



Produced by Ron Swanson





THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.


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

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.


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




SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.]  RICHMOND, FEBRUARY, 1835.  [NO. 6.

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




VIRGINIA HISTORICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY.


We promised to present in our present number a more detailed account of
the proceedings of the late anniversary meeting of this valuable
institution, which we trust is destined to retrieve the character of
our state from the charge of long indifference to the vast resources it
contains, both in materials for scientific research and in memorials of
its past civil and political history. We should sincerely lament if so
noble an effort to diffuse throughout the country a taste for science
and elegant literature, should fail for want of encouragement, but we
think we perceive a growing conviction of its importance, and an
increasing disposition to promote its objects. These objects, as
declared in the constitution of the society, are "to discover, procure
and preserve whatever may relate to the natural, civil and literary
history of this state; and to patronize and advance all those sciences
which have a direct tendency to promote the best interests of our
citizens." What intelligent Virginian is there who does not feel
inclined to co-operate in the attainment of so much good? Who does not
desire that the strife and bitterness of politics should be allayed by
the diffusion of a spirit which shall unite and harmonize the most
discordant elements, and establish a point where all men of every sect
and party may rally for the interests of their country, and forget the
unhappy differences which distract and divide them. It is certainly an
extraordinary fact that, with one honorable exception, no similar
institution seems ever to have been established in Virginia, during the
more than two centuries of its civilized existence. The exception
stated is recorded by Gerardin, in his continuation of Burk's History.
It was an association formed for literary and scientific purposes, as
far back as the administration of Governor Fauquier, who was himself a
lover and patron of learning; but it was principally indebted for its
origin to Dr. Small, an able professor at William and Mary,--and
afterwards among its members and most active friends, were enrolled the
honored names of Jefferson and Wythe, John Page and the venerable
Bishop Madison. The last gentleman was its secretary and curator, when
the stirring and eventful scenes of the revolutionary war put a period
to its existence.

The present society was organized in December, 1831, and there have
been three anniversary meetings since, at each of which very able
addresses were delivered. One only, (Professor Cushing's) has as yet
been spread before the public; but we understand that the orations of
Messrs. Maxwell and Tucker will also be published.

We stated in the last number of the Messenger that Mr. Maxwell
presented to the society at its late meeting an ancient pistol, alleged
on plausible authority to have been the property of Captain John Smith,
the father of Virginia. We have not been able to learn the precise
particulars of its history, but we understand there is no doubt that it
was sent by a former Governor of Canada to General Washington as the
property of Smith. It bears upon a silver ornament on its handle or
butt, the initials J. S.; and in the form and shape of its barrel and
some other peculiarities, it has undoubted marks of antiquity. There
was another valuable relic presented to the society, through the
standing committee, which deserves to be particularly mentioned. It is
the _identical silver badge or medal furnished the King of the Potomac
Indians_, under a law of the Colonial Assembly of Virginia, which
passed in March 1661. See Hening's Statutes at Large, vol. 2, p. 142.
This curious relic was found in the county of Caroline a year or two
since, and presented to the society by W. G. Minor, Esq. of that
county. On its face the words "Ye King of"--and on the
reverse--"Patomeck," are engraved in the ancient orthography--and on
both sides are rude devices, attesting the imperfect state of the arts
at the period referred to.

The society has already collected many valuable mineral specimens and
Indian antiquities--also various books and manuscripts,--a more
particular account of which we shall spread before our readers in some
of our future numbers. The trustees of the Richmond Academy have, we
learn, assigned one of the rooms in the spacious building they have
erected, for the uses of the society as a place of deposite and
arrangement of its various acquisitions; and it is with much pleasure
we perceive that the legislature, by a joint resolution, has directed
the library committee to present to the society copies of such books,
maps, &c. as belong to the library fund. These examples of liberality
in our public functionaries, are proofs of the growing interest which
is felt in the cause of science and literature.--James McDowell, Esq.
of Rockbridge, has been selected to deliver the next anniversary
address, and Professor Dew, of William and Mary, chosen alternate. The
following gentlemen were appointed officers for the present year, to
wit:

JOHN MARSHALL, _President_; PROFESSOR CUSHING, _first Vice President_;
JUDGE CLOPTON, _second Vice President_; JAMES E. HEATH, _Corresponding
Secretary and Librarian_; GUSTAVUS A. MYERS, _Recording Secretary_; WM.
P. SHEPPARD, _Treasurer_; and Judge Francis T. Brooke, Dr. Robert
Briggs, Conway Robinson, Robert C. Nicholas, Charles B. Shaw, John S.
Myers, Dr. Richard A. Carrington and Rowland Reynolds, _Members of the
Standing Committee_.




VIRGINIA GAZETTEER.

Our readers are probably most of them aware, that a work bearing the
above title, has been for some time in the Charlottesville press, and
will soon make its appearance before the public. We have been favored
by the very deserving and enterprising publisher, Mr. JOSEPH MARTIN,
with 240 pages of the volume, and have given them a cursory reading;
not sufficient, indeed, to pronounce decidedly upon the character of
the work, but enough to convince us of its great utility, and of the
general ability and industry with which it has been compiled. We shall
take occasion when the work is published, to examine its contents more
particularly;--for the present, we remark, that the editor in his
preliminary and General Description of Virginia, has borrowed very
copiously, and without acknowledgement, that we have seen, from an
article bearing the title "Virginia," in the Americana Encyclopædia.
Whilst it is not expected, that in a work like the Gazetteer, its whole
contents should be original; it is but an act of literary justice, we
conceive, that the sources from which material aid has been derived,
should be acknowledged. Of course, we confine ourselves to such matter
as is not original. We have taken the liberty to transfer to our pages,
the account contained in the Gazetteer, of "_the City of
Richmond_"--subjoining in the form of notes, a few observations
rendered necessary by the change of circumstances, since that account
was written.


RICHMOND CITY, the metropolis of Virginia, is situated in the county of
Henrico, on the north side of James river, and immediately at the great
falls, or head of tide water. Lat. 37° 32' N., long. 25° 54' W of W.
Its location is uncommonly delightful, and has often excited the
admiration of strangers. Perhaps the most glowing, and yet most
faithful picture which has ever been drawn of its natural beauties, is
from the pen of the eminent and lamented author of the British Spy. "I
have never met," says that enchanting writer, "with such an assemblage
of striking and interesting objects. The town dispersed over hills of
various shapes; the river descending from west to east, and obstructed
by a multitude of small islands, clumps of trees, and myriads of rocks;
among which it tumbles, foams and roars; constituting what are called
the falls; the same river at the lower end of the town, bending at
right angles to the south, and winding reluctantly off for many miles
in that direction; its polished surface caught here and there by the
eye, but more generally covered from the view by the trees; among which
the white sails of the approaching and departing vessels exhibit a
curious and interesting appearance: then again on the opposite side,
the little town of Manchester built on a hill, which sloping gently to
the river, opens the whole town to the view, interspersed as it is with
vigorous and flourishing poplars; and surrounded to a great distance by
green plains and stately woods;--all these objects falling at once
under the eye, constitute by far the most finely varied and most
animated landscape that I have ever seen." The truth and beauty of the
foregoing sketch may be realised from numberless positions or points of
view, extending from the high hills to the west, which overlook the
James river canal, as far as the Church Hill, the eastern barrier of
the city. From the latter elevation, perhaps the landscape combines
greater variety and grandeur, than from any other point. Shockoe hill,
however, is the favorite residence of the citizens. This is divided
from the other by the valley of Shockoe creek, and is a high and
spacious plain occupied by the principal public buildings, and by
numerous private edifices, some of which are of elegant and expensive
construction. The _Capitol, or State House_, stands in the centre of a
beautiful park or square, near the brow of the hill, and from its size
and elevated position is the most conspicuous object in the city. The
exterior of the building is of admirable proportions, and its fine
columns of Ionic architecture seen from a distance, have a very
imposing effect. It was formed from a model of the _Maison Carree_ at
Nismes,--brought by Mr. Jefferson from France. Its interior
construction, however, is neither elegant nor convenient. In a large
open saloon or hall, in the centre of the building, is a marble statue
of Washington, executed with great skill by _Houdon_, a French artist.
There is also a bust of Lafayette, occupying one of the niches in the
wall. Besides the statue it is still in contemplation to erect a superb
monument to the memory of Washington on the capitol square. The fund
which was dedicated to this object was originally raised by private
subscription, and is now loaned out at interest by direction of the
legislature. Its present amount is about $18,000. When this monument is
erected, it will add to the attractions of one of the finest promenades
in the Union. The square, which contains about nine acres, is enclosed
by a handsome railing of cast iron, and is ornamented by gravelled
walks, and a variety of forest and other trees. The _Governor's House_
is a plain, neat building, adjoining the square, and on a part of the
public domain. The _City Hall_, which is also contiguous to the State
House, is a costly and elegant building of Doric architecture. It is
devoted to the use of the City Courts and Council, and other officers
of the Corporation. The other public buildings, are the _Penitentiary_
and _Manufactory of Arms_--both extensive establishments, and well
adapted to their respective purposes. The _Bank of Virginia_ and
_Farmer's Bank_, are connected under one roof, and together constitute
a handsome edifice on the principal street.

Richmond is not deficient in benevolent institutions. Besides a very
spacious _Poor House_, which stands in the suburbs of the city,--there
is a _Female Orphan Asylum_, supported in part by funds of the
corporation, and partly by private liberality. Its funds have been
principally raised however for several years past, by an annual fair
held at the City Hall. This institution is incorporated by the
legislature, and is under the management of female directors. There is
also a _school for the education of poor children of both sexes_, upon
the Lancasterian system, founded in 1816, which with some fluctuations
in its progress, is still in a prosperous condition. It is now under
the superintendence of trustees appointed by the City Council, and is
sustained by an annual contribution from the Literary fund of the
state, together with an appropriation from the city treasury. A
suitable building was erected for the accommodation of the school, soon
after its first establishment, and hundreds have received from it the
benefits of elementary instruction, who would probably have been
otherwise the victims of ignorance and depravity.

The city has not been so fortunate in other institutions for the
cultivation of the mind. A few good schools it is true have
occasionally existed, where a competent knowledge of the classics and
some of the sciences might be obtained, but none of these sources of
instruction have been commensurate with the wants of the citizens. It
is a remarkable circumstance, that the metropolis of the state,
containing as it does considerable wealth and population,--many
distinguished and well informed men, and much boasted refinement,
should yet be destitute of a single academical institution. As far back
as 1803, a charter was obtained from the state by some of the prominent
citizens, for the establishment of an academy by lottery and private
subscription. A few thousand dollars were raised,--a site was
injudiciously selected a mile beyond the limits of the city--and the
basement story of the building erected, but no further progress was
made. Within the present year, however, the vacancies in the Board of
Trustees have been filled, and there is some prospect of reviving the
institution.[1]

[Footnote 1: We are happy to have it in our power to state, that by the
liberality of the City Council, an elegant and costly building has been
erected by the trustees, which is now near completion. It may be
mentioned, however, with regret, that an unsuccessful application has
been made to the Legislature for an annual endowment out of the surplus
of the Literary Fund--but it ought also in justice to be added, that
measures have been adopted for collecting information preparatory to a
just and equitable distribution of the Literary Fund surplus, by the
next General Assembly. Indeed, the munificent patronage bestowed by the
Legislature of 1834-5, upon works of internal improvement--is of
itself, sufficient to exempt that body from the reproach of leaving to
its successors, something to do for the great cause of education.]

Besides this marked deficiency in the means of educating youth, there
are few or no associations of an intellectual character among persons
of maturer years. Whilst the northern cities can boast of their
literary and scientific societies, the capital of the ancient dominion
scarcely contains one which deserves the name. An honorable exception,
it is true, may be mentioned in the "Virginia Historical and
Philosophical Society," which was established in 1831, and has since
been incorporated;--but as its members are principally dispersed
through the state, and few of the citizens of Richmond manifest any
zeal in its welfare, it can scarcely be considered an association of
the city, either in its origin or character. About 20 years since a
_Museum_ was erected principally by individual enterprize; which was
designed as a repository of the fine arts, and of natural curiosities.
This institution however, has for a long time languished for want of
patronage.

Societies however of a moral and religious cast, are numerous, active
and flourishing. Various associations exist for promoting temperance,
for colonizing the free people of color, for aiding missionaries, for
the distribution of the Bible and religious tracts, and for various
other objects of a similar character. The encouragement also which is
given to Sabbath schools is extensive and beneficial. The means of
religious instruction are very considerable, and probably in due
proportion to the wants of the city. The _Episcopalians_ have 3
churches or houses of worship;--the _Presbyterians_ 2, the _Baptists_
3, the _Methodists_ 3, the _Roman Catholics_ 1, and this last
congregation are now constructing a new and elegant building, which
will probably rival any in the city for the style of its architecture.
The _Baptist Seceders_ or followers of Alexander Campbell, have 1 place
of worship,--the _Unitarians_ and _Quakers_ 1 each,--and the _Jews_ a
handsome Synagogue in a retired and handsome situation.

The _Monumental Church_, one of the three belonging to the
Episcopalians, and of which the venerable Bishop of Eastern Virginia
has long been the Rector,--has acquired a melancholy celebrity from the
circumstance that it occupies the site of the _Richmond Theatre_, which
was destroyed by fire in December 1811; on which tragical occasion the
Governor of the Commonwealth, and 70 or 80 respectable persons of both
sexes perished miserably in the flames. Long will that mournful event
be remembered by those who survived or witnessed its horrors!--Either
from the deep impressions which it produced or from other causes,--the
taste for theatrical exhibitions has not kept pace with the increase of
wealth and population. The commodious Theatre which succeeded the old
one,--which is placed in a far more eligible situation, and is of much
safer construction, is only occasionally patronized, when the
appearance of some attractive star, or celebrated performer, is
announced.

Richmond was first established by act of Assembly, as early as 1742,
and became the seat of Government of the state in 1779. Various
legislative acts have passed from time to time enlarging its corporate
powers and privileges. Nine persons are annually chosen from each of
the three wards into which the city is divided, who when assembled
elect out of their own body a recorder, and 11 aldermen, who exercise
judicial functions. The same persons also elect from their own body, or
from the citizens at large, a Mayor, who is both a judicial and
executive officer. The remaining 15 members constitute the legislative
council of the city, and as such, are authorised to raise and
appropriate money, and to enact all such ordinances as are necessary
for the due execution of the powers conferred by the charter. The
valuation of real property within the city according to the assessment
of 1833, was $6,614,550. The revenue raised for corporation purposes
may be stated in round numbers at $60,000, besides which, the city
contributed as its quota of the state tax in the year 1833, nearly
$9,000. This large amount of taxation is principally derived from real
and personal property, and from licenses to merchants, ordinary
keepers, &c. The number of _wholesale_ merchants, paying license tax in
1833, as appears by the returns of the State Commissioner was
20;--retail ditto 326, auctioneers 7, lottery ticket venders 7,
ordinary keepers 43, and keepers of houses of private entertainment 9.
According to the same returns there were 739 horses and mules, 157
coaches, 9 carryalls, and 54 gigs.

The expenses of the city are considerable. The principal items of
appropriation are $12,000 for a sinking fund, to pay the interest, and
redeem gradually the corporation debt; $4,000 for the poor; $1,700 to
the Lancasterian Free School and Orphan Asylum; $4,000 for repairing
the streets; and $8,500 for the support of a night watch. The remaining
expenses are on account of the public markets, fire companies, salaries
of officers, paving of streets and various contingencies. The city debt
at this time (1834) amounts to $136,150;--$95,000 of which, bearing an
interest of 5 per centum only, was incurred on account of the _water
works_. These works were commenced in September 1830, under the
direction of Albert Stein, an accomplished Engineer from Holland, and
were completed as far as originally designed, at the end of the ensuing
year. Since that time, a second pump and wheel, and a third reservoir
have been added; making the cost of the whole work about $100,000. The
pumps are each calculated to raise from the river, and propel into the
reservoirs at a distance of 800 yards, and at a considerable elevation
400,000 gallons of water in 24 hours. These pumps are designed to
operate alternately, either being competent to fill the reservoirs in
sufficient time. The reservoirs will each of them contain 1,000,000
gallons, and double lines of pipes extend from them to the pump house
on the margin of the river. The main pipe from the reservoirs to the
intersection of H and 1st streets is 2,058 yards in length; and the
smallest pipes extend from this through the principal streets,
lessening in diameter to the point of greatest depression from the
level of the reservoirs, a distance of about three miles. Fire plugs
are placed at convenient distances along the line of pipes, and afford
an ample supply of water for extinguishing fires. In the lower part of
the city the pressure is sufficient to force the water to the tops of
the houses through hose, without the aid of engines. Three hundred and
forty houses and tenements are already furnished with water, and the
rents which are daily increasing, amount at this time, April 1834, to
$4,000. The annual expense of superintendence, &c. is $1,000. These
works may justly be considered the pride of the city. The water which
they supply is not only pure and wholesome, but for a considerable part
of the year is sufficiently clear to be used without filters.

The _exports_ of domestic produce from Richmond to foreign countries
are very considerable. In the year 1833, their value in American
vessels, was
                              $2,466,360 00
  And in foreign vessels,        498,131 00
                              -------------
  Making the aggregate of     $2,964,491 00

The value of domestic produce shipped coastwise to the principal
Northern Cities, cannot be ascertained correctly. It is believed to be
at least equal if not greater than the amount exported to foreign
countries, and if such be the fact, the total value of produce shipped,
may be estimated at nearly $6,000,000. The import trade, however, bears
no proportion to the other. The value of merchandize imported into the
district of Richmond from foreign countries for the year 1833, amounted
to only $209,963, and the duties paid to the Government of the United
States to $75,120. Of this latter sum, $7,197 was paid on merchandize
brought by foreign vessels.

In 1833, 5 schooners, 9 barks, 37 brigs, and 30 ships, in all 81
vessels, cleared from the port of Richmond for foreign countries, the
tonnage whereof amounted to 22,331, or an average of 275 tons to each
vessel. In the same year 4 schooners, 6 brigs, 2 barks, and 3 ships
entered from foreign countries,--making in the aggregate, 3,412 tons,
or 227 to each vessel.

No inconsiderable part of the produce shipped from the city is brought
down the James River Canal. This important improvement commences at
Maiden's Adventure, on James river about thirty miles distant, and
terminates in a deep and commodious basin in the heart of the town. The
tolls paid to the James River Company on produce descending in the year
1833, amounted to $43,949, and on various articles carried up the Canal
to $10,139, making in the aggregate, $54,088. Among the items brought
down, may be enumerated upwards of 15,000 bbds. of tobacco, 152,000
barrels of flour, 133,000 bushels of wheat, 677,664 bushels of coal,
1,374 tons of bar and pig iron; and 2,230,900 lbs. of manufactured
tobacco. Among the ascending articles may be mentioned, nearly 31,000
sacks of salt, 297 tons of bar and pig iron, and upwards of 3,000 tons
of plaster, lime, &c.

The proximity of the coal mines to Richmond, constitutes that mineral a
valuable article of commerce. Besides the quantity brought down the
canal, there were more than 2,000,000 of bushels (4 pecks to the
bushel) transported on the Chesterfield rail road in 1833, the tolls on
which amounted to $87,813 30. The Chesterfield rail road, terminates on
the Manchester side of the river, and deserves to be honorably
mentioned as the first successful enterprize of the kind in the state
of Virginia. It was planned and executed under the direction of Moncure
Robinson, a distinguished Engineer, and it owes much in its original
design and final accomplishment, to the perseverance and patronage of
Mr. Nicholas Mills, one of the few proprietors of its stock, and an
owner of one of the extensive coal mines at the upper termination of
the road.

James river from Richmond to the ocean, presents a tedious and somewhat
obstructed navigation. This with the circumstance that she is
surrounded by rival towns, each having its peculiar advantages of
location,--will probably prevent the metropolis from  ever attaining a
high degree of commercial importance.[2] There is no doubt, however, of
its final destination as a manufacturing city,--as there is probably no
spot in the Union endowed by nature with finer facilities for that kind
of industry. From the commencement of the rapids a few miles above, the
fall is upwards of 100 feet to the level of tide water, and in all this
space there is scarcely a limit to the extent of water power which
exists. In the city and its vicinity, there are already several
flourishing establishments which deserve to be mentioned. The _Gallego
flour mills_ having been destroyed by fire in the spring of 1833, their
present proprietor, Mr. Chevallie, is rebuilding them at a more
convenient site on the bank of the James river basin, and upon a much
more improved and enlarged plan. The mill house which is nearly
completed, is six stories high from the foundation and covered with
tin. It is 94 feet long by 83½ wide, and is calculated for 20 pair of
stones to be worked by three water wheels. Connected with it, is
another building 80 feet square, and four stories high, in which the
wheat will be received and cleaned. The two together present a front on
the basin of 163½ feet, and the whole appearance is very imposing. The
old Gallego mills ground upwards of 200,000 bushels of wheat in the
eight months preceding their destruction. It is probable that the
operations of the new establishments will be much more extensive. The
Gallego brand, and indeed that of the city mills generally, has
acquired much celebrity in the South American markets and elsewhere.

[Footnote 2: The question as to the future commercial rank of Richmond,
derives additional weight and importance from recent acts of the
Virginia Legislature. The passage of the law for connecting the James
and Kanawha rivers, and uniting the east and west by canals or rail
roads--if the scheme should be carried out with energy and resolution
corresponding with the noble spirit in which it has been adopted,--must
undoubtedly make the Metropolis of the Old Dominion, a place of much
importance. The contemplated rail road from Richmond to the Potomac,
which has also received the fostering aid of the state, cannot fail
likewise to produce consequences beneficial to the whole country, on
the line of the improvement.]

_Haxall's Mills_, have also a high reputation: they are five stories
high and of nearly equal dimensions with Chevallie's. They work 14 pair
of stones, with four water wheels, and grind about 200,000 bushels
wheat annually. This year that quantity will probably be exceeded, as
it is contemplated to add four additional pair of stones.

_Rutherford's Mill_ works eight pair of stones by two water wheels, and
grinds about 90,000 bushels of wheat annually.

_Mayo's Mill_ in Manchester opposite to Richmond, works six pair of
stones by three water wheels, and grinds also about 90,000 bushels of
wheat annually.

In the city and its vicinity, there are five corn or grist mills, two
manufactories for cut nails, and rolling and slitting iron, two saw
mills, and one iron foundery, whose operations are extensive.

_The Richmond Cotton Manufactory_ is a large and important
establishment. It was established by Cunningham & Anderson, in the year
1829, and sold by them with all its appendages, to the Richmond
Manufacturing Company, incorporated by an act of the Virginia
Legislature in the winter of 1831. The building is of stone and brick,
four stories high, 146 feet long, and 44 feet wide, situated upon the
north bank of the James, a few hundred yards west of the Armory,
receiving its water power from the James river canal, immediately below
the Penitentiary. The water is also conveyed from the canal in iron
pipes of six inches bore to the building, thence up the stair-way to
within five feet of the eaves, from which in case of accident by fire,
every floor except the upper one, can be flooded in a few seconds, by
simply turning a cock and using a hose. In this factory are employed
from 60 to 70 white operatives and 130 blacks, from the age of 14 and
upwards:--a large proportion of both descriptions are females. It runs
3,776 spindles, and 80 looms, together with all the necessary
preparatory machinery for spinning and weaving, of the most approved
kinds, and consumes about 1,500 pounds of raw cotton per day.

The fabrics are heavy,--<DW64> shirtings 29 inches wide, 4-4 sheetings
and ¾ shirtings of No. 16 yarn, and cotton yarns from No. 5 to 20--all
of which are celebrated for their superior quality. The capital
employed is $120,000.

_The Gallego Manufacturing Company_ was incorporated in January 1834,
and the capital subscribed is $150,000. The buildings, which it is
supposed will be commenced the present year, will be located near the
Gallego Mills. The _Franklin Company_ for the manufacture of paper, has
also been recently incorporated, and the capital nearly subscribed.

Besides the manufactures produced at the Penitentiary on state account,
the city has its due proportion of the various mechanic trades, and
private manufactories. Of printing establishments there are as many as
11, (perhaps an undue proportion) from two of which there are issued
daily, political and commercial papers,--from one, a semi-weekly
political--from four, weekly Religious,--and from one, a monthly
journal devoted to literature, &c. The others are either Book or Job
Offices. The number of professional men is also considerable, and it is
the more remarkable that so many members of the medical faculty should
find employment in a city proverbial for the salubrity of its climate.
Situated at the point of demarcation between the upper and lower
districts, it is fortunately exempt from many of the maladies which are
peculiar to both regions. It is neither visited by the enervating
autumnal diseases of eastern Virginia, nor by the more violent and
inflammatory attacks which belong to the upper country. The yellow
fever, that scourge of cities more populous and commercial, has never
prevailed.

The population of Richmond has nearly trebled in 30 years. By the
census of 1800, the free whites numbered,           2,837
                    Slaves,                         2,293
                    Free <DW52> persons,             607
                                                    -----
                                                    5,737

By the census of 1830, the free whites amounted to  7,755
                           Slaves,                  6,349
                           Free ,            1,956
                                                   ------
                                                   16,060

The several classes have increased in nearly corresponding ratios.

Richmond has been frequently reproached for a want of hospitality, and
if this virtue consists in unreserved and indiscriminate attention to
strangers and visiters,--the reproach is probably not altogether
unfounded. It must be acknowledged too, that the manners and customs of
what are called the leading classes, are not characteristic of the old
Virginia character,--which was frank, simple and unostentatious. In
almost all considerable towns, even in republican America, artificial
_castes_ or classes exist, which are founded principally upon the
possession of wealth, or the mysterious refinements of fashion, and
have but little reference either to moral or intellectual distinction.
It is probable that this vice of cities is one of the chief sources of
that prejudice which is felt towards them by the people of the country.
These remarks, however, are not to be construed into a sweeping censure
upon towns--for although in all dense populations, there is always a
greater or less degree of human infirmity,--there is also an equal
concentration of the more virtuous and noble qualities of our nature.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET--THE SEA.

BY A. L. B. M.D.


    There's silent grandeur in the boundless waste
  Of Ocean's bosom when the winds are still,
    And quiet beauty, like the moonbeam traced
  In lengthened shadows on some snow-clad hill;
    There's fiercer grandeur in the chainless sea,
  When the storm-spirit wakes it from its rest,
    And the high waves are dashing wild and free,
  As the white foam they bear upon their breast.
    The thunder's voice is louder on the sea,
  The lightning flashes with a wilder glare,
    And landsmen know not of the dangers, he,
  Whose home is on the Ocean's wave, must dare;
  Yet it is pictured in its mighty roar,
  And in the wrecks which strew the rock-bound shore.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

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

No. IV.


Egypt was then in an unsettled state, and a few details respecting its
situation may be permitted, although not absolutely connected with the
present subject.

For many years previous to the invasion of the French (1797) Egypt had
been nominally governed by a Turkish Pasha; but the power was in
reality possessed by a soldiery of a peculiar and formidable character,
who under Beys or Chiefs chosen from their own body, ruled the country
with absolute sway. These troops were called _Mamelukes_, from the
Arabic word signifying _slaves_, their numbers being recruited entirely
by the purchase of young men from the regions of the Caucasian chain,
who were transferred to Egypt, instructed in the use of arms, and at a
proper age enrolled; they fought entirely on horseback, and were
considered by Buonaparte as the finest cavalry in the world. No person
born in Egypt could be enlisted; and marriage being discouraged, if not
prohibited among them, they had no feelings which were likely to
interfere with their _esprit de corps_. Each Bey held a particular
district of the country in subjection, keeping as many Mamelukes as he
could purchase and maintain, paying tribute to the Porte when he could
not avoid it, and supplying his expenses by wresting from the miserable
inhabitants every thing except the bare means of subsistence. The Pasha
had thus little else to do than collect the tribute, which he effected
by the aid of Turkish troops, and by fomenting dissensions among the
Beys.

