To thee the babe is given,
    Fair from its glorious Sire;
  Go--nurse it for the King of Heaven,
    And _He_ will _pay the hire_.

The conclusion of this is _bathetic_ to a degree bordering upon the 
grotesque.

At page 160 is an error in metre--of course an oversight. We point it 
out merely because, did we write ourselves, we should like to be 
treated in a similar manner. For 'centred' we should probably read 
'concentred.'

  The wealth of every age
    _Thou hast centered here_,
  The ancient tome, the classic page,
  The wit, the poet, and the sage,
    All at thy nod appear.

At page 233, line 10, the expression "Thou _wert_ their friend," 
although many precedents may be found to justify it--is nevertheless 
_not English_. The same error occurs frequently in the volume.

The poem entitled _The Pholas_, at page 105, has the following 
introductory prose sentence: "It is a fact familiar to Conchologists, 
that the genus Pholas possesses the property of phosphorescence. It 
has been asserted that this may be restored, even when the animal is 
in a dried state, by the application of _water_, but is extinguished 
by the least quantity of _brandy_." This odd fact in Natural History 
is precisely what Cowley would have seized with avidity for the 
purpose of preaching therefrom a poetical homily on Temperance. But 
that Mrs. Sigourney should have thought herself justifiable in using 
it for such purpose, is what we cannot understand. What business has 
her good taste with so palpable and so ludicrous a _conceit_? Let us 
now turn to a more pleasing task.

In the _Friends of Man_, (a poem originally published in our own 
Messenger,) the versification throughout is of the first order of 
excellence. We select an example. {115}

  The youth at midnight sought his bed,
    But ere he closed his eyes,
  Two forms drew near with gentle tread,
    In meek and saintly guise;
  One struck a lyre of wondrous power,
    With thrilling music fraught,
  That chained the flying summer hour,
    And charmed the listener's thought--
  For still would its tender cadence be
        Follow me! follow me!
    And every morn a smile shall bring,
    Sweet as the merry lay I sing.

The lines entitled _Filial Grief_, at page 199, are worthy of high 
praise. Their commencement is chaste, simple, and altogether 
exquisite. The verse italicized contains _an unjust metaphor_, but we 
are forced to pardon it for the sonorous beauty of its expression.

  The love that blest our infant dream,
    That dried our earliest tear,
  The tender voice, the winning smile,
    That made our home so dear,
  The hand that urged our youthful thought
    O'er low delights to soar,
  _Whose pencil wrote upon our souls_,
    Alas, is ours no more.

We will conclude our extracts with "_Poetry_" from page 57. The burden 
of the song finds a ready echo in our bosoms.

  Morn on her rosy couch awoke,
    Enchantment led the hour,
  And Mirth and Music drank the dews
    That freshened Beauty's flower--
  Then from her bower of deep delight
    I heard a young girl sing,
  "Oh, speak no ill of Poetry,
    For 'tis a holy thing!"

  The sun in noon-day heat rose high,
    And on with heaving breast
  I saw a weary pilgrim toil,
    Unpitied and unblest--
  Yet still in trembling measures flow'd
    Forth from a broken string,
  "Oh, speak no ill of Poetry,
    For 'tis a holy thing!"

  'Twas night, and Death the curtains drew,
    Mid agony severe,
  While there a willing spirit went
    Home to a glorious sphere--
  Yet still it sighed, even when was spread
    The waiting Angel's wing,
  "Oh, speak no ill of Poetry,
    For 'tis a holy thing!"

We now bid adieu to Mrs. Sigourney--yet we trust only for a time. We 
shall behold her again. When that period arrives, having thrown aside 
the petty shackles which have hitherto enchained her, she will assume, 
at once, that highest station among the poets of our land which her 
noble talents so well qualify her for attaining.

       *       *       *       *       *

The remarks which we made in the beginning of our critique on Mrs. 
Sigourney, will apply, in an equal degree, to Miss Gould. Her 
reputation has been greatly assisted by the _frequency_ of her appeals 
to the attention of the public. The poems (one hundred and seventeen 
in number,) included in the volume now before us have all, we believe, 
appeared, from time to time, in the periodicals of the day. Yet in no 
other point of view, can we trace the remotest similarity between the 
two poetesses. We have already pointed out the prevailing 
characteristics of Mrs. Sigourney. In Miss Gould we recognize, first, 
a disposition, like that of Wordsworth, to seek beauty where it is not 
usually sought--in the _homelinesses_ (if we may be permitted the 
word,) and in the most familiar realities of existence--secondly 
_abandon_ of manner--thirdly a phraseology sparkling with antithesis, 
yet, strange to say, perfectly simple and unaffected.

Without Mrs. Sigourney's high reach of thought, Miss Gould surpasses 
her rival in the mere vehicle of thought--expression. "Words, words, 
words," are the true secret of her strength. _Words_ are her 
kingdom--and in the realm of language, she rules with equal despotism 
and _nonchalance_. Yet we do not mean to deny her abilities of a 
higher order than any which a mere _logocracy_ can imply. Her powers 
of imagination are great, and she has a faculty of inestimable worth, 
when considered in relation to effect--the faculty of holding ordinary 
ideas in so novel, and sometimes in so fantastic a light, as to give 
them all of the appearance, and much of the value, of originality. 
Miss Gould will, of course, be the favorite with the multitude--Mrs. 
Sigourney with the few.

We can think of no better manner of exemplifying these few 
observations, than by extracting part of Miss G's little poem, _The 
Great Refiner_.

  'Tis sweet to feel that he, who tries
    The silver, takes his seat
  Beside the fire that purifies;
    Lest too intense a heat,
  Raised to consume the base alloy,
  The precious metal too destroy.

  'Tis good to think how well he knows
    The silver's power to bear
  The _or_deal to which it goes;
    And that with skill and care,
  He'll take it from the fire, when fit
  For his own hand to polish it.

  'Tis blessedness to know that he
    The piece he has begun
  Will not forsake, till he can see,
    To prove the work well done,
  An image by its brightness shown
  The perfect likeness of his own.

The mind which could conceive the _subject_ of this poem, and find 
poetic appropriateness in a forced analogy between a refiner of 
silver, over his crucible, and the Great Father of all things, 
occupied in the mysteries of redeeming Grace, we cannot believe a mind 
adapted to the loftier breathings of the lyre. On the other hand, the 
delicate _finish_ of the illustration, the perfect fitness of one 
portion for another, the epigrammatic nicety and point of the 
language, give evidence of a taste exquisitely alive to the 
_prettinesses_ of the Muse. It is possible that Miss Gould has been 
led astray in her conception of this poem by the scriptural 
expression, "He shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver."

From the apparently harsh strictures we have thought it our duty to 
make upon the poetry of Miss Gould, must be excepted one exquisite 
little _morceau_ at page 59 of the volume now under review. It is 
entitled _The Dying Storm_. We will quote it in full. {116}

  _I am feeble, pale and weary,_
    _And my wings are nearly furled;_
  I have caused a scene so dreary,
    I am glad to quit the world!
  With bitterness I'm thinking
    On the evil I have done,
  _And to my caverns sinking_
    _From the coming of the sun._

  The heart of man will sicken
    In that pure and holy light,
  When he feels the hopes I've stricken
    With an everlasting blight!
  For widely, in my madness,
    Have I poured abroad my wrath,
  And changing joy to sadness,
    Scattered ruin on my path.

  _Earth shuddered at my motion,_
    And my power in silence owns;
  _But the deep and troubled ocean_
    _O'er my deeds of horror moans!_
  I have sunk the brightest treasure--
    I've destroyed the fairest form--
  _I have sadly filled my measure,_
    _And am now a dying storm._

We have much difficulty in recognizing these verses as from the pen of 
Miss Gould. They do not contain a single trace of her manner, and 
still less of the prevailing features of her thought. Setting aside 
the flippancy of the metre, ill adapted to the sense, we have no fault 
to find. All is full, forcible, and free from artificiality. The 
personification of the storm, in its perfect simplicity, is of a high 
order of poetic excellence--the images contained in the lines 
italicized, all of the _very highest_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Many but not all of the poems in Mrs. Ellet's volume, likewise, have 
been printed before--appearing, within the last two years, in 
different periodicals. The whole number of pieces now published is 
fifty-seven. Of these thirty-nine are original. The rest are 
translations from the French of Alphonse de Lamartine and 
Beranger--from the Spanish of Quevedo and Yriarte--from the Italian of 
Ugo Foscolo, Alfieri, Fulvio Testi, Pindemonte, and Saverio 
Bettinelli,--and from the German of Schiller. As evidences of the 
lady's acquaintance with the modern languages, these translations are 
very creditable to her. Where we have had opportunities of testing the 
fidelity of her versions by reference to the originals, we have always 
found reason to be satisfied with her performances. A too scrupulous 
adherence to the text is certainly not one of her faults--nor can we 
yet justly call her, in regard to the spirit of her authors, a 
latitudinarian. We wish, however, to say that, in fully developing the 
meaning of her originals, she has too frequently neglected their 
_poetical characters_. Let us refer to the lady's translation of the 
_Swallows_. We have no hesitation in saying, that not the slightest 
conception of Pierre Jean de Beranger, can be obtained by the perusal 
of the lines at page 112, of the volume now before us.

  Bring me, I pray--an exile sad--
    Some token of that valley bright,
  Where in my sheltered childhood glad,
    The future was a dream of light.
  Beside the gentle stream, where swell
    Its waves beneath the lilac tree,
  Ye saw the cot I love so well--
    And speak ye of that home to me?

We have no fault to find with these verses in themselves--as specimens 
of the _manner_ of the French _chansonnier_, we have no patience with 
them. What we have quoted, is the second stanza of the song. Our 
remarks, here, with some little modification, would apply to the 
_Sepulchres_ of Foscolo, especially to the passage commencing

                       Yes--Pindemonte!
  The aspiring soul is fired to lofty deeds
  By great men's monuments, &c.

They would apply, also, with somewhat less force, to Lamartine's _Loss 
of the Anio_, in the original of which by the way, we cannot perceive 
the lines answering to Mrs. E's verses

  All that obscures thy sovereign majesty
  Degrades our glory in degrading thee.

Quevedo's Sonnet _Rome in Ruins_, we happen to have by us at this 
moment. The translation in this instance is faultless, and combines, 
happily, a close approximation to the meaning of the original, with 
its quaint air and pompous rhythm. The Sonnet itself is a plagiarism 
entire, from Girolamo Preti. The opening lines of Quevedo,

  Pilgrim! in vain thou seekest in Rome for Rome!
    Alas! the Queen of nations is no more!
  Dust are her towers, that proudly frowned of yore,
    And her stern hills themselves have built their tomb,

are little else than the

  Roma in Roma non è
  In se stessa cadeo morta e sepolta, &c.

of Girolamo. But this is no concern of Mrs. Ellet's.

Of the original poems, which form the greater part of the volume, we 
have hardly been able to form an opinion, during the cursory perusal 
we have given them. Some of them have merit. Some we think unworthy of 
the talents which their author has undoubtedly displayed. The epigram, 
for example, at page 102 is rather a silly joke upon a threadbare 
theme, and, however well it might have suited Mrs. Ellet's purpose to 
indite it, she should have had more discretion than to give it 
permanency in a collection of her poems.

  Echo was once a love sick maid
    They say: the tale is no deceiver.
  Howe'er a woman's form might fade
    Her voice would be the last to leave her!

The tragedy (Teresa Contarini) at the end of the volume, "is founded," 
says the authoress, "upon an incident well known in the history of 
Venice, which has formed the material for various works of fiction." 
Mrs. E. has availed herself of a drama of Nicolini's in part of the 
first scene of the first act, and in the commencement of the fifth 
act. The resemblance between the two plays is, however, very slight. 
In plot--in the spirit of the dialogue--and in the range of incidents 
they differ altogether. _Teresa Contarini_ was received with 
approbation at the Park Theatre in March 1835,--Miss Philips 
performing the heroine. We must confine ourselves to the simple 
remark, that the drama appears to us better suited to the closet than 
the stage.

In evidence that Mrs. Ellet is a poetess of no ordinary rank, we 
extract, from page 51 of her volume, a little poem rich in vigorous 
expression, and full of solemn {117} thought. Its chief merits, 
however, are condensation and energy.

    Hark--to the midnight bell!
    The solemn peal rolls on
  That tells us, with an iron tongue,
    Another year is gone!
  Gone with its hopes, its mockeries, and its fears,
  To the dim rest which wraps our former years.

    Gray pilgrim to the past!
    We will not bid thee stay;
  For joys of youth and passion's plaint
    Thou bear'st alike away.
  Alike the tones of mirth, and sorrow's swell
  Gather to hymn thy parting.--Fare thee well!

    Fill high the cup--and drink
    To Time's unwearied sweep!
  He claims a parting pledge from us--
    And let the draught be deep!
  We may not shadow moments fleet as this,
  With tales of baffled hopes, or vanished bliss.

    No comrade's voice is here,
    That could not tell of grief--
  Fill up!--We know that friendship's hours,
    Like their own joys--are brief.
  Drink to their brightness while they yet may last,
  And drown in song the memory of the past!

    The winter's leafless bough
    In sunshine yet shall bloom;
  And hearts that sink in sadness now
    Ere long dismiss their gloom.
  Peace to the sorrowing! Let our goblets flow,
  In red wine mantling, for the tears of wo!

    Once more! A welcoming strain!
    A solemn sound--yet sweet!
  While life is ours, Time's onward steps
    In gladness will we greet!
  Fill high the cup! What prophet lips may tell
  Where we shall bid another year farewell!

With this extract, we close our observations on the writings of Mrs. 
Ellet--of Miss Gould--and of Mrs. Sigourney. The time may never arrive 
again, when we shall be called upon, by the circumstances of 
publication, to speak of them in connexion with one another.


THE PARTISAN.

_The Partisan: A Tale of the Revolution. By the author of "The 
Yemassee," "Guy Rivers," &c. New York: Published by Harper and 
Brothers._

Mr. Simms has written, heretofore, "Atalantis, a Story of the 
Sea"--"Martin Faber, the Story of a Criminal"--"Guy Rivers, a Tale of 
Georgia," and "The Yemassee, a Romance of Carolina." Of these works, 
Martin Faber passed to a second edition--"Guy Rivers," and "The 
Yemassee" each to a third. With these evidences before us of our 
author's long acquaintance with the Muse, we must be pardoned if, in 
reviewing the volumes now upon our table, we make no allowances 
whatever on the score of a deficient _experience_. Mr. Simms either 
writes very well, or it is high time that he should.

"The Partisan" is _inscribed_ to Richard Yeadon, Jr. Esq. of South 
Carolina; and the terms in which the compliment is conveyed, while 
attempting to avoid Scylla, have blundered upon Charybdis. The cant of 
verbiage is bad enough--but the cant of laconism is equally as bad. 
Let us transcribe the Dedication.

  TO RICHARD YEADON, JR. ESQ.
      Of South Carolina.

Dear Sir,

My earliest, and, perhaps, most pleasant rambles in the fields of 
literature, were taken in your company--permit me to remind you of 
that period by inscribing the present volumes with your name.

THE AUTHOR.

  _Barnwell, South Carolina_.
  _July 1, 1835_.

This is, indeed, the quintessence of brevity. At all events it is 
meant to be something better than such things usually are. It aims at 
point. It affects excessive terseness, excessive appropriateness, and 
excessive gentility. One might almost picture to the mind's eye the 
exact air and attitude of the writer as he indited the whole thing. 
Probably he compressed his lips--possibly he ran his fingers through 
his hair. Now a letter, generally, we may consider as the substitute 
for certain oral communications which the writer of the letter would 
deliver in person were an opportunity afforded. Let us then imagine 
the author of "The Partisan" presenting a copy of that work to 
"Richard Yeadon, Jr. Esq. of South Carolina," and let us, from the 
indications afforded by the printed Dedication, endeavor to form some 
idea of the author's demeanor upon an occasion so highly interesting. 
We may suppose Mr. Yeadon, in South Carolina, at home, and in his 
study. By and bye with a solemn step, downcast eyes, and impressive 
earnestness of manner, enters the author of "The Yemassee." He 
advances towards Mr. Yeadon, and, without uttering a syllable, takes 
that gentleman affectionately, but firmly, by the hand. Mr. Y. has his 
suspicions, as well he may have, but says nothing. Mr. S. commences as 
above. "_Dear Sir_," (here follows a pause, indicated by the comma 
after the word "Sir"--see Dedication. Mr. Y. very much puzzled what to 
make of it.) Mr. S. proceeds, "_My earliest_," (pause the second, 
indicated by comma the second,) "_and_," (pause the third, in 
accordance with comma the third,) "_perhaps_," (pause the fourth, as 
shewn by comma the fourth. Mr. Y. exceedingly mystified,) "_most 
pleasant rambles in the fields of literature_," (pause fifth) "_were 
taken in your company_" (pause sixth, to agree with the dash after 
'company.' Mr. Y.'s hair begins to stand on end, and he looks 
occasionally towards the door,) "_permit me to remind you of that 
period by inscribing the present volumes with your name_." At the 
conclusion of the sentence, Mr. S. with a smile and a bow of mingled 
benignity and grace, turns slowly from Mr. Y. and advances to a table 
in the centre of the room. Pens and ink are there at his service. 
Drawing from the pocket of his surtout a pacquet carefully done up in 
silver paper, he unfolds it, and produces the two volumes of "The 
Partisan." With ineffable ease, and with an air of exquisite _haut 
ton_, he proceeds to inscribe in the title pages of each tome the name 
of Richard Yeadon, Jr. Esq. The scene, however, is interrupted. Mr. Y. 
feels it his duty to kick the author of "The Yemassee" down stairs.

Now, in this, all the actual burlesque consists in {118} merely 
substituting things for words. There are many of our readers who will 
recognize in this imaginary interview between Mr. Yeadon and Mr. 
Simms, at least a family likeness to the written Dedication of the 
latter. This Dedication is, nevertheless, quite as good as one half 
the antique and lackadaisical courtesies with which we daily see the 
initial leaves of our best publications disfigured.

"The Partisan," as we are informed by Mr. Simms in his Advertisement, 
(Preface?) was originally contemplated as one novel of a series to be 
devoted to our war of Independence. "With this object," says the 
author, "I laid the foundation more broadly and deeply than I should 
have done, had I purposed merely the single work. Several of the 
persons employed were destined to be the property of the series--that 
part of it at least which belonged to the locality. Three of these 
works were to have been devoted to South Carolina, and to comprise 
three distinct periods of the war of the Revolution in that State. 
One, and the first of these, is the story now submitted to the reader. 
I know not that I shall complete, or even continue the series." Upon 
the whole we think that he had better not.

There is very little plot or connexion in the book before us; and Mr. 
Simms has evidently aimed at neither. Indeed we hardly know what to 
think of the work at all. Perhaps, with some hesitation, we may call 
it an historical novel. The narrative begins in South Carolina, during 
the summer of 1780, and comprises the leading events of the Revolution 
from the fall of Charleston, to the close of that year. We have the 
author's own words for it that his object has been principally to give 
a fair picture of the province--its condition, resources, and 
prospects--during the struggle between Gates and Cornwallis, and the 
period immediately subsequent to the close of the campaign in the 
defeat of the Southern defending army. Mr. S. assures us that the 
histories of the time have been continually before him in the 
prosecution of this object, and that, where written records were found 
wanting, their places have been supplied by local chronicles and 
tradition. Whether the idea ever entered the mind of Mr. Simms that 
his very laudable design, as here detailed, might have been better 
carried into effect by a work of a character _purely_ historical, we, 
of course, have no opportunity of deciding. To ourselves, every 
succeeding page of "The Partisan" rendered the supposition more 
plausible. The interweaving fact with fiction is at all times 
hazardous, and presupposes on the part of general readers that degree 
of intimate acquaintance with fact which should never be presupposed. 
In the present instance, the author has failed, so we think, in 
confining either his truth or his fable within its legitimate, 
individual domain. Nor do we at all wonder at his failure in 
performing what no novelist whatever has hitherto performed.

Some pains have been taken in the preface of "The Partisan," to 
bespeak the reader's favorable decision in regard to certain 
historical facts--or rather in regard to the coloring given them by 
Mr. Simms. We refer particularly to the conduct of General Gates in 
South Carolina. We would, generally, prefer reading an author's book, 
to reading his criticism upon it. But letting this matter pass, we do 
not think Mr. S. has erred in attributing gross negligence, headstrong 
obstinacy, and overweening self-conceit to the conqueror at Saratoga. 
These charges are sustained by the best authorities--by Lee, by 
Johnson, by Otho Williams, and by all the histories of the day. No 
apology is needed for stating the truth. In regard to the "propriety 
of insisting upon the faults and foibles of a man conspicuous in our 
history," Mr. Simms should give himself little uneasiness. It is 
precisely because the man _is_ conspicuous in our history, that we 
should have no hesitation in condemning his errors.

With the events which are a portion of our chronicles, the novelist 
has interwoven such fictitious incidents and characters as might 
enable him to bind up his book in two volumes duodecimo, and call it 
"The Partisan." The Partisan himself, and the hero of the novel, is a 
Major Robert Singleton. His first introduction to the reader is as 
follows. "It was on a pleasant afternoon in June, that a tall, 
well-made youth, probably twenty-four or five years of age, rode up to 
the door of the 'George,' (in the village of Dorchester,) and throwing 
his bridle to a servant, entered the hotel. His person had been 
observed, and his appearance duly remarked upon, by several persons 
already assembled in the hall which he now approached. The new comer, 
indeed, was not one to pass unnoticed. His person was symmetry itself, 
and the ease with which he managed his steed, and the"--------but we 
spare our readers any farther details in relation to either the tall, 
well-made youth, or his steed, which latter they may take for granted 
was quite as tall, and equally well made. We cut the passage short 
with the less hesitation, inasmuch as a perfect fac-simile of it may 
be found near the commencement of every fashionable novel since the 
flood. Singleton is a partisan in the service of Marion, whose 
disposition, habits, and character are well painted, and well 
preserved, throughout the Tale. A Mr. Walton is the uncle of 
Singleton, and has been induced, after the surrender of Charleston 
(spelt Charlestown) to accept of a British protection, the price of 
which is neutrality. This course he has been led to adopt, principally 
on account of his daughter Katharine, who would lose her all in the 
confiscation of her father's property--a confiscation to be avoided by 
no other means than those of the protection. Singleton's sister 
resides with Col. Walton's family, at "The Oaks," near Dorchester, 
where the British Col. Proctor is in command. At the instigation of 
Singleton, who has an eye to the daughter of Col. Walton, that 
gentleman is induced to tear up the disgraceful protection, and levy a 
troop, with which he finally reaches the army of Gates. Most of the 
book is occupied with the ambuscades, bush fighting, and swamp 
adventures of partisan warfare in South Carolina. These passages are 
all highly interesting--but as they have little connexion with one 
another, we must dismiss them _en masse_. The history of the march of 
Gates' army, his fool-hardiness, and consequent humiliating 
discomfiture by Cornwallis, are as well told as any details of a like 
nature can be told, in language exceedingly confused, ill-arranged, 
and ungrammatical. This defeat hastens the _dénouement_, or rather the 
leading incident, of the novel. Col. Walton is made prisoner, and 
condemned to be hung, as a rebel taken in arms. He is sent to 
Dorchester for the fulfilment of the sentence. Singleton, urged by his 
own affection, as well as by the passionate {119} exhortations of his 
cousin Katharine, determines upon the rescue of his uncle at all 
hazards. A plot is arranged for this purpose. On the morning appointed 
for execution, a troop of horse is concealed in some underwood near 
the scaffold. Bella Humphries, the daughter of an avowed tory, but a 
whig at heart, is stationed in the belfry of the village church, and 
her father himself is occupied in arranging materials for setting 
Dorchester on fire upon a given signal. This signal (the violent 
ringing of the church bell by Bella) is given at the moment when Col. 
Walton arrives in a cart at the foot of the gallows. Great confusion 
ensues among those not in the secret--a confusion heightened no little 
by the sudden conflagration of the village. During the hubbub the 
troop concealed in the thicket rush upon the British guard in 
attendance. The latter are beaten down, and Walton is carried off in 
triumph by Singleton. The hand of Miss Katharine is, as a matter of 
course, the reward of the Major's gallantry.

Of the numerous personages who figure in the book, some are really 
excellent--some horrible. The historical characters are, without 
exception, well drawn. The portraits of Cornwallis, Gates, and Marion, 
are vivid realities--those of De Kalb and the Claverhouse-like 
Tarleton positively unsurpassed by any similar delineations within our 
knowledge. The fictitious existences in "The Partisan" will not bear 
examination. Singleton is about as much of a non-entity as most other 
heroes of our acquaintance. His uncle is no better. Proctor, the 
British Colonel, is cut out in buckram. Sergeant Hastings, the tory, 
is badly drawn from a bad model. Young Humphries is a 
braggadocio--Lance Frampton is an idiot--and Doctor Oakenburg is an 
ass. Goggle is another miserable addition to the list of those 
anomalies so swarming in fiction, who are represented as having 
vicious principles, for no other reason than because they have ugly 
faces. Of the females we can hardly speak in a more favorable manner. 
Bella, the innkeeper's daughter is, we suppose, very much like an 
innkeeper's daughter. Mrs. Blonay, Goggle's mother, is a hag worth 
hanging. Emily, Singleton's sister, is not what we would wish her. Too 
much stress is laid upon the interesting features of the consumption 
which destroys her; and the whole chapter of abrupt sentimentality, in 
which we are introduced to her sepulchre before having notice of her 
death, is in the very worst style of times _un peu passés_. Katharine 
Walton is somewhat better than either of the ladies above mentioned. 
In the beginning of the book, however, we are disgusted with that 
excessive prudishness which will not admit of a lover's hand resting 
for a moment upon her own--in the conclusion, we are provoked to a 
smile when she throws herself into the arms of the same lover, without 
even waiting for his consent.

One personage, a Mr. Porgy, we have not mentioned in his proper place 
among the _dramatis personæ_, because we think he deserves a separate 
paragraph of animadversion. This man is a most insufferable bore; and 
had we, by accident, opened the book when about to read it for the 
first time, at any one of his manifold absurdities, we should most 
probably have thrown aside "The Partisan" in disgust. Porgy is a 
backwoods imitation of Sir Somebody Guloseton, the epicure, in one of 
the Pelham novels. He is a very silly compound of gluttony, slang, 
belly, and balderdash philosophy, never opening his mouth for a single 
minute at a time, without making us feel miserable all over. The rude 
and unqualified oaths with which he seasons his language deserve to be 
seriously reprehended. There is positively neither wit nor humor in an 
oath of any kind--but the oaths of this Porgy are abominable. Let us 
see how one or two of them will look in our columns. Page 174, vol. 
ii--"Then there was no tricking a fellow--persuading him to put his 
head into a rope without showing him first how d----d strong it was." 
Page 169, vol. ii--"Tom, old boy, why d----n it, that fellow's 
bloodied your nose." Page 167, vol. ii--"I am a pacific man, and my 
temper is not ungentle; but to disturb my slumbers which are so 
necessary to the digestive organs--stop, I say--d----n!--don't pull 
so!" Page 164, vol. ii--"Well, Tom, considering how d----d bad those 
perch were fried, I must confess I enjoyed them." Page 164, vol. 
ii--"Such spice is a d----d bad dish for us when lacking cayenne." 
Page 163, vol. ii--"Dr. Oakenburg, your d----d hatchet hip is digging 
into my side." Page 162, vol. ii--"The summer duck, with its glorious 
plumage, skims along the same muddy lake, on the edge of which the 
d----d bodiless crane screams and crouches." In all these handsome 
passages Porgy loquitur, and it will be perceived that they are all to 
be found within a few pages of each other--such attempts to render 
profanity less despicable by rendering it amusing, should be frowned 
down indignantly by the public. Of Porgy's philosophy we subjoin a 
specimen from page 89, vol. ii. "A dinner once lost is never 
recovered. The stomach loses a day, and regrets are not only idle to 
recall it, but subtract largely from the appetite the day ensuing. 
_Tears can only fall from a member that lacks teeth; the mouth now is 
never seen weeping. It is the eye only; and, as it lacks tongue, 
teeth, and taste alike, by Jupiter, it seems to me that tears should 
be its proper business._" How Mr. Simms should ever have fallen into 
the error of imagining such horrible nonsense as that in Italics, to 
be either witty or wise, is to us a mystery of mysteries. Yet Porgy is 
evidently a favorite with the author.

Some two or three paragraphs above we made use of these expressions. 
"The history of the march of Gates' army, his fool-hardiness, &c. are 
as well told as any details of a like nature can be told in language 
exceedingly confused, ill-arranged, and ungrammatical." Mr. Simms' 
English is bad--shockingly bad. This is no mere assertion on our 
parts--we proceed to prove it. "Guilt," says our author, (see page 98, 
vol. i.) "must always _despair its charm_ in the presence of the true 
avenger"--what is the meaning of this sentence?--after much reflection 
we are unable to determine. At page 115, vol. i, we have these words. 
"He was under the guidance of an elderly, drinking sort of person--one 
of the fat, beefy class, whose worship of the belly-god has given an 
unhappy distension to that ambitious, though most erring member." By 
the 'most erring member' Mr. S. means to say _the belly_--but the 
sentence implies the _belly-god_. Again, at page 126, vol. i. "It was 
for the purpose of imparting to Col. Walton the contents of that not 
yet notorious proclamation of Sir Henry Clinton, with which he 
demanded the performance of military duty from the persons who had 
been paroled; and by means of which, on departing from the province, 
he planted the seeds of that _revolting_ patriotism which {120} 
finally overthrew his authority." It is unnecessary to comment on the 
unauthorized use here, of the word 'revolting.' In the very next 
sentence we see the following. "Colonel Walton received his guests 
with his accustomed urbanity: _he received them alone_." This language 
implies that Colonel Walton received those particular guests and no 
others, and should be read with an emphasis on the word '_them_'--but 
Mr. Simms' meaning is very different. He wishes to say that Col. 
Walton was alone when his guests were ushered into his presence. At 
page 136, vol. i, the hero, Singleton, concludes a soliloquy with the 
ungrammatical phrase, "And yet none love her like me!" At page 143, 
vol. i, we read--"'That need not surprise you, Miss Walton; you 
remember that ours are British soldiers'--smiling, and with a bow was 
the response of the Colonel." We have no great difficulty herein 
_guessing_ what Mr. Simms wishes to say--his actual words convey no 
meaning whatever. The present participle 'smiling' has no substantive 
to keep it company; and the 'bow,' as far as regards its syntactical 
disposition, may be referred with equal plausibility to the Colonel, 
to Miss Walton, to the British soldiers, or to the author of "The 
Partisan." At page 147, vol. i, we are told--"She breathed more freely 
released from his embrace, and he then gazed upon her with a _painful 
sort of pleasure_, her look was so clear, so dazzling, so spiritual, 
so _unnaturally life-like_." The attempt at paradox has here led Mr. 
Simms into error. The _painful sort of pleasure_ we may suffer to 
pass; but _life_ is the most natural thing in the world, and to call 
any object unnaturally life-like is as much a bull proper as to style 
it artificially natural. At page 148, we hear "that the disease had 
not yet _shown_ upon her system." Shown is here used as a neuter 
verb--shown _itself_ Mr. S. meant to say. We are at a loss, too, to 
understand what is intended, at page 149, vol. i, by "a look so pure, 
so bright, so fond, so becoming of heaven, yet so hopeless of earth." 
Becoming heaven, not _of_ heaven, we presume should be the phrase--but 
even thus the sentence is unintelligible. At page 156, vol. i, a 
countryman "loves war to the knife better than degradation to the 
chain." This is a pitiable antithesis. In the first clause, the 
expression '_to the_ knife' is idiomatic; in the second, the words 
'_to the_ chain' have a literal meaning. At page 88, vol. i, we 
read--"The half-military eye would have studiously avoided the ridge," 
&c. The epithet "_half-military_" does not convey the author's 
meaning. At page 204, vol. i. Mrs. Blonay is represented as striding 
across the floor "with a rapid movement hostile to the enfeebled 
appearance of her frame." Here the forcing "_hostile_" to mean _not in 
accordance with_, is unjustifiable. At page 14, vol. ii, these words 
occur. "Cheerless quite, bald of home and habitation, they saw nothing 
throughout the melancholy waste more imposing than the plodding 
negro." The "_cheerless quite_" and the "_bald of home and 
habitation_" would refer in strict grammatical construction to the 
pronoun "_they_"--but the writer means them to agree with "_melancholy 
waste_." At page 224, vol. i, we find the following. "The moon, 
obscured during the early part of the night, had now sunk _westering_ 
so far," &c. At page 194, vol. ii, we are informed that "General Gates 
_deigned_ no general consultation." At page 13, vol. ii. "Major 
Singleton _bids the boy Lance Frampton in attendance_"--and at page 
95, vol. ii, we have the singular phenomenon of "_an infant yet unborn 
adding its prayer to that of its mother for the vengeance to which he 
has devoted himself_"--a sentence which we defy his Satanic Majesty to 
translate.