The Sultan had indeed made several attempts to recover his authority,
of which the only one worthy of note was that conducted by the Capoudan
Pasha Hassan in 1786, which is mentioned in the second number of these
Sketches. This expedition was but partially successful. The Beys soon
regained their power, which they exercised with additional insolence
and rapacity towards all classes; and when the French under Buonaparte
entered Egypt, it was ostensibly for the purpose of restoring the
country to its former master, "_their ancient ally_," and of thus
revenging the insults committed on citizens of the Republic by the
tyrannical Mamelukes.

The invaders found twenty-three Beys united against them under the
command of Mourad, the most powerful of these chiefs; their forces
consisted of eight thousand Mamelukes, and a vast number of Arabs and
irregular troops. European skill and discipline, as might have been
expected, prevailed, and the Beys having been defeated in several
desperate conflicts, lost their confidence in each other; some, among
whom was Mourad, joined the Turks, others sided with the French, and
the remainder endeavored to maintain their position in the upper
country. When the French had been expelled, the Sultan was determined
to re-establish his dominion entirely, and to extirpate the Mamelukes,
if possible. In pursuance of this plan, at the time of Eaton's arrival,
a desultory but devastating warfare was carried on between the Turkish
troops and those of the Beys, who occupied the banks of the upper Nile
and the _oases_ of the adjoining desert. It was with one of these
Chieftains named Mahomed Elfi, that Hamet had taken refuge, and he was
then at the village of Minieh, about one hundred and fifty miles above
Cairo, at the head of a few refugee Tripolines and Arabs, closely
pressed by the forces of the Turkish Pasha.

The arrival of an American ship of war created a great sensation in
Lower Egypt, and many surmises as to its objects. The French consul
Drovetti, an able but unprincipled man, who has until lately maintained
a great influence in the government of Egypt, denounced Eaton and his
followers as "_British spies who were endeavoring to open an
intercourse with the Mamelukes_," and employed every dishonorable means
to defeat their plans, and have them expelled from the country. They
were however ably assisted by Major Misset, the British resident, to
whom Eaton carried letters of recommendation from Sir Alexander Ball,
Governor of Malta. After a few days spent at Alexandria they sailed for
Rosetta, where having engaged a boat, they arrived at Cairo on the 8th
of December. To this place they were fortunately accompanied by Doctor
Mendrici, an Italian with whom Eaton had been intimate at Tunis, and
who was then physician to the Pasha; he proved very serviceable in
representing their objects in the true light, and in counteracting the
artifices of the French consul.

The Turkish Viceroy of Egypt at that time was Koorsheed, who afterwards
(1821-3) as Pasha of the Morea, distinguished himself by the defeat and
destruction of Lord Byron's old friend Ali Pasha of Albania, and by his
efforts to put down the insurrection of the Greeks, at its
commencement; Mahomet Ali, who has since risen to supreme power in the
country, was then merely the commander of the Albanian troops.
Koorsheed is represented by Eaton as an intelligent and really high
minded man; and after the true objects of the strangers had been made
known to him by Mendrici and Misset, he did not hesitate to grant them
a private interview, which took place on the 9th of December. In it
Eaton played his part well, and succeeded so far in interesting the
Pasha, that he agreed to assist him in his efforts to detach Hamet from
the Mamelukes, provided the Prince should not have compromised himself,
by any open act in concert with those rebels.

Eaton had previously despatched messengers to Hamet, from Alexandria,
Rosetta and Cairo, directing him to proceed to Alexandria; and since
his arrival at the capital, he had discovered three of the Prince's
former high officers, who gave him more minute information as to their
master's circumstances. There were great difficulties, not only in
detaching him from the Mamelukes, but even in communicating with him to
any effect. The war between the two parties in Egypt was one of
extermination, and from the characters of the combatants on both sides,
neither passports nor flags of truce were likely to afford much
protection to their bearers; moreover, it was very improbable that Elfi
Bey would suffer a person so well acquainted with his strength and his
plans as Hamet must have been, to quit his encampment and go among his
enemies. The enterprising American however exerted himself to obtain
farther demonstrations from the Pasha, and to have every thing in
readiness to proceed against Tripoli, in case he should get Hamet into
his power. He sought out the refugee Tripolines, and enlisted recruits
for the contemplated expedition, principally among the Franks, Greeks
and Levantines;[1] he also distributed his bribes among the officers of
the Court with so much liberality and discretion, that at a second
audience with the Pasha on the 16th of December, he succeeded in
obtaining from him a passport and letter of amnesty for Hamet, which
were immediately despatched by trusty messengers.

[Footnote 1: The natives of Europe, except those of Greece and Turkey,
are termed _Franks_ in the East; and their descendants are called
Levantines.]

At length on the 8th of January 1805, Eaton received a letter from
Hamet, in reply to his first from Cairo, stating that he would proceed
directly to Alexandria. On receipt of this, the American without delay
set off for the latter place, where on his arrival he found a second
letter from the Prince, expressing his unwillingness to trust himself
alone in the power of the Turkish Pasha; and making an appointment with
him on the borders of the province of Fayoom, near the site of the
celebrated Labyrinth and Lake of Mæris. Eaton instantly determined to
seek him there, and accordingly set out on the 22d, accompanied by
Lieutenants Mann and Blake of the Argus, and an escort of twenty-three
men. At the close of the next day, the party were arrested at the
Turkish lines near Damanhour, about seventy miles from Alexandria,
where the officer in command, a fierce and savage fellow, was at first
inclined to treat with some harshness these strangers who were passing
through the country with a body of armed attendants, _in search of a
refugee Pasha_. But Eaton was never taken unawares; he flattered the
Turk's vanity, by complimenting his military vigilance and discipline,
and showing him the Viceroy's passport, gave him a handsome present,
which secured respect for it. The commander being softened by these
means, listened to the stranger's story, and introduced a young Arab
Chief who declared that he knew Hamet well, and would bring him to the
spot in ten days. Arrangements were made by which the Arab was
despatched to Fayoom, Eaton agreeing to dismiss his escort, and to
remain at Damanhour, with the officers and their servants, until the
Prince arrived.

Notwithstanding these promises, the situation of the Americans was by
no means agreeable: the Turk evidently mistrusted them; they were
closely guarded, and they daily witnessed acts of barbarous cruelty,
which impressed on them the necessity of proceeding with the utmost
caution. Having reason to suspect that there was some hidden cause for
this vigilance, Eaton sounded the Turk, and finally discovered that
Drovetti had been tampering with him, and had instigated him to acts of
violence against them.

At length on the 6th of February, Hamet actually arrived, accompanied
by a suite of forty persons. As soon as he had received Eaton's first
letters from Alexandria and Cairo, he determined to accept the
propositions contained in them, and having succeeded in eluding the
vigilance of his Mameluke friends, he escaped to Fayoom; of four copies
of the Pasha's letter of amnesty, not one had reached him; the
messengers having been seized and imprisoned by the Bey. On the day
after his arrival Eaton set off with him for Alexandria.

On arriving at that place the Turkish Admiral, whose authority was
paramount, refused admittance to the Prince and his followers, and
declared his intention of not allowing them to embark from any Egyptian
port. This was also the consequence of Drovetti's intrigues; but the
refusal proved vain, for it had been already determined that the
expedition should proceed by land, at least as far as Derne, in order
to keep together the Arabs whom they might first engage, and to recruit
from the tribes encountered on the way. This was a project which none
but a man of Eaton's hardihood would have undertaken. The distance to
Derne was at least six hundred miles, through a most desolate region,
inhabited only by wandering barbarians, where supplies of food and even
of water were uncertain; and he was to be accompanied by persons with
whom, except a few, he was unacquainted; persons lawless and faithless,
who hated him for his difference of creed, and who might well be
supposed ready to sacrifice him at any moment, either under the
influence of passion, or in order to obtain his property and arms.

This expedition being determined on, Hamet proceeded about thirty miles
west of Alexandria, and established himself at a place near the sea
called the Arab's tower, where he was soon surrounded by wandering
Sheiks or Chiefs, offering their services and the use of their camels.
Eaton went to Alexandria, and having obtained some arms, ammunition and
money from the Argus, forwarded them to the camp. He then arranged with
Captain Hull that the latter should proceed to the squadron, and get
fresh supplies, with which he should sail for Bomba, a small harbor
about eighty miles from Derne, there to meet the expedition.

Before proceeding farther, Eaton concluded a treaty in the name of the
United States, with Hamet as Pasha of Tripoli, which was signed on the
23d of February, 1805. In this treaty the United States are made to
engage--(Article second)--"_So far as comports with their own honor and
interests, their subsisting treaties and the acknowledged law of
nations, to use their utmost exertions to establish the said Hamet
Pasha in the possession of his sovereignty of Tripoli_"--(Article
third)--"_In addition to the operations they are carrying on by sea, to
furnish said Hamet Pasha, on loan, supplies of cash, ammunition and
provisions; and if necessity require, debarkations of troops also, to
aid and give effect to the operations of said Pasha Hamet by land
against the common enemy_." By Article eighth--"WILLIAM EATON, _a
citizen of the United States now in Egypt, shall be recognised as
General and Commander in Chief of the land forces which are, or may be
called into service against the common enemy; and his said Highness
Hamet Pasha engages that his own subjects shall respect and obey him as
such_." The other articles provide for the indemnification of all
expenses incurred by the United States, in executing the second and
third articles, the liberation of all American prisoners, &c. A secret
article stipulates _for the surrender of Yusuf, and of Morat Rais alias
Peter Lyle, to the Americans, to be held as hostages, provided they do
not escape by flight_. Finally, _the convention shall be submitted to
the President of the United States for his ratification; in the
meantime there shall be no suspense in its operations_.

That Eaton far exceeded the limits of his commission in making the
United States a party to this treaty, a slight review of his powers
will serve easily to show. Diplomatic powers he had properly none; he
had left the United States as navy agent, and was throughout the whole
affair entirely subordinate to the Commander of the American forces in
the Mediterranean. On leaving Malta, _verbal_ orders were given by
Commodore Barron to him and to Captain Hull, "_to seek out Hamet and
convey him to Derne or such other place on the coast, as may be
determined the most proper for co-operating with the naval force
against the common enemy; or if more agreeable to the Prince, to bring
him to the squadron before Tripoli_." The same orders indeed also
authorised them to "_assure Hamet that the most effectual measures
would be taken with the American forces for co-operating with him
against the usurper his brother, and for re-establishing him in the
regency of Tripoli. Arrangements to this effect with him are confided
to the discretion with which Mr. Eaton is vested by the Government_."
How far this discretion extended, appears clearly from Eaton's own
words in a letter to Colonel Dwight, written on the 9th of April, 1804,
during his passage to Europe: "I am ordered on the expedition by
Secretary Smith, without any special instructions to regulate my
conduct; without even a letter to the ally to whom I am directed;
without any thing whatever said to the Commander in Chief on the
subject of supplies; nothing but a general and vague discretion
concerning the co-operation, and nothing more to him of my agency in
the affair, than that '_Mr. Eaton is our agent for the several Barbary
regencies, and will be extremely useful_.'--I carry with me no evidence
whatever from our Government of the sincerity of their intentions
towards the friendly Pasha--I can say as a Spartan Ambassador to the
King of Persia's Lieutenant when asked, 'whether he came with a public
commission or on his own account?' 'If successful, for the public; if
unsuccessful, for myself.'" We do not learn that he received any
instructions from his government, subsequently.

From this we may conclude, that Eaton considered himself, as he indeed
was, fully authorised to assure Hamet of the co-operation of the
American forces for his restoration; and that in signing the treaty, he
knew he was acting like the Spartan Ambassador--at a venture. Some such
arrangement, must however be admitted to have been necessary; as
without it he had no means in the event of Hamet's success, to secure
those interests of his country which were the ultimate objects of his
operations. His own opinion as to the validity of the Convention, is
sufficiently shewn by his letter of May 1st, 1805, to Commodore Barron,
in which he says, "The convention I have entered into with Hamet Pasha,
may be useful in case he succeeds in getting repossession of his
government; otherwise it can do no mischief, even if ratified, as will
appear by the precaution in the second article,"--rendering the
co-operation of the United States, _dependant on their own honor and
interests, their subsisting treaties, and the acknowledged law of
nations_.

The convention having been signed, and some difficulties respecting the
transportation of provisions from Alexandria being arranged, Eaton and
his followers joined Hamet at his encampment, on the 3d of March.

The force assembled at the Arab's tower consisted of about four hundred
persons; being nine Americans, seventy odd Greeks and Levanters, Hamet
with ninety persons in his suite, and a body of Arab cavalry under the
Sheiks El Taib and Mohamet, with some footmen and camel drivers
completing the number. The beasts of burden were one hundred and seven
camels, engaged by Hamet, as Eaton thought, for the whole distance, at
eleven dollars a head, and a few asses. All being now ready, the
expedition against Tripoli really commenced on the 8th of March, and on
the following day began a series of annoyances and difficulties,
arising from the irresolution of Hamet, the intrigues of his followers,
and the faithlessness of the Arab chiefs, which continued during the
whole period. The Sheik El Taib who had been loudest in his expressions
of devotion to Hamet, and of confidence in the success of his cause,
began by hinting to the camel owners that they should demand their pay
in advance, as the Christians would not fail to cheat them if they
neglected this precaution. They followed his advice, and Eaton who knew
them too well to trust them, having refused to comply with their
demand, they refused to proceed. Hamet on this began to despond, but
Eaton quieted this first symptom of disunion, by promptly calling the
Christians under arms, and declaring his intention to return to
Alexandria, abandoning Hamet and his cause. The feint was successful,
and the march was resumed.

On the 13th they were met by a courier from Derne, bringing information
that the whole Province had taken up arms in behalf of Hamet, and that
the Bey was shut up in the castle. The receipt of this news gave them
courage; it was however near being attended by fatal results; for
Hamet's followers, who were in front, having discharged their arms in
expression of their joy, the Arabs in the rear, apprehending that an
attack had been made on them by some hostile tribe, determined to
secure their own share of the plunder, by killing the Christians who
were with them. This was prevented by the very proper observation of
one of the Chiefs, that it would be better to wait until the result of
the engagement in front was known.

On the 18th they reached a castle built of hewn stone, called Massarah,
distant about two hundred miles from Alexandria, and occupied by an
Arab Sheik; here Eaton first learned that the beasts of burden had been
engaged by Hamet to accompany them only thus far. Their owners demanded
immediate payment, and signified their intention of returning to Egypt.
Three days were spent in altercations with them, after which they were
paid by the surrender of nearly all the funds in possession of Eaton
and Hamet. Attempts were then made to prevail on them to accompany the
expedition to Bomba, a small seaport, at which an American ship of war
was expected to bring them supplies; and on their refusing this, to
march two days farther on, to a station where other camels could be
procured. Fifty camels were engaged as far as the latter place; the
others returned with their owners to Egypt. Meanwhile a report, said to
have been brought by a pilgrim from Morocco, had become current in the
camp, that a large force was on its way from Tripoli to oppose them,
and that it had even passed Bengazi. This report was sufficient to
render Hamet dispirited and mistrustful; he held consultations with his
followers and the Arabs, from which Eaton was excluded; and it soon
appeared that a plan was in agitation among them to arrest the progress
of the expedition until information had been received of the arrival of
the American ships at Bomba. Eaton on learning this, instantly ordered
the rations of these persons to be stopped, resolving to seize the
castle and to maintain himself in it with the Christians, until they
were relieved by an American detachment procured from Bomba or
Alexandria; then to abandon Hamet to his fate. This decisive step
produced its effect, and the march was resumed on the 21st.

The following day they fell in with a tribe of Arabs called _Ouedalli_,
who had never before seen Christians, and what was strange, appeared to
be totally unacquainted with bread; of money however they knew the
value, and it being a scarce article among the invaders, they could
only obtain supplies of meat by giving their rice and biscuit in
return. Eighty of their warriors entered Hamet's service, and
forty-seven tents of Arab families were afterwards added to their
company; ninety camels being also engaged to Bomba. But just as they
were about to march, a courier arrived from Derne, confirming the
report brought by the pilgrim, of the advance of a Tripoline force; the
greatest alarm ensued, the camel drivers fled, the Arab Chiefs became
insolent, and Hamet despairing, seemed determined to go back to Egypt.
Eaton again took the bold step of suspending rations until the camels
returned, and the march was resumed. The Sheik El Taib the originator
of all disturbances, on this withdrew, carrying with him in addition to
his own followers, many of the new recruits, and hinting that he might
probably be found with the enemy. Hamet prayed that a messenger might
be sent to pacify him, and offer him terms; to this Eaton would not
agree; he despatched an order to the Sheik to return to his duty,
coupled with a defiance in case he should prove a traitor; and having
brought the remnant of his forces to obedience, resumed his progress.
Hamet became more fearful and irresolute every moment, and shewed every
disposition to abandon the undertaking; he deprived the Americans of
their horses, and on one occasion actually marched back a short
distance; Eaton continued onwards, and his perseverance shamed the
Prince, who returned, having succeeded by means of his principal
officer, in bringing with him the deserting Arabs.

During this delay, Eaton employed his leisure moments in attempting to
quiet the religious prejudices of the Arabs against himself and the
other Americans; assuring them that in his country no form of worship
or opinion was either enforced or excluded, all being free to act in
this respect as their consciences dictated; and that God had promised
the Americans a heaven different from those of Mussulmen or of <DW7>s,
to which however any good men would be admitted who chose to establish
themselves in it. His expositions did not convince, but they served to
conciliate. Whether they were warranted or not by the nature of the
circumstances, each person must judge for himself; it may however be
observed, that his declarations cannot be said to be insincere, as his
ideas on religion seem never to have been fixed.

On the 1st of April new difficulties occurred. The Arab Sheiks demanded
an augmentation of the ration, and on its being refused, openly
threatened Eaton. He defied them as usual, and returned the threat, by
giving notice to the Sheik El Taib that if any mutiny arose, he should
instantly put him to death, as being the cause of it; they were thus
again brought to obedience. The expedition had now reached the country
anciently settled by the Greeks, and they frequently passed extensive
tracts covered with massive ruins. Of the style and character of the
architecture Eaton says nothing; he knew but little of ancient history,
and was totally unacquainted with any of the fine arts; indeed, he was
rather disposed to view a magnificent monument of antiquity as a
degrading memorial of despotism. Of the wells and cisterns which he
found among these ruins, he however, as may be supposed, always speaks
in grateful terms. He confirms the accounts of the barrenness of the
surrounding country, from which we are led to form the opinion that the
wealth of these places must have been derived from commerce with the
interior of Africa.

On the 5th they encamped at Salliaum, near Cape Luco, one of the few
places mentioned by Eaton, which can be found on any map or chart. By
the 8th they had arrived within eighty miles of Bomba, and had
travelled about four hundred miles since leaving Alexandria. They had
now but six days provisions left, and Eaton was of course most anxious
to proceed; Hamet however objected, and resolved to await the return of
a messenger whom he meant to despatch to Bomba. Eaton replied that if
he stopped he must starve, and refused to give out rations. The Arabs
determined to seize them, and the American drew up the Christians under
arms in front of the magazine tent. After some time spent by the two
parties in eyeing each other, the Arabs with Hamet at their head,
prepared to make a charge; some of the Greeks and Levantines quailed,
the others and the Americans stood firm; and Eaton advancing towards
Hamet, reproached him with his rashness. As usual the superior
character triumphed; the poor Prince embraced him, and on his promise
to distribute rations after they had marched, the camp was restored to
quiet.

On the 10th the messenger returned from Bomba, bringing the agreeable
intelligence that the American ships were lying off that place; on the
15th they reached it, and what were the feelings of Eaton to find there
not a vessel, nor a human being, nor a drop of water. The vessels had
been seen, but had departed, probably considering the expedition as
having entirely failed, as the time calculated for its arrival had long
since elapsed. The provisions being exhausted, imprecations now burst
forth from the whole Mussulman host on the Christians who had brought
them to this terrible pass. Even in this situation Eaton did not
despair; he ordered fires to be lighted on the hills as signals, and
endeavored to devise some means of getting his little army on to Derne.
The next morning all was confusion, and the Arabs were preparing
severally to seek their own safety, when a ship was descried bearing
down for the place; she proved to be the Argus, which had been sent
with the sloop of war Hornet from Malta, with seven thousand dollars in
specie, and supplies of provisions and ammunition. The supplies were
immediately landed and distributed, as also were those from the Hornet,
which arrived on the following day; and on the 23d the expedition again
took up its line of march in good spirits.

Of the vast region traversed by the expedition since leaving Egypt,
probably the only account in modern times is to be found in the journal
of Eaton; with the exception of a few tracts offering pasture for
cattle, it was totally barren, consisting of desert plains or rocky
ledges. On the day of leaving Bomba they saw the first stream or spring
of running water, having been hitherto supplied entirely from wells and
cisterns. They shortly after entered a beautiful and fertile district;
as they advanced signs of cultivation increased, and it became
necessary, in order to conciliate the inhabitants, to take active
measures to prevent marauding or wanton injury of property. News
arrived that Yusuf's army was approaching; but the prospect of a
conflict which animated Eaton, depressed the spirits of the Prince in
whose cause he was engaged, and served to excite the avaricious
propensities of his Arab allies. Hamet and his followers again began
their secret consultations. The Sheiks refused to advance, and the
Bedouins, who had joined as independent partizans, remained within
their tents. A promise of money by Eaton however prevailed; they
resumed their march, and on the 25th encamped on an eminence
overlooking Derne.

The country eastward of the Great Syrtis, forming the ancient
Cyrenaica, is now called Barca, and is divided into two provinces, of
which the capital of the western is Bengazi, a small town occupying the
site of the ancient Berenice; that of the eastern is Derne. Each
province is governed by a Bey, who is generally a member of the royal
family. The Province of Derne is beautiful and fertile, and is
considered the most valuable portion of the Tripoline dominions; it
produces in great luxuriance, grapes, figs, melons, bananas, oranges,
dates and other fruits of a tropical climate; and affords good pasture
for cattle, of which many are exported for the supply of Malta and the
Ionian Islands. The capital is a small and irregularly built town,
situated near the seashore, at the mouth of a valley which extends for
a considerable distance into the country; through this valley rushes a
mountain torrent, which in the rainy season sometimes overflows the
town, and in the summer is nearly dry; water for the use of the
inhabitants, and for irrigating the fields and gardens, is however
constantly and plentifully supplied by a spring gushing from the side
of a hill above the town. Its distance (following the seashore) is
about eight hundred miles from Tripoli, from Alexandria about six
hundred; and it is considered on good grounds, as the remnant of
Darnis, one of the principal ports of the Cyrenaica. About fifty miles
west of it, are the massive ruins and extensive excavations which point
out the spot formerly occupied by the wealthy and polished Cyrene.

The only regular fortification of the place was a battery near the sea,
occupied by the Bey Mustapha, a cousin of the Pasha; his troops, about
eight hundred in number, occupied the adjoining houses, in the walls of
which they had pierced loopholes for their musquets. A few temporary
parapets had also been thrown up in positions not covered by the
battery. The inhabitants of the town were generally in favor of Hamet;
those surrounding the Bey's residence, if similarly affected, were
restrained by fear from any demonstration of their feelings.

On the 26th of April, the day after the arrival of the expedition in
sight of Derne, Eaton sent a flag of truce to the Bey, demanding in the
name of Hamet as rightful Pasha of Tripoli, quiet passage through the
place, and provisions for his troops; promising in case of compliance,
that he should not be removed from his government. The Bey instantly
sent back the flag, with this short but expressive answer--"_Your head
or mine._" In the course of the night the Argus, the Hornet, and the
schooner Nautilus appeared; and on the 27th, Eaton having succeeded
with great difficulty in landing a field piece from the latter vessel,
determined on an immediate attack, it being his object to gain
possession of the town before the arrival of the troops which were
daily expected from Tripoli. Accordingly he himself advanced with some
of the Christians and Arabs down the valley, towards the entrance of
the place; Lieutenant O'Bannon with six Americans and fifty other
Christians took post to the eastward, and brought the cannon to bear on
the Bey's quarters; Hamet with about a thousand Arabs occupied a ruined
castle on the southwest side of the town. At two o'clock the vessels
stood in as near as possible, and fired upon the battery and houses
occupied by the Tripolines. By this means, and by the active use of
O'Bannon's field piece, the battery was soon silenced, and the Bey's
troops rushing from their coverts upon Eaton's little band, which had
now reached the entrance of the place, succeeded in throwing them for a
moment into confusion. They were however speedily rallied, and being
joined by a few of O'Bannon's men, were brought to the charge; the
Tripolines were driven through the town to their former posts, which
they were however obliged immediately to abandon, the greater part
seeking refuge on the seashore, where they were exposed to the fire
from the vessels. The battery was seized by the Christians; and the
guns, found loaded and primed, were turned on the houses occupied by
the Bey and his few remaining followers. Hamet's troops had remained
very quiet during the affair, which was conducted almost entirely by
the Christians; when success had been assured, some of them entered the
town, which they began to pillage, others pursued the fugitives. It is
believed that they lost none of their number. The Christians had
fourteen killed, and several wounded; among the latter was Eaton, who
received a ball in his wrist on entering the town.

Eaton was particularly anxious to secure the person of the Bey, with a
view to his exchange for Captain Bainbridge; but he had taken refuge
first in a Mosque, and afterwards in the Harem of an old and
respectable inhabitant, who had two years before sheltered Hamet in a
similar manner, when pursued by this same Bey. Preparations were made
by the Christians to drag him from his place of refuge; but the
inhabitants and the Arabs expressed so much dissatisfaction at the
contemplated insult to what they considered most sacred, that it was
found expedient to abandon the attempt. The proprietor of the Harem,
though in favor of Hamet, declared his readiness to die rather than
submit to such a disgrace. Eaton then attempted by stratagems to draw
the Bey forth from his asylum; but they failed, and he at length
escaped to the enemy, his protector afterwards openly avowing that he
had assisted him in so doing, as he had formerly assisted Hamet.

Every exertion was then made to put Derne in a state of defence. Hamet
took possession of his former palace, and endeavored to render it
secure against any insurrectionary movement. Eaton established himself
in the battery; parapets were thrown up in proper positions, and
mounted with guns, to prevent the place from being carried by a sudden
attack. The Tripoline forces at length appeared on the 4th of May, in
number between two and three thousand, under the command of Hassan Bey,
with the Beys of Bengazi, and Ogna, and Hadgi Ismain Bey, as commander
of the cavalry, acting under his orders. They took post about two miles
above the town, on each side of the valley, nearly in the positions
first occupied by Hamet's troops.

Hassan did not think proper to begin his operations immediately; at
length on the 13th his troops rushed down from each side of the valley,
upon a body of Hamet's cavalry which was posted below, about a mile
from the town. The Arabs received them with great steadiness, and
maintained their ground for some time, but being overpowered, fled in
disorder into the town. The Tripolines pursued, and although galled by
the musquetry from the houses, and by the guns of the battery and ships
wherever an opening presented itself, they succeeded in reaching
Hamet's palace. All was near being lost; the Arabs were giving way in
all directions; the Christians were too few in number to quit their
posts, and there was every prospect that Hamet would soon be either
killed or made prisoner. Eaton then turned the guns of the battery upon
the part of the town about the palace, and some of the Tripolines being
killed, a panic seized the others, and they fled with precipitation,
pursued by the Arabs, who behaved gallantly on this occasion. Of the
Tripolines about eighty were killed or wounded; the loss on Hamet's
side did not exceed twelve.