Mr. Simms has one or two pet words which he never fails introducing 
every now and then, with or without an opportunity. One of these is 
"_coil_"--another, "_hug_"--another, and a still greater favorite, is 
the compound "_old-time_." Let us see how many instances of the latter 
we can discover in looking over the volumes at random. Page 7, vol. 
i--"And with the revival of many _old-time_ feelings, I strolled 
through the solemn ruins." Page 13, vol. i--"The cattle graze along 
the clustering bricks that distinguish the _old-time_ chimney places." 
Page 20, vol. i--"He simply cocked his hat at the _old-time_ 
customer." Page 121, vol. i--"The Oaks was one of those _old-time_ 
residences." Page 148, vol. i--"I only wish for mommer as we wish for 
an _old-time_ prospect." Page 3, vol. ii--

  "Unfold--unfold--the day is going fast,
   And I would know this _old-time_ history."

Page 5, vol. ii--"The Carolinian well knows these _old-time_ places." 
Page 98, vol. ii--"Look, before we shall have gone too far to return 
to them, upon these _old-time_ tombs of Dorchester." Here are eight 
_old-times_ discovered in a cursory glance over "The Partisan"--we 
believe there are ten times as many interspersed throughout the work. 
The _coils_ are equally abundant, and the _hugs_ innumerable.

One or two other faults we are forced to find. The old affectation of 
beginning a chapter abruptly has been held worthy of adoption by our 
novelist. He has even thought himself justifiable in imitating this 
silly practice in its most reprehensible form--we mean the form 
habitual with Bulwer and D'Israeli, and which not even their undoubted 
and indubitable genius could render any thing but despicable--that of 
commencing with an "_And_," a "_But_," or some other conjunction--thus 
rendering the initial sentence of the chapter in question, a 
continuation of the final sentence of the chapter preceding. We have 
an instance of this folly at page 102, vol. ii, where Chapter XII 
commences as follows: "_But_, though we turn aside from the highway to 
plant or to pluck the flower, we may not linger there idly or long." 
Again, at page 50 of the same volume, Chapter VII begins--"_And_ two 
opposing and mighty principles were at fearful strife in that 
chamber." This piece of frippery need only be pointed out to be 
despised.

Instances of bad taste--villainously bad taste--occur frequently in 
the book. Of these the most reprehensible are to be found in a love 
for that mere _physique_ of the horrible which has obtained for some 
Parisian novelists the title of the "French convulsives." At page 97, 
vol. ii, we are entertained with the minutest details of a murder 
committed by a maniac, Frampton, on the person of Sergeant Hastings. 
The madman suffocates the soldier by thrusting his head in the mud of 
a morass--and the yells of the murderer, and the kicks of the 
sufferer, are dwelt upon by Mr. Simms with that species of delight 
with which we have seen many a ragged urchin spin a cockchafer upon a 
needle. At page 120, vol. i, another murder is perpetrated by the same 
maniac in a manner too shockingly horrible to {121} mention. The 
victim in this case is a poor tory, one Clough. At page 217, vol. i, 
the booby Goggle receives a flogging for desertion, and Mr. S. 
endeavors to interest us in the screeches of the wretch--in the cries 
of his mother--in the cracking of the whip--in the number of the 
lashes--in the depth, and length, and color of the wounds. At page 
105, vol. ii, our friend Porgy has caught a terrapin, and the author 
of "The Yemassee" luxuriates in the manner of torturing the poor 
reptile to death, and more particularly in the writhings and spasms of 
the head, which he assures us with a smile "_will gasp and jerk long 
after we have done eating the body_."

One or two words more. Each chapter in "The Partisan" is introduced 
(we suppose in accordance with the good old fashion) by a brief 
poetical passage. Our author, however, has been wiser than his 
neighbors in the art of the initial motto. While others have been at 
the trouble of extracting, from popular works, quotations adapted to 
the subject-matter of their chapters, he has manufactured his own 
headings. We find no fault with him for so doing. The manufactured 
mottos of Mr. Simms are, perhaps, quite as convenient as the extracted 
mottos of his cotemporaries. All, we think, are abominable. As regards 
the fact of the manufacture there can be no doubt. None of the verses 
have we ever met with before--and they are altogether too full of 
_coils_, _hugs_, and _old-times_, to have any other parent than the 
author of "The Yemassee."

In spite, however, of its manifest and manifold blunders and 
impertinences, "The Partisan" is no ordinary work. Its historical 
details are replete with interest. The concluding scenes are well 
drawn. Some passages descriptive of swamp scenery are exquisite. Mr. 
Simms has evidently the eye of a painter. Perhaps, in sober truth, he 
would succeed better in sketching a landscape than he has done in 
writing a novel.


LATROBE'S RAMBLER.

_The Rambler in North America, 1832-33. By Charles Joseph Latrobe, 
Author of "The Alpenstock," &c. New York; Harper and Brothers._

Mr. Latrobe is connected with a lineage of missionaries. He belongs to 
an English family long and honorably distinguished by their exertions 
in the cause of Christianity. His former work, "The Alpenstock," we 
have not seen--but the London Quarterly Review calls it "a pleasing 
and useful manual for travellers in Switzerland." The present volumes 
(dedicated to Washington Irving, whom Mr. L. accompanied in a late 
tour through the Prairies,) consist of thirty-seven letters addressed 
to F. B. Latrobe, a younger brother of the author. They form, upon the 
whole, one of the most instructive and amusing books we have perused 
for years.

By no means blind to our faults, to our foibles, or to our political 
difficulties, Mr. Latrobe has travelled from Dan to Beersheba without 
finding all barren. His observations are not confined to some one or 
two subjects, engrossing his attention to the exclusion, or to the 
imperfect examination, of all others. His wanderings among us have 
been apparently guided by a spirit of frank and liberal curiosity; and 
he deserves the good will of all Americans, (as he has most assuredly 
secured their esteem) by viewing us, not with a merely English eye, 
but with the comprehensive glance of a citizen of the world.

To speak in detail of a work so subdivided as "The Rambler in North 
America," would occupy too much of our time. We can, of course, only 
touch, in general terms, upon its merits and demerits. The latter, we 
can assure our readers, are few indeed. One instance, nevertheless, of 
what must be considered false inference from data undeniably correct, 
is brought to bear so pointedly against our social and political 
principles, and is, at the same time, so plausible in itself, and so 
convincingly worded, as to demand a sentence or two of comment. We 
quote the passage in full, the more willingly, as we perceive it dwelt 
upon with much emphasis, by the London Quarterly Review.


"There are certain signs, perhaps it might be said of the times, 
rather than of their peculiar political arrangements, which should 
make men pause in their judgment of the social state in America. The 
people are emancipated from the thraldom of mind and body which they 
consider consequent upon upholding the divine right of kings. They are 
all politically equal. All claim to place, patronage, or respect, for 
the bearer of a great name is disowned. Every man must stand or fall 
by himself alone, and must make or mar his fortune. Each is gratified 
in believing that he has his share in the government of the Union. You 
speak against the insane anxiety of the people to govern--of authority 
being detrimental to the minds of men raised from insignificance--of 
the essential vulgarity of minds which can attend to nothing but 
matter of fact and pecuniary interest--of the possibility of the 
existence of civilization without cultivation,--and you are not 
understood! I have said it may be _the spirit of the times_, for we 
see signs of it, alas, in Old England; but there must be something in 
the political atmosphere of America, which is more than ordinarily 
congenial to that decline of just and necessary subordination, which 
God has both permitted by the natural impulses of the human mind, and 
ordered in His word; and to me the looseness of the tie generally 
observable in many parts of the United States between the master and 
servant--the child and the parent--the scholar and the master--the 
governor and the governed--_in brief the decay of loyal feeling in all 
the relations of life, was the worst sign of the times_. Who shall say 
but that if these bonds are distorted and set aside, the first and the 
greatest--which binds us in subjection to the law of God--will not 
also be weakened, if not broken? This, and this alone, short-sighted 
as I am, would cause me to pause in predicting the future grandeur of 
America under its present system of government and structure of 
society."


In the sentence beginning, "I have said it may be the spirit of the 
times, for we see signs of it, alas, in Old England, _but there must 
be something_," _&c._ Mr. Latrobe has involved himself in a 
contradiction. By the words, "but there must be something in the 
political atmosphere of America which is more than ordinarily 
congenial to" _insubordination_, he implies (although unintentionally) 
that our natural impulses lead us in this direction--and that these 
natural impulses are permitted by God, we, at all events, are not 
permitted to doubt. In the words immediately succeeding those just 
quoted, he maintains (what is very true) that "_subordination_ was 
both permitted by God in the natural impulses of the human mind, and 
ordered in His word." The question thus resolves itself into a matter 
of _then_ and _now_--of times past and times present--of the days of 
the patriarchs and of the days of widely disseminated knowledge. The 
infallibility of the instinct of those natural impulses which led men 
to obey in the infancy {122} of all things, we have no intention of 
denying--we must demand the same grace for those natural impulses 
which prompt men to govern themselves in the senectitude of the world. 
In the sentence, "Who shall say but that if these bonds are distorted 
and set aside, the first and the greatest--which binds us in 
subjection to the law of God--will not also be weakened, if not 
broken?" the sophistry is evident; and we have only a few words to say 
in reply. In the first place, the writer has assumed that those bonds 
are "_distorted_" and "_set aside_" which are merely slackened to an 
endurable degree. In the second place, the "setting aside" these 
bonds, (granting them to be set aside) so far from tending to weaken 
our subjection to the law of God, will the more readily confirm that 
subjection, inasmuch as our responsibilities to man have been denied, 
through the conviction of our responsibilities to God, and--to God 
alone.

We recommend "The Rambler" to the earnest attention of our readers. It 
is the best work on America yet published. Mr. Latrobe is a scholar, a 
man of intellect and a gentleman.


THE SOUTH-WEST.

_The South-West. By a Yankee. New York: Published by Harper and 
Brothers._

This work, from the pen of Professor Ingraham, rivals the book of 
which we have just been speaking, in degree--although not in 
quality--of interest. Mr. Latrobe has proved himself a man of the 
world, an able teacher, and a philosopher. Professor Ingraham is an 
amusing traveller, full of fun, gossip, and shrewd remark. In all that 
relates to the "Mechanics of book-writing," the Englishman is 
immeasurably the superior.

Mr. I. in his "Introduction," informs us that his work "grew out of a 
private correspondence, which the author, at the solicitation of his 
friends, has been led to throw into the present form, modifying in a 
great measure the epistolary vein, and excluding, so far as possible, 
such portions of the original papers as were of too personal a nature 
to be intruded upon the majesty of the public--while he has embodied, 
so far as was compatible with the new arrangement, every thing likely 
to interest the general reader." The aim of the writer, we are also 
told, has been to present the result of his experience and 
observations during a residence of several years in that district of 
our country which gives the title to the work. It is, indeed, a matter 
for wonder that a similar object has never been carried into execution 
before. The South-West, embracing an extensive and highly interesting 
portion of the United States, is completely _caviare_ to the 
multitude. Very little information, upon whose accuracy reliance may 
be placed, has been hitherto made public concerning these regions of 
Eldorado--and were the volumes of Professor Ingraham absolutely 
worthless in every other respect, we should still be inclined to do 
them all possible honor for their originality in subject matter. But 
the "South-West" is very far from worthless. In spite of a multitude 
of faults which the eye of rigid criticism might easily detect--in 
spite of some inaccuracies in point of fact, many premature opinions, 
and an inveterate habit of writing what neither is, nor should be 
English, the Professor has succeeded in making a book, whose abiding 
interest, coming home to the bosoms and occupations of men, will cause 
any future productions of the same author to be looked for with 
anxiety.

The "Yankee," in travelling Southward, has evidently laid aside the 
general prejudices of a Yankee--and, viewing the book of Professor 
Ingraham, as representing, in its very liberal opinions, those of a 
great majority of well educated Northern gentlemen, we are inclined to 
believe it will render essential services in the way of smoothing down 
a vast deal of jealousy and misconception. The traveller from the 
North has evinced no disposition to look with a jaundiced eye upon the 
South--to pervert its misfortunes into crimes--or distort its 
necessities into sins of volition. He has spoken of slavery as he 
found it--and it is almost needless to say that he found it a very 
different thing from the paintings he had seen of it in red ochre. He 
has discovered, in a word, that while the _physical_ condition of the 
slave is _not_ what it has been represented, the slave himself is 
utterly incompetent to feel the _moral_ galling of his chain. Indeed, 
we cordially agree with a distinguished Northern contemporary and 
friend, that the Professor's strict honesty, impartiality, and 
unprejudiced common sense, on the trying subject which has so long 
agitated our community, is the distinguishing and the most 
praiseworthy feature of his book. Yet it has other excellences, and 
excellences of a high character. As a specimen of the picturesque, we 
extract a passage beginning at page 27, vol. i.


"'Keep away a little, or you'll run that fellow down,' suddenly 
shouted the captain to the helmsman; and the next moment the little 
fishing vessel shot swiftly under our stern, just barely clearing the 
spanker boom, whirling and bouncing about in the wild swirl of the 
ship's wake like a 'Masallah boat' in the surf of Madras.

"There were on board of her four persons, including the steersman--a 
tall, gaunt old man, whose uncovered gray locks streamed in the wind 
as he stooped to his little rudder to luff up across our wake. The 
lower extremities of a loose pair of tar-coated duck trowsers, which 
he wore, were incased, including the best part of his legs, in a pair 
of fisherman's boots, made of leather, which would flatten a rifle 
ball. His red flannel shirt left his hairy breast exposed to the icy 
winds, and a huge pea-jacket, thrown, Spanish fashion, over his 
shoulders, was fastened at the throat by a single button. His 
tarpaulin--a little narrow-brimmed hat of the pot-lid tribe, secured 
by a ropeyarn--had probably been thrown off in the moment of danger, 
and now hung swinging by a lanyard from the lower button-hole of his 
jacket.

"As his little vessel struggled like a drowning man in the yawning 
concave made by the ship, he stood with one hand firmly grasping his 
low, crooked rudder, and with the other held the main sheet, which 
alone he tended. A short pipe protruded from his mouth, at which he 
puffed away incessantly; one eye was tightly closed, and the other was 
so contracted in a network of wrinkles, that I could just discern the 
twinkle of a gray pupil, as he cocked it up at our quarter-deck, and 
took in with it the noble size, bearing, and apparel of our fine ship.

"A duplicate of the old helmsman, though less battered by storms and 
time, wearing upon his chalky locks a red, woollen, conical cap, was 
'easing off' the foresheet as the little boat passed; and a third was 
stretching his neck up the companion ladder, to stare at the 'big 
ship,' while the little carroty-headed imp, who was just the old 
skipper _razeed_, was performing the culinary operations of his little 
kitchen under cover of the heavens."


The portions of the book immediately relating to New Orleans--its odd 
buildings--its motley assemblage {123} of inhabitants--their manners 
and free habitudes, have especially delighted us; and cannot fail, of 
delighting, in general, all lovers of the stirring and life-like. A 
novelist of talent would find New Orleans the place of all places for 
the localities of a romance--and in such case he might derive 
important aid from the "South-West" of Professor Ingraham. At page 
140, vol. i, we were much interested in the following account of a 
fire.


"As I gained the front of this mass of human beings, that activity 
which most men possess, who are not modelled after 'fat Jack,' enabled 
me to gain an elevation whence I had an unobstructed view of the whole 
scene of conflagration. The steamers were lying side by side at the 
Levée, and one of them was enveloped in wreaths of flame, bursting 
from a thousand cotton bales, which were piled, tier above tier, upon 
her decks. The inside boat, though having no cotton on board, was 
rapidly consuming, as the huge streams of fire lapped and twined 
around her. The night was perfectly calm, but a strong whirlwind had 
been created by the action of the heat upon the atmosphere, and now 
and then it swept down in its invisible power, with the 'noise of a 
rushing mighty wind,' and as the huge serpentine flames darted upward, 
the solid cotton bales would be borne round the tremendous vortex like 
feathers, and then--hurled away into the air, blazing like giant 
meteors--would descend heavily and rapidly into the dark bosom of the 
river. The next moment they would rise and float upon the surface, 
black unshapely masses of tinder. As tier after tier, bursting with 
fire, fell in upon the burning decks, the sweltering flames, for a 
moment smothered, preceded by a volcanic discharge of ashes, which 
fell in showers upon the gaping spectators, would break from their 
confinement, and darting upward with multitudinous large wads of 
cotton, shoot them away through the air, filling the sky for a moment 
with a host of flaming balls. Some of them were borne a great distance 
through the air, and falling lightly upon the surface of the water, 
floated, from their buoyancy, a long time unextinguished. The river 
became studded with fire, and as far as the eye could reach below the 
city, it presented one of the most magnificent, yet awful spectacles, 
I had ever beheld or imagined. Literally spangled with flame, those 
burning fragments in the distance being diminished to specks of light, 
it had the appearance, though far more dazzling and brilliant, of the 
starry firmament. There were but two miserable engines to play with 
this gambolling monster, which, one moment lifting itself to a great 
height in the air, in huge spiral wreaths, like some immense snake, at 
the next would contract itself within its glowing furnace, or coil and 
dart along the decks like troops of fiery serpents, and with the 
roaring noise of a volcano."


Having spoken thus far of the "South-West," in terms of commendation, 
we must now be allowed to assert, in plain words, what we have before 
only partially hinted, that the Professor is indebted, generally, for 
his success, more to the innate interest of his subject matter, than 
to his manner of handling it. Numerous instances of bad taste occur 
throughout the volumes. The constant straining after wit and vivacity 
is a great blemish. Faulty constructions of style force themselves 
upon one's attention at every page. Gross blunders in syntax abound. 
The Professor does not appear to understand French. This is no sin in 
itself--but to quote what one does not understand is a folly. Turks' 
Heads _à la Grec_, for example, is ridiculous--see page 34, vol. i. 
Bulls too are occasionally met with--which are none the better for 
being classical bulls. We cannot bear to hear of Boreas blowing 
Zephyrs.


POETRY OF LIFE.

_The Poetry of Life. By Sarah Stickney, Author of "Pictures of Private 
Life." Philadelphia: Republished by Carey, Lea, and Blanchard._

These two volumes are subdivided as follows. Characteristics of 
Poetry--Why certain objects are, or are not poetical--Individual 
Associations--General Associations--The Poetry of Flowers--The Poetry 
of Trees--The Poetry of Animals--The Poetry of Evening--The Poetry of 
the Moon--The Poetry of Rural Life--The Poetry of Painting--The Poetry 
of Sound--The Poetry of Language--The Poetry of Love--The Poetry of 
Grief--The Poetry of Woman--The Poetry of the Bible--The Poetry of 
Religion--Impression--Imagination--Power--Taste--Conclusion.

In a Preface remarkable for neatness of style and precision of 
thought, Miss Stickney has very properly circumscribed within definite 
limits the design of her work--whose title, without such explanation, 
might have led us to expect too much at her hands. It would have been 
better, however, had the fair authoress, by means of a _different_ 
title, which her habits of accurate thinking might have easily 
suggested, rendered this explanation unnecessary. Except in some very 
rare instances, where a context may be tolerated, if not altogether 
justified, a work, either of the pen or the pencil, should contain 
within itself every thing requisite for its own comprehension. "The 
design of the present volumes," says Miss Stickney, "is to treat of 
poetic feeling, rather than poetry; and this feeling I have endeavored 
to describe as the great connecting link between our intellects and 
our affections; while the customs of society, as well as the license 
of modern literature, afford me sufficient authority for the use of 
the word _life_ in its widely extended sense, as comprehending all the 
functions, attributes, and capabilities peculiar to sentient beings."

We remember having read the "Pictures of Private Life" with interest 
of no common kind, and with a corresponding anxiety to know something 
more of the author. In them were apparent the calm enthusiasm, and the 
_analytical love of beauty_, which are now the distinguishing features 
of the volumes before us. We have perused the "Poetry of Life" with an 
earnestness of attention, and a degree of real pleasure very seldom 
excited in our minds. It is a work giving evidence of more profundity 
than discrimination--with no ordinary quantum of either. What is said, 
if not always indisputable, is said with a simplicity, and a 
scrupulous accuracy which leave us, not for one moment, in doubt of 
what is intended, and impress us, at the same time, with a high 
opinion of the author's ability. Miss Stickney's manner is very 
good--her English pure, harmonious, in every respect unexceptionable. 
With a strong understanding, and withal a keen relish for the minor 
forms of poetic excellence--a _strictness_ of conception which will 
ever prevent her from running into gross error--she is still, we 
think, insufficiently alive to the _delicacies_ of the 
beautiful--unable fully to appreciate the _energies_ of the sublime.

We were forcibly impressed with these opinions, in looking over, for 
the second time, the chapter of our fair authoress, "On the Poetry of 
Language." What we have just said in relation to her accuracy of 
thought and expression, and her appreciation of the minor forms {124} 
of poetic excellence, will be exemplified in the passage we now quote, 
beginning at page 187, vol. i.


"There can scarcely be a more beautiful and appropriate arrangement of 
words, than in the following stanza from Childe Harold:

    The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew,
    As glad to waft him from his native home;
    And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
    And soon were lost in circumambient foam;
    And then it may be of his wish to roam
    Repented he, but in his bosom slept
    The silent thought, nor from his lips did come
    One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
  And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.

"Without committing a crime so heinous as that of entirely spoiling 
this verse, it is easy to alter it so as to bring it down to the level 
of ordinary composition; and thus we may illustrate the essential 
difference between poetry and mere versification.

    The sails were _trimm'd_ and fair the light winds blew,
    As glad to _force_ him from his native home,
    And fast the white rocks _vanish'd_ from his view,
    And soon were lost _amid the circling_ foam:
    And then, _perchance, of his fond wish_ to roam
    Repented he, but in his bosom slept
    The _wish_, nor from his _silent_ lips did come
    One _mournful word_, whilst others sat and wept,
  And to _the heedless breeze their fruitless_ moaning kept.

"It is impossible not to be struck with the harmony of the original 
words as they are placed in this stanza. The very sound is graceful, 
as well as musical; like the motion of the winds and waves, blended 
with the majestic movement of a gallant ship. 'The sails were filled' 
conveys no association with the work of man; but substitute the word 
_trimmed_, and you see the busy sailors at once. The word 'waft' 
follows in perfect unison with the whole of the preceding line, and 
maintains the invisible agency of the 'light winds;' while the word 
'glad' before it, gives an idea of their power as an unseen 
intelligence. 'Fading' is also a happy expression, to denote the 
gradual obscurity and disappearing of the 'white rocks;' but the 
'circumambient foam' is perhaps the most poetical expression of the 
whole, and such as could scarcely have proceeded from a low or 
ordinary mind."


All this is well--but what follows is not so. "It may be 
amusing"--says Miss Stickney, at page 189, "to see how a poet, and 
that of no mean order, can undesignedly murder his own offspring"--and 
she proceeds to extract, from Shelley, in illustration, some passages, 
of whose exquisite beauty she has evidently not the slightest 
comprehension. She commences with

  "Music, when soft voices die
   Vibrates in the memory--
   Odours, when sweet violets _sicken_,
   Live within the sense they quicken."

"Sicken" is here italicized; and the author of the "Poetry of Life" 
thinks the word so undeniably offensive as to render a farther 
allusion to it unnecessary. A few lines below, she quotes, in the same 
tone of criticism, the terrific image in the Ode to Naples.

  "Naples!--thou heart of men, which ever pantest
   Naked, beneath the lidless eye of Heaven!"

And again, on the next page, from the same author--

  "Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all
   We can desire, O Love!"

Miss Stickney should immediately burn her copy of Shelley--it is to 
her capacities a sealed book.


MISS SEDGWICK'S SKETCHES.

_Tales and Sketches. By Miss Sedgwick, Author of "The Linwoods," "Hope 
Leslie," &c. &c. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard._

This volume includes--A Reminiscence of Federalism--The Catholic 
Iroquois--The Country Cousin--Old Maids--The Chivalric Sailor--Mary 
Dyre--Cacoëthes Scribendi--The Eldest Sister--St. Catharine's 
Eve--Romance in Real Life--and the Canary Family.

All of these pieces, we believe, have been published before. Of most 
of them we can speak with certainty--for having, in earlier days, been 
enamored of their pervading spirit of mingled chivalry and pathos, we 
cannot now forget them even in their new habiliments. Old Maids--The 
Country Cousin--and one or two others, we have read before--and should 
be willing to read again. These, our ancient friends, are worthy of 
the pen which wrote "Hope Leslie" and "The Linwoods." "Old Maids," in 
spite of the equivocal nature of its title, is full of noble and 
tender feeling--a specimen of fine writing, involving in its 
melancholy details what we must consider the beau-ideal of feminine 
disinterestedness--the _ne plus ultra_ of sisterly devotion. The 
"Country Cousin" possesses all the peculiar features of the tale just 
spoken of, with something more of serious and even solemn thought. The 
"Chivalric Sailor" is full of a very different, and of a more 
exciting, although less painful interest. We remember its original 
appearance under the title of "Modern Chivalry." The "Romance of Real 
Life" we now read for the first time--it is a tale of striking 
vicissitudes, but not the best thing we have seen from the pen of Miss 
Sedgwick--that a story is "founded on fact," is very seldom a 
recommendation. "The Catholic Iroquois" is also new to us--a stirring 
history of Christian faith and martyrdom. The "Reminiscence of 
Federalism" relates to a period of thirty years ago in New England--is 
a mingled web of merriment and gloom--and replete with engrossing 
interest. "Mary Dyre" is a veracious sketch of certain horrible and 
bloody facts which are a portion of the History of Fanaticism. Mary is 
slightly mentioned by Sewal, the annalist of "the people called 
Quakers," to which sect the maiden belonged. She died in vindicating 
the rights of conscience. This piece originally appeared in one of our 
Souvenirs. "St. Catherine's Eve" is "_une histoire touchante qui 
montre à quel point l'enseignement religieux pouvoit étre perverti, et 
combien le Clergé étoit loin d'etre le gardien des mœurs 
publiques_"--the tale appertains to the thirteenth century. "Cacoëthes 
Scribendi" is told with equal grace and vivacity. "The Canary Family" 
is a tale for the young--brief, pointed and quaint. But the best of 
the series, in every respect, is the sweet and simple history of "The 
Eldest Sister."

While we rejoice that Miss Sedgwick has thought proper to condense 
into their present form these evidences of her genius which have been 
so long floating at random before the eye of the world--still we think 
her rash in having risked the publication so immediately after "The 
Linwoods." None of these "Sketches" have the merit of an equal number 
of pages in that very fine novel--and the descent from good to 
inferior (although the inferior be very far from bad) is most 
generally detrimental to literary fame. _Facilis descensus Averni_.


{125} REMINISCENCES OF NIEBUHR.

_Reminiscences of an Intercourse with Mr. Niebuhr, the Historian, 
during a Residence with him in Rome, in the years 1822 and 1823. By 
Francis Lieber, Professor of History and Political Economy in South 
Carolina College. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard._

Mr. Niebuhr has exercised a very powerful influence on the spirit of 
his age. One of the most important branches of human science has 
received, not only additional light, but an entirely novel interest 
and character from his exertions. Those historiographers of Rome who 
wrote before him, were either men of insufficient talents, or, 
possessing talents, were not practical statesmen. Niebuhr is the only 
writer of Roman history who unites intellect of a high order with the 
indispensable knowledge of what may be termed the art, in 
contradistinction to the science, of government. While, then, we read 
with avidity even common-place memorials of common-place men, (a fact 
strikingly characteristic of a period not inaptly denominated by the 
Germans "the age of wigs,") it cannot be supposed that a book like the 
one now before us, will fail to make a deep impression upon the mind 
of the public.

Beyond his _Roman History_, our acquaintance extends to only one or 
two of Mr. Niebuhr's publications. We remember the _Life of his 
Father_, of which an English translation was printed some time ago, in 
one of the tracts of the Library of Useful Knowledge, issued under the 
direction of the Society for the diffusion of Useful Knowledge--and, 
we have seen _The Description of the City of Rome_ (one volume of it) 
which appeared in 1829 or '30, professedly by Bunsen and Platner, but 
in the getting up of which there can be no doubt of Mr. Niebuhr's 
having had the greater share. _The Representation of the Internal 
Government of Great Britain, by Baron Von Vincke, Berlin_, 1815, was 
also written, most probably, by Mr. N. who, however, announced himself 
as editor alone. "I published," says he, in the Reminiscences we are 
now reviewing, "I published the work on Great Britain after that 
unfortunate time when a foreign people ruled over us (Germans) with a 
cruel sword, and a heartless bureaucracy, in order to show what 
liberty is. Those who oppressed us called themselves all the time the 
harbingers of liberty, at the very moment they sucked the heart blood 
of our people; and we wanted to show what liberty in reality is." A 
translation of an _Essay on the Allegory in the first canto of Dante_, 
written by our historian during his perusal of the poet, and intended 
to be read, or perhaps actually read, in one of the learned societies 
of Rome, is appended to the present volume. Mr. L. copied it, by 
permission of the author, from the original in Italian, which was 
found in a copy of Dante belonging to Mr. Niebuhr. This Essay, we 
think, will prove of deeper interest to readers of Italian than even 
Mr. Lieber has anticipated. Its opinions differ singularly from those 
of all the commentators on Dante--the most of whom maintain that the 
wood (_la selva_) in this famous Allegory, should be understood as the 
condition of the human soul, shrouded in vice; the hill (_il colle_) 
encircled by light, but difficult of access, as virtue; and the 
furious beasts (_il fere_) which attack the poet in his attempt at 
ascending, as carnal sins--an interpretation, always putting us in 
mind of the monk in the _Gesta Romanorum_, who, speaking of the 
characters in the Iliad, says--"My beloved, Ulysses is Christ, and 
Achilles the Holy Ghost: Helen represents the Human Soul--Troy is 
Hell--and Paris the Devil."

Dr. Francis Lieber himself is well known to the American public as the 
editor of the Encyclopædia Americana, in which compilation he was 
assisted by Edward Wigglesworth, and T. G. Bradford, Esqrs. The first 
original work of our author, we believe, was called _Journal of my 
Residence in Greece_, and was issued at Leipzig in 1823. This book was 
written at the instigation of Mr. Niebuhr, who personally 
superintended the whole; Mr. L. reading to the historian and his wife, 
every morning at breakfast, what had been completed in the preceding 
afternoon. Since that period we have seen, from the same pen, only 
_The Stranger in America_, in two volumes, full of interest and 
extensively circulated--and the book whose title forms the heading of 
this article.

Not the least striking portion of this latter work, is its Preface, 
embracing forty-five pages. Niebuhr's noble nature is, herein, 
rendered hardly more apparent than the mingled simplicity and 
enthusiasm of his biographer. The account given by Mr. L. of his first 
introduction to the Prussian minister--of the perplexing circumstances 
which led to that introduction--of his invitation to dinner, and 
consequent embarrassment on account of his scanty nether 
habiliments--of his final domestication in the house of his patron, 
and of the great advantages accruing to himself therefrom--are all 
related without the slightest attempt at prevarication, and in a style 
of irresistibly captivating _bonhommie_ and _naïveté_.

Mr. Lieber went, in 1821, to Greece--led, as he himself relates, "by 
youthful ardor, to assist the oppressed and struggling descendants of 
that people, whom all civilized nations love and admire." With a 
thousand others, he was disappointed in the hope of rendering any 
assistance to the objects of his sympathy. He found it impossible 
either to fight, or to get a dinner--either to live or to die. In 
1822, therefore he resolved, with many other Philhellenes, to return. 
Money, however, was scarce, and the adventurer had sold nearly every 
thing he possessed--but to remain longer was to starve. He accordingly 
"bargained with a Greek," and took passage at Missolonghi 
(Messalunghi) in a small vessel bound for Ancona. After a rough 
passage, during which the "tartan" was forced to seek shelter in the 
bay of Gorzola, the wished-for port was finally reached. Here, being 
altogether without money, Mr. Lieber wrote to a friend in Rome, 
enclosing the letter to an eminent artist. "My friend," says Mr. L. 
"happened to be at Rome, and to have money, and with the promptness of 
a German student, sent me all he possessed at the time." This 
assistance came very seasonably. It enabled the Philhellenist to 
defray the expenses of his quarantine at Ancona. Had he failed in 
paying them, the Captain would have been bound for the sum, and Mr. L. 
would have been obliged finally to discharge the debt, by serving as a 
sailor on board the Greek vessel.

Having, at length, obtained his _pratica_, he determined upon visiting 
Rome; and the anxiety with which he appears to have contemplated the 
defeat of his hopes in this respect is strikingly characteristic of 
the man. His {126} passport was in bad order, and provisional, and he 
had to make his way with it through the police office at Ancona. He 
was informed too, that orders had been received from Rome forbidding 
the signature of passports in the possession of persons coming from 
Greece, except for a direct journey home. "You are a Prussian," said 
the officer, "and I must direct your passport home to Germany. I will 
direct it to Florence: your minister there may direct it back to Rome. 
Or I will direct it to any place in Tuscany which you may choose; for 
through Tuscany you must travel in order to reach Germany." Mr. L. 
assures us he never felt more wretched than on hearing this 
announcement. He had made his way round Rome without seeing the 
Eternal City. The examination of a map of Italy, however, gave him new 
hope. It pointed out to him how near the south-western frontier line 
of Tuscany approaches to Rome. The road from Ancona to Orbitello, he 
thought, was nearly the same as that to the object of his desires, and 
he therefore requested the officer to direct his passport to 
Orbitello. "Italians generally," says Mr. Lieber, "are exceedingly 
poor geographers." The gentleman whom he addressed, inquired of 
another in the adjoining room, whether Orbitello was in Tuscany, or 
belonged to the Papal territory. Mr. L. pointed out the place on the 
map: it was situated just within the colors which distinguished 
Tuscany from the other states of Italy. This satisfied the police, and 
the passport was made out.