This defeat so much dispirited the Tripolines, that all the exertions
of the Beys could not induce them for some time to make another attack;
the Arabs obstinately refusing to encamp near the town, or to venture
within reach of the cannon shot, with which they had hitherto been
entirely unacquainted. Hassan finding bold and open measures
ineffectual, resorted to others from which he anticipated more success;
he offered six thousand dollars for Eaton's head, and double the sum
for him if taken alive. This magnificent promise however produced no
effect, doubtless from an apprehension that the task would be
difficult, and the reward by no means certain. He then engaged the
services of two expert women, who engaged to take off the troublesome
infidel by poison; but Eaton having received notice of their plans,
took precautions which rendered them ineffectual. The Beys in despair
next endeavored to attain their object by an assault, to be made under
cover of the camels, which were thus to form a moving parapet in front
and on the flanks. But this proposal was attended with no success, the
Arabs being as little inclined to risk the lives of their camels as
their own. In this state of things the Pasha's army began to disappear;
desertions daily took place, and on the 22d of May Eaton writes, "_We
want nothing but cash to break up our enemy's camp without firing
another shot._"

Partial attempts were however made on the 28th of May and the first
three days of June, which were unsuccessful. On the 7th Hadgi Ismain
Bey, commander of the Tripoline cavalry, quitted his post with some
followers, and escaped to Egypt, carrying with him the military chest.
The Bey of Bengazi was also reported to be wavering, and Eaton in his
despatches to Commodore Barron, earnestly urged him to send a few
marines and some money, by means of which he pledged himself soon to
appear in Tripoli and liberate his captive countrymen.

On the 10th the Tripoline forces received a large accession, and the
Beys determined to make a desperate effort. The action was begun by
some of their cavalry, who attempted to descend a pass leading to the
plain near the town; they were met by a body of Hamet's mounted Arabs,
which resisted the attack gallantly, and succeeded in repelling it.
Reinforcements appearing on each side, the action became general, and
it was supposed that at least five thousand men were engaged. The
Tripolines were driven off with some loss; but pursuit was impossible,
and Eaton was obliged still to remain, hoping or rather wishing for the
reinforcements he had so long requested. At Bomba and since his arrival
at Derne, he had received communications from the commanding officer of
the American forces in the Mediterranean, which gave him great anxiety,
and his situation was every day becoming more uncertain and painful.
His doubts were however terminated on the 11th, when the frigate
Constellation entered the harbor, bringing despatches from Tripoli,
dated the 6th; in order to understand the nature of these several
communications, and of his feelings, it will be necessary to relate the
occurrences at and before that city since September 1804.

(_To be continued._)




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMARKS ON A NOTE TO BLACKSTONE'S COMMENTARIES, VOL. I, PAGE 423.


MR. WHITE,--I have read the Note on a passage in Blackstone's
Commentaries, which you gave us in your last, with some surprise. I had
supposed before, that no gentleman of any intelligence could be found
within the four corners of our state, who would seriously undertake to
maintain that our domestic slavery, which is obviously the mere
creature of our own positive law, is so right and proper in itself,
that we are under no obligation whatever to do any thing to remove, or
lessen it, as soon as we can. I had thought, indeed, that it was a
point conceded on all hands, that, wrong in its origin and principle,
it was to be justified, or rather excused, only by the stern necessity
which had imposed it upon us without our consent, and which still
prevented us from throwing it off at once, without a degree of danger
which we could not properly encounter. And, at any rate, I had imagined
that all of us were fully satisfied, by this time, that it was an evil
of such injurious influence upon our moral, political, and civil
interests, that we owed it to ourselves as well as to our subjects, to
reduce, and remove it, as soon, and as fast as possible, consistently
with the rights which we had created or sanctioned by our laws; and
with other considerations which we were bound to regard. In all this,
however, it seems, I was reckoning without my host, the author of the
article before me, who has come forward, at this late hour, to assert
the absolute rectitude and utility of the system, with all the power of
his pen. I do not, however, by any means, feel disposed to question his
perfect right to do so, or to deny for a moment the ingenuity with
which he has labored to maintain his novel position. On the contrary, I
freely acknowledge both; but believing at the same time, as I do, that
his reasonings are false in their principle, and pernicious in their
tendency, I must beg leave to follow his annotations with a few
remarks.

And first, the Annotator, after declaring that he has been impelled to
defend our domestic slavery "by a pious reverence for the institutions
of our forefathers," (a very honorable motive; but strangely
misapplied,) proceeds to say: "It is hardly necessary to expose the
sophistry by which Mr. Blackstone affects to prove that slavery cannot
have had a lawful origin. We do not pretend to trace our title to its
source. We have no call to sit in judgment between the conquered
African and his conqueror. We rest our defence on principles which
legitimate our title, whatever its origin may have been. Yet it may not
be amiss to say a few words to show the fallacy of those plausible and
imposing dogmas, with which we too often suffer ourselves to be talked
down." Now I have always regarded the reasoning of Blackstone on this
point as absolutely unanswerable; and I am happy to know that I am not
alone in my opinion of its weight; for the late venerable Judge Tucker,
I see, in _his_ note upon the same passage, (which I commend to all
your readers,) after quoting it at length, adds these words: "Thus by
the most _clear_, _manly,_ and _convincing_ reasoning, does this
excellent author refute every claim, upon which the practice of slavery
is founded, or by which it has been supposed to be justified, at least,
in modern times." I will not, however, too hastily conclude against the
Annotator's objections; but endeavor to weigh them with due care. He
proceeds thus: "Slavery," says Mr. Blackstone, "cannot originate in
compact, because the transaction excludes the idea of an equivalent."
This is the substance of Blackstone's argument on this head; but does
not give us a full idea of its force. His own statement of it is as
follows: "But secondly, it is said that slavery may begin 'jure civili'
when one man sells himself to another. This, if only meant of contracts
to serve or work for another, is very just; but when applied to strict
slavery, in the sense of the laws of old Rome or modern Barbary, is
also impossible. Every sale implies a price, _a quid pro quo_, an
equivalent given to the seller in lieu of what he transfers to the
buyer; but what equivalent can be given for life and liberty, both of
which (in absolute slavery) are held to be in the master's disposal?
His property also, the very price he seems to receive, devolves _ipso
facto_ to his master, the instant he becomes his slave. In this case,
therefore, the buyer gives nothing, and the seller receives nothing: of
what validity then can a sale be, which destroys the very principles
upon which all sales are founded?" Now this seems to me to be pretty
good logic; and how then does the Annotator answer it? Why he says:
"For an answer to this specious fallacy, I shall content myself by
referring you to the masterly essay of Professor Dew, who has so
clearly exposed it as to leave me nothing to add." This is certainly
judicious, and I cannot but commend him for his prudence, at least, in
thus turning over the trouble of answering such an argument to another.
How this latter gentleman, however, (who must take the compliment _cum
onere_,) can have contrived to expose so clearly "the specious fallacy"
which, it seems, lurks in it, I confess I cannot imagine; as I have not
his "masterly essay" before me. No doubt his exposure must be clever;
but, with all due respect for him, it is plainly impossible that it can
be sound. As at present advised, therefore, I shall stick to
Blackstone, or rather to his reasoning, which, as far as I can see, no
human wit can ever refute.

But the Annotator takes upon himself to grapple with another argument
of Blackstone, which he states in these words: "The commentator further
tells us that slavery cannot lawfully originate in _conquest_, as a
commutation for the right to kill; because this right rests on
necessity, and this necessity plainly does not exist, because the
victor does not kill his adversary, but makes him captive." Now this,
too, I have heretofore taken for very sound logic; and why is it not
perfectly so? Why because, says the Annotator, the conqueror may be in
such a situation that he can only secure himself against the future
hostility of his conquered enemy, by killing, _or_ by enslaving him;
and if he may enslave him himself, then he may hand him over to another
to deport him; which is the mildest mode of doing the thing. Of course,
"the mere captivity of his enemy does not imply the security of the
captor, should he allow his prisoner to go free." And he illustrates
his argument on this point, very prettily, by a figure. "The snared
tiger is in your power. You may kill--you may cage him. _Therefore_,
says Mr. Blackstone, you are under no necessity to do either, and the
noble beast has a fair claim to his liberty." This is a dexterous turn;
but unluckily it proceeds upon a misconception of the true point of
Blackstone's argument, which the Annotator ought to have perceived is
itself an answer to another. The commentator, observe, is answering the
argument of Justinian, that slavery may arise "_jure gentium_," from a
state of war; that is, from the right of a captor to kill his enemy
taken prisoner in battle. "But it is an untrue position," says he,
"when taken generally, that by the law of nature or nations, a man may
kill his enemy; he has only a right to kill him in particular cases, in
cases of absolute necessity for self-defence; and it is plain this
absolute necessity did not subsist, since the victor did not actually
kill him, but made him prisoner." Now the answer is obviously complete,
_so far as regards the point to which it applies_. But, says the
Annotator, it does not settle the question. Perhaps not; nor does
Blackstone say that it does; but it settles the argument of Justinian;
and that is all that, considered as an answer, it was intended, or
could be fairly required, to do.

But why does it not even settle the question? Why, because, says the
Annotator, the conqueror has a right to dispose of his captive in such
a manner as to protect himself from his future hostility; and if he may
not kill, it does not follow that he may not enslave, or transport him,
provided it is necessary for his own security, to dispose of him in
that way. Very true; but this is new matter, which demands perhaps a
new answer; but does not at all invalidate the former answer to the
former argument. And with regard to this new matter too, Blackstone
has, in my opinion, very fairly answered it in advance by what he
immediately adds, but what the Annotator, (inadvertently no doubt,) has
kept back. Thus he adds: "War is itself justifiable only on principles
of self-preservation, and, therefore, it gives no other right over
prisoners, but merely to disable them from doing harm to us, _by
confining their persons_; much less can it give a right to kill,
torture, abuse, plunder, _or even to enslave_, an enemy, _when the war
is over_." To expand this sentence a little. You may, says Blackstone,
by the laws of war, put your enemy _hors de combat_; but you must do
it, by the law of humanity, which is a prior and perpetual part of the
same law of nature, with as little suffering to him as possible,
consistently with your own safety. You may then, I grant you, take him
prisoner, and "_confine his person_," that is, if you cannot venture to
discharge him on his parole; but "_only while the war lasts_;" for the
very foundation of your right to confine him grows out of the war, and
vanishes, of course, with the return of peace.

Now it is obvious, I think, that this argument, duly considered, very
fairly answers, by anticipation, the new matter which the Annotator has
brought into view. For how, I ask, can a temporary right to confine
your captive _durante bello_, become the basis for the transfer of an
absolute right to enslave and deport him? Obviously, if I must even
grant that you can transfer your right of self-defence, or the powers
which it involves, to a neutral, (which I might well question,) you can
only transfer it to the extent to which you possess it yourself. But
your right over your prisoner of war ceases with your war against the
nation, or tribe, to which he belongs. And what right, then, can you
have to hand him over to an assignee, who you know will continue his
dominion over him, (and over his children after him,) without putting
it in your power again to restore him, as in duty bound, upon the
cessation of hostilities, to his family and friends? Or what right can
your assignee have to hold the prisoner under your assignment, one
moment after your right itself has run out? Obviously, none at all. A
holds a slave, who is to serve for the life of B, but to be free
afterwards, and sells him to C in fee simple; what right has C to hold
him after the death of B? Clearly none at all.

There is no escaping from the force of this argument, as far as I can
see, but by maintaining, (as the Annotator indeed seems disposed to
do,) that barbarians can have no peace with each other; but that war
among them must be waged _ad internecionem_, to the point of mutual
extermination, or something equivalent. But this notion is plainly more
barbarous than the practice of the most barbarous tribes that we have
ever read, or heard of; for there is not one of them that does not make
peace, after its fashion; (or did not at least, before our European
slavers taught them a different lesson,) and the act of making peace
obviously implies that there can be, and is, a reasonable security
against future hostilities, without the destruction of either party.
And there is no tribe on earth, I suppose, (or was not before the
slave-trade began,) so absolutely and desperately barbarous as to
insist upon holding its captives after the war is over, and the treaty
of peace fairly ratified by a smoking match, or a dance upon the green.

But the Annotator may yet say, (and does in fact,) that granting all
this, the captor _may have been_ in the dilemma which he has supposed,
_during the war_; that is, he may have been obliged to kill or sell his
captives immediately, to save himself; and he puts a case to illustrate
his argument on this point. "When Colonel Campbell, at the head of a
few militia, stooped from the mountains of Virginia on Carolina, and
bore off the corps of Colonel Ferguson in his pounces, had he been
pursued and overtaken by Tarleton, he must have killed his prisoners.
He could not have held them, and to have enlarged them would have been
to sacrifice the lives of thousands. If, then, he had had no place of
refuge, he might have handed them over to any custody, civilized or
savage, in which they might have been removed from the theatre of the
war." But this case is obviously an imaginary one; and such as could
hardly have occurred in fact. It is remarkable indeed that the
Annotator could find no example in all the romance of real life to suit
the exigence of his argument; but was compelled to fabricate one for
the purpose; or at least to piece out an actual occurrence, by a
supplemental supposition or two of his own; and even then could not
make it serve his turn. Thus Colonel Campbell was _not_ "pursued and
overtaken by Tarleton," and, if he had been, would evidently have had
to fight or surrender, and could have had no time to think about the
supposed alternative of killing his prisoners, or handing them over to
a third party, even if one had been there to receive them. And if you
vary the case a little, so as to make him pursued, but not overtaken;
the time that you will thus give him to hand over his prisoners to
others, will equally suffice to enable him to escape with them himself.
Or if you give him time enough to hand them over; but not enough to
escape with them, (a point of nicety that is hardly conceivable,) then
you also allow the pursuing enemy time enough, in all probability, to
come up and recapture them from their new holders; the very thing to be
avoided. The case, therefore, is evidently altogether fanciful, and
proves nothing. At all events, it is quite clear that such a _nodus_ as
it indicates could not have occurred in any single instance of the sale
of captives for slaves, by any African chief, to the master of a
Spanish ship. At least, it is quite fair to say that, in general, the
mere fact of the captor's having sold his captive, even during the war,
must be _prima facie_, if not conclusive evidence, that he could not
have been in the dilemma imagined, of being obliged to kill, or to
enslave him; for it must be obvious that if he had him so completely in
his power as to be able to bargain, sell, and deliver him to the
slaver, and to receive his money or goods stipulated for him in return;
he could not have been very closely pursued by any barbarous Tarleton
in his rear at the time, and could not have been under any pressing
necessity to do either the one thing, or the other; but, for aught that
appears, might have disposed of his prisoner in some more humane
manner. The _onus probandi_, then, or burden of proof, to show that in
point of fact the captor and vender of any African slave, _was_, in any
case whatever, in the precise predicament supposed, must be on the
Annotator; and can he bear it? Hardly, I suppose. But of what avail,
then, can it be to his argument, that he can _imagine_ or _invent_ a
case, (or a hundred cases, if he likes,) in which there _might have
been_ a lawful origin of slavery, when he evidently cannot show that
any thing like it has ever occurred in fact, from the first beginning
of the slave trade down to the present time?

Thus it appears that the reasoning of Blackstone to prove the
unlawfulness of slavery in its origin, is as strong as we have always
thought it; and very easily defends itself against all that any
ingenuity can urge against it. But say that it is not so; and grant, if
you please, for the sake of argument, that it is all "a specious
fallacy" indeed; what then? Does it follow that slavery _as it exists
in our state_, was just and lawful _in its origin_? By no means. For
say that Mr. Dew has by some miraculous effort of intellect, very
clearly established, in the face of Blackstone's demonstration, (and in
the face of our Bill of Rights also,) that a man _can_ sell himself;
can it be shown that, in point of fact, any single one of the slaves
who were imported into our colony from the year 1620 to the revolution,
_had_ actually sold himself to any one who claimed to be his owner? And
say, also, that the Annotator has proved, against the unanswerable
argument of his author, (and against the plainest principles of the law
of nature,) that a conqueror may justly enslave and export his prisoner
of war in any imaginable case whatever, can it be made to appear that
any one of the Africans brought to our shore was really captured, and
sold, in such a state of things? On the contrary, we have unhappily the
most ample evidence from history, that the whole of our exotic slaves
were either stolen from their native woods, and brought away against
their will, or under false and fraudulent promises which were never
performed; or bought for swords and rum, (fit price for such articles!)
from those who had captured them, not in just and necessary wars of
self-defence, but in predatory hostilities, excited and fomented for
the very purpose, by the worst of pirates, the foulest and most deadly
enemies of the human race.

But passing from this "grave sophistry," as he calls it, of Blackstone,
the Annotator now comes to the consideration of those "principles" on
which he chooses to rest his defence of slavery, and "which," he says,
"legitimate our title, whatever its origin may have been." But can
_any_ principles, I ask, do this? If slavery, as we have seen, is
clearly wrong in its origin; that is, if it is, in itself, a violation
of the law of nature, can any thing "legitimate" it; that is, make it
lawful; by that law? Is not the law of nature, like its author,
immutable, and eternal? And must not that, then, which is against this
law in one age, be equally against it in another, and in every
succeeding age, to the end of time? And if slavery, then, was unlawful
in its origin, must it not be so now, and continue to be so forever?
Or, can the mere lapse of time make it lawful? But that cannot alter
the nature of things. Indeed I may remind the Annotator, that our
municipal law even, while it legalizes slavery, does not allow any
length of time to bar a claim to freedom; and much less, then, can the
law of nature, which has no statute of limitations in its code.

But waiving this, let us see, for a moment, what these principles are
which the Annotator supposes may "legitimate our title, whatever its
origin may have been." What are they? Why, if I understand his view of
the subject, (though it is not, I think, very clearly conveyed,) it is
substantially this. By the decree of God, who has said, that "man shall
eat of the fruit of the earth by the sweat of his face," there must
always be a _working class_ of men, in every country, who must be
satisfied to labor for their victuals and clothes; that being the
natural and impassable stint of their wages. It makes no manner of
odds, therefore, whether the members of this working class be free or
slave: if they are fed and clothed, it is all that they have a right to
expect, or any reason to demand. In point of fact, indeed, the slave of
this class is perhaps rather better off than the freeman; since he is
usually better fed and better clothed; and if he has no hope of any
thing better, he has no fear of any thing worse; and, upon the whole,
has a pretty considerable balance of comfort on his side. It follows
from all this, that his master may, very _legitimately_, hold him down
as a slave, _ad indefinitum_, (that is, till slavery "runs out" of
itself, as he thinks it may in time,) without feeling any qualm of
conscience in the case, or giving himself any trouble whatever about
the matter.

Now all this is doubtless very pretty, and very imposing! It has,
however, I acknowledge, some small mixture of truth in it; and if it
were offered merely by way of apology for our slavery, and as a set-off
against the gross caricatures of it which are sometimes drawn by the
_ultras_ of the other side, and especially by our northern
abolitionists, I should hardly choose to criticise it too nicely.
Indeed I am happy to believe myself, that bad as the system
unquestionably is, it is yet not without some alleviating concomitants,
which materially soften its natural horrors, and may properly serve to
make us endure it with more patience, while we must. But if the
Annotator intends to go further than this, and to prove by these
remarks, (as I understand him to do,) that it is _right_ and _lawful_;
then I must protest against the reasoning as utterly vain and
irrelevant. For, granting all his premises, (though there are certainly
some rather strange and startling propositions among them; yet granting
them all for the sake of argument,) I really cannot perceive how the
conclusion follows from them. For if I grant that there must be _a
working class_, does it follow that we have a right to determine by
compulsion, or by positive law, who shall compose that class? The
decree of Divine Providence, as quoted by the Annotator himself, is
that "_man_," (that is, that all men,) shall work for his bread. What
right, then, has any one portion, or set of men, to slip their own
necks out of "the brazen collar," (as he calls it,) of toil; and fasten
it immoveably and inexorably upon another? Is not this at once evading
and altering, as it were, the counsel of the Creator of all? And if I
grant, also, that the slave is happier than the free laborer, does it
follow that his master may lawfully hold him as such? Does the question
of right depend simply, or at all, upon the degree of happiness which
the laborer enjoys? And have I, then, a right to make _any_ man work
for me, according to my will and pleasure, provided I take care to feed
and clothe him well, and make him as happy as any laborer can expect to
be? Would the Annotator think it exactly right to have such a principle
carried home to himself? But he would perhaps say, that I must not take
quite so great a range as that, but be satisfied to take my man from
"_the working class_." But who compose this working class? All those, I
presume, who have been reduced by the various misfortunes of human
life, to the hard necessity of laboring for others, for their daily
bread. But would any one of this class consent to have the principle of
compulsion brought to bear against him, and surrender forever all hope
and chance of "escaping to the upper air" of a higher class? Certainly
not. Then I must yet further take care, I suppose, to see that my man
whom I am to force to labor for me, on the Annotator's principle, shall
be _black_. So the question of right turns at last upon the color of
the skin. Admirable logic indeed!

But the Annotator thinks that he has found something like an argument
to prove the lawfulness of our slavery, in the text of his author, who
happens to say (on another point,) that, "by the law of England, all
single men between twelve years old and sixty, and married ones under
thirty years of age, and all single women between twelve and forty, not
having any visible livelihood, are _compellable_ by two justices to go
out to service in husbandry, or certain specified trades." "This," says
he, "is as much as to say, they who can only live by labor shall be
made to labor. What more do we? They compel him to choose a master. We
appropriate his labor to a master to whom use and a common interest
attach him, and who is generally the master of his choice. The wages of
both are the same"--to wit, victuals and clothes. And he adds
afterwards, "It is here; on this very point, of the necessity of
forcing those to labor who are unable to live honestly without labor,
that we base the defence of our system." This is pleasant indeed; but
does not the Annotator perceive that he has entirely mistaken _the
principle_ of the English law, which is not, as he states it, that
"they who can only live by labor shall be made to labor;" but that
those who can only live by labor, _and yet will not labor for
themselves_, and are, therefore, likely to become chargeable to the
parish, shall be made to labor _for a time_, and _for wages_, until
they have learned, in this way, to work freely and willingly, for their
own support. But, according to _this_ principle, it is easy to see that
hundreds and thousands of our slaves would be entitled to their freedom
at once; for it cannot be pretended that many of them at least would
not be both able and willing to labor for themselves; and if all, or
the larger part of them, would not, it can only be because their very
slavery itself has incapacitated them for voluntary toil. But can we,
then, plead a defect of theirs which is the consequence of our own act,
to justify that act, in this way? Surely this ground of defence must be
abandoned at once, as wholly untenable, and even dangerous in the
highest degree. At any rate, there is no reason to charge the English
law with countenancing our system. The English law says that a freeman
who can, and will not, work to support himself shall be made to do so;
in order that others may not be called upon to support him. Our law
says that all slaves shall be made to work for their masters, whether
they are able and willing to support themselves, or not. Is the
principle of both laws the same, or entirely different?

But the Annotator finds an excellent reason why our mode of compelling
all slaves to work, should even be preferred to the English one of
compelling freemen to do so in particular cases; and it is curious
enough. I must give it in his own words: "That such compulsion," says
he, "is often necessary, all reason and experience prove. But to a
people jealous of freedom, it is a delicate question whether such a
power can be safely trusted to the municipal authority. To make it
effectual it must be a power dangerous to liberty. It could never be
carried into effect but by a degree of rigor which must bow the spirit
of the laborer, and effectually disqualify him for the political
functions of a sovereign citizen." This is truly excellent. So, then,
it would be dangerous to our liberty to have such a law as that of
England which allows, in certain cases, a freeman who is likely to
become a freebooter, or at least a hanger-on upon the community, to be
compelled to work for himself; and not at all dangerous to that same
liberty to compel one half of our population to work for the other! It
would, forsooth, "bow the spirit of the laborer," (as if the vagabond
had any spirit to bow,) and "disqualify him for the political functions
of a sovereign citizen;" and so to prevent that occasional
disqualification of a few, we must systematically disqualify hundreds
and thousands from performing those same functions of freemen, which
are so important and interesting to the whole body politic! A notable
expedient indeed to preserve the purity and lustre of our liberty, from
all possible danger of destruction or decay!

Upon the whole, I must say that, in my judgment, the Annotator has
failed entirely either to invalidate Blackstone's argument against the
lawfulness of slavery in its origin, or to advance any principles
whatever which can legitimate it, as it exists in our state, at the
present time. I must not, however, by any means, be understood as
meaning to convey the idea that I consider it as altogether
indefensible before the tribunal of an impartial world. On the
contrary, I still hold, as I have always done, that under the peculiar
circumstances in which we find it amongst us, it is justifiable, or
rather excusable, upon the soundest principles of the law of nature;
and, more particularly, upon the principle of necessity and
self-defence. By the law of nature, I may take away the life of another
when I cannot otherwise defend my own. Of course, I may take away his
liberty in a like case; and, _a fortiori_, I may continue my custody of
his person, when he has been committed to my charge, however
wrongfully, by one in whose act I had no participation; and when I
cannot release him without hazarding my own safety, and his too. To
apply this principle to the subject before us; our fathers have
fastened this enormous evil upon us in the beginning without our
concurrence or consent; and we now find and feel it to be too great and
complicated for us to think of removing it at once. To emancipate our
slaves on the spot, would indeed, in all human probability, be followed
by the ruin of both parties; and would at least be an experiment too
tremendous in its aspect, and too uncertain in its issue, to be rashly
tried. In this state of things, therefore, we may, I conceive, most
rightfully and properly, continue to hold them, as we would hold
prisoners of war, whose persons, we have seen, we may lawfully confine
while it is necessary for us to do so in order to protect ourselves
from their hostilities; but whom, at the same time, we must sincerely
and earnestly desire to liberate, and send back to their own country,
as soon as we can.

A VIRGINIAN.




The Western Monthly Magazine concurs with us in our opinions of Vathek.
The editor says, "Vathek is the production of a sensual and perverted
mind. The events are extravagant, the sentiments pernicious, and the
moral bad. It has nothing to recommend it but ease of style and
copiousness of language."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.

  "I'll make thee famous with my pen,
     And glorious with my sword."


It is said, and truly said, that "Truth is often more incredible than
fiction." It is natural too, that we should take a deeper interest in
the fortunes of creatures of flesh and blood, who have actually lived
and suffered, than in the imaginary sorrows of beings that are
themselves but figments of the writer's brain.

Why then do we so rarely meet with any narrative of facts which engages
our feelings so deeply as a well wrought fiction? May it not be that in
all histories of a romantic character there is, from the very nature of
the thing, a degree of mystery which we cannot penetrate; and that the
innumerable little incidents, which adorn the pages of a romance, and
so aptly illustrate the characters of the parties, are hidden by the
veil of domestic privacy? It might be allowable to supply these; but
the attempt to do so, is always offensive to the reader. We are
disgusted at seeing truth alloyed by fiction, and the fiction always
betrays itself. Let a characteristic chit-chat be detailed, and we find
ourselves wondering who it was that took notes of the conversation. We
read the scene between Ravenswood and Miss Ashton at the haunted
fountain, and never ask, whether she rose from her grave, or he emerged
from the Kelpie's flow, to describe it to the writer. But such a
narrative concerning real persons, would inevitably disgust us; and no
writer of any tact would ever attempt it. None above the grade of
Parson Weems ever did. There is no wilder romance than his life of
Marion. But who reads it? We feel that it profanes the truth of history
with fiction, and we throw it away with disgust. Yet it comes nearer to
Schiller's masterpiece, "The Robbers," than any thing else. Is it less
interesting because the prompting impulse of the hero is virtuous, not
criminal? No; but there is just truth enough to keep us always mindful
of the falsehood.

The great art, and the great charm of Walter Scott, is that he never
_describes_ his characters. He brings us _into their society_, and
makes us _know_ them. But how shall I make known the persons of whom I
wish to speak? I can say that HE was generous and brave, sincere, and
kind, and true, and that SHE was fair and gentle, and pure and tender.
These are but words, and have been repeated till they have lost their
meaning. I can say that both loved; but how can I show the passion
flashing in the eye, and glowing in the cheek--and how can I give it
breath in their own burning words? _I_ heard them not. _None_ heard
them. I can say that the hand of destiny was upon them, and tore them
asunder, to meet no more. I can even use the words of one whose strains
he loved, to tell

  "That neither ever found another
   To free the hollow heart from paining;"

but how can I develope the mysterious means by which this destiny was
accomplished? How could I speak, but in their own words, uttered only
to the midnight solitude, the deep yearnings of their hearts--and the
noble enthusiasm which made it the task of his life to render glorious
the name of him she had honored with her love? Could these details be
given truly, what a romance of real life would they form! Let the
reader judge from the following lines found among his papers, when the
damps of the grave had at last cooled the fever of his brain.

  'Tis sweet, when night is hushed in deep repose;
    And hides the Minstrel's form from every eye;
  To breathe the thoughts that speech can ne'er disclose,
    In all the eloquence of harmony.

  The mellow strain pervades the silent air,
    And mingles with the sleeper's blissful dream:
  The Lover hears the song of maiden fair;
    The humble saint, an Angel's holy hymn.

  Then sweet to know that she, for whom alone,
    Pours the wild stream of plaintive melody,
  Recalls the voice of Love in every tone;
    Approves its truth, and owns its purity.

  Borne on the breeze that cools her glowing cheek,
    But fans the ardor of her fevered breast;
  Lifts the loose lock that floats upon her neck,
    Sports round her couch, and hovers o'er her rest:

  Borne on that breeze, it greets her listening ear
    With tales of raptured bliss and tender wo;
  And tells of Joy and Grief, of Hope, Despair,
    And all that love, and Love alone can know.

  Her fair companions hear the soothing sound,
    But mute to them the voice that speaks to her;
  Burns the warm blush, unmarked of all around,
    And darkling falls, unseen, the silent tear.

  But not unseen of all; for to his eye,
    By Fancy's magic light she stands revealed;
  Her bosom struggling with the half-breathed sigh,
    By the strong pressure of her hand repelled.

  The Tear that in the moon-beam sparkles bright;
    The pensive look; the outstretched neck of snow;
  The Blush, contending with the silver light,
    Whose cold pale gleam would quench its fervid glow;

  He sees and hears it all. The music's stream
    Extends a viewless chord of sympathy,
  Thought answers thought; and, lost in Fancy's dream,
    Each breast responsive swells with sigh for sigh.

  Then O how sweet! warmed by the sacred flame,
    Of mutual--true,--but fruitless--hopeless love,
  To run the high career of deathless fame,
    And mid the world's admiring gaze to move

  Reckless of all but her. By midnight lamp,
    To turn, with heedful eye, the learned page;
  To shake the Senate, or to rule the Camp;
    To brave the tempest's blast, or battle's rage!

  What is the thought that prompts his studious zeal?
    That mans his breast in danger's fearful path?
  That nerves his arm to grasp the gory steel,
    Despising toil and hardship, wounds and death?

  It is that she the impassioned strain will love,
    That gives her charms in deathless verse to shine;
  Her favoring smile his steadfast faith approve;
    Her raptured tears bedew each glowing line.

  It is that she will cherish the renown
    Of noble deeds achieved her name to grace;
  And prize the heart that beat for her alone,
    In glory's triumph, and in death's embrace.

  'Tis that a grateful nation's loud acclaim
    May pour his praises on her favoring ear;
  'Tis that the twilight splendor of his name
    The widowed darkness of her heart may cheer.

  O! ever lovely, loving and beloved;
    Constant in absence; constant in despair!
  By time unwearied, by caprice unmoved;
    Thy lover's faith and fame thine only care!

  Tho' known to none but thee thy minstrel's name,
    Or who the fair that caused his tender pain;
  All undistinguished by the voice of fame,
    The bard who sung; the maid that waked the strain.

  Yet may'st thou catch the unconscious sympathy
    Of some soft nymph, who, from her lover's tongue,
  Hears, with averted look and blush and sigh,
    Her heart's fond secret in this artless song.

  But were I skilled to weave the immortal verse,
    Which after ages with applause would read;
  Thy praise in fitting accents I'd rehearse,
    And with unfading bay would crown thy head.

  Then should my Laura's charms survive the tomb,
    In strains like that the fairy bulbul sings,
  When all unseen he wakes the midnight gloom,
    Hovering o'er beauty's grave on viewless wings.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACT FROM A LADY'S ALBUM.


    And must I stain this virgin leaf,
      So fair, so pure, and so like thee!
    It grieves me--but it is thy will;
      And that is always law to me.

    'Tis said that those who feel the most
      Can best describe love's potent spell--
    That what the heart most deeply feels,
      The tongue most eloquently tells.

    Alas! it is an erring rule--
      It is not true! it is not true!
    Strong Passion's voice was ever low;
      And lower yet as Passion grew.

    When fiercest winds o'er ocean sweep,
      The sea is quell'd--no billows roll
    Their foaming crests upon the deep.
      Thus Passion treads the very soul
    Low in the dust, and bids it weep
      In silent anguish--and 'tis still
  As the aw'd slave who bows before a despot's will.

    Then think not I can tell my love
      In well-set phrase, with fitting smiles;
    He loves not--Oh! believe it true--
      Who knows and practices such wiles.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE PRAYER.


  Oh! mother, whither do they lead
  This wretched form, this drooping frame?
  What means the white rose in my hair?
  These jewels sure are not a dream.
  Of wither'd leaves 'twere better far
  The bridal chaplet had been wove--
  Oh! mother, lead me back again;
  _I cannot love--I cannot love!_

  Look not for love--it is in vain!
  Within this heart no more it dwells:
  Unclasp the volume if thou wilt,
  And ponder on the truth it tells.
  Ah! dearest mother, do not seek
  To warm to life a thing that dies,
  Nor re-illume the flame, when once
  The shrine, in hopeless ruin lies.

  Not to the altar, mother--no,
  I cannot kneel and speak that vow--
  Oh! let me rend these hated gems,
  And tear the white rose from my brow.
  Nay, let the dark grave be my couch,
  Of cypress leaves my bridal wreath,
  And I will wed,--yes, gladly wed,
  And clasp my welcome bridegroom, _Death!_

OCTAVIAN.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SELECTIONS FROM MY PORT FOLIO.

MY OWN OPINION--_A la Shakspeare_.


  There are, who say she is not beautiful.
  "Her forehead's not well turned," cries one. "The nose
  Too large"--"Her mouth ill-chiselled," says a third.
  With these, I claim no fellowship.
  For me, ('tis an odd taste, I know, and now-a-days,
  When people _feel_ by _rule_, such taste is thought
  Exceedingly romantic--yet 'tis true,)
  I look not with this mathematic eye
  On woman's face; I carry not about
  The compass, and the square--and when I'm asked,
  "Is that face fine?" draw forth my instruments,
  And coolly calculate the length of chin,
  Th' expanse of forehead, and the distance take
  Twixt eye and nose, and then, twixt nose and mouth,
  And if, exactly correspondent, it
  Should not prove _just so much_, two and three-eighths,
  Or, one four-fifths, disgusted, turn away,
  And vow "'tis vile! there is no beauty in't!"
  Out, on this mechanic disposition!
  Look you! _That man was born a carpenter._
  He hath no heart--he hath no soul in him,
  Who thus insults the "human face divine,"
  And tests its beauty with a vile inch-rule,
  As he would test the beauty of a box,
  A chess-board, or a writing-desk! Oh no!
  It is not in the feature's symmetry
  (For choose of earth the most symmetric face,
  Phidias shall carve as perfect--_out of stone_,)
  That the deep beauty lies! Give me the face
  _That's warm--that lives--that breathes--made radiant_
  _By an informing spirit from within!_
  Give me the face that varies _with the thought_,
  That answers to the heart! and seems, the while,
  With such a separate consciousness endued,
  That, as we gaze, we can almost believe
  _It is itself a heart_--and, _of itself_,
  Doth feel and palpitate!

                      And such is her's!
  One need _but look on_, to converse with her!
  Why I, without a thought of weariness,
  Have sat, and gazed on her for hours! and oft,
  As I have listened to her voice, and marked
  The beautiful flash of her fine dark eye,
  And the eloquent beaming of her face,
  And the tremulous glow that, when she spoke,
  Pervaded her whole being,--I have dreamed
  A spirit held communion with me then,
  And could have knelt to worship!

P. H.

_Augusta, Georgia_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.--NO. 4.

BY A VIRGINIAN.


_Albany, N. Y. July 27th, 1834._

It is a Southern opinion, that the large factories which have grown up
in the North, within the last seventeen years, are of a very
demoralizing tendency: that so many persons--_such_ persons too--cannot
be housed together, and allowed the free intercourse unavoidable where
the restraint is not for crime, without a large result of
licentiousness and vice. I have long thought thus: and must confess I
entered New England with a sort of _wish_ (arising from my hostility to
the protective system,) to have the opinion confirmed. In some places,
I heard and saw confirmation strong: but in most--and those the chief
seats of manufactures--my inquiries resulted directly otherwise. The
laborers there, it seems, are as moral as any other class of the
population. The females watch each other's deportment with the most
jealous vigilance: a slip is at once exposed, and punished by
expulsion; even a slight indiscretion is sure to draw down
remonstrance, and if that fails, complaint to the ruling power. The
boys and girls are allowed a reasonable part of the year to attend the
common-schools; and are encouraged at all seasons to frequent Sunday
schools. Lectures, occasional or in courses, are delivered, of which
the operatives are eager hearers: and social Libraries, with habits of
reading, sometimes produce among them strengthened and well stored
minds. Wherever these good effects appear, be it observed, the
proprietors and superintendents (generally men of fortune, as well as
intelligence) have taken the greatest possible care to produce them.
And where the unfavorable appearances occurred, there seemed to have
been a corresponding neglect on the part of owners and agent.

The _natural_ course of these establishments, then, seems to be _down
the stream of vice_. Great exertions may enable them to resist, nay to
surmount and ascend the current; but so soon as those efforts cease,
that instant the downward tendency prevails.[1] While the manufacturing
system is young--while high protecting duties enable employers to give
high wages--while a desire to conciliate favor to the system keeps both
owners and operatives upon _their best behavior_--the favorable moral
condition I have described may continue. But the oarsman cannot forever
row up the stream; weariness, or confidence, or incaution, will, some
day, relax his arm. In process of time, these promiscuous assemblages
of hundreds and thousands will vindicate the justness of the reasoning,
which argues the danger of contamination (a sort of _spontaneous
combustion_) from so close a contact:[2] will shew themselves rank hot
beds of vice; and make the lover of good morals grieve, that so many
souls should ever have been seduced from the healthful air of field,
and forest, and rustic fireside, to sicken and die in a tainted,
unnatural atmosphere.

[Footnote 1: Non aliter quam qui adverso vix flumine lembum
             Remigiis subigit; si brachia forté remisit,
             Atque illum in præceps prono rapit alveus amni.]

[Footnote 2: In Godwin's Inquirer, are some very just and forcible
observations on the corrupting effect upon youth, of too close and
numerous an association with each other. He applies it to large
boarding schools. The enlightened President of a Rhode Island
University, on similar grounds (as he told me), does all that he can to
discourage students from boarding and lodging in _College_. Observation
and experience had shewn him the danger of _spontaneous combustion_,
from the too near approach of human passions and weaknesses. The same
principle applies to the case of Factory hands: only, here, are
superadded, elements which incalculably enhance the danger.]

I mentioned _Lectures, and social Libraries_.--These, and similar
institutions for diffusing knowledge among the multitude, are among the
chief glories of New England. In all the cities, and many of the larger
and middling towns (towns in the English sense,) there are Lyceums,
Young Men's Societies, Library Societies, or associations under some
such name, for mental exercise and improvement. A collection of books
is a usual, and a philosophical apparatus an occasional appendage.
Connectedly with these institutions, or sometimes, independently of
them, Lectures on every variety of subjects that can instruct or profit
mankind, are delivered by public spirited men--professional and
unprofessional--sometimes, by farmers and mechanics themselves. They
are gratuitous; and in a style plain enough to be understood by all
classes of society, who flock to hear them. For these occasions, the
first abilities of the country have now and then been put in
requisition. Story, Everett, and Webster--alike with the village
teacher and mechanic; have contributed their quota of MIND, towards the
holy cause of Popular Instruction. A valuable lecture from each of
these; from Mr. Everett indeed, two Lectures--are in Vol. 1 of the
"American Library of useful knowledge." The name of this work at once
suggests that a similar one, published by Mr. Brougham and his generous
associates in Great Britain, in _fortnightly_ pamphlets, at a rate so
cheap as to be within every laborer's reach; unfolding, in a familiar
style, the useful parts of scientific and historical knowledge. To his
share in this work, Brougham, you remember, having his hands already
filled with pressing employments, was obliged to devote "_hours stolen
from needful rest_." How magnanimous the spirit, which could prompt
that "hardest lesson that humility can teach--a voluntary descent from
the dignity of science,"[3] to explain the simple rudiments of
knowledge to unlettered minds! the spirit, which could make genius and
power drudge in the lowliest walks of learning, to open and smooth them
for the ingress of intellectual "babes and sucklings!" When will the
great of Virginia deign this magnanimous descent? When will our Leigh,
our Tazewell, our Barbour, our Rives, our Johnson, our Stanard, our
Robertson--a generous spirit, from whose devotion to democracy,
something might be expected towards fitting his countrymen for self
government--when will they, and the host of talents besides that
Virginia possesses, be found striving in this noble race of usefulness
with Brougham, Jeffrey, McIntosh, Webster and Everett? That
trumpet-call of the North American Review five years ago, which might
have roused apathy itself to energetic effort in the cause of Popular
Education, and which--whether it _betokened_ only, or _strengthened_,
the beneficent operation of the spirit that has so long been diffusing
through the North the blessed light of MIND--doubtless met a response
in every Northern bosom; that trumpet-call, in Virginia, fell upon
senseless ears. You indeed, I remember, echoed it; but trumpet-call and
echo both, sounded in ears deaf save to the miserable wranglings of
party, about the more miserable pretensions of opposing candidates:
and, at this day, our people, and their leaders, are in a slumber as
profound on this subject, as if we had no Literary Fund--no Primary
Schools--no youth to educate--no country to save from the certain fate
of popular ignorance.

[Footnote 3: Dr. Johnson.]

It is bed time, and I must forbear saying more at present. Yet I have
not done with New England: there remain several topics, which I incline
to touch. So you shall hear from me at my next stopping place.

       *       *       *       *       *

_West Point, N. Y., July 28._

On board the Steam-boat this morning, I met ---- ---- and his family;
who, without my knowing it, were in Albany all of yesterday. They have
landed here too; and we expect to descend the river together to New
York city, to-morrow. He has given me a very gratifying account of the
Temperance reformation in this state. It seems to be triumphant, beyond
all experience in Virginia, or even in New England. The _means_ have
been, _perfectly organized action_--_great diligence of exertion_--and
_the use of the_ PRESS. The organization consists in a regular and
intimate concert, of _township_ societies with _county_ societies, and
of these with the _State_ society. This powerful machinery has been
aided by the active zeal, and generosity, of individuals, who have
profusely lavished time, and toil, and money, to advance the goodly
work. And by a judicious use of a great modern improvement of the
Press, a monthly paper (the Temperance Recorder) is published, at the
price of seventeen cents per annum: a copy of which, or of some other
Temperance newspaper, it is believed, is received by almost every
family in the state. Measures are taking to convey light thus to,
absolutely, _every family_. Cannot something like this be done in
Virginia? In Massachusetts, I perceived with regret, a strong
disposition to invoke Legislative action in support of the Temperance
Society: to get the making and vending of ardent spirits prohibited by
Law. In New York, they disarm opposition of so plausible a pretext for
hostility, by fixedly determining to ask--to accept--no such aid; but
to rely exclusively upon _reasoning_, _the exhibition of facts_, _and
the influence of example_--means, which have already achieved, what
were seven years ago deemed chimæras, and which will doubtless be fully
adequate to the consummation of this great work.--But I am digressing
from my design, of dwelling a little longer on some features of New
England.

_Manual Labor Schools_ (on the Fellenberg plan) have not multiplied
there, or grown in esteem, as might have been expected from the
forwardness of the people in adopting every valuable improvement; and
particularly, from the congeniality of this one with their own
long-cherished custom, of blending labor with study. Possibly, this
very custom may, in their eyes, make the improvement unnecessary: since
their youth already substantially enjoy its advantages. To study in
winter--to work in summer--has, time out of mind, been the routine of
New England education: differing from the Fellenberg method only in
having the alternations half-_yearly_, instead of
half-_daily_.--Franklin, the Trumbulls, Sherman, Dwight, Pickering,
Webster, Burges, and all the illustrious self-made men, who have
rendered that otherwise unkindly soil so verdant with laurels, were
nurtured strictly in the discipline of _manual labor schools_: and
perhaps the new method would be quite needless, were not the progress
of wealth, luxury, indolence and pride, now rapidly swelling the
numbers of those who, urged by no necessity, and relying upon no
exertions of their own for distinction, would never feel the salutary
influence of labor, if not sent to schools where it is taught; and were
not the same progress multiplying those also, who never could procure
instruction, except by the opportunity which this method affords them,
of purchasing it by their labor. Perhaps too, the Common Schools (in
which poor and rich are equally entitled to learn) may tend still more
to render the new plan useless; as to the branches of knowledge taught
in them.

_Infant Schools_ appear to have sunk a good deal in esteem, among
intelligent people in New England. At Hartford, a lady, whose name
(were it seemly to publish a lady's name) would give commanding weight
to the opinion, told me that they were found hurtful both to body and
mind: To _body_ (and this the physicians confirmed) by overexciting,
and thus injuring, the brain and the nervous system: to _mind_, by
inducing the habit of learning parrot-like, by rote--by sound
merely--without exercise of the thinking power. It seems agreed, that
some features of the infant school system may advantageously be
transferred to ordinary schools: for instance, the use of tangible and
visible symbols and illustrations. And infant schools themselves are
certainly well enough, for those children who would otherwise have to
be left alone, or untended, while their parents are abroad or at work.
But for _young children_, where the sternest necessity does not forbid,
there is nothing comparable to _domestic education_; no care, no skill,
no authority, like those of a mother--or of a father. And how few
parents there are, who, by methodical husbandry of time, and reasonable
exertion of intellect, might not find both leisure and ability to train
the minds and form the habits of their offspring, for at least the
first nine years of life!

The Common-school system, _as a system_, is certainly admirable. But
some _minutiæ_ of its administration may be censured. Teachers are
often tasked with too many pupils. I saw a young woman of twenty,
toiling in the sway of fifty-two noisy urchins, with twenty of whom I
am quite sure my hands would have been over-full: and it was said to be
no unusual case. Then, _Webster's spelling book_ is in frequent use.
There are half a dozen better ones. And the barbarous usage, of making
a child go on to spell in five or six syllables, before he is allowed
the refreshment of reading--instead of teaching him to read as soon as
he can spell in three letters, and then carrying on the two processes
together, to their mutual acceleration--is still kept up, as in our
_old-field_ schools.--A usage about as worthy of this enlightened age,
as the old rule, of whipping a boy for miscalling a word, or for not
crossing a _t_. I was glad to see Warren Colburn's books--his
Intellectual Arithmetic particularly--in pretty general use. His merit
is, not so much that he has smoothed the road to that child-perplexing
branch of knowledge (though in that respect he has entitled himself to
every child's gratitude), as that he has rendered the study an
improving exercise to the mind--a strengthener and quickener of the
reasoning faculty; and has disclosed the _rationalia_ of many processes
of calculation, as mysterious before to the young mind as so many feats
of jugglery. A pervading fault in the management of the common-schools,
is a _false economy_; shewn, in choosing teachers less by their proper
qualifications, than by their cheapness. In Connecticut, more
especially, this wretched mistake seems to prevail; as a curious fact,
told me in Providence, strikingly illustrates. Of the many who go forth
from the University there, and from several good Academies in the state
of Rhode Island, to find employment as teachers in the adjoining
states, few or none, it was said, found it in Connecticut: owing to the
niggardly wages paid there. The man for their money, is he who _asks
the least_.

Wide discretion, as to the classification of the Common-schools, and as
to the extent of the studies in them, is given to the _Towns_. In some,
the people, or their commissioners appointed to superintend the
schools, are content with a single grade or _tier_, in which are taught
merely the _necessary_ sorts of knowledge, from Arithmetic downwards.
Others classify them, into 1st. _primary_ schools, where only spelling,
reading, and writing, are taught: 2nd. _secondary_ schools, for the
rudiments of Arithmetic, Geography, English Grammar, and further
progress in reading and writing: 3rd. _Apprentices'_ schools, where the
above branches are further taught, with the addition of some History,
Book-keeping, and Geometry: 4th. _High_ schools, for Algebra, Geometry,
use of the Globes, Latin, (and sometimes Greek) with perhaps the
elements of Natural Philosophy. The classification sometimes stops at
the third, sometimes at the second, tier. There are but few towns, in
which it is carried to the fourth. Worcester is one of these: Boston,
and Salem, are the only others that I heard of. In the first and second
grades, boys and girls are schooled together: in the higher grades,
male and female schools, are separate.

Latin and Mathematics are coming to be considered as a regular part of
female education, throughout the North. But I have not ascertained
satisfactorily, whether it is a mere smattering that is taught, or so
thorough a course as may solidly improve the memory, taste, judgment
and reasoning powers. In relation to women even more emphatically than
to men, (it seems generally agreed) these studies are less to be
prized, for any specific pieces of knowledge they furnish, than for the
activity, strength, acuteness and polish, they give to the various
powers of the understanding. The Yankees are too shrewd, and too
habitually observant of practical utility, not to perceive this truth,
and act accordingly.

The voyage hither from Albany abounds with captivating spectacles. For
the first fifty miles, these consisted chiefly of waving hills,
interspersed with modest but handsome country seats half-veiled by
trees;--and of villages and landings, where, at intervals of four or
five miles, our immense floating Hotel would halt to take in and land
passengers--if halt it could be called, when her motion was not
actually suspended, but only slackened, while by _her boat_, she
rapidly communicated with the shore. The Catskill Mountains were in
sight; and we were nearly entering the Highlands, so celebrated in the
journal of every tourist, from Dolph Heyliger downwards, for their
almost matchless combination of beauty and sublimity; when the _lean_
"orderer of all things," for reasons best known to himself and his
employers, contrived to coop us all under hatches at dinner. A slender
appetite, and a surmise that there would be something worth seeing,
carried me on deck before the rest were half done eating; when
mountains, hemming in the majestic Hudson to a width of not more than
five or six hundred yards, broke at once upon my view. They rise, from
the water's very edge, within twenty or thirty degrees of the
perpendicular, to a height of fourteen or fifteen hundred feet; their
sides and summits undulating with various prominences and depressions,
occupied by dark brown rocks, intermingled with scanty shadings of
evergreens, stunted bushes, and shrubs. After sailing three or four
miles between these awful embankments, we reach West Point. Here are
quite too many pleasing objects, for enumeration; a skilful book-wright
could make a volume of them. 'Kosciusko's Garden' is a romantic
_sinus_, or recess, in the precipice which forms the eastern face,
(upon the river) of the _table land_ called West Point. Hither, it is
said, that hero used daily to retire for meditation and repose; and a
shelf in the rock is shewn, as the couch where he often reclined. Nay,
within a few inches of where his head probably used to lie, an
indentation in the rock is pointed out, said to have been made by a
cannon ball, fired at him from a British man of war that lay in the
river: but this story "wants confirmation." You descend by a flight of
stone steps to the "Garden," which is only ten or fifteen feet above
the river. It is furnished with wooden seats; and with a neat fountain
of whitish marble, in which bubbles up a bold vein of water.

On the north-eastern angle of the "Point," around which the river
somewhat abruptly sweeps, is a handsome monument, erected by the Cadets
some years ago, to the same hero. It is a plain marble column, about
fifteen or eighteen feet high; with no inscription save the single word
"KOSCIUSKO." This simple memorial is, in moral sublimity, scarcely
inferior to that conception, one of the noblest of its kind in the
whole compass of poetry--

  "We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
   But we _left him alone with his glory_."

There are few names which can justly be relied upon, thus to speak the
epitaphs of those who bore them. Among those few, doubtless, is the
name of KOSCIUSKO. History, and the halo thrown around that name by
Campbell, will ensure it a place among the "household words" of Poland
and America, and of every people who shall speak the language or
breathe the spirit of either.

  "Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
   And Freedom shrieked, as KOSCIUSKO fell!"

To be mentioned thus, and so deservedly--is to be embalmed in Light,
and set conspicuously on high in the Temple of Fame.

A similar inscription is upon the tomb of _Spurzheim_, in the cemetery
of Mount Auburn, near Boston. To me, this seems to be taking too high a
ground for him: though you, who are a phrenologist confirmed, may not
think so. Possibly, you are right. Contemporary celebrity is no measure
of posthumous fame. PARADISE LOST was almost unknown till near half a
century after its author's death: and he was contemptuously designated
as "_One Milton_," by a man then conspicuous, but whose very name
(_Whitelocke_) it has at this moment actually cost me _an effort_ to
recollect. So, possibly, Spurzheim's renown may freshen with time; and
a discerning posterity, honoring him above Napoleon, and even above
Kosciusko, may apply the just saying of a _great_--that is a
voluminous--poet:

                    "The warrior's name,
  Though pealed and chimed on all the tongues of Fame,
  With far less rapture fills the generous mind,
  Than his, who fashions and improves mankind."

Good night.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

CITY OF MEXICO--CHAPOLTEPEC.


May 25, 1825.--This morning we made our entree into the city of Mexico.
Passing through the little villages of _Istapalapa_ and _Mexicalsingo_,
we rode for several miles over a paved causeway--_calzada_--lined with
the _schinus_,[1] aspins, and a species of willow very much resembling
the lombardy poplar--in sight of the numerous towers and domes which
rise above the scarcely visible flat-roofed houses of the city. The
approach to it, but for this and other fine avenues, would be perfectly
tame, as its situation is a level, whose elevation above the plain
which surrounds it is quite imperceptible. From the gate--_garita_--we
turned into the _Paseo de las Vigas_, a beautiful promenade on the bank
of the canal, which leads from _Chalco_, through the eastern portion of
the city, into the lake of _Tescuco_. We were here joined by the few
American residents of Mexico, and accompanied by them, soon entered its
streets, which in the suburbs are exceedingly filthy, but as we
advanced, they were clean, well paved, but not wide, with good yet
narrow sidewalks of broad flags of porphyry. My first feeling was
disappointment--not so much with the city, as with the crowds of
wretched ill-dressed people, of beggars, and poor half-naked Indians,
bending under heavy burdens. There are no carts or drays for the
transportation of goods, which are carried upon the backs of these poor
creatures, who are enabled to carry a load of three hundred pounds, by
means of a leather band or strap, the _cargador_ leaning forward at an
angle of about 45°, the burden resting on the back, supported by this
strap. With so heavy a load they travel great distances, moving in a
brisk walk or trot.

[Footnote 1: The _Schinus_ or _Arbol de Peru_ is a beautiful tree,
somewhat resembling a willow; it is odorous, and bears in bunches a
small red berry, which is almost as pungent as black pepper, as a
substitute for which it is used by the poorer people.]

The houses of Mexico, some of which are very spacious and magnificent,
are constructed generally of a light volcanic production called
_tetzontli_, in some instances cut smooth and square, but more
frequently rough, when the walls are plastered with lime and painted.
The handsomest are built of light gray porphyry. They are mostly of two
stories, some of three, with _axoteas_ or flat roofs. They have all
open squares. A gate, large enough for carriages to pass through, leads
from the street into the _patio_, or court yard. The basement upon the
street is occupied commonly as a store or shop, and in the rear are the
stables. Across the patio, fronting the gate, is the staircase, which
leads to the _corridors_, or interior porticoes, which surround the
area, and are ornamented with flowers. From the corridors, the doors
open into the various rooms, which communicate with each other around
the whole area, in instances where the house is so large as to occupy
the four sides. It is an airy style of building, the windows being
large, level with the brick floor, opening like double doors, and is
well adapted to the delightful climate of Mexico. The most serious evil
is the want of privacy to the chambers. Each window has its balcony.