Having hired a vetturino our traveller proceeded towards Orbitello. A 
few miles beyond Nepi, at the Colonneta, the road divides, and the 
coachman was desired to pursue the path leading to Rome. A bribe 
silenced all objections, and when near the city, Mr. L. jumped out of 
the carriage, and entered the Porta del Populo.

But it was impossible to dwell in Rome without the sanction of the 
police, and this sanction could not be obtained without a certificate 
from the Prussian minister that our friend's passport was in order. 
Mr. Lieber therefore "hoping that a scholar who had written the 
history of Rome could not be so cruel as to drive away thence a 
pilgrim without allowing him time to see and study it," resolved on 
disclosing his situation frankly to Mr. Niebuhr.

The Prussian minister resided at the Palazzo Orsini--he was engaged 
and could not be seen--but the secretary of the legation received the 
visiter kindly, and having learned his story, retired to an inner 
apartment. Soon afterwards he returned with a paper written in Mr. 
Niebuhr's own hand. It was the necessary permission to reside in Rome. 
A sum of money was at the same time presented to Mr. L. which the 
secretary assured him was part of a sum Prince Henry (brother to the 
reigning king,) had placed at the minister's disposal for the 
assistance of gentlemen who might return from Greece. Mr. L. was 
informed also that Niebuhr would see him on the following day. The 
result of the interview we must give in the words of our author.


When I went the next morning at the appointed time, as I thought, Mr. 
Niebuhr met me on the stairs, being on the point of going out. He 
received me with kindness and affability, returned with me to his 
room, made me relate my whole story, and appeared much pleased that I 
could give him some information respecting Greece, which seemed to be 
not void of interest to him. Our conversation lasted several hours, 
when he broke off, asking me to return to dinner. I hesitated in 
accepting the invitation, which he seemed unable to understand. He 
probably thought that a person in my situation ought to be glad to 
receive an invitation of this kind; and, in fact any one might feel 
gratified in being asked to dine with him, especially in Rome. When I 
saw that my motive for declining so flattering an invitation was not 
understood, I said, throwing a glance at my dress, "Really, sir, I am 
not in a state to dine with an excellency." He stamped with his foot, 
and said with some animation, "Are diplomatists always believed to be 
so cold-hearted! I am the same that I was in Berlin when I delivered 
my lectures: your remark was wrong."[1] No argument could be urged 
against such reasons.

[Footnote 1: _Das war Kleinlich_ were his words.]

I recollect that dinner with delight. His conversation, abounding in 
rich and various knowledge and striking observations; his great 
kindness; the acquaintance I made with Mrs. Niebuhr; his lovely 
children, who were so beautiful, that when, at a later period, I used 
to walk with them, the women would exclaim, "_Ma guardate, guardate, 
che angeli!_"--a good dinner (which I had not enjoyed for a long time) 
in a high vaulted room, the ceiling of which was painted in the style 
of Italian palaces; a picture by the mild Francia close by; the sound 
of the murmuring fountain in the garden, and the refreshing beverages 
in coolers, which I had seen, but the day before, represented in some 
of the most masterly pictures of the Italian schools;--in short, my 
consciousness of being at dinner with Niebuhr in his house in 
Rome--and all this in so bold relief to my late and not unfrequently 
disgusting sufferings, would have rendered the moment one of almost 
perfect enjoyment and happiness, had it not been for an annoyance 
which, I have no doubt, will appear here a mere trifle. However, 
reality often widely differs from its description on paper. Objects of 
great effect for the moment become light as air, and others, shadows 
and vapors in reality, swell into matters of weighty consideration 
when subjected to the recording pen;--a truth, by the way, which 
applies to our daily life, as well as to transactions of powerful 
effect;--and it is, therefore, the sifting tact which constitutes one 
of the most necessary, yet difficult, requisites for a sound 
historian.

My dress consisted as yet of nothing better than a pair of unblacked 
shoes, such as are not unfrequently worn in the Levant; a pair of 
socks of coarse Greek wool; the brownish pantaloons frequently worn by 
sea-captains in the Mediterranean; and a blue frock-coat, through 
which two balls had passed--a fate to which the blue cloth cap had 
likewise been exposed. The socks were exceedingly short, hardly 
covering my ankles, and so indeed were the pantaloons; so that, when I 
was in a sitting position, they refused me the charity of meeting, 
with an obstinacy which reminded me of the irreconcileable temper of 
the two brothers in Schiller's Bride of Messina. There happened to 
dine with Mr. Niebuhr another lady besides Mrs. Niebuhr; and my 
embarrassment was not small when, towards the conclusion of the 
dinner, the children rose and played about on the ground, and I saw my 
poor extremities exposed to all the frank remarks of quick-sighted 
childhood; fearing as I did, at the same time, the still more trying 
moments after dinner, when I should be obliged to take coffee near the 
ladies, unprotected by the kindly shelter of the table. Mr. Niebuhr 
observed, perhaps, that something embarrassed me, and he redoubled, if 
possible, his kindness.

After dinner he proposed a walk, and asked the ladies to accompany us. 
I pitied them; but as a gentleman of their acquaintance had dropped in 
by this time, who gladly accepted the offer to walk with us, they were 
spared the mortification of taking my arm. Mr. Niebuhr, probably 
remembering what I had said of my own appearance in the morning, put 
his arm under mine, and thus walked with me for a long time. After 
{127} our return, when I intended to take leave, he asked me whether I 
wished for any thing. I said I should like to borrow his History. He 
had but one copy, to which he had added notes, and which he did not 
wish, therefore, to lend out of his house; but he said he would get a 
copy for me. As to his other books, he gave me the key of his library 
to take whatever I liked. He laughed when I returned laden with books, 
and dismissed me in the kindest manner.


Mr. Lieber became the constant companion of Niebuhr in his daily walks 
after dinner, during one of which the proposition was discussed to 
which we have formerly referred--that of our author's writing an 
account of his journey in Greece. In March 1823, the minister quitted 
Rome, and took Mr. Lieber with him to Naples. By way of Florence, 
Pisa, and Bologna, they afterwards went to the Tyrol--and in Inspruck 
they parted. A correspondence of the most familiar and friendly nature 
was, however, kept up, with little intermission, until the death of 
the historian in 1831.

Mr. Lieber disclaims the design of any thing like a complete record of 
all the interesting or important sentiments of Niebuhr during his own 
residence with him. He does not profess to give even all the most 
important facts or opinions. He observes, with great apparent justice, 
that he lived in too constant a state of excitement to record 
regularly all he saw or heard. His papers too were seized by the 
police--and have undergone its criticism. Some have been lost by this 
process, and others in a subsequent life of wandering. Still we can 
assure our readers that those presented to us in the present volume, 
are of the greatest interest. They enable us to form a more accurate 
idea of the truly great man to whom they relate than we have hitherto 
entertained, and have moreover, not unfrequently, an interest 
altogether their own.


YOUNG WIFE'S BOOK.

_The Young Wife's Book; A Manual of Moral, Religious, and Domestic 
Duties. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard._

We can conscientiously recommend this little book, not only to that 
particular class of our fair friends for whom it is most obviously 
intended, but, in general, to all lovers of good reading. We had 
expected to find in it a series of mere homilies on the Duties of a 
Wife, but were agreeably disappointed. Such things are, no doubt, 
excellent in their way, but unhappily are rarely of much service, for 
the simple reason that they are rarely read. Unless strikingly novel, 
and well written, they are too apt to be disregarded. The present 
volume is made up of mingled amusement and instruction. Short and 
pithy _Lessons on Moral Duties_, on the _Minor Obligations of Married 
Life_, on _Manners_, on _Fashion_, on _Dress--Dialogues_, and 
_Anecdotes_ connected with subjects of a similar nature--form the 
basis of the book.

In one respect we must quarrel with the publication. Neither the title 
page, nor the Preface, gives us any information in regard to the 
biblical history of the work. It may be taken for granted that every 
reader, in perusing a book, feels some solicitude to know, for 
example, _who wrote it_; or (if this information be not attainable,) 
at least _where it was written_--whether in his native country, or in 
a foreign land--whether it be original or a compilation--whether it be 
a new publication or a _re_-publication of old matter--whether we are 
indebted for it to one author, or to more than one--in short, all 
those indispensable details which appertain to a book _considered 
merely as a book_. The habit of neglecting these things, is becoming 
very prevalent in America. Works are daily _re_-published, from 
foreign copies, without any _primâ facie_ evidence by which we may 
distinguish them from original publications; and many a reader, of 
light literature especially, finds himself in the dilemma of praising 
or condemning unjustly as American, what, most assuredly, he has no 
good reason for supposing to be English.

In the _Young Wife's Book_ now before us, are _seventy-three_ 
articles. Of these, _one_ is credited to the thirty-first chapter of 
_Proverbs_--_nine_ to _Standford's Lady's Gift_--and _two_ to an _Old 
English Divine_. Some _four_ or _five_ belong to the _Spectator_. 
Seven or eight we recognize as old acquaintances without being able to 
call to mind where we have seen them; and about fifteen or twenty bear 
internal evidence of a foreign origin. Of the balance we know nothing 
whatever beyond their intrinsic merit, which is, in all instances, 
very great. Judgment and fine taste have been employed, undoubtedly, 
in the book. As a whole it is excellent--but, for all we know to the 
contrary, it may have been originally written, translated, or 
compiled, in Philadelphia, in London, or in Timbuctoo.


ROBINSON CRUSOE.

_The Life and Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, 
Mariner: with a Biographical Account of Defoe. Illustrated with Fifty 
Characteristic Cuts, from Drawings by William Harvey, Esq. and 
engraved by Adams. New York: Published by Harper and Brothers._

This publication is worthy of the Harpers. It is an honor to the 
country--not more in the fine taste displayed in its getting up, than 
as evincing a just appreciation of an invaluable work. How fondly do 
we recur, in memory, to those enchanted days of our boyhood when we 
first learned to grow serious over Robinson Crusoe!--when we first 
found the spirit of wild adventure enkindling within us, as, by the 
dim fire light, we labored out, line by line, the marvellous import of 
those pages, and hung breathless and trembling with eagerness over 
their absorbing--over their enchaining interest! Alas! the days of 
desolate islands are no more! "Nothing farther," as Vapid says, "can 
be done in that line." Wo, henceforward, to the Defoe who shall prate 
to us of "undiscovered bournes." There is positively not a square inch 
of new ground for any future Selkirk. Neither in the Indian, in the 
Pacific, nor in the Atlantic, has he a shadow of hope. The Southern 
Ocean has been incontinently ransacked, and in the North--Scoresby, 
Franklin, Parry, Ross, Ross & Co. have been little better than so many 
salt water Paul Prys.

While Defoe would have been fairly entitled to immortality had he 
never written Robinson Crusoe, yet his many other very excellent 
writings have nearly faded from our attention, in the superior lustre 
of the Adventures of the Mariner of York. What better possible species 
of reputation could the author have desired for that book than the 
species which it has so long enjoyed? It has become a household thing 
in nearly every {128} family in Christendom? Yet never was admiration 
of any work--universal admiration--more indiscriminately or more 
inappropriately bestowed. Not one person in ten--nay, not one person 
in five hundred, has, during the perusal of Robinson Crusoe, the most 
remote conception that any particle of genius, or even of common 
talent, has been employed in its creation! Men do not look upon it in 
the light of a literary performance. Defoe has none of their 
thoughts--Robinson all. The powers which have wrought the wonder have 
been thrown into obscurity by the very stupendousness of the wonder 
they have wrought! We read, and become perfect abstractions in the 
intensity of our interest--we close the book, and are quite satisfied 
that we could have written as well ourselves? All this is effected by 
the potent magic of verisimilitude. Indeed the author of Crusoe must 
have possessed, above all other faculties, what has been termed the 
faculty of _identification_--that dominion exercised by volition over 
imagination which enables the mind to lose its own, in a fictitious, 
individuality. This includes, in a very great degree, the power of 
abstraction; and with these keys we may partially unlock the mystery 
of that spell which has so long invested the volume before us. But a 
complete analysis of our interest in it cannot be thus afforded. Defoe 
is largely indebted to his subject. The idea of man in a state of 
perfect isolation, although often entertained, was never before so 
comprehensively carried out. Indeed the frequency of its occurrence to 
the thoughts of mankind argued the extent of its influence on their 
sympathies, while the fact of no attempt having been made to give an 
embodied form to the conception, went to prove the difficulty of the 
undertaking. But the true narrative of Selkirk in 1711, with the 
powerful impression it then made upon the public mind, sufficed to 
inspire Defoe with both the necessary courage for his work, and entire 
confidence in its success. How wonderful has been the result!

Besides _Robinson Crusoe_, Defoe wrote no less than _two hundred and 
eight_ works. The chief of these are the _Speculum Crape-Gownorum_, a 
reply to Roger L'Estrange, and characterized principally by 
intemperate abuse--a _Treatise against the Turks_, written for the 
purpose of showing England "that if it was the interest of 
Protestantism not to increase the influence of a Catholic power, it 
was infinitely more so to oppose a Mohammedan one"--an _Essay on 
Projects_, displaying great ingenuity, and mentioned in terms of high 
approbation by our own Franklin--the _Poor Man's Plea_, a satire 
levelled against the extravagances of the upper ranks of British 
society--the _Trueborn Englishman_, composed with a view of defending 
the king from the abuse heaped upon him as a foreigner--the _Shortest 
Way with the Dissenters_, a work which created strong excitement, and 
for which the author suffered in the pillory--the _Reformation of 
Manners_, a satirical poem, containing passages of uncommon force, 
that is to say, uncommon for Defoe, who was no poet--_More 
Reformation_, a continuation of the above--_Giving Alms no Charity_, 
an excellent treatise--a _Preface to a translation of Drelincourt on 
Death_, in which is contained the "true narrative" of Mrs. Veal's 
apparition--the _History of the Union_, a publication of much 
celebrity in the days of its author, and even now justly considered as 
placing him among the "soundest historians of his time"--the _Family 
Instructor_, "one of the most valuable systems of practical morality 
in the language"--the _History of Moll Flanders_, including some 
striking but coarsely executed paintings of low life--the _Life of 
Colonel Jaque_, in which an account is given of the hero's residence 
in Virginia--the _Memoirs of a Cavalier_, a book belonging more 
properly to History than to Fictitious Biography, and which has been 
often mistaken for a true narrative of the civil wars in England and 
Germany--the _History of the Plague_, which Dr. Mead considered an 
authentic record--and _Religious Courtship_, which acquired an 
extensive popularity, and ran through innumerable editions. In the 
multiplicity of his other publications, and amid a life of perpetual 
activity, Defoe found time, likewise, to edit his _Review_, which 
existed for more than nine years, commencing in February 1704, and 
ending in May 1713. This periodical is justly entitled to be 
considered the original of the Tatlers and Spectators, which were 
afterwards so fashionable. Political intelligence, however, 
constituted the greater portion of its _materiel_.

The Edition of _Robinson Crusoe_ now before us is worthy of all 
praise. We have seldom seen a more beautiful book. It is an octavo of 
470 pages. The fifty wood cuts with which it is ornamented are, for 
the most part, admirable. We may instance, as particularly good, those 
on pages 6, 27, 39, 49, 87, 88, 92, 137, 146, 256, and 396. The design 
on the title page is superlative. In regard to the paper, typography, 
and binding of the work, that taste must be fastidious indeed which 
can find any fault with either.


CHRISTIAN FLORIST.

_The Christian Florist; containing the English and Botanical Names of 
different Plants, with their Properties briefly delineated and 
explained. Illustrated by Texts of Scripture, and accompanied with 
Poetical Extracts from various Authors. First American, from the 
Second London Edition. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard._

The title, which our readers will perceive is a long one, sufficiently 
explains the nature and design of this little book. It is very well 
adapted for a Christmas present, to those especially whose minds are 
imbued at the same time with a love of flowers--and of him who is a 
God of flowers, as well as of mightier things. The mechanical 
execution of the volume is unexceptionable, and the rich colors of the 
Dahlia show to no little advantage in the frontispiece. The poetical 
selections are, for the most part, excellently chosen, and the prose 
commentaries on each article in good taste, and often of great 
interest.