The streets of Mexico run nearly from north to south, and from east to
west, crossing at right angles. The greatest longitudinal length is
about two miles--the latitudinal about a mile and three quarters;[2]
but as the figure of the city is unequal, these lengths are far from
uniform. In either direction the view is terminated by the mountains
which bound the plain of Mexico. In the central and most frequented
parts of the city, the streets are well paved and are kept clean; but
apart from these, they are amazingly dirty--the drains passing through
the centre being open, offensive both to the sight and to the smell.

[Footnote 2: This measure does not mean the distance of the opposite
_garitas_ or custom-house gates from each other, which is considerably
greater--but comprises the compactly built part of the city, not
comprehending the scattered houses in the outskirts.]

The _Plaza Mayor_ is the principal open square in the centre of the
city. On the northern side of it is the cathedral; the government
house, formerly the vice regal palace, occupies its eastern side; on
the southern and western sides are the _Cabildo_, (town-hall,) and
colonnades or _portales_, within which are the principal stores, and
where varieties of goods and trinkets, lottery tickets and shilling
pamphlets, are sold. In the southeastern portion of this square stood
the magnificent equestrian statue of Charles IV, raised on a fine
pedestal, and surrounded by a handsome iron railing. It has been
removed lately to the patio or court of the university, where it
remains to be admired for its admirable workmanship in bronze, although
it is seen to disadvantage in a compass too confined for it. In the
southwestern part of this plaza stands a collection of stores, a sort
of bazaar, called the _Parian_, which disfigures it extremely; but as
the city derives a large revenue from the rent, there is little
prospect of the levelling system being extended to this little town of
shops.

The cathedral is a splendid edifice, with a front of three hundred and
fifty feet, upon the plaza. It stands upon the same spot which the
famous Aztec Temple of _Huitzilopochtli_ occupied. The eastern part of
the front, built of red _tetzontli_, is a curious gothic, bearing a
more antique appearance than the other portion, which last, indeed, is
the front to the body of the edifice. This is built of gray porphyry,
ornamented with pilasters and statues, and surmounted by two handsome
towers. The interior is very rich and magnificent; the dome is lofty
and supported by large stone columns. The grandeur of the whole is
diminished greatly by the choir, which occupies a large portion of the
nave, and is connected with the chief altar by a railing of bronze,
surmounted by silver figures supporting branches for candles. A superb
chandelier of silver is suspended nearly under the great dome in front
of the grand altar, which is richly ornamented with gold and silver.
The tout ensemble has an imposing effect; and at night, when
illuminated, with the music of a full choir, instrumental and vocal,
the impressions it makes are irresistibly strong. The depth of the
whole edifice is about four hundred and fifty feet.[3]

[Footnote 3: The entire length of the interior of the cathedral is 373
feet--its width 179 feet. Those in the journal are the external
dimensions. The structure was begun in 1573, and cost $1,752,000. It
was dedicated in 1667. The grand altar bears a later date, and was
dedicated in 1743.]

In the southwestern corner of the cathedral, inlaid in the exterior
wall, is the celebrated calendar stone of the ancient Mexicans. It is a
huge mass of gray porphyry, having a circular face seven feet in
diameter, on which the figures that represent the months are sculptured
in relief. In the centre is a head, from the mouth of which water seems
to flow--surrounded by two circles, a large and a small one--the latter
divided into twenty parts, with hieroglyphics which designate the
twenty months of eighteen days each, into which the Mexican year was
divided. The remainder of the face is ornamented with figures in
relief.

The _Palace_, filling the eastern side of the _Plaza_, occupies a
square of six hundred and sixty feet by six hundred, within which space
are comprised the residence of the president, the offices of the
different departments of the government, the senate chamber and that of
the deputies, the mint, prison, botanic garden, and the barracks of a
regiment of infantry. On this spot Cortes fixed his residence after the
capture of the city; but he exchanged it subsequently for the site of
Montezuma's palace, on which now stands the _Casa de Estado_, the
family mansion of the conqueror. This classic ground is to the west of
the cathedral, fronting it; and the space, believed to have embraced
the residence of the Mexican kings, is a square of about six hundred
feet. On the northern side of this square passes the street running
west, _Calle de Tacuba_, by which Cortes retreated on the memorable
_noche triste_ (unfortunate night) when he was driven from
_Tenochtitlan_, or _Tenictitan_, as Cortes writes the name of the
ancient city.

The botanic garden occupies an inner _patio_, or court of the palace,
and is altogether unworthy of the celebrity which it has obtained in
foreign countries. It is confined and crowded. Collections of seeds
sold by the superintendent at high prices, have, to the great chagrin
of foreigners, been found invariably to comprise the most ordinary
plants, when the most rare and valuable were promised to the
purchasers. An additional garden has been laid out recently at
_Chapoltepec_. There are two tall trees of the _Manitas_, in the
botanic garden--all, with the exception of one at _Toluca_, that are
said to be growing in the republic. The Professor of Botany, _Don
Vicente Cervantes_, informed me that it is a common tree in Guatemala.
The flower is exceedingly beautiful, of a bright scarlet color; its
supposed resemblance to a hand, gives the name to the trees, _Arbol de
las Manitas_--but it is far more like a bird's claws.

       *       *       *       *       *

Less than a league from the city to the west, is the porphyritic rock
of _Chapoltepec_,[4] which rises one hundred and sixty feet above the
plain. On its summit is a palace or castle built by the Viceroy Galvez,
but never finished. Towards the city it bears the appearance of a
fortress, and the work is so constructed as to withstand a siege. The
founder, no doubt, had it in view in its construction, as the resort of
the Viceroy in case of insurrection among the people, of which there
had been several instances. The view of the city and plain of Mexico
from this spot, is remarkably beautiful. Baron Humboldt, whose
enthusiasm sometimes led him to extravagance, thus eloquently describes
it:[5] "Nothing can be more rich and varied than the picture which the
valley presents, when, on a fine summer's morning, the heaven being
cloudless and of that deep blue which is peculiar to the dry and
rarified air of high mountains, we ascend one of the towers of the
Cathedral of Mexico, or the hill of _Chapoltepec_. A beautiful
vegetation surrounds this hill. The ancient trunks of cypress, of more
than fifteen or sixteen metres[6] in circumference, divested of
foliage, rise above those of the schinus, which, in figure, resemble
the weeping willows of the east. In the depth of this solitude, from
the top of the porphyritic rock of _Chapoltepec_, the eye overlooks a
vast plain with well cultivated fields, which extend even to the foot
of the colossal mountains, covered with perpetual ice. The city seems
washed by the waters of the lake of _Tescuco_, whose basin, surrounded
by villages and hamlets, reminds one of the most beautiful lakes of the
mountains of Switzerland. Long avenues of elms and poplars lead on all
sides to the capital. Two aqueducts, constructed upon lofty arches,
cross the plain, and present an aspect both agreeable and interesting.
To the north is seen the magnificent convent of Our Lady of
_Guadalupe_, with the mountains of _Tepexacac_ behind it, among ravines
which furnish shelter to dates and tufted yuccas. To the south, the
whole country between _San Angel_, _Tacubaya_, and _San Agustin de las
Cuevas_, appears an immense garden of oranges, peaches, apples,
cherries, and other European fruit trees. The beautiful cultivation is
contrasted with the savage aspect of the bald mountains which enclose
the valley, and among which are distinguished the famous volcanoes of
_Puebla_, the _Popocatepetl_, and _Iztaccihuatl_. The first forms an
enormous cone, whose crater, constantly inflamed, throwing out smoke
and ashes, opens in the midst of eternal snows."

[Footnote 4: _Chapoltepec_ signifies the mountain of grasshoppers; from
_Chapolin_, a grasshopper, and _tepetl_, mountain.]

[Footnote 5: Vol. 2, Book 3, c. 8.]

[Footnote 6: About fifty English feet.]

A less enthusiastic spectator would subtract many of its beauties from
this glowing description, and still could not fail to admire--to admire
much and long, the prospect from _Chapoltepec_. He would see a fine
city, with its sixty domes and twice as many towers, but the lake of
_Tescuco_ is too distant and indistinct to seem to wash it with its
waters--and he would look in vain for the villages and hamlets that
surround it. The fruit trees of _Tacubaya_, _San Angel_ and _Agustin_
exist, but unfortunately are not seen. These villages are situated on
the southwestern border of the plain, and abound in orchards, but these
are shut from view by high stone walls. With like disappointment he
would look towards the _smoking_ volcano of _Puebla_; the
_Popocatepetl_ does indeed smoke, but the smoke is indiscernible except
from the mouth of the crater itself--nor has it been known to throw out
ashes since 1665, when it continued to discharge for four days. In
other respects the preceding description is not too highly wrought.

       *       *       *       *       *

About a mile from _Chapoltepec_ is situated the little village of
_Tacubaya_, celebrated for its mills, but chiefly for the _palace_ and
garden of the Archbishop of Mexico. From this palace, which stands upon
a commanding point above the village, the view is as extensive, and
perhaps even more beautiful than that from _Chapoltepec_, inasmuch as
this last is comprehended in it. The garden is laid out prettily, and
contains some fine plants and fruits, but is very much neglected. A
large orchard of olive trees adjoins it, which yield plentifully; but
the olives, which may not be so well cured, are not as good as those
imported from Spain. The cultivation of olive trees was forbidden under
the Spanish government, lest it might interfere with the monopoly of
the mother country, which exported in 1803, olives to the value of
thirty thousand dollars.[7]

[Footnote 7: Humboldt, vol. 4, p. 374-564.]




In two subjoined articles, extracted from the "American Annals of
Education," a very useful periodical, published in Boston,--are the
same which are referred to by an intelligent correspondent in the last
number of the "Messenger." (See page 205.) They are well worth the
reader's attention.

HEINROTH ON THE EDUCATION OF INFANCY.

(Translated from the German.)


We have often put the question to parents, at what period of infancy
moral discipline should begin, and we have heard various ages assigned,
from six months to a year. But in watching the management of early
infancy, in observing one child incessantly fed and dandled, and yet
incessantly fretful, in seeing another burst into distressing outcries,
if its wants were not gratified at the instant, in remarking how
another would submit, with comparative quiet, to be laid down when it
desired to move, and suppress its cries when its gratification was
delayed,--above all, in seeing how the infant of poverty, or of savage
life, submits to be left unnoticed and unattended, while its mother
toils the livelong day for a subsistence, and can only snatch a few
moments of repose to feed and fondle her nursling, we could not but
ask, whether the _first want_ and the _first gratification_ do not in
fact commence the course of moral discipline. Is not the question
often, if not always, settled in early infancy, whether the appetites
and passions shall be established with uncontrollable despotism before
the dawn of reason, or whether they shall be kept in their appropriate
and subordinate place, until reason assumes the throne? On points like
this, we are anxious to present the results of wider experience and
deeper research than our own; and we have been gratified to find in a
work of Heinroth, Professor of Medicine in the University of Leipzig,
opinions expressed which entirely accord with those which observation
and reflection have led us to form. We present our readers with a
translation of the passage, and earnestly recommend it to the attention
of mothers especially, as containing the results derived from extensive
experience, by a man whose medical knowledge, and whose reputation as a
writer on education, give his opinion high authority.

"When a child enters the world, its education is commenced by its
physical treatment,--by the manner in which its bodily wants are
provided for. As it is the offspring of love, so it should be cherished
in the arms of love, from the first moments of its life. We take it for
granted that it is blessed with a healthful, virtuous, and affectionate
mother. She is the angel who is to watch over that frail existence, and
guard it from accident; she should suffer nothing in the elements of
nature, nor surrounding circumstances, neither cold air, dazzling
light, excessive heat, or oppressive clothing, to excite the child to
pain. Even its first nourishment should not be given till the want
begins, lest injurious excitement be the consequence; and it should not
be given more freely, or more frequently than this want absolutely
requires.

"The _first day_ of the infant's life must be greeted with _order_ and
_temperance_; and both must preside over its whole future management.
As one sense after another developes itself, each should be supplied
with agreeable objects; for cheerful circumstances produce cheerful
dispositions. No obstacle should be allowed to the free play of all the
limbs and muscles--nothing which will hinder the development of life
and strength--and no undue pains must be taken to excite even these;
let them advance quietly and naturally.

"The look and voice of the mother's love should be the first food of
the infant soul. Life itself is joy; let joy cherish the germs of life.
The sight and the touch soon find appropriate objects; but even now
must the spirit of education watch over the child. It must not grasp
all in its reach; it must not touch the flame, or the knife, or in
short, any thing injurious to it. As soon as it learns to hear, it
learns to listen to its mother's voice, that is, to obey. The ear
gradually becomes the spiritual leading-string of the growing man. The
child cannot see and touch, without _desiring_, and does not desire,
without exercising _the will_. His first will is _self-will_, and it
soon takes root and strengthens, if the will of the mother does not
promptly meet, and gently, but firmly check it.

"Here then, education must begin,--with the first want, and its supply.
It begins, therefore, immediately, with the physical treatment of the
child, for its first wants are only physical. Every mode of treating an
infant is wrong which does not satisfy its wants in the right way, and
peculiarly wrong is every unseasonable or excessive supply. The first
wants of infancy are food, warmth, air, motion and sleep. A greater
number of children suffer from an excess of these comforts, than from
too scanty a portion of them. It is true, bad nourishment, confined
air, want of cleanliness and of free exercise, and unquiet sleep
arising from these causes, destroy many children who are left to the
care of hireling nurses. But on the other hand, a greater number suffer
from the peculiar care of an over-anxious mother, from superfluous
nourishment, and excessive wrapping, from guarding against all those
influences of air, deemed pernicious, from artificial motion, and from
the sleep thus artificially produced and maintained. In this way, many
of the most favored nurslings leave the world when they have scarcely
entered it. It is not however with the dead, but with the living that
we have to do. Few mothers will allow themselves to be charged with too
little care or indulgence; and even experienced nurses avoid it from
prejudice and disposition. Let us then examine the errors in physical
treatment, arising from excess, and particularly from excess in food.

"It is a most pernicious custom to stop every cry of a child with food,
whether it is done from the idea that it needs so frequent nourishment,
or to make it quiet. Inquire why the infant cries, and remove the
cause, if it can be discovered. It will be more rarely the want of
food, in proportion as it has been accustomed to regularity. If the
child is irregularly fed, it acquires bad habits, it departs from
_order_, ('Heaven's first law,') whose first principles should be
implanted in man while instinct still governs him. But the infant who
is thus accustomed to excess, soon becomes _inordinate_ in its demands,
and TEMPERANCE and ORDER, the great pillars of life, are both
overthrown. It will become greedy when it is unseasonably fed, even
with simple food, and the evil becomes still greater when it is
pampered with delicacies. An artificial necessity is produced for
continual gratification of the palate, so that it will often not be
pacified without having something pleasant to the taste constantly in
its mouth; and upon this, the whole enjoyment of its young life
depends. The sense of taste checks the progress of every noble sense;
the child concentrates its whole thoughts on the enjoyment of this
single appetite. In this way, it is prepared to become, not only an
epicurean, but a sensualist; and the obvious evils of overloading the
stomach and producing disease are not the only evils arising from this
treatment. The _moral character_ is also injured before it is fairly
developed. The child thus miseducated, becomes obstinate and
self-willed. If its demands are not satisfied, (and its cries are
demands,) it will soon learn to fret itself, almost into childish
insanity. See now the seeds of moral corruption implanted in the
physical soil, whose roots strike deeper in proportion as they are sown
earlier!

"Whence is it that we so frequently see this pernicious physical
treatment, and its natural fruits? Why do we see so many over-fed,
gormandizing, ill-humored, selfish and self-willed children? The
combined power of three great causes are at work: _maternal love_,
_vanity_ and _ignorance_. We may venture to say, every mother in her
senses loves her child more than she loves herself. How can she then
refuse to give him any thing! Food is the most obvious comfort, the
greatest pleasure he enjoys, and she gives it freely. She wishes her
child to _thrive_, to become strong, vigorous and fleshy. And now
_vanity_ comes in play. Every mother is vain of her child, and would
fain have it the finest, and for this purpose also it is excessively
fed. Yet this does not happen without the third cause,--_ignorance_.
Ignorance does not perceive that the thriving of the child depends upon
the quantity which it digests, rather than upon the quantity it
swallows, and overlooks the great medium, which it does not understand,
the organs of nourishment, whose office it is to prepare _nourishment_
for the body from the food which enters the stomach. Only so much food
as the child really digests does it any good; what remains undigested
is a source of evil.

"As these bad habits began with blind and injudicious affection, so
they end with the same. How can one who loves a child so much, give it
pain! When the necessary consequences of this treatment appear, and the
child becomes ill-humored, selfish and self-willed, and beginning very
early, to worry its mother; this blind and weak love, incapable of
resistance, pleads, '_The poor child cannot understand yet._ The
understanding is not developed the first year. Let it grow older, and
then I will educate it.' In the meantime, before the understanding is
developed, the child is _miseducated_ and _spoiled_. The first use it
makes of the understanding, is in tormenting the mother; and it soon
becomes a little tyrant. There are too many mothers of this sort, who
are slaves to their children. They reap only what they have sown."

       *       *       *       *       *

EFFECTS OF MATERNAL INDULGENCE.


We have expressed more than once the pleasure we felt on finding the
subject of education occupy so much more attention of late in other
periodicals, &c., and have given several extracts. We add another
striking article from the Albany Journal and Telegraph.

'Messrs. Editors,--Of the solemn character of the duties devolving upon
mothers, all writers agree to express the same sentiment. Where these
duties are neglected, where a mother's fondness controls all without
judgment and intelligence, the most unhappy consequences follow. I do
not know where these have been drawn out in a more vivid and awful
picture than in the late work, entitled Guy Rivers. It does not fall
within your line to have to do with such works, yet I trust you will
allow me to furnish an extract which does fall in with the practical
object of your paper. Guy is a highwayman--a murderer--a cold blooded
murderer--an outlaw--of most violent, headlong passions, which pause at
nothing where their gratification is concerned, and yet he is a man of
great shrewdness and of superior natural intellect. At the point where
the extract is made, this man's course is approaching its catastrophe.
In his den he sees its approach, and his mind is occupied with bitter
reflection. With his Lieutenant this is his conversation; and when I
think of what I have known of maternal weakness, I shudder to think how
near to the life the picture may be.

'"I do you wrong, Dillon--but on this subject I will have no one speak.
I cannot be the man you would have me; I have been schooled otherwise.
My mother has taught me a different lesson,--her teachings have doomed
me, and these enjoyments are now all beyond my hopes."

'"Your mother!" was the response of Dillon, in unaffected astonishment.

'"Ay, man--my mother. Is there any thing wonderful in that? She taught
me this lesson with her milk--she sung it in lullabies over my
cradle--she gave it me in the plaything of my boyhood--her schoolings
have made me the morbid, the fierce criminal, from whose association
all the gentler virtues must always desire to fly. If, in the doom,
which may finish my life of doom, I have any person to accuse of all,
that person is--my mother!"

'"Is this possible? Is it true? It is strange, very strange."

'"It is not strange--we see it every day--in almost every family. She
did not _tell_ me to lie--or to swindle, or to stab. No! Oh no! she
would have told me that all these things were bad--but she _taught_ me
to perform them all. She roused my _passions_ and not my _principles_
into activity. She provoked the one and suppressed the other. Did my
father reprove my improprieties, she petted me and denounced him. She
crossed his better purposes and defeated all his designs, until at
last, she made my passions too strong for my government, not less than
hers; and left me, knowing the true, yet the victim of the false. What
is more,--while my intellect, in its calmer hours, taught me that
virtue was the only source of true felicity, my ungovernable passions
set the otherwise sovereign reason at defiance, and trampled it under
foot. Yes--in that last hour of eternal retribution, if called upon to
denounce or to accuse, I can point but to one as the author of all--the
weakly, fond, misjudging, misguiding woman, who gave me birth. Within
the last hour, I have been thinking over all these things. I have been
thinking how I had been cursed in childhood, by one who surely loved me
beyond all other things beside. I can remember how sedulously she
encouraged and prompted my infant passions, uncontrolled by her reason,
and since utterly unrestrainable by my own. How she stimulated me to
artifices, and set me the example herself, by frequently deceiving my
father and teaching me to disobey and deceive him. She told me not to
lie, and she lied all day to him, on my account, and to screen me from
his anger. She taught me the catechism to say on Sunday, while during
the week, she schooled me in almost every possible form of ingenuity to
violate all its precepts.

'"She bribed me to do my duty, and hence my duty could only be done
under the stimulating promise of a reward. She taught me that God was
superior to all, and that he required obedience to certain laws, yet as
she hourly violated those laws herself in my behalf, I was taught to
regard myself as far superior to him. Had she not done all this, I had
not been here and thus: I had been what I now dare not think on. It is
all her work. The greatest enemy my life has ever known has been my own
mother."

'"This is a horrible thought, captain, yet I cannot but think it true."

'"It is true. I have analyzed my own history, and the causes of my
character and fortunes now, and I charge it all upon her. From one
influence I have traced another, until I have the sweeping amount of
twenty years of crime and sorrow and a life of hate, and probably a
death of ignominy, all owing to the first ten years of my infant
education, when the only teacher that I knew was the woman that gave me
birth."'

This is a fictitious tale indeed, but it is sadly true to nature. We
have seen the victim of indulgence trained by the mere neglect of
restraint to a violence of passion which reviled and abused the mother
that bore him. We have known the abandoned son turn with doubled fist
and furious gestures to his mother, and tell her,--"_You_ have trained
me to all this." We have known those who escaped this dreadful fate,
mourn through life, the mental suffering, or the bodily debility, which
the mistaken indulgence of a mother's love had entailed upon them. And
if the _man_ could always look back with the skill of Heinroth to his
early childhood, even when no gross neglect of discipline was to be
discovered, would he not accuse her early and excessive indulgence of
his dawning appetites and craving desires as the source of that
violence of passion--that obstinacy, which cost him so much painful
discipline in youth, and perhaps still poison the peace of his manhood?
Is there no argument, no appeal which can reach the heart of those
mothers, who are sacrificing the future peace and character and hopes
of their children, to the mere pleasure of gratifying them for the
moment?




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AN ADDRESS ON THE SUBJECT OF LITERARY ASSOCIATIONS TO PROMOTE
EDUCATION.

_Delivered before the Institute of Education of Hampden Sidney College,
at their last commencement, by_ JAMES M. GARNETT.


_Gentlemen Members
    of the Institute of Education:_

In compliance with the invitation with which your committee honored me
some months ago, and for which I desire here publicly to make my
acknowledgments; I now present myself to address you on the subject of
"literary associations for the promotion of education."

Thus called upon for a purpose so philanthropic, a cause so truly
glorious, and one moreover of such vital importance to our whole
community, I could not hesitate to comply, however apprehensive I might
feel of not being able to do full justice to the subject. I came to
this determination the more readily, from the confident belief that the
invitation would never have been given, had not the gentlemen members
of your committee as well as those for whom they acted, been prepared
to extend towards my deficiencies every indulgence which they might
require. This brief explanation of the circumstances which brought me
here, and of my own feelings on this highly interesting occasion, seems
due not only to myself, but to the very respectable assembly in whose
presence I now appear. Let me endeavor now to fulfil the duty, which I
have undertaken to perform.

Literary associations for the promotion of education, unquestionably
transcend in importance all other voluntary combinations of human
beings that either _do_ or _can be imagined_ to exist for other
purposes than mental culture, as far as the intellectual and moral
powers of man surpass his mere animal appetites and passions: for it is
by education alone--education I mean _as it should be_, that the former
can be fully developed and perfected;--by education alone _as it should
be_, that the latter can be so restrained and regulated as to minister
to our comfort and happiness, instead of overwhelming us with
irreparable misery and ruin. Obvious as this most momentous truth
surely is, and deeply as we should imagine it would be felt by every
rational being, it is but too certain that the number of those who do
feel it in any such way, is most lamentably small in proportion to our
whole population. This would be altogether incredible, were we to judge
only from listening to our constant vauntings of the rapid progress of
society in all the arts and sciences; of the multiplication and vast
extent of modern discoveries; and the actual improvements in every
branch of worldly knowledge. But when we use our _eyes_, as well as our
_ears_; when we look immediately around us and view attentively our
condition in Virginia, the striking want of public spirit in regard to
the general instruction of the people, and the melancholy scarcity of
"literary associations for the promotion of education;" it inflicts a
pang of deep disappointment--of bitter mortification on the heart of
every true, intelligent lover of his country. Travel through our sister
states to the north and east, (as many of us would be much the better
for doing,--to remove our senseless prejudices,) and we behold such
associations, almost every where. No large city is without many of
them; while they are found diffusing their incalculable blessings
through nearly every little town and village, under some one or other
of the various forms and titles which they there assume: such for
example, as lyceums, conventions of teachers and other friends of the
cause, institutes of instruction, and education societies. Their
precious fruits manifest themselves in their numerous schools;--in
their neighborhood libraries; in their public book stores; but above
all in their multiplied places of public worship. These all combined in
one view, present to the mind's eye of the contemplative patriot and
philanthropist, a picture of social improvement and happiness, which it
is impossible to mistake, or to consider without the most heartfelt
emotions. The plain simple realities which we may there see, unaided by
any of the fashionable magniloquence about "the march of intellect;"
unvarnished by any false coloring or exaggeration whatever; force upon
our minds a most thorough conviction, that the people of these happy
states, owe the whole, either directly or indirectly, to their constant
and zealous encouragement of associations for the promotion of
education. These have been so ramified and extended among them, as now
to embrace nearly every member of their several communities. Why, my
friends, why let me most earnestly demand of you, should not we
Virginians, "go and do likewise?" Why should not we profit by their
meritorious example; and love them for it as we ought to do with a
truly fraternal regard, instead of entertaining against them (as far
too many of us do,) dislikes and animosities which are much more
disgraceful to ourselves than injurious to them? And here permit me to
remark, _en passant_, that were such regard cultivated and cherished,
as it should be among all the states of this great confederacy, we
should not only improve each other rapidly in every useful art and
science; but the bonds of our fraternity, would be so increased and
strengthened, that the whole world could not exhibit a government
wherein all the numerous blessings of civilized life would be so widely
diffused, so highly valued, so richly enjoyed.

But to return to our neglect of associations for the improvement of
education. Shall we plead utter ignorance of their numerous advantages,
their extensively beneficial effects, or shall we acknowledge what I
fear is the shameful truth, and what a very large majority of us may
utter--each man for himself--the Heathen's confession: "_Video meliora
proboque, deteriora sequor?_" Shall we not hope however, that the
glorious period of moral reform is not far distant; that the time is
fast approaching when this wretched, debasing--nay, wicked habit of
following the worse, where we both see and approve the better
course,--is about to be eradicated in a great measure; by a vigorous
enlightened prosecution of all the means necessary to effect a thorough
change among us? To you, gentlemen members of the Hampden Sidney
Institute, I believe Virginia is indebted for the first example of a
voluntary association on a large scale, to promote education--an
example which I most earnestly hope will be zealously followed in every
part of our widely extended territory,--until the great, the vital
object, which you so laudably aim to accomplish, shall be fully
realized to the utmost extent of your wishes. It will be a time of
heartfelt rejoicing, a day of glorious jubilee, to all who may live to
see it--a day which even _we_ of the present generation may highly
enjoy by anticipation, although we have little prospect of living to
participate in all its precious blessings. By the way, how do _we_
obtain this power of anticipation, this faculty of feeling
inexpressible delight in all the advantages, gratifications and
enjoyments of those who are to live after we are dead and gone? Are we
not indebted for it to _education_--to that moral and religious part of
it which teaches us that we have immortal souls which connect us
inseparably with future generations--which command us to provide as far
as we can for _their_ happiness--which convince us that this very
occupation, more than any other, will minister to our own felicity; and
which in fact constitutes one of our most sacred duties upon earth? Oh!
that we could all feel this momentous truth in the inmost recesses of
our hearts! Utterly superfluous then would be not only the effort of
the humble individual who now addresses you, but every other of a
similar nature; for there would not then be a single member of society,
possessed of the common capacities and feelings of humanity, who would
not anxiously unite with heart, hand, and all available means, in
promoting universal education, as the only practicable mode of insuring
universal happiness. _This_, so far as it is attainable in our present
state of existence, necessarily depends upon every human Being, of
sound mind, understanding thoroughly all the various duties which he
has to fulfil, as well as comprehending and feeling the utmost extent
of his obligations to fulfil them--and _this_ again depends both upon
_what_ and _how_ he has been taught; in other words, upon _education as
it should be_.