Speaking of alterations made in the Second London Edition, the Authors 
of the work say in their Preface "We believe it will be found that 
most of those suggested have been adopted, with the exception of one, 
which proposed the rejection of the first piece of Poetry attached to 
the Sun Flower." These words excited our curiosity, and turning to 
page 42, we found six lines from Moore. It seems these had been 
objected to, not on account of any thing intrinsically belonging to 
the verses themselves, (what fault indeed could be found there?) but 
(will it be believed?) _on account of the author who wrote them_. The 
Christian Florist deserves the good will of all sensible persons, if 
for nothing else--for the spirit with which its authors have 
disregarded a bigotry so despicable.


{133}


SUPPLEMENT TO THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.



PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.


We are very proud in being able to afford our friends so many and so 
great evidences of the Messenger's popularity, as are contained in the 
following Notices.[1] From all quarters we have received 
encouragement--in the approval of our past labors, and in prophecies 
of our future success. We desire to call the attention of all who are 
interested in the advancement of Southern Literature, to the matter, 
the manner, and the _source_, especially, of the Extracts subjoined. 
We hazard little in saying, that _never before in America has any 
Journal called forth so unanimously, testimonials so unequivocally 
flattering, as the First Number of the Second Volume of our "Southern 
Literary Messenger."_

[Footnote 1: The Notices here appended, are very far from _all_ we 
have received. Many are omitted for want of room. All those left out, 
are unexceptionably flattering to ourselves.]


_From the Richmond Whig_.

_The Literary Messenger_.--Nothing is more repulsive to our taste, 
than puffing--one of the artifices of book-making and book-selling, 
reduced in this our time, to a science. It is dishonest, for its 
object is gain at the expense of truth, and its means are imposition 
on those who are not familiar with the tricks of trade. It is unjust, 
for modest and unobtrusive merit is often compelled to languish, from 
the rival advantage given to mediocrity or worthlessness, by the 
meretricious puff direct. It is injurious and disgraceful to 
Literature, and for ourselves, we feel a repugnance to whatever we see 
puffed, by which we mean praise disproportioned to merit, and praise 
administered by the shovel full, without the administerer being 
possibly able or pretending to assign a cause or to point out a beauty 
to justify his rapture.

Mr. White's Literary Messenger is either the most transcendantly able 
periodical in the United States, or its proprietor has been most 
particularly successful in eliciting the puff--for it attracts more of 
the notice of the Press, and is more uniformly admired and praised 
upon the appearance of its successive numbers, than all the Literary 
Periodicals in the United States put together. The North American, 
Quarterly, &c. are comparatively lost sight of. It is universally 
noticed--not only in the newspaper press of the great towns and 
cities, but in the obscurest village sheet throughout the land. As 
Virginians and Southrons, solicitous for the honor of Southern 
Literature, we are proud to believe that this extensive favor bestowed 
upon the Messenger, flows from its deserts, an opinion confirmed by 
our personal knowledge of its enterprising, esteemed and modest 
proprietor.

The last No. of the Messenger (for December) which commences the 2d 
volume, is most emphatically admired and extensively complimented by 
the American Press, and we have read portions of it with much 
satisfaction. Among the rest, our friend Noah expresses his pleasure, 
and any dealer in Literary wares may be happy to receive the 
countenance of so fine a genius as the Major. We are no critics, and 
beg leave to adopt his review with some qualification. We would praise 
the Barbary Sketches more, for we really view them as the very best 
specimens of History by any American. We will not subscribe to the 
sentence against "Eliza of Richmond;" and the Major must look over the 
"Broken Heart" again, and the next time wipe the moisture from his 
specs.

The Critical Notices are much to our taste--decided in their 
character, correct (as we think) in judgment, and lashing dullness, as 
it always deserves to be lashed, with a cat-o'-nine-tails.

Major Noah says--

_The Southern Literary Messenger for December. Richmond, Va.: T. W. 
White, Proprietor._ We have repeatedly called the attention of our 
literary friends to this excellent periodical, now commencing the 
second volume, and sustaining its deservedly acquired reputation. It 
is not only the neatest in typographical execution--in whiteness of 
paper and elegance of type, of any American publication of the kind, 
but contains also a greater amount of useful and entertaining original 
matter, both in prose and poetry--especially the latter, which, taken 
_en masse_, is quite different from the namby-pamby trash that is 
spreading like an epidemic over the republic of letters--choking and 
smothering with its noxious weeds those gems and flowers of purer 
mould, which are the offspring and inspiration of nature and of 
genius. The "Sketches of the Barbary States," are written by an able 
pen, and are full of valuable historical details. The lines to 
"October," by _Eliza_, of Maine, possess the vein of true poetry; the 
tenderness and the luxuriant imagery of some of Mrs. Hemans'. How rich 
the pageantry of some of the author's thoughts when describing the 
gorgeous tints of an autumnal foliage:

  "And the rays of glorious sunshine there in saddening lustre fall--
   'Tis the funeral pageant of a king with his gold and crimson pall."

The "Broken Heart," by Eliza, of Richmond, is a failure. She must not 
attempt blank verse for common-place subjects. The verses on "Halley's 
Comet" are smooth and passable. The "Reminiscences of Mexico" might as 
well have been omitted. These diaries and guide books, are "stale, 
flat, and unprofitable." If the writer had given us some insight into 
the mysterious ruins and antiquities of Mexico--its romantic 
traditions--we would have thanked him. The theme is exciting and 
absorbing, and would have been new, and a glorious prize for 
immortality. Mr. Poe's "Unpublished Drama" does not suit our taste. 
Why eternally ring the changes on those everlasting and hackneyed 
Venetian Doges and Italian Counts--latticed balconies, and 
verandas--time out of mind exhausted? The "Address on Education" is 
puerile, crude, and common-place. We cannot discover its "brilliant 
eloquence" nor "impressive energy," spoken of in the critical notice. 
The object of it was well enough. The "Wissahiccon," properly handled, 
might have been wrought into a stirring historical portrait. The lines 
to "Memory," are pretty. Those entitled "Macedoine," have much fire 
and power. But "Lionel Granby," is a redeeming chapter worth all the 
foregoing. Why not give one-third the magazine to so accomplished a 
writer, so original {134} a thinker? The "Dream," is good poetry, for 
blank verse, which is saying much. But the "Sketch," by A. L. Beard, 
M.D. is superlatively beautiful in melody of rhythm and truth to 
nature. Thus:

  "The red-breast, mounted on some tow'ring tree,
   Is chanting loud his merry, mirthful strain;
   And the sweet lark's melodious notes of glee,
   Are softly floating o'er the dewy plain.
   From the broad fields which wave with golden grain,
   Echoes the whistle of the timid quail;
   And the loud laughter of the reaper train
   Sweeps wildly by, borne on the passing gale
   O'er woodland hill afar, and flowery-vested vale."

The lines to "_Mira_" are smooth and full of tender feeling. The 
Critical Notices are full as they should be on American productions, 
and written with uncommon spirit. The decisions are generally correct, 
and we are glad to see the censures so unsparingly, but judiciously 
directed against the mawkish style and matter of those ephemeral 
productions with which, under the name of _chef-d'œuvres_ in novel 
writing, the poor humbugged public are so unmercifully gagged and 
bamboozled.


_From the Petersburg Intelligencer_.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.--We have to acknowledge the receipt 
of the first No. of the second volume of the _Southern Literary 
Messenger_, published at Richmond, by T. W. WHITE, and beg to call the 
attention of the public to this highly valuable and now well 
established periodical. The enterprising and indefatigable proprietor, 
has overcome the obstacles which have generally, hitherto, thwarted 
the efforts of those who have attempted to rear up a respectable 
Literary Journal in the South, and has the proud satisfaction of being 
hailed as the founder of a work, which is admitted by the Press, on 
every hand, to be one of the most agreeable and interesting in the 
Union. He has evidently spared no expense in carrying out his design 
of making the "Messenger" worthy of the reputation of the "Old 
Dominion," and the number before us, is, in all respects, 
unquestionably one of the most beautiful specimens of the art of 
printing we have ever witnessed. So much for the mere medium, or 
vehicle, by which mind is made to commune with mind. Those who would 
wish to form a just estimate of the merits of this work, must look 
beyond its beautiful and delicate outward garb, into the rich and 
varied contents of its pages. The Editor has certainly drawn to his 
aid some of the finest pens in the State; and although the real 
authors are not given, yet we are convinced, that conclusively as many 
of the articles "speak for themselves," if names were added, they 
would lose none of their interest, from the known paternity of 
distinguished writers.

We wish, heartily, that our numerous engagements would allow us to 
notice more in detail the several articles which have struck us as 
peculiarly meritorious. But we have no leisure for more than to call 
attention to the publication, nothing doubting, that whosoever shall 
open these attractive pages, will not quit them until he has fully 
exhausted their sweets. The article on Mexico, at this time, will 
prove very acceptable, and not less so will be the continuation of the 
"Sketches of the History and Present Condition of Tripoli and the 
other Barbary Powers," which, since the French have planted themselves 
at Algiers, we hope may, at no distant day, be brought within the pale 
of "Christendom." To the lovers of the picturesque, we recommend the 
article "Wissahiccon" as a charming description of wild, romantic, 
American scenery.

The Editorial criticisms are generally just.--Whilst they "nothing 
extenuate," and refuse to deal out indiscriminate compliment and 
unremitted praise, they yet are free from even the semblance of that 
illiberal spirit which delights rather to triumph in the detection of 
an error than in the generous acknowledgment and commendation of a 
beauty. They embrace reviews of many new and popular works, which have 
lately issued from the Press; among which is the Life of Washington, 
written in Latin, and said to be a production of extraordinary merit. 
In short, we earnestly advise every person of taste, who is either 
desirous of amusement or instruction, to look through this last number 
of the "Messenger" and judge for himself as to its merits. The graver 
subjects are interspersed with beautiful scraps of poetry, and we 
scarcely know which most to admire, the sparkling gem, or the solid 
and useful body in which it is set.--We were especially struck with 
"The Broken Heart," and often as this pathetic subject has been 
touched by poets, we doubt whether a more simple, natural and 
affecting version of it is to be found. Witness this extract:

  "And though she shrunk not from the love of those
   Who were around her, and was never found
   In fretful mood--yet did they soon discover
   The rosy tinge upon her youthful cheek
   Concentrate all its radiance into one
   Untimely spot, and her too delicate frame
   Wither away beneath the false one's power."

Whilst paying this just tribute to the merits of the article above 
referred to, we feel disposed to award even higher praise to 
"Marcelia." We feel no hesitation in saying that this is "the gem" of 
the present number. It is imbued with the real spirit of 
poetry--without any false glitter or tinselled ornament, it presents 
one of the most interesting pictures which fancy could portray. As we 
read the description of "poor Marcelia's death-bed," we seem to hear

  "Low prayers come moaning thro' the leaves,"

asking at once, pity for her sad fate and forgiveness of her crime.

"The Sonnet," at page 38, deserves more than a passing notice. The 
truth and pathos of the scene represented, can scarcely fail to be 
recognized by every heart that has had occasion to feel or sympathise 
with the anguish of a parent deprived of one of the cherished objects 
of his dearest affection.

Before closing these hasty remarks, we beg leave to press on the 
attention of our readers the fact, that so much intellectual 
gratification cannot be afforded for nothing. Without a liberal and 
generous support from the public, such a journal cannot be sustained. 
Even the late "Southern Review," with a towering reputation and 
splendid abilities, was forced to close its career, solely from the 
negligence of the public in offering that patronage which many would 
gladly have tendered after it was too late. Patronage, then--patronage 
tor the Messenger, and it will be perpetuated, as an honor to 
Virginia, and a reward to its enterprising proprietor.


{135} _From the New York Courier and Enquirer_.

_Southern Literary Messenger, for December 1835_.--There is no one of 
the many periodicals of our country, to the reception of which we look 
forward with a greater certainty of satisfaction than to this young, 
but already more than adolescent magazine. It is always above par, 
always distinguishable for correct style and pure English--for 
neatness and elegance--rather perhaps than vigor, or decided strength 
of original thought--the absence of which quality is perhaps 
sufficient to constitute a weak point, in what would otherwise be 
almost faultless. In the department of criticism, however, this remark 
does not apply so fully--for the notice of new works, in the Southern 
Messenger, are, we have no hesitation in saying it, the boldest, the 
most independent, and unflinching, of all that appears in the 
periodical world. This is as it should be--over-levity towards rising 
writers is a more real sin than over-sternness; and we are sorry to 
say, it is a sin, into which most of our magazines are wont to fall. 
This number is one of more than average power, and the critiques on 
The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow--the Linwoods--and Norman Leslie we 
especially recommend to notice. They are evidently all written with 
equal sincerity, and force of _true_ opinion, and as such command 
respect even where we differ from them in judgment. That on Dr. Bird's 
new book, for instance, is too favorable; and indeed we think that 
this gentleman is _always_ overrated--that on "the Linwoods" is 
superlative, in truth, style, and taste; while that on Norman Leslie 
is severe to a fault; inasmuch as the criticism, though we cannot deny 
the truth of the greater portion of it, is paralyzed by the strong 
symptoms of _personal_ hostility not to Mr. Fay only, but to all who 
may be supposed to favor or admire him.


_From the National Intelligencer_.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.--This journal has, very unexpectedly, 
left its Northern competitors behind in the race for fame, and assumed 
all at once a pre-eminent rank among American periodicals. We have 
just received the first number of the second volume, and find it 
superior, in every respect, to any of the preceding ones. It contains 
68 pages of closely printed matter, in double columns. Besides the 68 
pages of text, it has a double cover of 8 pages, containing matters 
relating to its own peculiar interests--thus avoiding the necessity of 
intruding such subjects in the text. Its paper is excellent, its type 
new, and its entire mechanical execution superior to that of any 
Magazine with which we are acquainted. The South has thus far every 
reason to be proud of the extraordinary success which has attended the 
Messenger.

The first article in the present number is Chapter IX of the 
_Tripolitan Sketches_, by _Mr. R. Greenhow_, of this city, a series of 
papers which, of themselves, would have been sufficient to stamp the 
Messenger with a character of no ordinary kind. The _Extracts from My 
Mexican Journal_ are excellent papers, on a subject of untiring 
interest. The _Address_ of _Lucian Minor_, on Education, is likely to 
do much good, by attracting the attention of Virginians to the 
important subject it discusses--the organization of District Schools. 
The _Wissahiccon_ is a wishy-washy affair, and deserves no praise 
whatever. _Lionel Granby, Chapter VI._, is full of fine thought, 
shrewdness, and originality. The _Specimens of Love Letters_ are 
curious and entertaining--but the old English Magazines are full of 
similar articles, and the Messenger should have nothing to do with 
them. The _MS. found in a Bottle_ is from the pen of _Edgar A. Poe_. 
The _Critical Notices_ occupy more than one half of the number, and 
form the fullest _Review_ in the country--embracing criticisms, at 
length, of nearly every work lately published in America, besides a 
great number of English publications. A compendious digest of the 
principal reviews, English and American, is included. The tone of the 
criticisms differs widely from puffery, and is perfectly independent.

The Poetry is, for the most part excellent. _Scenes from Politian, an 
unpublished Drama_, by _Edgar A. Poe_, occupy about three pages. A 
little piece signed _Eliza_ is very good; also, _A Sketch_, by _Alex. 
Lacey Beard_, _Marcelia_, _Ruins_, _A Sonnet_ to an infant dying, 
_Lines to Mira_, and a Translation. The covers contain compliments of 
the highest order paid the Messenger by many of the first papers in 
the Union. Among them we may mention the New York Courier and 
Enquirer, the Portland Advertiser, the Georgetown Metropolitan, the 
New England Galaxy, (all of which place the Messenger decidedly at the 
head of American Magazines,) Norfolk Herald, Richmond Compiler, 
Baltimore Patriot, Augusta Chronicle, and a host of others. We are 
truly glad to see these flattering testimonials in behalf of Southern 
literature. We wish the Messenger every possible success.


_From the Pennsylvanian_.

The December number of the Southern Literary Messenger has been 
received. The contributions appear to be of an excellent kind; at 
least, those from Mr. Poe and others, whose reputations attracted our 
notice. The most striking feature of the number, however, is the 
critical department. Eschewing all species of puffery, the Messenger 
goes to work upon several of the most popular novels of the day, and 
hacks and hews with a remorselessness and an evident enjoyment of the 
business, which is as rare as it is amusing, in an indigenous 
periodical. Of the justice of the criticisms, we have not qualified 
ourselves to judge; but their severity is manifest enough; and that is 
such a relief to the dull monotony of praise which rolls smooth in the 
wake of every new book, that a roughness which savors of honesty and 
independence is welcome.


_From the Globe_.

We have read the first number of the second volume of the Southern 
Literary Messenger. It is highly spoken of, and deservedly so we 
think. The continued and rapid improvement of this work justifies the 
zeal with which the proprietor intends prosecuting his labors. They 
will ultimately be crowned with distinguished success. That region 
abounds in native talent, which, when diverted into that channel, will 
reflect the same honor, upon the literature of our country, which it 
has claimed for the bar, the bench, the legislative halls, and every 
other pursuit to which it has been devoted.


_From the Alexandria Gazette_.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.--The December number, being the first 
of the second volume of this periodical, has come to hand, and we are 
prepared to welcome its appearance with cordial approbation.

No Magazine in this country or elsewhere now excels it in the beauty 
of its _typography_.--It is printed in the neatest manner, with the 
handsomest type, on the best paper.

We perceive a considerable improvement in the editorial department, 
under which are contained several well written and judicious critical 
notices of new works.

Some of the Poetry in this number is excellent--a few of the articles 
only so-so.

We recommend the Messenger anew to all our readers, as a publication 
worthy to be supported for the credit of the South--for its own 
intrinsic merits and for the enterprising spirit of Mr. White, its 
worthy proprietor.


_From the Norfolk Herald_.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.--The first number of Vol. 2 of this 
Magazine has come to hand, greatly improved in outward appearance, as 
well as in literary merit. No Journal of this kind in the country has 
experienced so rapid, so extensive, and so unequivocal a success as 
the _Southern Literary Messenger_. It is now, whether we consider the 
extent of its patronage, the great beauty of its mechanical 
appearance, or the lustre of the names of its regular contributors, 
_the first Monthly Magazine in America_. In the variety, and more 
especially in the _originality_ of its articles it has no equal; and 
among other things we must not forget that the author of the _Lunar 
Hoax_ is indebted to the _Hans Phaal_ of Mr. Poe (a regular 
contributor to the Messenger) for the conception and in a great 
measure for the execution of his discoveries. Indeed several passages 
in the two are nearly identical. As regards the amount of absolute 
matter contained in a number of the Messenger, we cannot be far wrong 
in stating that it is equal to that of any two monthly Journals in the 
country--with the exception perhaps of Littell's Museum, which is made 
up altogether of selections from foreign Magazines.

The present No. (No. 1. Vol. 2,) is by far the best yet issued. In the 
first place we have a continuation of the _History and present 
condition of Tripoli, with some account of the other Barbary Powers_. 
These sketches, from the pen of Robert Greenhow of Washington, have 
acquired an extensive reputation, and the present chapter is equal to 
any of the series. By the bye, the last number of Harper's Family 
Library contains the "_History and present condition of the Barbary 
States_," _by the Rev. Dr. Russell_. Here is surely a great similarity 
in the titles--more than we can suppose to be accidental. We know that 
the sketches in the Messenger commenced nine months ago. _The Extracts 
from my Mexican Journal_ are highly interesting, but would be better 
were they more modern. The date of the last Extract is 1827. _Minor's 
Address_ on Education is one of the finest things of the kind we have 
ever perused, and we should not wonder if it drew public attention to 
the subject it discusses--the establishment of District Schools 
throughout Virginia upon a plan similar to that in New England. _The 
Wissahiccon_ is not very creditable to the Magazine--it might, however 
be considered as tolerable elsewhere. _Lionel Granby_ is evidently 
written by a man of genius. The present Chapter is the seventh. _The 
MS. found in a Bottle_ is extracted from _The Gift_, Miss Leslie's 
beautiful Annual. It is from the pen of Edgar A. Poe, "whose eccentric 
genius," says {136} the Charleston Courier, "delights in the creation 
of strange possibilities, and in investing the most intangible 
romances in an air of perfect verisimilitude." We have heard the _MS. 
found in a Bottle_, called the best of his Tales--but prefer his 
_Lionizing_ and _Morella_.--The highest praise, however, and from the 
very highest quarters, has been awarded to _all_ he has written. The 
_Specimens of Love Letters_ in the reign of Edward IV. is an excellent 
article. The Editorial department, under the modest head of Critical 
Notices, embraces no less than 56 columns of liberal and well-digested 
Reviews of new publications. Among these, are Notices of Dr. Bird's 
last novel--Miss Sedgwick's Linwoods--Glass' Life of Washington--The 
Edinburgh, London Quarterly, Westminster, and N. American Reviews--The 
Crayon Miscellany--Godwin's Necromancy--Legends of a Log Cabin--Mrs. 
Hale's traits of American Life--Hall's Western Sketches--Clinton 
Bradshaw--and many others--not forgetting Norman Leslie, which is 
utterly torn to pieces in a long and detailed Review of the most 
bitter and unsparing sarcasm. These Reviews speak well for the future 
prosperity of the Messenger. Let its Editor aim at making the Magazine 
a vehicle for liberal and independent criticisms, and he will not fail 
to receive a proper encouragement from every lover of literature.

The poetry is very excellent. October by Eliza is beautiful--and also 
some lines upon the same page by the same writer. Among other things 
we must particularly mention _Marcelia_--_A Sonnet_, and another 
Sonnet, entitled _Ruins_, just above it. The _Lines on the Blank 
Leaf_--and the _Scenes from an unpublished Drama by Edgar A. Poe_.


_From the Charlottesville Jeffersonian_.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.--We have been favored by the 
politeness of Mr. White, with the first number of the second volume of 
this interesting periodical, and take pleasure in adding our mite to 
the many well merited praises which his work has already received from 
other journals; and we agree with Mr. White in his bright 
anticipations of the future. This periodical must be sustained for the 
literary credit of the Old Dominion and the honor of the South. Some 
of our Northern cotemporaries have already declared it the _best_ 
literary periodical in America, and we deem this praise not so high as 
when they say it is decidedly good. This number contains sufficient 
variety to gratify diversity of taste.

The MS. found in a bottle. By Edgar A. Poe, is good,--it is original 
and well told. Its wild impossibilities are pictured to the 
imagination with all the detail of circumstances, which truth and the 
fearful reality might be supposed to present. Whilst we do not agree 
to the justness of the praise which has been bestowed upon _some_ of 
Mr. Poe's pieces, we concur in the general commendation which he has 
received as a writer of great originality, and one who promises well.

The prose article which most pleases us in this number, is Mr. Minor's 
Address on Education. It is too valuable and upon a subject of too 
much importance to the State, to be passed with this cursory notice of 
the Messenger; we shall recur to the subject again and again. We 
perceive that the Georgetown Metropolitan has censured the Messenger, 
for publishing Mr. Garnett's Introductory Lecture on the subject of 
Education, thinking it unsuitable to the Magazine. Mr. White acted 
properly in disregarding such an objection. Variety is the very life 
of a literary periodical, and it is never less agreeable for being 
useful.

There is a pretty thought in the following lines--written on one of 
the blank leaves of a book sent to a friend in England.

  As he who sails afar on southern seas,
  Catches rich odor on the evening breeze,
  Turns to the shore whence comes the perfumed air,
  And knows, though all unseen, some flower is there--
  Thus when o'er ocean's wave these pages greet
  Thine eye, with many a line from minstrel sweet,
  Think of Virginia's clime far off and fair,
  And know, though all unseen, a friend is there.--_Imogene_.

The editorial criticisms are many, and in the right vein. They are 
caustic but just. The Review of Mr. Fay's novel Norman Leslie, is 
amusing and will be read, though we think some passages in it are in 
bad taste. The author is flayed, or to use a term more congenial with 
his taste, and with the Reviewer's article--_blistered_.

Halley's Comet--1760. By Miss E. Draper. This poem gives a good 
account of the great ones of our planet, at the last visit of the 
_messenger_ of the spheres. The versification too is easy, and the 
contrasts striking. The same pen has written before, and ought to 
write again.


_From the Washington Telegraph_.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.--In glancing our eyes over the 
numerous papers which are daily laid before us, in quest of matter 
appropriate to our own, they frequently light on notices of this 
periodical. To such things our peculiar avocations do not often afford 
us time to attend. We have only indulged our curiosity so far as to 
see that they are all commendatory; and we have laid aside the papers 
with nothing more than a passing sense of pleasure at praises which 
indirectly redound to the honor of the honored home of our fathers. Of 
late, such notices have so frequently engaged our attention, that we 
at last determined, for once, to play the truant, and give an 
attentive perusal to the next number. We have just laid down that for 
December, 1835, after experiencing a pleasure in the perusal, for 
which we feel inclined to make such poor return as we can.

In our judgment this number deserves all the praise that has been 
bestowed upon the work; and this remark we particularly apply to 
certain "_continued_" articles, of which we are constrained to judge 
by the specimens here given. We speak of the "Tripoline Sketches," and 
"Lionel Granby." If the preceding parts of these works are of equal 
merit with those before us, they have not been praised too highly. We 
are sorry that we cannot exactly include the "Mexican Journal" in the 
same category. It is well enough.

The Address of Mr. Lucian Minor before the Institute of Education of 
Hampden Sidney College, is a paper of very great merit. We confess 
that we have not full faith in the efficacy of Mr. M.'s panacea for 
the distempers of the State; partly because we are afraid the patient 
cannot be got to take enough of it to do him good; and partly because 
we are not sure it would not meet with somewhat in his stomach of what 
medical men call "_incompatible substances_," which might neutralise 
or decompose it, or turn it to poison. But we leave these things to 
the political doctors; and are content to record our praise and thanks 
for the strong sense and manly frankness displayed by Mr. M. in 
calling boldly on the people to secure and deserve the blessings of 
freedom by qualifying themselves for self-government.

The literary notices in this number are highly piquant and amusing. We 
do not agree with the reviewer in condemning every thing under the 
name of a "Review," to which that name, in its strictest sense, does 
not properly apply. He who under this name gives an essay on the 
subject of the article professed to be reviewed, does not break faith 
with the public, because, for more than thirty years, the word has 
been understood to include such essays. Now he who gives a good essay, 
gives a good thing; and when he does this, still keeping within the 
spirit and meaning of his engagement, we have no right, nor mind to 
complain.

There is an occasional severity in some of these strictures which we 
highly approve. Not that we presume to decide on the justice of the 
judgments pronounced. We have not read the works; but judgment must be 
followed by execution; and the critic in his own executioner. The self 
sufficiency of authors cares nothing for praise. They rarely receive 
so much as comes up to their own estimate of their merits. To make 
them value it, they should be put in fear of censure. The number of 
works reviewed in this _monthly_ periodical, shows how much the 
_cacoethes scribendi_ needs to be restrained. We dare not flatter 
ourselves that even half the praise bestowed is due, except according 
to a very low standard of excellence. When a very high place in the 
scale is awarded to a "_bad imitation_" of Walter Scott's "_worst 
manner_," the scale cannot be graduated very far above "temperate." 
There can be no such thing as blood heat, or fever heat, upon it.

The longest of the metrical pieces, indeed, deserves less lenient 
treatment, and we shall do Mr. White a service, by defending him from 
the future contributions of one whom he may not choose to offend. We 
mean the author of "_The Dream_." In this, there is no one poetical 
thought, at first, or second hand. The verse is smooth, for the writer 
has a good ear; but the ideas are dull prose. To make the matter 
worse, it is a palpable imitation; not _larcenous_, indeed; for there 
is no attempt at concealment; so that it is more of the nature of a 
mere trespass. But it is an undisguised imitation of _Byron_! and what 
is worse, of Byron's most wonderful poem "_The Dream_!!!" It is such 
an imitation as a boy would make who should paint a rose with 
pokeberry-juice.

We were disappointed in a "Dramatic Extract" from the pen of Mr. Edgar 
A. Poe. He had taught us to expect much, for his prose is very often 
high wrought poetry; but his poetry is prose, not in thought, but in 
measure. This is a defect of ear alone, which can only be corrected by 
more study than the thing is worth. As he has a large interest in 
_all_ the praise that we have bestowed on the Messenger, we hope he 
will take this slight hint as kindly as it is meant.


_From the Richmond Religious Herald_.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.--The publication of the second volume 
of this work commences with the present number for December. The work 
was commenced as an experiment to test the practicability of 
sustaining a literary work in the South. The experiment has been 
successful. The Messenger has taken a high stand as one of the first 
literary publications in our country. It has called into existence 
several gifted pens. It is now established on a permanent basis, and 
commences its second year with increasing prospects of success, and we 
hope will yield a fair remuneration to its enterprizing and worthy 
proprietor. In point of typographical execution it is unequalled by 
any similar work in the United States.


_From the Boon's Lick Democrat_.

We have received the Southern Literary Messenger, published monthly at 
Richmond, {137} Virginia, by Mr. Thomas W. White. It sustains well the 
high character of its previous numbers--and contains much valuable and 
entertaining matter. This periodical, the only successful Literary 
enterprise, we believe, in which southern genius is enlisted, has 
received showers of applause from all quarters--and indeed it richly 
merits them all. We recommend those of our friends, who are fond of 
this species of reading, to try the Messenger--they will find it 
better--far better than the trash that is circulated in most of the 
literary periodicals of the day.


_From the Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post_.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.--We have been furnished with the 
December number of this periodical, issued as the first number of the 
second volume. In typographical appearance it is neat and beautiful, 
and respecting the interesting character of its contents, it will not 
suffer by a comparison with any literary publication in the country. 
The leading original prose articles are, Sketches of the History and 
Condition of Tripoli, Extracts from my Mexican Journal, An Address on 
Education, The Wissahiccon, Lionel Granby, &c. The poetic articles are 
numerous, diversified and highly creditable to the talent of the 
South; and the editorial criticisms and reviews appear to be written 
in a spirit of candor quite unusual for the American Press. We commend 
the whole number to the attention of our literary friends, as 
possessing unusual interest.


_From the Baltimore Atheneum_.

The Southern Literary Messenger, for December, which is the first 
number of the second volume, has already made its appearance. We have 
scarcely had time to read the title of each article in it, and to 
glance hastily over one or two of them: but it appears to be not a 
whit behind the other numbers which we have seen. It is pleasing to 
observe that the prospects for the permanency and success of this 
Magazine are very encouraging. The South can, and we are sure will 
support liberally, both in contributions and subscriptions, a monthly 
literary periodical, and the Messenger is, in every way, worthy of 
that patronage. The number before us, and one or two others which we 
have had the pleasure of seeing, strike us as not containing quite 
enough of those lighter articles which relieve the mind of the reader, 
and give a pleasing variety to a work of this kind. The papers are 
nearly all too good, if we may be allowed to say so, of too sterling 
and weighty a character. We do not mean that such should be excluded 
by any means--these are the articles which give character to a 
Magazine; we only mean that they should be tempered by something 
lighter and more fanciful.


_From the Grand Gulf Advertiser_.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.--We are much gratified to state, that 
this invaluable Southern publication, is rapidly increasing in the 
good graces of our literary friends. The Messenger, has a good 
circulation now, and evinces strong claims for the enlistment of a few 
more subscribers. We hail the increase as an auspicious event, as it 
certainly indicates a proportionate exertion of talent and industry on 
the part of its publisher, to secure the support and approbation of 
its numerous friends and advocates. Such a work as the Messenger, 
chaste and refined, pure and exalted in its character, should receive 
the liberal and unanimous support of every man south of the Potomac. 
We cheerfully recommend it to all, and it shall be a pleasure to us, 
to be the means of forwarding its interest. Specimen numbers can be 
seen at this office, and the work ordered for those who may desire it.


_From the Georgetown Metropolitan_.

_The Southern Literary Messenger for December, 1835_.--Many 
improvements have been made, in this favorite magazine which will 
greatly enhance its value for the future. Among these, not the least 
will be the advantage to its subscribers of an early issue: the 
present number reached us in the latter days of November,--and Maine 
will be served in future almost as soon as Richmond, a matter of no 
small consequence to a magazine, and, of great merit in the Messenger, 
as contrasted with its dilatory cotemporaries.

The present number keeps up the character of the series.

The talent and variety, of the original papers is quite as striking, 
as the editorial department is decidedly better attended to than in 
any other magazine of the country. We have not scant notices of two or 
three volumes, which favor or accident have directed to the editor's 
notice,--but a comprehensive survey, and analysis of our recent 
literature.

The books are taken up in a business-like manner, as the cases on a 
calendar are called over for trial; and the merits or demerits of each 
are discussed with great ability, fairness, and acumen. A department 
so well conducted as this, and of such essential utility, should 
alone, in the general and culpable inattention of our periodicals to 
it, secure for the Messenger, general support. Of the articles in the 
present number, the 'Sketches of Tripoli' maintain their value--We 
should like to see these papers collected in a volume: they really do 
their author great credit. We won't quarrel with the poetry headed 
"Mother and Child," because we like the pretty name of _Imogene_ which 
is signed to it, but it is marvellously like Mrs. Hemans. _The Broken 
Heart_ is blank verse of great promise, touching, alike, in subject 
and execution. Rumor assigns them to an accomplished young lady of 
Richmond, whose name cannot be concealed long from the public.

The "Mexican Journal" is quite as good as such journals usually are; 
and the unpublished drama by Poe, though crude, has both original 
thoughts, incidents, and situations.