To do justice as far as I possibly can to the cause which I am now
pledged to support, I feel myself here bound to assert that in almost
all our attempts to educate the youth of our country a most pernicious
error is committed, either in regard to the meaning of the term
_education itself_, or else in the methods pursued to accomplish our
object. Should I succeed in establishing this charge, it will certainly
result in the irresistible demonstration of that which I have been
invited to illustrate--the great utility of voluntary associations, in
some form or other, for the promotion of education. Admit the purpose
to be essentially desirable, the obstacles to its attainment such as I
believe they can be proved to be, and the necessity for such
associations in the absence of all effective legislation, follows as an
undeniable consequence. They naturally possess, in common with all
other combinations of human effort to attain a particular end, far
greater power of accomplishing _that end_, than the insulated and
separate exertions of all the individuals concerned,--even supposing
that every one would exert himself to the utmost, in his own particular
way. This truth has resolved itself into the well known adage--"united
we stand, divided we fall;" and I know of no more forcible
exemplification of it, than in the present state of education among us
Virginians. Individually consulted, we cry out nearly to a man, "let us
educate our people!" but if called on for combined action, very few or
none respond to the invitation. We have no common system--the result of
general concert; no uniform plan, either as to the objects, or modes,
or courses of instruction; no generally established class-books in the
various studies pursued in our schools and colleges; no particular
qualifications made indispensable for teachers; but each is left to the
vain imaginings and devices of his own heart, or to be governed by the
chance-medley, hap-hazard contrivances of individuals, very many of
whom have neither the capacity, knowledge, experience, nor inclination
to devise the best practicable methods for accomplishing the grand
purpose of education. Politics, law, physic, absorb nearly all the
talents of the State; while the vital business of instructing the
rising generation; a business which requires minds of the very highest
order and moral excellence to execute it properly, is generally left to
be pursued by any who list--pursued far too often most reluctantly, as
a mere stepping-stone to some other profession, and to be abandoned as
soon as possible for almost any thing else that may turn up. The
inevitable consequence is "confusion worse confounded;" driving parents
and guardians to frequent changes both of schools and teachers for
their children, where changes of books and modes of instruction follow,
almost as matters of course; for those who are to handle the new brooms
rarely believe they will be thought cleaner sweepers than their
predecessors, unless they display their superiority by pursuing some
entirely different method. This petty ambition would be too ridiculous
to deserve serious notice, were it not for the vast amount of evil
which it produces, by not only retarding the progress of all youths
under a course of instruction, but by constantly and powerfully tending
to bring the whole class of teachers into general contempt. Under these
circumstances, the existence of which none can deny, where shall we
seek an adequate remedy for evils of such magnitude; where turn our
eyes but to well organized voluntary associations for the promotion of
education? These would collect and combine the powers, the talents, the
knowledge of a very large portion of all the individuals in our society
best qualified to accomplish the object. They would create a general
taste, an anxious desire for intellectual pursuits; they would elevate
the profession of the teacher to that rank which its vast importance to
human happiness renders essential to its success; and would assuredly
extend their influence to the remotest limits of our community, far
more rapidly than could any scheme of legislative creation. It has been
so in every other State, so far as the experiment has been tried. Why
then should we doubt their success among ourselves? We who believe
ourselves possessed of the wisest, the freest, the happiest government
on earth, are incalculably more interested than any other nation (if
our belief is true), in the cause of universal education; for on _its_
success, the very existence of free government itself, nay of
individual and national happiness so far as government can affect
either, must ultimately depend.

To this conclusion my own mind has been irresistibly brought by the
whole course of my observations and experience for the last forty years
of my life. But as some of my auditors may possibly differ from me, I
will respectfully ask leave now to state more particularly my views of
the great objects of education and the errors into which we have fallen
in pursuit of them--errors which I verily believe will never be
corrected but by voluntary and numerous associations, similar at least
in design, to the one here established.

These objects are, _the perfecting of all our faculties, both of mind
and body_; but chiefly, the full developement of man's _moral nature_,
as the means of leading him thoroughly to understand, as well as
voluntarily, constantly, and anxiously to aim at accomplishing all the
glorious ends of his creation. Nothing deserves the name of education
which does not tend directly and intelligibly to these great objects.
Judge then, I pray you my friends, how little what is usually called
education is entitled to be so styled! But first hear that you may
judge. Is it not the sole aim in all our schools of the lower kinds to
enable pupils to enter those of a higher grade, not by the evidences
they can produce of advancement in the knowledge and practice of moral
and religious principles, but by their proficiency in the elements of
certain languages and abstract sciences? And what are the great, the
ultimate purposes to be achieved after reaching these higher
schools--the colleges and universities of the land? Are there any
other, generally speaking, than merely to obtain a college degree--a
diploma for a more extended proficiency in the same or other languages
and abstract sciences? Is moral and religious acquirement ever made a
pre-requisite? Is moral and religious conduct always rendered
indispensable? Yet man without these is either a drone or a nuisance in
society. Surely then, I may assert without fear of contradiction, that
education conducted on any of the plans most prevalent among us, is
really _not what it should be_,--for it continually places objects of
scholastic pursuit in the highest rank, which have no just claim to any
such elevation; but should ever be held subordinate to the far more
exalted and all essential acquisition of sound, moral and religious
principles. No more of these however, than will superinduce general
conformity to college rules, and decency of general conduct, are ever
required of candidates for collegiate honors; and all these may be and
frequently are obtained without other proof either of moral or
religious attainment, than what has just been stated.

This cannot be right. Man, in fact, _must be_ considered and treated
from infancy to the last moment of his life as a being formed by his
Maker for a state of existence far, very far different from the
present--a state for which his sole business on earth is,--constantly
to be preparing, by a diligent culture of _all_ his powers--by the
beneficent use of _all_ his means; and by the faithful performance of
_all_ his duties to himself, to his fellow creatures, and to his God.
_This_ and _this only is education_. The learning of languages, arts,
and sciences, which too often comprise the whole of education,
furnishes him only with the stepping-stones, the scaffolding, and the
tools to aid him in the erection of the grand edifice, which although
based on earth, should rear its Dome to the highest Heaven, and be
built for eternity as well as for time. But alas! these sciences, arts
and languages, are almost always mistaken for the edifice itself--an
edifice whose external decorations are much more valued and regarded
than the great purposes for which it should be constructed: in other
words, it is prepared more for show than use--more to attract the
admiration of others, than really to benefit for all time the vain
possessor who is to live in it, and to derive lasting security, comfort
and true enjoyment from the skilful adaptation of all its various parts
to the complete attainment of these inestimable blessings. To the
mistake here figuratively expressed, more than to any other cause, we
owe the countless failures, the innumerable, unsuccessful,
heart-sickening efforts to educate the rising generation: for
scholarship, by which I mean a thorough acquaintance with all that is
usually taught in our schools of the highest grade, is really and truly
_not thorough education_, but a very inconsiderable and quite inferior
part of the grand total. That which crowns the whole--that to which all
else should be merely subsidiary--that which alone can elevate man from
earth to Heaven,--is _moral and christian education_, producing
constantly, by divine grace, _moral and christian practice_. It is
_this_ and _this only_, which can enable us to meet as we should, all
the changes and chances of this mortal life--to carry along with us
into whatever calling or profession we may choose, all the requisite
knowledge, ability and will, to render it most conducive not only to
our own subsistence, comfort and happiness, so far as these are
dependant thereon, but to the general good of the whole community in
which we live. In other words, it is moral and christian education
alone, that will give us both the power and effectual desire to fulfil
every duty of the present life in such a manner as will best promote
our own interests, temporal and eternal, as well as the great interests
of society at large, in every way towards which we can possibly
contribute. This efficient devotion of our powers and our means to the
good of others, proceeding from a union of moral and religious
principle, should ever constitute man's highest honor here below, since
it is certainly the most important of all his earthly duties.

Literary institutions may bring to the utmost possible degree of
perfection the methods of acquiring all languages, arts and
sciences--they may invent matchless ways of making accomplished
scholars, in the ordinary acceptation of the term--they may
indoctrinate the youth of our country in every thing usually called
scholastic learning--all this they may do with a rapidity and certainty
heretofore inconceivable, yet they will fall immeasurably short of
attaining the grand, the paramount objects of all which deserves to be
called education, unless the fixing indelibly of moral and religious
principles in the minds of all who are to be educated, be made the
basis, the essence, and vital end of all instruction whatever. The idea
is utterly preposterous that human beings ever can be taught to form
adequate conceptions of the great purposes for which they were
created--of the indispensable necessity of fulfilling most faithfully
all their duties, in order to accomplish these purposes; and of the
ineffable happiness both here and hereafter, that will be secured to
all who do thus fulfil them, merely by teaching them all the languages,
arts and sciences in the world,--if _that_ be omitted, without which
all else is but mere dust in the balance,--I mean self-knowledge,
self-control, self-devotion to duty as the supreme objects of our
temporal existence. Do not, I beseech you, my friends, here
misunderstand me. Far indeed, very far am I from underrating the real
advantages, the true value of what is generally understood by the term
scholastic attainments. No one can estimate more highly than I do,
their power of extending our views, liberalizing our sentiments,
enlightening our minds, strengthening our intellectual faculties, and
exciting an ardent desire to increase our knowledge. Considered as the
_means_ and not the _ends_ of education, I would always award to them
the highest rank. But when we have said _this_, nothing more can justly
be affirmed in their favor--if disconnected, as they too often are,
from the ultimate and vital purposes of all perfect education. These
undeniably are, (and it cannot be too frequently repeated,) to expand,
to warm, to christianize the heart--to call into vigorous, untiring
action, all our best affections, our noblest attributes, and to fit us
thoroughly both for our present and future state of existence. Unless
that which is called education will do _this_, we may safely assert
that it is grossly _miscalled_, and that if it is never made to
comprehend any thing more than what is generally understood by the term
scholastic attainments, a mistake more fatal to the happiness of our
species can scarcely be committed. Of this I would ask no better proof
than would be afforded by an impartial examination of the actual
acquirements, the conduct and the characters of those who are honored
with the high sounding title of accomplished scholars. If they are
really _better educated_, ought they not certainly to be not only wiser
but _better men_, that is if education actually was what it most
assuredly should be? But what is the fact? Do we find them better men,
better citizens, better neighbors, friends and heads of families or
states, than those who, with less scholarship, have had much more
attention paid to their moral and religious education, than to those
scholastic acquirements of which nothing but the most thorough, moral
and religious instruction can teach us either the true value or the
proper use? Gladly, most gladly do I admit that very many amiable men
will be found among the former; for I am happy to say that I know many
such--but it is equally true, that those praiseworthy traits of
character and conduct which we frequently see apart from religious
belief in christianity, form exceptions to the general rule that
_un_belief in christianity tends certainly to produce both vice and
depravity. Whereas immoral character and practice among professors of
religion, form exceptions to the general rule that christian faith
tends surely to produce christian conduct. The first class of persons
are good in spite of their worldly creed--the latter are bad in direct
opposition to what they believe to be right.

We shall never arrive at a clear, satisfactory conclusion in regard to
this all important subject, education, but by first solving the
questions, _what are_ the paramount duties of the present life--_what_
the only means of securing their fulfilment? Are these duties _solely_
or even _chiefly_, to speak, or to understand a great variety of
tongues--to measure the earth, the waters of the mighty ocean, nay the
heavens themselves, with instruments and means of human invention--to
wear away life itself in the vain attempt to discover the elementary
principles of all visible things--to scan thoroughly the vast powers
and possible expanse of human intellect--and to astonish the world by
the perfection to which all human science, arts and accomplishments may
be brought? Or, _are they_ that we should think wisely, act justly, and
practice truth, industry, self-denial, and universal benevolence,--from
the sincere, heartfelt, ever active love of our fellow creatures,--and
willing obedience to all the commands of our God? Are the means to
secure the fulfilment of all these most momentous duties, such as are
usually adopted in our schools?--or, shall we not find them in very
numerous instances nearly destitute of any but means rather of
counteraction than promotion? By what other term can we characterize
the usual school appliances, to the chief of which I beg leave to
invite your special attention? These are, the fear of human punishments
and disgrace, instead of the fear of offending our Maker--the stimuli
of emulation and ambition: the first, to surpass supposed rivals and
competitors for fame and fortune; the latter, to attain the worldly
distinctions of high rank and emolument in what are called the "learned
professions," or the celebrity of political power, and elevation above
our fellow men. But will any sober, reflecting person say, that such
appliances do not tend constantly, nay almost certainly, to make us
fear man more than God--to inspire more dread of public sentiment than
love of public and private duty--to poison our hearts with jealousy and
envy, and to intoxicate us with pride, vanity and ambition, rather than
to fix indelibly in our souls all those truly christian virtues, which
man must not only possess but exercise--not only acquire but ardently
cherish, to attain the great end of his being?

The answers to the foregoing questions involve matters of the deepest
possible interest not only to the present, but to all future
generations; for it depends entirely upon them, and the effects they
may have on those who regulate and direct our schools of all kinds,
whether the whole business of scholastic education shall be conducted
in reference merely to the things of time, or to the immeasurably
higher concerns of eternity. In judging of this matter, let us not
trust entirely to the customary forms of expression, in which all our
schools, from the highest to the lowest, publicly invite patronage.
These are rarely deficient in promises that the moral and religious
principles and conduct of the pupils shall be strictly attended to;
which proves at least the general belief in the class of instructers,
that the parents and friends of children attach great importance to
these matters. But no one who has the least knowledge of the manner in
which our schools are usually conducted, can be ignorant that such
promises are much more a matter of form than substance, however sincere
the individuals may have been in making them. "_Profession_," we all
know "_is not principle_;" neither is it very generally followed by
conformable practice. In nothing is this melancholy fact more
conspicuous, than in the neglect, throughout our schools of every kind,
of all such moral and religious instruction as would thoroughly
convince the pupils that _this_ is deemed of infinitely higher value
than every thing else which either _is_ or _can be_ taught at such
places. But instead of such instruction, if we examine with a view
solely to ascertain the truth, we shall find almost every where that
the real, the constant, the supreme object, is to make what are called
good scholars and learned men--men to make a figure in the world, and
to be celebrated in the various walks of well disguised pride, vanity
and ambition. To accomplish this object all efforts are strenuously
directed, all appliances industriously used; while moral and religious
principles, if inculcated at all, will be found to occupy rather a
nominal than a real and efficient rank. If any doubt it, let them
inquire as impartially as they can, what manner of men those are in
general who constitute the educated class? Are they in most instances
moral and religious persons, or _are they not?_ Do they seem better
qualified or more disposed to fulfil the various duties of life, than
those who have not been blessed with equal opportunities for
intellectual improvement? If they do not, we may be absolutely certain
that some radical errors have been committed in their education,--since
the great object of all that deserves the name, assuredly is to make
men, not merely more learned, but wiser and better--more intelligent
and more virtuous, than they could possibly be without it. That they
_would be so_ under a proper system of instruction--a system wherein
mere scholastic learning, in the common acceptation of the term, should
never be considered synonymous with education, none can possibly doubt
who have ever paid the least serious attention to the subject, or who
have any faith in the scripture declaration that, _if we train up a
child in the way he should go, he will never depart from it when he is
old_. Whenever, therefore, we witness any departure among such of our
young people as are said to be well educated, it amounts to a
demonstration that _they have not been thus trained_. If they had been,
such departures would be very rare, instead of being most fatally
common; nor should we find, even after making all due allowances for
the frailty and depravity of our nature, these educated youths, in so
many deplorable instances, despisers of religion, loose in their
morals, voluptuaries in practice as well as principle, ignorant or
regardless both of their public and private duties, and devoted
entirely to their own selfish, depraved gratifications. But the
lamentable truth is, that in a vast majority of our schools, whatever
promises may have been honestly promulgated to the contrary, the moral
and religious principles of the pupils are _not made_ paramount objects
of attention. On the contrary, it seems to be almost always presumed,
that the great work of forming these principles has been accomplished
under the parental roof, where alas! (to our shame be it spoken,) it is
in thousands of instances utterly neglected! Each pupil is consequently
left to form them for himself, after his last course of collegiate
instruction, during which these all essential guides to present and
future happiness are rarely put into requisition, farther than may be
deemed necessary to the peace and good order of the establishment, or
as a part of the mere compendious formulary of instruction. The fatal
and almost certain consequence is, that multitudes of college
graduates, after being emancipated from scholastic restraints, either
plunge at once into the destructive vortex of folly and vice, or devote
themselves so entirely to the pursuits of wealth, pride, vanity and
ambition, as effectually to exclude from their minds all thoughts of
another life. These minds, thus pre-occupied, have actually no place
left for such ideas and reflections as tend to produce a thorough
conviction of the necessity for making some preparation to quit our
present state of existence, with a reasonable hope of infinitely
greater happiness in the next we are destined to enter. That the one we
are now in cannot possibly last beyond a period most fearfully brief,
infidels as well as christians are compelled to observe; for none live
to be capable of observation whose experience has not perfectly assured
them, that all are doomed to die; none live to years of reflection, who
can well avoid sometimes looking forward, however sceptically, to that
awful doom, without many terrors and alarms as to what may follow so
fearful a change. For _this change_, so absolutely sure, so truly
appalling to man, christian education alone can effectually prepare
us--and ought therefore most assuredly to be made the basis, the
substantial part, the great end of all education whatever.

That we can never hope to see so desirable and highly important a
reform accomplished without some other means, some other agencies than
such as we have heretofore had, seems to me demonstrably true. It
appears equally clear that they must be voluntary associations, in some
form or other, for the promotion and improvement of education,
consisting of true, sincere, persevering, efficient friends to the
cause--no "sleeping partners," (as mercantile men say,) but all, both
active and zealous to the utmost of their power. To expect such reform
from legislation is a vain hope, unless we already had such law-makers
in sufficient numbers for the purpose, as _that_ reform in our parental
instruction, schools and colleges alone could produce. When such
consummation can take place, all essential as it seems to our national
welfare, and devoutly as every one may wish it, none but he who knoweth
all things can possibly tell. But each of us may venture so far as to
predict, that voluntary institutions and societies, similar, gentlemen,
to that which you have established, hold out far more cheering promises
of success than can be hoped for from any other source. They will serve
as appropriate nuclei, (if I may thus apply the term) for attracting
around them the scattered talent, the learning and active benevolence
of society. When thus concentrated, they will perform for our
intellectual world what the sun does for that magnificent world of
effulgent stars and constellations with which _he_ is surrounded--by
diffusing in every direction that genial light and heat, so essential
to adorn, to sustain, and to invigorate both. What a glorious prospect!
what a delightful anticipation! Shall we not then cherish it, my
friends, as a _possible_ event--nay, as one which nothing is wanting to
accomplish, but a general combination of the intelligence, the zeal,
and active perseverance of the numerous and sincere, but too
desponding, too supine friends to the cause of universal education?

You, gentlemen members of this institution, have commenced the noble
work. Let your exertions then to sustain and carry it on never know a
moment's intermission, and my life on the issue, but a few years will
elapse before the happy effects of such efforts will be felt and seen
to the remotest limits of our community. Your patriotic example will
soon be followed in other parts of our beloved state; similar
associations will be formed elsewhere; a similar spirit of benevolence
will be awakened and exerted, until poor old Virginia will once more
hold up her long drooping head among such of her sister states as have
most advanced in all those useful arts and sciences, best calculated
not only to adorn and embellish private life, but to secure both
individual and national happiness.

Before I conclude, permit me to address a few remarks to _you_, young
gentlemen, the cherished alumni of this college. Although not directly
applicable to our main purpose, I hope they may be found to have an
important bearing on it,--since I shall adduce a few practical
illustrations of the fatal errors you may commit in regard both to
professional and domestic duties, unless you adopt forthwith and
forever, as constant guides, those good principles of education which
voluntary and numerous associations for its improvement, seem alone
capable of introducing into all our schools. You will be the first to
enjoy the precious fruits of all such as the members of this institute
will probably recommend. Suffer me then to add my humble efforts to
theirs for your benefit; and deem me not obtrusive, if they should
partake somewhat of the admonitory character: for, be assured that my
remarks shall all be such as a friend and father would make to those in
whose happiness he felt the deepest solicitude.

If I have succeeded in my most anxious desire to impress upon your
minds the thorough conviction that the principles of morality and
religion, indissolubly united, _must_ form the beginning, the middle
and the end of all that deserves the name of education, your first,
your constant and supreme effort will be _to acquire them_. Then
indeed, you may pursue the usual course of your scholastic studies, not
only without danger of mistaking the means for the end, but with
incalculable advantages both present and prospective; for all will be
made conducive to the great, the eternal purposes for which you were
created. Your knowledge of foreign languages and histories will
contribute to convince you that there have been and still are nations,
kindred and people like yourselves,--with similar wants, passions and
capabilities, deserving your sympathy, your regard, your brotherly
love,--that national antipathies should have no place in a human
bosom--that national wars, except for defence, are national crimes; and
that man should consider man his brother, in whatever condition or on
whatever spot of the habitable globe he may be found.

Your mathematics will lead you to the conviction, strong and
irresistible as the demonstrative principles and reasonings upon which
the whole of this noble science depends, that nothing but a God of all
perfect wisdom and love could have endowed you with faculties and
powers capable of deriving not only the highest mental gratifications
from such a source, but of applying the discoveries which produce these
gratifications to an infinite series of the most beneficial purposes.

Your chemistry will aid in teaching you that none but a Being
infinitely wise and of boundless power and goodness, could possibly
have contrived and arranged such a vast multitude of substances, in all
their endless variety of combinations and affinities, such an immense
world of multiform matter--all as it would seem conducive in some way
or other to human comfort, gratification, or high enjoyment.

Your philosophy and metaphysics, will draw you irresistibly to a great
first cause--the supreme, beneficent, ever bounteous Author of all the
objects of our senses, of all the powers and conceptions of our
understandings; and will indelibly stamp upon your hearts the
sentiments of adoration, love and obedience, as the only proper tribute
you could pay to a Being, who, so far as we can comprehend his works,
hath made them all subservient, either directly or indirectly, to our
own happiness, both in time and eternity. These sciences will bring
home to your bosoms and business the vital truth that you have minds of
vast powers of comprehension--faculties capable of undefinable
expansion; and souls of such godlike energies, aspirations and
capacities of enjoyment, as nothing less than a God of all power,
wisdom and love, could either have created or bestowed. In a word,
whatever path you may pursue within the whole circle of scientific and
literary research, it will lead you, if under the constant guidance of
moral and religious principles, to the possession of the chief good
here on earth, and to "that house above, not made with hands, eternal
in the heavens."

There are indeed no circumstances nor situations in which you can
anticipate even the possibility of being placed, unless bereft of all
consciousness or sanity of mind, that can exempt you from the
obligation of making these principles the chart and compass as it were,
by which you are to steer your earthly course. Let us imagine a few of
such as most commonly occur in our progress through life--such as are
matters of choice rather than necessity--and we shall then more clearly
see the indispensable use of such a chart and compass to direct us
safely and happily in our unavoidable passage to realms of eternal
duration.

Almost every man, for example, at some period of his existence, desires
to become a husband--to unite himself for life to some individual of
the other sex, as a means of enjoying far greater happiness than he
possibly could in any single state. It is a situation in which millions
voluntarily place themselves--a situation of vast and complicated
responsibilities--involving numerous relationships and duties of the
highest imaginable importance, upon which depend not only the domestic
and social happiness of individuals, but the moral condition of whole
communities and nations. Yet, how few of these millions, even among the
most deeply versed in scholastic lore, unless they are men of the
soundest moral and religious principles, are ever guided in their
choice by any thing but fancy, whim, caprice, or some other far less
excusable motive? Their scholastic acquirements alone, never avail them
in the slightest degree. The eye is usually the sole guide--the
appellate court of reason and judgment not being so much as even
consulted. When married, they generally become parents, and thereby
incur duties the moat sacred and of the most awful responsibilities;
for they are _then_ answerable for the souls of _others_ as well as for
_their own_--for souls, with whose happiness they are intrusted even by
the God of the universe himself! Yet how, let me ask, are these
momentous duties generally fulfilled, even by the best scholars, unless
they are also moral and religious men? Instead of fulfilment, we too
often behold total neglect, nay frequently the grossest, most shameful,
most criminal violation; and all this too by individuals who have
obtained the highest collegiate honors. What is the fair inference from
such facts? Why, that no education which has not the united principles
that I am endeavoring to recommend for its basis, its means of
completion, and its great end, can fit man even for the two most common
and by far the most important conditions of life.

Let me call your attention now to a few of the chief professions in
which the young men of our country are most apt to engage; and let us
endeavor to ascertain how far mere scholastic acquirements, even of the
highest grade, will enable you to pursue these professions with profit
and honor to yourselves, and with benefit to the community of which you
are members.

If you become physicians, without something more than the mere nominal
worldy belief in the general utility of moral and religious principles,
you will have nothing but the very feeble, seldom regarded check of
worldy prudence, to restrain you from hurrying into the practice of the
profession, before the proper preparation can possibly be made. Your
own pecuniary emolument will become your chief object,--this you will
be apt to pursue with no farther regard than your popularity requires,
to the numerous risks you will incur of destroying both the health and
life of others. You will hasten on in this course with a brevity of
preparation far shorter than is deemed necessary to make even a good
cook or washer-woman--although the thing to be practised upon, in the
first case, is _human life itself_; while, in the latter cases, they
are only the human appetite for food and some of the habiliments of the
human body! Yet, it is upon the skill and humanity of the members of
the medical profession, that society must depend for the alleviation or
cure of all those indescribable miseries, under which, in the countless
forms of sickness and disease, mankind are doomed to suffer to the end
of the world--doomed alas! in a great measure, by their own vices and
profligacy, superinduced by false education much more than by any
naturally inherent defect either in their bodily or mental
constitutions.

Should the profession of law be your choice, here also you will find
that mere scholarship, mere literary and scientific acquirement,
unsustained by deeply fixed, continually active, moral and religious
principles, will avail you quite as little as in the practice of
medicine. Instead of becoming "compounders of strife," as these
principles enjoin us all to be, you will be much more apt to turn out
encouragers of litigation. You will often without scruple aid the
rapacious and vindictive in the gratification of their criminal
passions, by defending them from the legal consequences of their
indulgence. You will frequently vindicate the oppressor in his wrongs,
assist guilt in seeking safety, and enable crime to escape its just and
lawful punishment. Calumniators, thieves, robbers, and destroyers of
life as well as of innocence, will be indebted to you for renewed
opportunities of preying upon the peace, the property, the happiness of
society. You will thus, as far as depends upon your professional
labors, actually cherish crime, pervert justice, and defeat the ends of
all those conservative laws which it should be _your_ peculiar province
to expound, _your_ inviolable duty to sustain in all their purity and
force, by never for a moment countenancing or aiding their violators.
Then the appropriate punishment for every outrage against penal law
would always follow every perpetration of unlawful deeds; for each fee
offered by such enemies of mankind as commit atrocious crimes, would be
considered and rejected either as the price of property wickedly
gained--of innocence utterly ruined--of character irretrievably
blasted, or of life criminally taken away. I do not speak of those
doubtful cases wherein lawyers may be deceived by the _ex parte_
statements of their clients; but of such as carry deep and damning
guilt in their very face--of those in which the applicants for counsel
prove themselves, _by their own shewing_, to be _steeped_ as it were in
infamy, iniquity and deadly crime--of those who practice injustice as a
lucrative trade, ruin character by way of recreation, and destroy
innocence as a pleasurable pursuit--of those who, as long as their
money lasts, rely upon lawyers to defend them in making the property,
the character, the happiness of others subservient to their own
diabolical appetites and passions. Would all lawyers make it a point of
conscience never to appear for such wretches, unless the courts
assigned them as counsel, the criminals themselves would never be
unjustly condemned; neither would they ever escape punishment, as they
now often do, by the ingenious but highly pernicious sophistry of their
hired defenders. Laws would then attain the great ends for which they
were enacted, and our whole community would enjoy a far greater degree
of safety from the perpetrators of crime than it has ever done
heretofore.

Should political life be your choice, after finishing a scholastic
course wherein both morals and religion have been so little regarded as
not to be made paramount objects of pursuit, instead of becoming pure
patriots, solely devoted to your country's good, you will be much more
apt to turn constant calculators of the chances for personal
aggrandizement--careful measurers and weighers of your own private
interests against your public duties, and deep casuists in the means of
evading or violating the last to promote the first, wherever your real
purpose and only anxious desire may admit of probable concealment. You
will become, with few exceptions, if possessed of sufficient talents
and cunning, members of that most pernicious class of politicians
called demagogues, who in fact have always proved the curse of every
country wherein they have acquired political power. These have
patriotism, patriotism, continually on their lips, but never in their
hearts and actions--deeming it much easier to feign love of country
than really to possess and exert it--much more thrifty to wheedle and
cajole the people for their own base selfish purposes,--than manfully
and like true friends combat their prejudices and inform their
understandings. You will reach the lowest, most despicable grade of
political prostitution, by turning _man-worshippers_; and soon learn to
offer up your incense in exact proportion to the vanity of your idols
and their power to gratify your wants; until at last you will neither
see, hear, nor understand any thing but as they wish you; and will call
black white, or white black--just as they bid you do. To this wretched
state of degradation and self-abasement do most politicians sink
themselves, whose educations have not been firmly based on sound, moral
and religious principles.

Let us suppose, lastly, that you should prefer the mercantile
profession to any other, after acquiring all the learning to be gained
in the customary course of education. What will probably be your
practice as merchants, if the principles which I am recommending as the
essentials of all education, have not been made so of yours? Will this
practice be guided by the social or the selfish principle? Will it be,
"_live and let live_," or "_live for self alone_?" But very little
observation and experience will compel you to admit that the latter
maxim will in most cases be the ruling one. Nay, it will not only rule
you, but blind you also to the great truth which should always govern
the whole mercantile class, that all fair commerce is nothing more than
an interchange of equivalents--a supplying of each other's wants--by
which both sellers and buyers are mutually benefitted--a bond of peace
and union, instead of a war of cunning for the accumulation of pelf. In
fact every thing called commerce or barter, wherein this effect of
mutual benefit does not take place, so far as depends upon the
intention of the parties, is neither more nor less than _fraud in
disguise_--fraud concealed under the specious title of skill in
trade--in other words, it is an unjust attempt on both sides to get
some undue advantage in the traffic. Such attempts you never would
make--indeed you could not possibly make them, were your hearts
constantly and deeply influenced, during the whole of your scholastic
course, by the pure, the genuine principles of morality and religion,
while your conduct was regulated by them as the guardians of your
honor, the preservers of your reputation, the unerring guides that
point the way from time to eternity.

_These principles and these alone_ form our only safeguards against
vice and crime--our only security for using whatever other education we
may acquire, as rational and accountable beings should use all the
powers of their minds and bodies. Once acquired and ardently cherished,
they will prove to you "a refuge in every storm--a present help in
every trouble"--the sweetest solace in all adversity--the ever faithful
monitors and guides in prosperous fortune. Armed with such a panoply
you may safely march through all the most perilous paths of life,
without fear of serious injury; and proceed, rejoicing on your way,
that you have neither lived nor labored in vain. _Yours_ will be the
only true glory of the present life,--that of contributing to human
happiness--_yours_ the sole victory worthy of beings endowed with such
godlike faculties,--the victory over your own passions--and _yours_ the
indescribable rewards after death, of those "who have done the will of
their Father on earth as it is in heaven."

Look always to these principles as to the polar star of your earthly
course--act up to them faithfully, under all the trying circumstances
in which you may be placed; and each of you may then, in the confident
hope of being graciously heard, begin and close every day of your lives
with the comprehensive prayer of the pious Thomson:--

  "Father of light and life! thou Good Supreme!
   Oh! teach me what is good! teach me thyself!
   Save me from folly, vanity and vice,
   From ev'ry low pursuit! and feed my soul
   With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure;
   Sacred,--substantial,--never-fading bliss!"




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE CONTRAST:

OR, A FASHIONABLE AND AN UNFASHIONABLE NEW ENGLAND WIFE.


Horace Lawrence and Ellen Frazier had been three years married, when
Alpheus North, their friend, and nearest neighbor, brought home his
beautiful bride, the accomplished Anna Weston.

They resided in a little village, the principal attraction of which
was, that it was a good place for business. The village was, indeed,
beautifully situated. From every point the landscape was diversified by
hill and dale--the one crowned by here and there a towering oak,--the
other shaded by the branching elm. The clear waters of the river,
pursuing its rather circuitous course, might be seen from every
eminence; and its passage being in many places obstructed, waterfalls
added to the variety and beauty of the scenery.

But the inhabitants of the village had been influenced by other motives
than the gratification of the eye, to locate themselves on this favored
spot. The _useful_ was to them the only _truly beautiful_; and however
much the admirer of the lovely and picturesque in nature might have
regretted it, there men of business delighted in adding mill to
mill,--and in seeing the fine river obstructed by logs and slabs,--and
every corner wearing the appearance of a lumber-yard. It was a real
business place. The men were all intent on accumulating dollars and
cents; and although among their wives and daughters, there was
abundance of tea-drinking, visiting, and sociability,--and here and
there an effort at the genteel,--there was neither science, nor
literature, nor refinement in the place, excepting the little that just
retained the breath of life, in the habitation of the aged pastor of
the parish, and that which was enclosed in the room of the young
physician.

Had he consulted taste alone, the village of L---- was the last place
Horace Lawrence would have selected as his place of residence; for he
was scientific, literary, and refined,--calculated at once, to enjoy
and adorn polished society; but though the son of a gentleman, a
finished education was all his father could give him;--of course he had
his own fortune to make. He was a lawyer, and the village of L----
presented a fair opening for one of that profession.

As soon as his business was sufficiently established to warrant it, he
had married. He did not choose Ellen Frazier because she was either the
most beautiful, the most accomplished, or the most fascinating young
lady of his acquaintance; but because she had superior strength of
mind, and firmness of character,--was amiable, well-principled, and
well-informed--and therefore likely to make a judicious friend, and a
good wife and mother. She belonged to a family that had for successive
generations ranked high in New England for learning and piety; but her
father was in narrow circumstances; and all the money he had to spare,
was expended on the education of his two sons;--so that Ellen was
constrained to make the most of her resources, to acquire the education
of a gentlewoman. But she loved knowledge,--and when that is the case,
no one will remain in ignorance. She was not scientific, but her mind
was richly stored with useful knowledge, which rendered her a valuable
friend, and a most entertaining companion. And in her own mother she
had been blessed with a living example of all that is most valuable in
woman, in the several relations of life. Mr. Lawrence was not
disappointed in his wife. She possessed his entire confidence; and
every year witnessed an increase of his respect and affection for her.
They were a well-matched, and happy pair.

Alpheus North was a native of the village of L----. His father was an
untaught man, but shrewd and intelligent; and by dint of industry and
frugality, arose from being a shoemaker, his bench his only property,
to having money in the stocks,--two or three saw-mills on the river,
and a very genteel house, beautifully situated in the outskirts of the
village. Resolved that his son should be, what he was conscious he
himself was not, namely, a gentleman, he spared no expense on his
education. And he met the only return he wished;--Alpheus was a
scholar, and an elegant man. He was more. For while his father had been
thinking of his education and fortune, and providing for both, his
mother had been thinking of his heart. She was an illiterate woman, but
devotedly pious; and she thought little of the prospects of her
children for this world, in comparison with their fitness for the next.
Her first object had been to bring them up in "the nurture and
admonition of the Lord;" and if all the holy desires of her heart were
not satisfied in their behalf, they were certainly well-principled;
reverencing the Bible, and respecting, if not possessing true piety.
And Alpheus, the only son, was the most amiable, the most tender, the
most hopeful of them all.

Mr. and Mrs. North died within a few months of each other, the year
that Alpheus left college; and he inherited from his father the house
in L----, beside other property to the amount of fifteen thousand
dollars. Having no predeliction for either of the learned professions,
and feeling strongly attached to his native place, he established
himself at L---- as a merchant.

Anna Weston was the only child of parents, who, though neither
well-educated, nor well-mannered, moved in the first circles in the
town in which they resided, nobody knew why, and supported their
station, nobody knew how. They always contrived to appear genteelly in
their house, without any obvious means; for Mr. Weston's whole business
seemed to be, the now and then taking the acknowledgement of a deed, or
some other trifling business as a justice of peace; and no one could
name any property as his,--whether houses, or lands, or money. This,
however, only gave rise to idle speculation, and furnished conversation
for those vacant minds, that can find no more entertaining or
instructive subject of conversation, than the affairs of their
neighbors; for he owed no man anything, and therefore no one was really
concerned as to the exact amount of his property. The fact was, that
both Mr. and Mrs. Weston were remarkably skilful in making a good deal
of show, with very limited means; and their study from January to
December was how to keep up appearances.

Anna was the idol of her parents. She was beautiful in person, and
amiable in disposition,--with as much _tact_ as father and mother both.
Her education was completely superficial; but she studied every thing
_a little_,--and by usually being seen in the morning with a book in
her hand, and often speaking of her favorite studies, it was taken for
granted, that her mind was uncommonly well stored. But every thing
about her character and acquirements was completely artificial, her
sweetness of temper alone excepted.

Anna was visiting an old school-fellow in Boston, when Alpheus North
for the first time saw her. Her beauty instantly captivated his eye;
her graceful, and somewhat showy manners, pleased his fancy; and her
amiable disposition and sprightly conversation, engaged his affections.
He was soon deeply in love; and before declaring himself, only wished
to know, whether her principles were such as the son of a mother like
his own could approve. He conversed with her on the subject of
religion, and was delighted to find, not only that her feelings were
tender, but that she was a member of the church in her native town. He
at once offered his hand, which was accepted; and in due time he
brought his beautiful bride to L----, after having taken her to
Saratoga Springs, and one or two other places of fashionable resort.

Between Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, and Alpheus North, there was no
ceremony. Similarity of education, and, on some accounts, congeniality
of taste, had made them fond of each other's society from first
acquaintance; and time had ripened this early preference into
friendship. Mr. North was ever a welcome visiter at the house of Mr.
Lawrence, where he was treated more as a brother than as a common
acquaintance.

The next morning after his arrival at L---- with his bride, he called
upon Mrs. Lawrence, to bespeak from her an early call; as Mrs. North
must necessarily feel solitary among entire strangers; and, indeed,
where there were none with whom she could wish _ever_ to be intimate,
Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence alone excepted. He hoped he should now be able,
in some degree, to requite the cordial hospitality that had been
accorded to him, and which had constituted so large a share of his
happiness.

In a short time an intimacy between the two families was established.
Mrs. Lawrence could not, indeed, very frequently visit Mrs. North, as
she had two young children; and her wish to promote the comfort of her
husband, to superintend the general well being of her family, and take
care of these little ones, kept her, the greater part of her time,
within her own doors. But Mrs. North had no confinement,--and with the
most graceful ease she waived ceremony, and at any hour of the day
would put her blooming and smiling face into the nursery, the parlor,
or whatever room Mrs. Lawrence might chance to be in, and be quite at
home.

Two months had elapsed since Mrs. North came to L----, when one morning
as she was sitting in the nursery with Mrs. Lawrence, she said--

"I look upon you with increasing astonishment every day, to see you
always so cheerful and happy." Mrs. Lawrence looked up in some
surprise, and inquired, "Why she should be otherwise."

"Why?--Because you are so perpetually employed--shut up in your own
house. I should think you would be wretched!"

"I am so constantly, and necessarily, and, for a greater part of the
time, so _interestingly_ employed, that I have no leisure to be
unhappy," said Mrs. Lawrence, with a smile.

"Interestingly! Pardon me," said Mrs. North, "but can domestic concerns
_ever_ be interesting?"

"How can you ask such a question, my dear Mrs. North?"

"Call me Anna, do--I hate _Mrs. North_ from an intimate
friend,--especially one somewhat older than myself," said Mrs. North.
"But tell me how you can be _interested_ in what I have thought must be
irksome to every one."

"Every affectionate wife, my dear _Anna_," said Mrs. Lawrence, "must be
_interested_ to promote the comfort and prosperity of her husband;
every mother, especially every _christian_ mother, must be interested
in the care and instruction of her children; and my Lucius is now two
years old--capable, therefore, of receiving moral impressions that may
endure through eternity;--and _every lady should strive to be so much
of a lady_, as to have her whole household well regulated, and all
domestic business well, and reasonably performed."

"O, certainly," said Mrs. North. "Yet every human being needs
recreation. You will soon wear yourself out by such unceasing attention
to domestic duties."

"By no means. You know that variety of objects and occupations is an
antidote to exhaustion; beside, books and my flower-garden are a never
failing source of pleasure and relaxation. Indeed, my dear Mrs. North,
I wonder how a wife and mother can ever know _ennui_, or find much time
to devote to general society."

"Would I had your resources," said Mrs. North. "But, really, were it
not for you, I believe I should die of _ennui_ in this stupid, vulgar
place, notwithstanding I have the kindest, and most attentive husband
in the world. But he cannot always be with me, of course; and when he
is attending to business, you are my only resource. Do you know that
for a month past, I have been dreading the approach of this week?"

"On what account?"

"Because I thought that when Mr. Lawrence went to attend court, you
would certainly go with him, after having been immured so long. I
dreaded it so much, I could not even ask you whether or not you should
go."

"I very seldom go anywhere with Mr. Lawrence, to be absent more than
one day," said Mrs. Lawrence. "We do not feel quite easy to be from
home at the same time."

"And do you ever go without him?" asked Mrs. North.

"Not very often; for when he is with me, home is much the pleasantest
place in the world. My friend," she added, with a smile, "you have not
yet been a wife long enough to know much about it. Three or four years
hence you will find employment enough; and that which, I doubt not,
will prove so interesting, that you will not be willing to transfer it
to other hands."

"Perhaps so--but, really, I do love society. I do love to drive about a
little, and see the world, and the people that are in it. And, by the
way, do you know that I go to Boston, with Alpheus, in a fortnight?
Business calls him there,--and he says he cannot go without me. I am
glad of it, truly. I should not like to ask him to take me with
him,--and stay at home, alone, I could not!"

"I am glad you are to have the pleasure of a journey," said Mrs.
Lawrence. "And there is no reason why you should not. Mr. North is, of
course, at present, your principal care; and you have little else to
do, but study to promote his happiness."

The journey to Boston on business was only the precursor of another, in
a different direction, for pleasure; for Mr. North, himself, loved to
visit different parts of the country; he took pride in the admiration
and attention his young wife commanded; and, beside, he could not but
perceive that L---- seemed more and more unpleasant to her, after every
excursion,--and it was his constant desire to promote the happiness of
one so tenderly beloved. Perhaps he took not the most certain way to
increase her happiness;--but that was the fault of his head--not his
heart!

Mrs. North never _teazed_, or even _asked_ her husband for any
gratification. She was, at once too amiable, and too polite to do
either; yet she had a way of her own--and a most graceful and
fascinating way it was--of leading him on to propose the very thing she
had resolved on,--and then yielding to his plan, with an air of
relinquishing some more favored scheme of her own, for the pleasure of
gratifying him. Indeed, every thing she did, was done in the most
amiable and graceful manner--even to the spending of money, which she
did with the air of a princess. And her husband sometimes feared she
was a _little_ too profuse; but she dressed with such taste; was so
generous, and so much the _belle_ wherever she appeared, that he could
not find it in his heart to supply her purse less liberally.

For nearly three months Mr. and Mrs. North were scarcely at L---- for
more than a week at a time; and the cold winds and bad roads of
November, alone led them to settle quietly at home. On every return to
L----, Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence had been duly visited; and now, when the
autumnal campaign was fairly over, their society was more needed, more
valued than ever. Scarcely twenty-four hours passed, without bringing
Mrs. Lawrence the favor of a longer or shorter visit.

"And so, my dear Mrs. Lawrence, you have not been five miles from
L----, since my journey to Boston last August?"

"I have not."

"Nor wanted to be, I suppose," said Mrs. North.

"All circumstances considered, I have not," answered Mrs. Lawrence. "It
would afford me great pleasure to see various parts of the world,--in
the Southern as well as Northern States of the Union,--in Europe as
well as America; but as I am situated, by the providence of an all-wise
Father, I must content myself with the knowledge of different places,
that I can derive from books. And this, if not so satisfactory, is, at
least, a cheaper mode of obtaining information, than travelling."

Two things in this answer struck Mrs. North. "A cheaper mode!" Yes--as
Mr. Lawrence inherited no fortune, it was necessary for his wife to
think of economy. How fortunate for herself that Mr. North's father was
a rich man! "Knowledge--travelling to obtain knowledge!" The idea had
never before occurred to her mind. She had always travelled solely for
pleasure.

Mrs. Lawrence really felt attached to Mrs. North. Her amiable temper
and pleasing manners had won her affections, and she wished to do her
good. She soon learned that her friend had many false notions: that, in
her estimation, wealth was the most valuable distinction; that show was
elegance; and that dress and idleness were gentility. She saw, too,
that she was nearly, or quite destitute of internal sources of
happiness; that all the nobler powers of her mind lay dormant; that she
seemed to have no idea of intellectual pleasures. Mrs. Lawrence had no
conception of the difficulty of the task she wished to accomplish; she
knew not how deep-rooted were the evils she wished to subdue; knew not
that they were completely intertwined with her whole mental
constitution.

Mrs. Lawrence often heard Mrs. North talk of books; and she directed
her to a course of reading, which she thought would at once prove
highly interesting and beneficial. But Mrs. North had never really read
a book for pleasure, or for intellectual improvement, in her life. She
had never been taught by her parents, and had never conceived the idea
herself, that the object in the acquisition of knowledge, was to fit
her for the discharge of duties to herself and others.

The knowledge she really possessed, was acquired for the express
purpose of _display_--to give her distinction in the circle in which
she moved. Of course she had gone about the acquisition of it, not as a
pleasure, but as a task that must be accomplished. Mrs. Lawrence had
likewise heard her speak of the benevolent societies with which she had
been connected in her native place, and she strove to awaken her
sympathies for the poor in L----, and excite interest in benevolent
enterprises of a higher order. But although Mrs. North would give
freely, and, particularly if a subscription paper was handed about,
would subscribe liberally, there was evidently no heart in her
charities. She could find no pleasure in searching out the destitute
and afflicted in her own person. If she heard of one who was sick, she
would perhaps send them a sum of money preposterously large, that _Mrs.
North might be spoken of as a most munificent lady_; but she could not
have made a basin of broth, to have saved a life. She knew nothing of
the system of benefitting the poor at a very trifling expense of time
and labor, by making comfortable garments out of old ones that were
lying useless, an encumbrance to closets and drawers. It is nearly
useless to give such garments to the poor in an unprepared state;
seldom have they sufficient ingenuity, or patience, or industry, to
turn them to profitable account. Mrs. Lawrence was fully aware of this;
and she was remarkable for the ingenuity and dexterity with which she
would make a comfortable suit of clothes for a poor child, out of
garments that appeared not worth a farthing. She was a blessing to the
poor around her; and her husband had in no way to pay the penalty of
her charities, as is sometimes, unhappily, the case. Mrs. Lawrence
endeavored to interest Mrs. North in this way of doing good; but the
attempt was fruitless. How could a lady degrade herself by attending to
such occupations! How could the delicate and elegant Mrs. North bend
her beautiful person over such work; or soil and deface her fair, round
fingers by such menial employments! Equally unavailing were all Mrs.
Lawrence's efforts, to interest her friend in the cultivation of
flowers, or in any employment or pursuit, by which she could make
herself happy in solitude.

The piety of Mrs. North was in perfect accordance with every other
point in her character. At a season of revival of religion in her
native place, many of her youthful companions becoming deeply
interested in the subject, her sympathies were awakened; and she
mistook these feelings, as is, alas, too often the case, for renovation
of heart.--Beside, "religion walked in her golden slippers;" it was
_fashionable_ to be benevolent, and charitable, and attend meetings;
and Anna Weston went with others; and with others she publicly and
solemnly "avouched the Lord to be her God," and consecrated herself to
his service! But one view of her own heart she had never had. She still
loved the world, and the things of the world, "the lusts of the eye,
and the pride of life," and scarcely felt, or knew that it was wrong.
She lived for herself; and she loved herself--supremely; and she was
not conscious, much less was Mr. North, that her strongly expressed
attachment to her husband, principally arose from the ability he
possessed to gratify her in all the selfish desires of her heart.

Mrs. Lawrence could not but perceive that the feelings of Mrs. North
were very superficial on the subject of religion; and she knew that the
views that resulted in such practice, must be erroneous. As a
christian, deeply interested in the honor of Him "who had redeemed her
to God by his own blood,"--and anxious that every one of his professed
disciples should "walk worthy of their high vocation," she often
conversed with Mrs. North on the subject; and by the gentlest and most
touching appeals, strove to touch her heart, and awaken and _enlighten_
her conscience. But here, too, she was unsuccessful. Mrs. North would
so readily assent to all she said, with "Certainly"--"O, yes, every
christian should feel and act thus,"--that Mrs. Lawrence felt that the
case was, at present, hopeless. There was no _feeling_; there was not
even _thought_;--it was a mere assent of the voice.

But an event was now in prospect that seemed to have a great effect on
Mrs. North; and which frequently has a vast effect in deciding
character. Life is always uncertain,--and, in a moment of reflection,
every one is willing to acknowledge it; but when a lady has the
prospect of becoming a mother, there is a definite period to which she
looks forward, as the one in which she may be called from time into
eternity. It is an unthinking woman indeed, who is never serious under
such circumstances. Mrs. North was far otherwise. Life was very dear to
her; since her marriage it had been a scene of unclouded sunshine. But
now there was a dark curtain raised before her, beyond which she
trembled to look.

Mrs. Lawrence was one of the most judicious of woman. She cheered and
sustained her friend's spirits, not by leading her to forget, or think
lightly of her danger, but by teaching her to look at it
rationally,--and be in a state of preparation for her hour of
trial.--And never had she been so much encouraged, for never had Mrs.
North appeared so much as she wished to see her. Her feelings were very
tender, and a review of the many blessings she had enjoyed, seemed to
fill her with gratitude for the past; and inspire in her some degree of
confidence for the future. She professed to hope, that whether she were
to live, or to die, all would be well.

At length Mrs. North became the joyful mother of a fine son; and her
feelings were in a glow of gratitude. Her heart seemed to expand with
love for every one. Her husband--her friend--never had they been half
so dear!--With her congratulatory kiss, while the tears of deep
tenderness suffused her eyes, Mrs. Lawrence whispered--"Consecrate
yourself, dearest Anna, and this precious little immortal, to the
service of Him who has been your benefactor and preserver!" With
tremulous lips, Mrs. North returned the kiss, and emphatically
whispered--"O dear friend, may I never forget the impressions of this
hour? May I never forget the deep debt of gratitude I owe to my Father
in heaven?"

But, alas, it was not the goodness of Ephraim alone that was "as the
morning cloud, and the early dew!" for the greater part of the goodness
of the whole human family is of the same transitory and fleeting
nature. At the end of six weeks, when Mrs. North left her chamber, she
was precisely the Mrs. North of the year before--equally thoughtless,
equally negligent of duty. With pain Mrs. Lawrence witnessed all
this;--with deep pain she saw indications that the character of a
_fashionable woman_ must be supported at the expense of being an
unnatural mother.

Physicians, when practising in fashionable houses, have a wonderful
faculty of divining what prescriptions will be most agreeable. Mrs.
North had a fine constitution; but like many women brought up with
false notions, she conceived that firm health and refinement were
incompatible with each other. Dr. G----, was very willing to humor her
whim, as it was in no way detrimental to his pecuniary interest; and he
cheerfully acquiesced in her recovering from her confinement as slowly
as she pleased. And when, by her own confession she was well, he put
the cap-stone to the favor in which he previously stood with her, by
saying, what his shrewd observation told him would just accord with her
wishes, namely--that her strength was quite unequal to the task of
nursing; her babe must be sent from home;--the Dr. knew just the nurse
for it--a fine, healthy, good-natured woman, who would take the best
possible care of it, for two dollars a week; and Mrs. North must take a
journey, as change of air and scene were indispensable to the perfect
restoration of her health.

Mrs. Lawrence was truly grieved when she found this arrangement was
made. She had foreseen the probability of it, but she could not be
reconciled to the measure. She justly considered maternal feelings
among the most sacred that belong to earth; and she knew that nothing
more strengthens a mother's love, than the entire dependance of the
child on her for comfort and happiness. She was fully convinced, that
anything that weakens this tie, that nature has made so strong, must be
injurious alike to both parent and offspring. She was musing on the
subject when her husband came in.

"You look sad, my dear Ellen. What is the matter?"

"Mrs. North has put the dear little boy out to nurse."

"She is a fashionable woman! Did you not expect it?"

"I feared it--but I blame Dr. G----, for had he not have proposed it, I
think Anna would have kept the poor little thing with her. He says,
too, that she must journey to confirm her health."

"He knows his patient," said Mr. Lawrence.

"You are severe, my dear husband."

"Do you think so?--but time will show. Meantime I am going to take you
a journey."

"Me! where?"

"To Fryburg. Business calls me there next week--I shall be absent from
home but few days, and the excursion will do you good. Be it as it may
with Mrs. North, change of air and scene are really necessary for you."

"But the children?" said Mrs. Lawrence.

"I have provided for them," said Mr. Lawrence. "Nurse Bevey has
promised to come and take care of them during our absence?"

"Well, since you have arranged it all," said Mrs. Lawrence, "do propose
to Alpheus that he and Anna accompany us. It may suffice,--and prevent
them from taking one of those long journies that I begin to dread."

Mr. and Mrs. North were delighted with the proposal. Preparations were
immediately commenced, and at the appointed time, they all set out on
their excursion. We shall not travel with them. Suffice it to say, that
on the evening of the second day after their departure, they arrived at
Mrs. O----'s hotel, in Fryburg. Mr. Lawrence was rather impatient, as
the journey might have been performed in much less time. But short
stages, and long rests were necessary for Mrs. North--at least she said
so--and Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence could not with propriety drive on before
them.

On the morning after their arrival, on looking about them, the ladies
were both in raptures at the scenery around. They had seen nothing like
it before. But we will accompany them to the little Jockey-Cap
mountain, which lies not far from a mile from Mrs. O----'s, which they
ascended in the afternoon, and hear what they say of it there.