The Address on Education has in it many forcible truths, correctly and 
eloquently told. "The Dream" we skip, having already read a better 
version of it in Lord Byron, and, as we said before, wish cordially 
that the bottle, with that confounded manuscript, had never been 
uncorked. "_Marcelia_" is fine, and the finer Macedoine our readers 
will recollect in our last. We are always glad to see the full page of 
payments in the Southern Literary Messenger, and have no doubt but 
that, under its enterprising and industrious proprietor, it will 
continue to go on prospering and to prosper.


_From the Baltimore American_.

We condemned a day or two ago the _tone_ of the notice of the North 
American Review in the {138} Southern Literary Messenger for December. 
This number is strong in notices of new works, and we like the 
severity of some of them: there is much matter for "cutting up." But 
the cutter up must do his task like a neat carver, without smearing 
his own fingers. Our friend Mr. White and his editor should keep the 
tone and bearing of the Messenger elevated and cavalier-like. The 
higher the critic places himself, the more fatal will be his blows 
downwards.

This number of the Messenger well supports its rapidly earned 
reputation. Among its articles may be particularised Mr. Minor's 
"Address on Education, as connected with the permanence of our 
Republican Institutions," and the "scenes from Politian, an 
unpublished Drama" by Edgar A. Poe.


_From the Charleston Courier_.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.--After an interval of several 
months, a species of literary interdict by the way which we did not 
much relish, we are able to announce the welcome reception of the 
December number of this excellent and eminently successful periodical, 
commencing its second volume and the second year of its bright and 
promising existence. The State of Virginia has reason to be proud of 
it, as a valuable exhibition of her mental prowess--it has gathered 
the stars of her intellectual firmament into close and brilliant 
constellation, and with their blended light burnished her literary 
fame. But while collecting into a focus the rays of Southern mind, the 
Aurora Borealis of genius has been no stranger to its pages, and its 
intellectual gems have been freely gathered from other portions of the 
republic of letters. Among its contributors, EDGAR A. POE, equally 
ripe in graphic humor and various lore, seems by common consent to 
have been awarded the laurel, and in the number before us fully 
sustaining the reputation of its predecessors, will be found proofs of 
his distinguished merit.


_From the Richmond Whig_.

_The Literary Messenger_.--The high reputation of this periodical is 
acknowledged by others besides ourselves, and much more competent 
judges. The Lynchburg Virginian says:

"The Messenger, upon the whole, reflects credit upon Virginia and the 
entire South. Indeed, several distinguished Northern Journals place it 
at the head of periodical literature in the United States--a most 
enviable distinction when we recollect the eminent names that figure 
in our Monthlies, both as editors and contributors. Mr. White deserves 
the thanks of the people of the South for his untiring perseverance 
and industry, and we are glad to hear that he is receiving them in the 
most substantial form--to wit, _paying subscribers_."

And Mr. Paulding in a letter to the proprietor says:

"P. S.--Your publication is decidedly superior to any Periodical in 
the United States, and Mr. Poe as decidedly the best of all our young 
writers; I don't know but I might add all our old ones, with one or 
two exceptions, among which I assure you I don't include myself."


_From the New York Spirit of the Times_.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.--This is the earliest magazine of 
the month, and we are as pleased to see it as an old favorite after a 
long absence, and welcome it accordingly.

Some change has taken place since last we saw it, in the editorial 
department, but it affects not at all the interest of the magazine; 
and we think the critical notices of this number, whether written by 
the old or new editor, more elevated in their tone than previously. 
There is a slight taint of pedantry about them, perhaps; and in one 
instance undue severity is shown towards a clever young author: yet 
they are, in the main, clever and just. But, as we have before said, 
we prize a magazine for other qualities than mere deserts in 
criticism; therefore turn we to the articles.

The first one is a continuation of "Sketches of the History, &c. of 
Tripoli." These sketches are from an unknown hand, which has access to 
original documents from which to draw his facts, and the author seems 
familiar with the writings of the French historians on the subject. So 
wofully ignorant are we of the history of the Barbary Powers, that we 
are unable to judge of the accuracy of these sketches: but we may 
safely say, that the narrative is lucid and interesting, and evinces 
an intimate acquaintance with the subject; and that it has a peculiar 
interest for American readers just now, as the French system of 
Finance and Diplomacy are constantly illustrated in their negotiations 
with the Deys. We can scarcely read with patience the narrative of the 
duplicity of the French Government towards these piratical states; 
with them, as with us, knavishly objecting to the allowance of a claim 
because of its absoluteness, or its negotiation; and skulking from the 
payment of an honest and acknowledged debt with an infinite deal of 
balderdash about French honor insulted, or French dignity offended. 
_French_ honor and dignity!! _Bah!_

The next prose article consists of "Extracts from my Mexican Journal." 
We have been so tired of late with this subject, in the _American 
Monthly_, that for the life of us we cannot screw our courage up to 
the reading point.

The poetry of this number is of superior quality. This is peculiarly 
the ladies' department, and of course we may not deny that they 
sustain it perfectly. One little gem in this number is the "_Broken 
Heart_," by a Virginia lady--of rare simplicity of thought and 
purpose, and most touchingly executed. Our readers shall see it anon, 
and learn somewhat further our ideas of the poetical excellence of 
this capital magazine.

Mr. Edgar A. Poe, a writer of much versatility of talent has 
contributed much to this number. He is a magazinist somewhat in the 
style of Willis: he needs condensation of thought. But this is too 
flippant criticism for us, and we will read him more. Although the 
earliest out, we have not had time to complete this magazine.


_From the Norfolk Beacon_.

The first number of the second volume of the _Southern Literary 
Messenger_ contains several articles of solid worth. The "Tripoli 
Sketches" retain their spirit and fidelity. Mr. Minor's Address is a 
patriotic and practical production. The common school system of the 
state demands the public attention. No voter should let his 
representatives alone, until such a system shall have been established 
as will insure to the child of every honest man in the commonwealth a 
thorough {139} elementary education. Mr. Minor quotes his statistics 
concerning Russia from the Edinburgh Review, but he would have found a 
more full examination of the Prussian system in a late number of the 
Foreign Quarterly. We were pleased that Mr. Minor handsomely 
recognized the services of the late Mr. Fitzhugh of Fairfax in the 
cause of education. We well remember his speech on the occasion 
alluded to, and know that the seeming defect in his scheme alluded to 
by Mr. Minor, was in truth the result of design. It was the main 
argument with which Mr. Fitzhugh met the opponents of his favorite 
scheme. Were Fitzhugh now living, he would win enduring laurels in the 
cause of general education in the commonwealth. The present address of 
Mr. Minor has also appeared in pamphlet from the press of Mr. White, 
and we have marked one or two striking passages for our columns. 
"Lionel Granby" is continued, and we have a very amusing letter from 
the uncle. But he has fallen into the error not uncommon, of imputing 
to York Town the honor of giving birth to Bishop Beilby Porteus. The 
Bishop, we believe, was born in York, but in England, and not in 
Virginia. The parents of the Bishop removed from Gloucester to England 
some years before his birth. Had he been born in Virginia, he would, 
it is probable, have bequeathed to William and Mary some of the fat 
legacies which were shared by sundry institutions in Great Britain.

The Critical Notices in the present number of the Messenger, 
particularly of the North American and the British Reviews are in bad 
taste. The review of Glass's Life of Washington is altogether unique. 
Some of the reviews are nevertheless good, and more than outweigh 
those that are bad.

One word more, and we have done with the present number. We are more 
and more convinced every passing hour of the importance to the South 
of an able periodical journal devoted to literary and other topics 
that know no party. However well conducted a political journal may be, 
it never will penetrate generally to the firesides of the South. And 
it is clear that the general mind cannot be reached through such an 
avenue. Now this important office literature can perform. There are, 
too, many opinions which are peculiar to the South, to the whole 
South, and to the South only. There should be a channel of 
communication on these subjects, and such a means the Messenger, if 
liberally supported by the pens of the able, and the purses of the 
patriotic, may readily become. It rests with our community to make the 
first movement in the cause, and we trust that our citizens will not 
be found wanting, when the South--the whole South--appeals to their 
liberality.


_From the Lynchburg Virginian_.

_Southern Literary Messenger_.--The 1st No. of the 2d volume of this 
periodical, in its typographical department, exhibits a decided 
improvement upon its predecessors, although on this score its 
subscribers have never had reasonable cause of complaint. Its literary 
reputation is fully maintained.

The 9th No. of the _Sketches of the Barbary States_, written by Mr. 
Robert Greenhow, Jr. formerly of Richmond, and now engaged in the 
Department of State, is, like the preceding Nos. highly creditable to 
that gentleman, betokening research, genius and taste. His _style_ is 
admirably adapted to his theme.

The continuation of _Extracts from a Mexican Journal_ are highly 
interesting--containing graphic descriptions of the manners, customs, 
&c. of a country, which, although on our own continent, is, to the 
great mass of our people, a _terra incognita_.

The most valuable article in the December No. of the Messenger, 
however, is the Address delivered by Lucian Minor, Esq. before the 
Institute of Education of Hampden Sidney College, at its late 
anniversary. He urges upon our Legislators, with earnestness and 
eloquence, the importance of enlightening the people, by a well 
digested system of primary instruction--based on the models which are 
presented to us in several of our sister States, in Scotland and in 
Prussia. This is a vitally important subject, and we sincerely hope it 
will attract the serious attention of the Legislature, during its 
present session.

"_Lionel Granby_" contributes largely to the interest of the 
Messenger. We hope he will diminish the intervals of his appearance on 
the stage.

Several of the poetical pieces are beautiful--others, _mediocre_. 
"October," "Marcelia," "Mother and Child," may be classed among the 
former; "A Sketch" among the latter. "Scenes from Politian," like the 
prose productions from the same pen (Mr. Poe) evince great powers, 
wasted on trifles. Why, (to adopt the catechetical style of his own 
criticisms,) why does Mr. Poe throw away his strength on shafts and 
columns, instead of building a temple to his fame? Can he not execute 
as well as design? No one can doubt it who is conversant with his 
writings. Eschew affectation, Mr. Poe. It is a blot upon genius as 
well as upon beauty. "A Broken Heart" contains several tender and 
pathetic passages, but is deficient as a whole. _Ex gr._:

           "Friends and physicians 
  Exert their skill most faithfully,"

is not poetry--but plain, unsophisticated prose.

Too much space is allotted to "Critical Notices" in the December No. 
of the Messenger--and several of the Notices themselves are too 
dogmatical and flippant. This department of a periodical, on the plan 
of the Messenger, is necessarily of restricted interest, and should 
consequently be of proportionate limits, except in extraordinary 
cases. It certainly should not be occupied by _reviews of Reviews_--a 
dish of hash newly warmed, and served up, in all its insipidity, to an 
already palled appetite. Such reviews as that of Mr. Fay's "Norman 
Leslie" will be read. Men--and Women likewise--will always be 
attracted in crowds to behold an infliction of the Russian knout or to 
see a fellow-creature flayed alive. And Mr. Fay--who, by the way, is a 
great favorite with us--fully deserves a "_blistering_" for putting 
forth such a book as Norman Leslie.

The "Messenger," upon the whole, reflects credit upon Virginia and the 
entire South. Indeed, several distinguished Northern journals place it 
at the head of periodical literature in the U. States; a most enviable 
distinction, when we recollect the eminent names that figure in our 
Monthlies, both as editors and contributors. Mr. White deserves the 
thanks of the people of the South for his untiring perseverance and 
industry, and we are glad to {140} hear that he is receiving them in 
the most substantial form--to wit, _paying subscribers_. We hope his 
list will continue to augment, not only because his enterprise 
deserves remuneration, but because every additional subscriber enables 
him to make additional exertions to enhance the value of his agreeable 
and instructive "_Messenger_."


_From the New Yorker_.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_--We have long meditated a more 
extended notice of this elegant periodical, than we have hitherto 
found leisure to give--not more on account of our numerous Southern 
friends--with whom it must necessarily be a favorite, than of our 
literature generally, to which the Messenger forms a very creditable 
addition. And notwithstanding that our columns for this week are 
mainly bespoken, we must not allow the current number--being the first 
of a new volume--to pass from our table without a brief glance over 
its contents.

"_Sketches of the History and Present Condition of Tripoli_, with some 
account of the other Barbary States," is the opening paper, written by 
one evidently conversant with his subject, and whose chapters are 
calculated to add materially to the meager stock of popular 
information hitherto possessed with regard to the history and present 
condition of the Barbary powers.

"_Scraps from an Unpublished Drama, by Edgar A. Poe_," contains one or 
two stirring and many beautiful passages--but we are not partial to 
dramatic poetry.

Speaking of poetry, we find some that is commendable, and much that we 
deem, with all deference, well nigh execrable. Of the former class is 
"October."

Of the otherwise, nearly all that is intended for blank verse may 
serve as a specimen. It is singular that people will continue, in the 
face of good advice, to break up sober prose into unequal and most 
inharmonious lines, and then attempt to pass it off for verse, which 
it very remotely resembles. The following is extracted from an article 
which really contains poetry.

                       "The story goes, that a
  Neglected girl (an orphan whom the world
  Frowned upon) once strayed thither, and 't was thought
  Did cast her in the stream."

"_An Address on Education_," by Lucian Minor, is among the best 
articles in the Messenger. It were well if such a startling exhibition 
of facts, such an array Of cogent reasonings, were presented to every 
influential citizen of our vast Union.

"_Extracts from my Mexican Journal_" are judicious and replete with 
information. We remark that, since recent occurrences have rendered 
Mexico an object of interest in this country, the observations of 
tourists and men of business who have lately visited that country, are 
very liberally drawn upon by our Monthlies.

"_The Wissahiccon_," and its romantic scenery, is made the subject of 
enthusiastic description--by a Philadelphian, of course. Well, truth 
to say, there are some enchanting spots _out of_ Philadelphia, to say 
nothing of those within it. If we could only bring her self-satisfied 
citizens to admit that a civilized person may while away a season in 
New York, without positive privation of all quiet, cleanliness, and 
comfort, why then we might in turn regard the Quaker capital as a very 
tolerable, inoffensive, well-behaved city. As it is, we must think of 
it, and hope that time will take the conceit out of her.

"_Lionel Granby_" is the title of a series of odd, pedantic, yet 
humorous and characteristic papers, which we are tempted to consider 
the best light reading in the Messenger. To an old-school Virginian, 
they must be delightful.

The critical department of the Messenger is managed with great candor, 
consideration and ability. We place the qualifications in this order, 
not that the ability is less prominent, but because it is perhaps of 
the three least enviable in a reviewer. The Editor examines with 
impartiality, judges with fairness, commends with evident pleasure, 
and condemns with moderation. May he live a thousand years!--or at 
least to have five thousand gratified, substantial and 'available' 
patrons.


_From the Baltimore Gazette_.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.--A little more than a year has 
elapsed since Mr. White commenced, in Richmond, Virginia, the 
publication of a Monthly Literary Journal. At that time an experiment 
of the kind, south of Mason and Dixon's line, was considered a novel 
one, but the ability with which it has been conducted, and the wide 
circulation it has obtained, have fully demonstrated that it required 
but talent and persevering energy on the one part, and a liberal 
co-operation on the other, to impart to it a reputation equal to that 
enjoyed by any other of our Monthlies. We have now before us the first 
number of the second volume, whose pages we find diversified with a 
variety of entertaining and excellent matter. The publisher has 
secured the assistance of a gentleman of eminent literary talents, 
with whose aid it may fairly be inferred that the Messenger will not 
only sustain but increase its already extensive and deserved 
popularity. The literary notices contained in this number are written 
with great ability, but in our opinion rather too great a space has 
been devoted to this subject. The old adage--_ne quid nimis_--is 
applicable not less to a literary undertaking than to the general 
pursuits of life.


_From the Petersburg Constellation_.

_The Southern Literary Messenger_.--We have received the first number 
of the second volume of Mr. White's popular and valuable Literary 
Messenger. We bid it a more cordial welcome to our table, admiring in 
proportion to their relative merits, the unrivalled professional skill 
with which its typographical dress is adjusted, and the rich and 
attractive guise which wit, genius and learning have combined to throw 
over the pages of what must now be acknowledged as the first monthly 
magazine in this country. The contributions, prose and poetical, are 
of a high grade of excellence; and the _critiques_ are now precisely 
what they should be in such a work--faithful mirrors, reflecting in 
miniature the book reviewed, and exposing alike its beauties and 
deformities without favor or affection. We have rarely read a review 
more caustic or more called for than the _flaying_ which the new 
editor of the Messenger has so judiciously given Mr. Fay's "bepuffed, 
beplastered and be-_Mirrored_" novel of "Norman Leslie."




*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 2, January, 1836" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.