"This little mountain is not difficult of ascent," said Mr. Lawrence,
when they had attained its summit--"yet it is rather wearisome, making
ones way through the shrub-oaks--so do you, my dear Ellen, and Mrs.
North, rest awhile on this table of granite, and amuse yourselves by
picking out some of the well-defined garnets that are imbedded in the
rock. When you are rested, you may come with us toward the verge of the
precipice, and view the scenery around."

In a few minutes the ladies got over their fatigue,--and joined their
husbands to enjoy the prospect.

"What is the name of this beautiful sheet of water on our left, Mr.
Lawrence?" asked Mrs. North.

"It is called 'Lovell's pond,'" replied Mr. Lawrence. "It was on the
margin of this peaceful _lake_, as it should be called, that Capt.
Lovell and his company of militia, met Pangus, the Indian Sachem, at
the head of a part of his tribe, prepared for deadly conflict. In
Lovell's company was a man named John Chamberlain. His rifle, as well
as that of Pangus, had become foul from frequent firing. Standing but a
few paces apart, each cleaned his rifle at the pond--and each commenced
loading at the same moment,--while each watched the motions of the
other with the most intense interest--knowing that he that was first
ready to discharge his rifle, would undoubtedly be sole survivor. The
rifle of Chamberlain was so much worn, that in being loaded, it primed
itself. This circumstance decided the fate of the Indian Chief--he
fell."[1]

[Footnote 1: After the "fight" at Lovell's pond, the remains of the
Pigwacket tribe of Indians, left the woods and lakes of New Hampshire
and Maine, for the broader waters and deeper forests of Canada. In
1777, Chamberlain had become an old grey-headed man,--living alone, and
laboring in a saw mill to support himself. He was one evening informed
that a young Indian had appeared in the Village, with rifle, wampum
belt and tomahawk, having the noble bearing of old Pangus, the Sachem.
Chamberlain instantly took the alarm; but old as he was, was not
intimidated. Well knowing the Indian character and habits, about the
dusk of the evening he put his mill in rapid motion, raised his coat as
a "decoy"--and retired to a short distance to watch what might follow.
In a short time he witnessed the cautious approach of the savage, who
repeatedly advanced and receded, ere he aimed his rifle at the coat. As
soon as he had fired, and raised himself to his full height, (which was
above six feet) to ascertain the effect of his aim, Chamberlain
discharged the same rifle that had taken the life of the Sachem. As the
bullet went through his heart, young Pangus sprung some feet in the
air, and fell lifeless in the stream below.]

"O, the ever wakeful Providence of our Heavenly Father," whispered Mrs.
Lawrence.

"The beautiful swell of land, directly in front of us, and clothed with
verdure to its summit, is Starkes-hill," said Mr. Lawrence; "that on
our right, just back of the village, is Kearsarge mountain."

"And those beyond, piled one upon another, in seemingly endless
succession--far--far as the eye can reach," cried Mrs. Lawrence, "are
the celebrated white mountains of New-Hampshire. O, how sublime! how
grand! how awful! And Mount Washington raises its towering head far
above the others, as if to overlook, and guard them all. What majesty
is here!--and how elevating to the soul, to view such specimens of our
Creator's workmanship!"

"And what is the name of this beautiful stream, that flows between us,
and the highlands?" asked Mrs. North.

"This river," replied Mr. North, "still retains its Indian
appellation--the Saco!"

"And see," said Mrs. Lawrence, "how it winds around and about, as if
reluctant to leave this broad and beautiful intervale, and striving to
linger in it to the last possible moment."

"I have been told," said Mr. Lawrence, "that before some short canals
were cut, to accelerate the passage of lumber down the stream, that the
Saco ran upwards of thirty miles, in this place, in making the actual
progress of only six towards the ocean."

"And then the beautiful, quiet village," said Mrs. Lawrence, "lying so
securely amid its guardian mountains, with its long, straight
street,--and its church and academy spires, pointing to heaven,
speaking of spiritual and intellectual improvement. O, this scene is
perfect in beauty!--and in grandeur! There the sublime and beautiful
are most happily associated. The overpowering awe that steals upon one,
while viewing those mighty efforts of creative power, which fills the
soul with sensations altogether too big for utterance,--is modified,
when the eye falls, and rests on the peaceful village, which speaks of
human society, comfort and happiness. It seems as if the inhabitants,
brought up with such scenes of beauty and sublimity constantly before
them, must be more free from base and ignoble passions, than those who
live and die amid scenery of a different character. Every spot on which
the eye rests, speaks of the grandeur, the power, the benevolence--and,
if I may so express myself, the _taste_ of the Divine Architect. I can
conceive of nothing more beautiful--more perfect!--and nothing can have
a more elevating effect on the soul of man! I must believe, with Dr.
Dwight, that 'he who does not find in the various beautiful, sublime,
awful and astonishing objects, presented to us in creation,
irresistible and glorious reasons for admiring, adoring, loving and
praising his Creator, has no claim to evangelical piety.'"

"You are an enthusiast, Mrs. Lawrence," said Mr. North, smiling.

"Perhaps I am. But nothing, after _moral grandeur_, touches my heart
like the beautiful face of nature. Every flower and tree, and hill and
valley that meets my eye, gives me delight,--and speaks to my soul of
the glorious Being that made them:--how much more such a picture as is
now spread before me!--My dear husband, when our children are old
enough to appreciate its beauty, they must be brought to this spot. It
cannot fail of having a salutary effect, both on the heart, and mind."

Mr. Lawrence pressed his wife's arm to his side, in token of
approbation. His admiration was divided between the scenery before him,
and a wife,--capable of deriving such exquisite delight, from so pure a
source; and the piety of whose heart, gave a religious cast to every
thing around her. He admired the grand and beautiful in nature,--but he
admired her moral beauty and purity far more.

Mr. North, too, highly enjoyed the natural magnificence presented to
his view; but Mrs. North had felt far greater sensible delight, when,
with a well-filled purse, she had visited a repository of rich and
fashionable goods, or the shop of her milliner. Yet she tried to be
eloquent in praise of the beauties on which they gazed; for admiration
of them was certainly at that moment _fashionable_ on the summit of the
Jockey-Cap; yet there was no heart in her exclamations of delight;
there was no feeling in her expressions of admiration. Her remarks
repressed rather than elicited enthusiasm. They were like a body
without a soul.

On the third morning after their arrival at Fryburg, Mr. and Mrs.
Lawrence prepared to return to L----. The latter was much surprised
when she found that Mr. and Mrs. North were not to return with them.

"O, we are going through the _notch_ of the White Mountains," said Mrs.
North. "We are told here, that the scenery beyond is infinitely more
magnificent than this, and well worth a much longer journey to see."

"I doubt not its magnificence," said Mrs. Lawrence, "and should
exceedingly like to view it; yet I much doubt whether any scene, in
beauty of combination, can exceed that we have seen from the
Jockey-Cap. But the little boy, my dear Anna!--Are you not anxious to
see him?"

"O certainly--the little darling!--Yet he is in perfectly good hands,
and a week or two can make no difference. He knows, as yet, no mother
but nurse."

"Nor will he ever," thought Mr. Lawrence.--Mrs. Lawrence sighed.

"Will you take the trouble, my dear friend," said Mr. North, "to look
in occasionally upon nurse, and see that she neglects not her duty?"

"O, do," said Mrs. North; "it will be a great relief to my feelings, to
know that your vigilant eye, is now and then upon the dear boy."

A mingled expression of pity and contempt, sat on the features of Mr.
Lawrence as he turned away; while Mrs. Lawrence promised to see the
little one as often as possible, during the absence of the parents.
They soon parted--the one pair for the _notch_,--the other for home.

"I am truly grieved," said Mrs. Lawrence, when they were fairly on
their homeward journey--"I am truly grieved that Alpheus does not
return to L---- with us. I had hoped, that on becoming a mother, Anna's
character would undergo a change. I hoped she would learn to love home,
and domestic scenes. It is to be lamented, that such qualities as she
has, qualities that might make a superior woman, should all be lost in
the woman of fashion--the votary of pleasure. Fain would I do her good
if I could--but I know not how to acquire influence over her mind."

"It is a hopeless case," answered Mr. Lawrence. "Her character has no
foundation: It is all superstructure. She never acts from principle.
She has no strength of mind. I mean not that she is naturally deficient
in intellectual powers; but she is a _parvenu_, and all her mental
efforts, instead of giving and increasing mental vigor, are directed to
the one object of making a show, and noise in the world. And as is
almost universally the case with those of her class, she _overdoes_.
She is thoroughly selfish; and ere any real improvement can rationally
be hoped for, the present _edifice_ must be completely demolished, and
a foundation laid, of new views, new motives, and new principles. Poor
Alpheus! I pity him. The greatest defect in his character, is that love
of show that he inherited from his vulgar father,--and by which he was
governed in the selection of a wife. He is so amiable and indulgent in
his disposition, that he permits her to lead him as she will. I foresee
that she will be his ruin."

Mrs. Lawrence called to see the "deserted baby" as she called him, the
next day after her return to L----, and continued to do so, once or
twice a week, until the return of his parents, which was delayed for
something more than a month. He grew finely,--and before his mother's
arrival, was beginning to "_ca_" and "_coo_" and smile in the nurse's
face. And Mrs. Lawrence felt that it would bring a severe pang to her
heart, were the first smile and look of love of an infant of her own,
bestowed on an hireling,--however worthy she might be. But Mrs. North
had no _weakness_ of this kind; on the contrary, she was delighted with
the happiness he manifested in nurse's arms, as it was incontestible
proof of her faithful discharge of duty.

Eight years passed away, and in that time the number of Mrs. North's
children increased to four; but never was a woman less incommoded by a
growing family. Never was there one on whom care sat more lightly. A
few months confinement to L---- now and then, was to her the most
serious part of the business. Five or six weeks, of as many winters,
during this period, had been spent in Boston or New-York; for a whole
winter in L----, unless confined to her chamber, Mrs. North declared
would kill her outright. And the expense was nothing to be thought of;
for Mr. North _must_ go to purchase goods, and attend to other
mercantile concerns; and taking her with him made but little
difference, as she must be supported somewhere,--and her being with him
made not a great difference in the length of his stay. The summers she
passed in L---- were rendered tolerable, by the society of those
fashionable friends she from time to time invited to her house.

Meantime, however, sagacious people began to whisper, that Mr. North's
partner in business, Mr. Mason, (a young man whom he had taken into
partnership, that his affairs might not suffer from neglect, during his
frequent absenses from home,) was growing rich,--not from dishonest
practices, but by attention to business, and economy; while it was
shrewdly conjectured that Mr. North lived to the full extent of his
income, if not a little beyond it. Some persons of that class who can
always foresee what will happen, predicted, that in five years the
junior partner would be sole possessor of the stock in trade, if not
the real estate of Mr. North.

At the close of the same period Mrs. Lawrence was the mother of five
children. She had almost given up the hope of doing Mrs. North any
personal good; but she watched over her friend's neglected children,
during the long periods of her absence from home, with as much
vigilance as was consistent with the faithful discharge of duty to her
own. So far from exhausting,--her diligence increased her mental vigor;
and her character was constantly improving in dignity, and in every
christian grace. Mr. Lawrence had been unremitting in his attention to
business,--and his property had gradually and constantly increased. His
house contained every thing necessary for comfort, gentility, and
intellectual improvement. All was in perfect _keeping_. Good judgment,
and correct taste were manifest in every thing in and about the
dwelling, while there was nothing like show or splendor.

"Your husband is now rich, my dear Mrs. Lawrence," said Mrs. North,
after one of her visits to New York, "and I wonder you do not change,
in some measure, your style of furniture and living. You should have an
elegant centre-table in your drawing-room, and damask curtains, like
mine, instead of those modest ones that now hang at the
windows,--beside some beautiful ornaments for the mantel. And in your
library, that you love so well, and which is so nobly stocked with
books, you must have some such delightful _lounges_ and chairs as I saw
in New York,--that you may be quite at your ease while reading. A few
of these things would make your house look delightfully."

"I am quite satisfied with my furniture, my dear Anna," replied Mrs.
Lawrence,--"and can enjoy a book as much, and understand it as well, in
my old fashioned rocking-chair, as if reclining on the most delightful
_lounge_ in the world."

"Undoubtedly you can; but why not pay some attention to fashion and
elegance, both about your house and dress? I really wonder at the
simplicity of your dress! Your apparel is always very well, certainly,
as to material and form,--but it is too plain. I wish you would
commission me to get some dresses for you;--you would look like another
creature under my hands;--and you can perfectly well afford to consult
your taste in these matters."

"Were the property of my husband twice as large as it is," said Mrs.
Lawrence, "I could not feel justified in incurring unnecessary expense.
We have now five children to educate; and that, of itself, will require
a _little fortune_. And independently of that, I could never be at
peace with myself, should I expend in unnecessary ornament, that which
would make so many light hearts, and cheerful faces among the poor,--to
say nothing of the more noble, more holy object, of ameliorating the
condition of the heathen world."

Mrs. North  slightly as she replied--"I know the tenderness of
your conscience; but surely one so remarkably disinterested and
benevolent as yourself, may occasionally indulge a little without
compunction. Do you not carry your scrupulosity too far?"

"There is little danger of our erring on the side of benevolence," said
Mrs. Lawrence. "And if, when we appear for final judgment, it be said
to us, 'inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye did it
unto me,' we shall hardly regret that we made not a more elegant and
splendid appearance, while inhabiting, what will then emphatically
appear to us, 'this _dim_ spot, called earth.'"

The following winter Mrs. North accompanied her husband to Boston. They
had been absent nearly six weeks, when Mrs. Lawrence was one evening
alarmed by the cry of 'fire,' and hastening to the door, she saw the
flames bursting from that part of Mr. North's house, in which the
nursery was situated. Giving hasty directions to her servants, she
flew, with all possible speed, to the spot. Mr. Lawrence, and many
others were already there, and had succeeded in rescuing all the
children from the blazing chamber, though the third child was burned in
a most shocking manner. All the children were immediately consigned to
the care of Mrs. Lawrence, who had them instantly conveyed to her own
house,--while a man was despatched to call Dr. G---- to the aid of the
little sufferer.

Meantime the whole village was collected at Mr. North's house, which,
by the most strenuous exertions, was saved from utter destruction,
though greatly injured. The fire caught in the nursery, through the
carelessness of the nursery-maid, who left the younger children, and a
blazing fire, under the care of the elder,--while she joined the other
servants in the kitchen, to talk over the gossip of the day.

In a short time, Dr. G---- arrived at the house of Mr. Lawrence, and
after examining the suffering child, gave his opinion that he could not
long survive the injury he had sustained.

As soon as Mr. Lawrence reached home, he despatched a letter and
messenger to apprise Mr. and Mrs. North of the calamity that had
befallen them; and in as short a time as possible they arrived at
L----, the latter nearly frantic with grief.

When she could bring herself to see the little boy, that a few weeks
before, she had left blooming in health and beauty--now a spectacle of
horror--she was overwhelmed. Bitter were the reproaches she expended on
the negligent nursery-maid: but more bitter still her own
self-upbraiding. Repeatedly was she on the point of making a most
solemn asseveration that never again, for a day, would she leave her
dear, _dear_ children. The moanings of the suffering child, seemed to
rend her heart with anguish; and it appeared impossible that she could
ever forgive herself.

She now appreciated the value of such a friend as Mrs. Lawrence. Her
feelings were such, that she could do nothing for the afflicted boy;
could not even remain in the room, while he was under the hands of the
surgeon. Mrs. Lawrence was Dr. G----'s constant assistant,--and indeed
almost the sole nurse of the child; from the hand of no one else would
he willingly receive either food or medicine. Mrs. North looked on Mrs.
Lawrence with astonishment; and could not but think, that with all her
tenderness, there was a _hard spot_ in her heart, that enabled her to
be useful in such a scene of suffering. Mrs. North had no knowledge of
that true christian sympathy, firmness, and philosophy, that impels one
to relieve, instead of flying from suffering; and she dignified her own
weak and selfish indulgence by the name of sensibility.

"O, my dear friend, how can I ever be sufficiently grateful for your
kindness? My _sensibilities_ are such, that it shatters my nerves to
pieces to witness suffering in any one--how much more in one's own
sweet infant! How must the dear boy suffer, were there no one to help
him but his poor, _sensitive_ mother! It is really a misfortune to have
a heart so feelingly constituted!"

The little boy lingered several weeks in great pain,--and then his
liberated spirit took its flight from its decaying tenement. Three
months after, Mrs. North became the mother of her fifth child; and as
soon as she was able to go out, it was sent from home to nurse, like
all its predecessors,--and she started on a journey to visit her
parents. This journey was very well--very right; but Mrs. Lawrence
feared that the impression made by her recent trouble, was fast fading
away; that the rod of affliction would have no correcting
influence;--produce no favorable change, either in character or
conduct. When preparing to leave home, to have her mourning dresses of
the most elegant, fashionable, and becoming kind, engrossed the whole
woman, and left no room for any other thought or feeling. How
inconceivably obdurate may the heart, even of a mother, be rendered by
selfish indulgence!

The fears of Mrs. Lawrence were but too well founded. It was October
when Mrs. North returned from her visit to her parents; and a few weeks
after Mrs. Lawrence perceived there were great, and unusual
preparations making for another journey. But she asked no questions.
Her heart sickened; but she despaired of doing good, and was weary of
giving unheeded admonitions; weary of attempting to touch a heart
incased in the "triple mail" of vanity, selfishness, and love of
pleasure.

Without inquiry she soon learned from Mrs. North, that she and Mr.
North designed to spend the greater part of the winter in Washington.
Mr. North had business as far as Philadelphia; they had both ever been
anxious to visit the seat of government, and hear the eloquence of the
senate; so good an opportunity might never again occur,--"and, really,"
Mrs. North added, "I have passed through scenes so _heart-rending_, so
wearing to my constitution, that I need something more than ordinary,
to restore me to myself again." She could leave home with an easy
heart; for the unfaithful, _cruel_ nursery-maid was dismissed from her
service; and she had engaged Mrs. Berry, Mrs. Lawrence's own good
nurse, (at very high wages, it was true,) to take care of her children,
and superintend her household while she should be absent. At the
appointed time they departed.

"Why will you thus grieve, my dear Ellen?" said Mr. Lawrence. "It is
utterly useless."

"I know it, Horace, yet how can I help it? O, how completely do the
love of pleasure, and the pride of fashion, destroy all the best
feelings of the heart!--all the finest sensibilities of our
natures!--To see a woman, capable of better things, thus bent on
gratifying herself, in despite of every call of duty, and warning of
Providence,--and leading an amiable husband to neglect every thing but
herself, is dreadful; and yet, it is for the poor neglected children I
grieve. What is to become of them? What can be expected of them?--thus
continually left to their own guidance."

"Nothing good, of course, Ellen. They are a set of untaught,
ungoverned, unmannered little bears; and must continue so, unless they
are so fortunate as to lose their mother, or she reform. But you have
done, and are still doing, all that a friend can do, under such
circumstances. Having, therefore, discharged your duty, be cheerful,
and borrow not troubles that properly belong to another."

Mrs. Lawrence received frequent letters from Mrs. North, filled with
glowing descriptions of what she was seeing, and hearing, and doing;
and wishes that her kind friend were with her to participate in such
pleasures--pleasures that would suit even the correct and refined taste
of Mrs. Lawrence,--they were so intellectual. She frequently expressed
regret that time flew so rapidly, as she dreaded to leave scenes so
replete with pleasure. In every letter she would send _kisses_, or
something _equally valuable_ to her dear little ones; but said she felt
perfectly easy about them, under the care of good Mrs. Berry; and
having the eye of the best of friends frequently upon them.

Mr. and Mrs. North had been absent something more than two months, when
Mr. Lawrence received a letter from the former, requesting the loan of
a hundred or two of dollars. Mr. North said he had written to Mr. Mason
for a remittance; but having a payment to make out, he had not been
able to forward it to him. If Mr. Lawrence would oblige him, doubtless
Mr. Mason would in a short time be able to reimburse him; if not, Mr.
North would do so, immediately on his return to L----.

The very day this letter was received, Mr. Mason called at the office
of Mr. Lawrence, to consult with him concerning what was to be done in
the present juncture of Mr. North's affairs,--and as a preliminary
measure, to secure to himself the store and goods it contained, which
would scarcely be sufficient to satisfy his just demands. Mr. North's
debts were numerous, and his creditors were becoming clamorous; and
although Mr. Mason had written to him, he seemed not to be alarmed, and
had given no directions.

Mr. Lawrence was unwilling to have any thing to do in this unhappy
business; yet he could not refuse to assist an industrious and honest
young man, who was in danger of losing the earnings of several years'
close attention to business, should he refuse to lend his assistance as
a lawyer. He therefore did what his sense of justice and duty demanded,
though he pitied his inconsiderate friend; and he immediately wrote
him, informing him of what was done,--and inclosing (which he knew must
be a gift) a draft for the money of which Mr. North had requested the
loan. He concluded his letter, by urging his friend's instant return to
L----, if it were yet possible to give his affairs a favorable turn.

Three days after this, all property that could be found, belonging to
Mr. North, was seized by his creditors.

"My dear Horace," said the greatly agitated Mrs. Lawrence, "what will
Alpheus and Anna do?--what _can_ they do?"

"They must begin the world again, upon better principles," said Mr.
Lawrence. "I hope they will learn wisdom from experience."

"But what can we do for them, my dear husband? You will receive them
here when they arrive? Anna will feel so wretchedly!"

"For a day or two, certainly, if you wish it, my love."

"And for no longer? The contrast will be so striking, they will be
overwhelmed! We must afford them all the assistance and consolation in
our power?"

"Certainly!--but let us assist them in a rational way. They must feel
the blow, and its consequences. We could do nothing to prevent it,
short of utter ruin to ourselves. And it is necessary they should feel
out; for nothing less could prove a cure for their folly. They must
taste the bitter fruits of their extravagance. They must learn to live
within their income, however small; and practise the self-denial that
poverty demands. They must learn to be industrious, and support
themselves by their own exertions."

"Poor Alpheus!--poor Anna!" ejaculated Mrs. Lawrence.

"If Alpheus had possessed either common firmness, or common prudence,"
said Mr. Lawrence, "or would Anna have listened to the admonitions, or
followed the example of the best and kindest of friends, your
sympathies would never have been thus called upon."

"O, make no comparisons,--it would be unjust," said Mrs. Lawrence.
"Anna was never blessed with the instructions of such a father, or the
example of such a mother as mine."

"True--and let us hope that this event will only prove a 'blessing in
disguise,' to teach her what she would learn in no other way. Let us
hope it will be for the best."

"O, may it prove so indeed!" said Mrs. Lawrence. "May the misguided and
unfortunate Anna learn, that to be a _fashionable woman_, is not the
way to be either respectable, or useful, or happy."

S. H.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HINTS TO STUDENTS OF GEOLOGY.

No. II.

BY PETER A. BROWNE, ESQ.


The most effectual way to guard against the dangerous tendency of
theories is to collect and lay open to examination at one view some of
the most celebrated of them, with which mankind have from time to time
been furnished. Several of these will be found to be so obscure that
astonishment is excited that they were ever dignified with the name of
philosophy; others are so entirely inconsistent and at the same time
have such equal claims to plausibility that they mutually confute each
other; a few are so intimately connected with the truths that the study
of geology and astronomy have displayed that it is difficult to escape
the hazardous abyss into which they would lead--but the greater part
are the effusions of fancy, and resemble more the emanations of a
feverish or disordered brain than the cool dictates of reason and
common sense. It is confidently believed that the student who will
attentively read them _all_, will be very slow to adopt _any one_ of
the number.

The most ancient Indian and Egyptian philosophers agreed in rightly
ascribing the creation of the world to an OMNIPOTENT and INFINITE
BEING, and it is a curious fact that they represented him as having
_repeatedly destroyed_ and _reproduced_ the _world_ and its
_inhabitants_. In "the Institutes of Menu," the sacred volume of the
Hindoos, which were written eight hundred and eighty-eight years B.C.,
are the following verses:

"The Being whose powers are incomprehensible, having created me,
(Menu,) and this universe, again became absorbed in the Supreme Spirit,
changing the _time of energy for the hour of repose_."

"When this power _awakes_, then has this world its _full expansion_;
but when he _slumbers_ with a tranquil spirit, then _the whole system
fades away_."

It is perfectly ascertained that the Greeks borrowed this idea of a
former successive destruction and renovation of this world from the
Egyptians. Plutarch tells us that it was the theme of one of the hymns
of Orpheus; and it is well known that Orpheus, although a Greek poet,
gained all his knowledge of astronomy, divinity, music and poetry in
Egypt.

This most ancient Pagan theologist believed that all things were
created by a Being whom he represents as _invisible_ and
_incomprehensible_, and to whom he has given the appellation of THE
COUNSELLOR _of_ LIGHT _and_ SOURCE _of_ LIFE; but he has degraded this
sublime idea of the Almighty by supposing that from an egg, the progeny
of _chance_, all mankind have been produced.

The philosopher _Leucippus_, who was also a Grecian, taught that "the
universe was _infinite_; that it was in part a _plenum_ and in part a
_vacuum_--that the plenum contained innumerable corpuscles or atoms of
various figures, which, falling into the vacuum, struck against each
other; and hence arose a variety of curvilinear motions, which
continued till at length atoms of similar forms met together, and
_bodies_ were produced. The primary atoms being specifically of equal
weight, and not being able, on account of their multitude, to move in
circles, the smaller rose to the exterior parts of the vacuum, whilst
the larger (entangling themselves,) formed a spherical shell, which
revolved about its centre and which included within it all kinds of
bodies. This central mass was gradually increased by a perpetual
accession of particles from the surrounding shell, till at last (says
Leucippus) the EARTH was formed. In the mean time the spherical shell
was continually supplied with new bodies, which, in its revolution, it
gathered from without. Of the particles _thus_ collected in the
spherical shell, some in their combination formed _humid_ masses,
which, by their circular motion, gradually became _dry_ and were at
length ignited and became STARS. The SUN was formed in the same manner
in the _exterior_ surface of the shell; and the _moon_ in its
_interior_ surface. In this manner the universe was formed."--Such a
jargon of _learned nonsense_ requires no comment; yet Leucippus had for
a time the reputation of possessing superior wisdom!

Epicurus adopted the idea of Leucippus as to the atoms, and imagined
that they moved _obliquely_, and Democritus bestowed on them
_animation_. Gassendi contended for atoms and a _void_, and Descartes
asserted a _plenum_ and a subtle _matter_, which revolving in vortices
was under the direction of an intelligent being.

Hippasus and Heraclitus maintained that the being who was the author of
all things was _fire_.

Many of the ancient philosophers believed this world to be
_eternal_--among these may perhaps be ranked Pythagoras, Aristotle,
Socrates and Plato.

Zeno advocated with great zeal the theory of "two principles," _spirit_
and _matter_, one active and the other passive.

_Mahomet_ maintained that the world was created in two days, and the
mountains were afterwards _placed_ upon it; and that during _these_ and
two _additional_ days the inhabitants were formed; and in two more the
seven heavens were created.

The waters of the deluge are ridiculously represented by him as being
poured out of an _oven_. The Alcoran says that all men were drowned
except Noah and his family; and that at an appointed time God said, "O
earth swallow up the waters!" "and thou, O heaven, withhold thy rain!"
and _immediately_ the waters abated. Is it not surprising that so many
thousands should have adopted this theory.

Mr. Thomas Burnet was a man of genius and taste, a learned divine and a
philosopher; but he suffered his imagination to take the lead of his
judgment. He was the friend and object of admiration of Addison. His
work is entitled, "The sacred theory of the earth, containing an
account of the origin of the earth and of all the general changes which
it hath already undergone or _is to undergo till the consummation of
all things_." He taught that originally the earth was a _fluid mass_,
composed of various materials; that of these the heaviest descended to
the centre, and formed a _hard_ and _solid body_--that the waters took
their station round this body--and that all lighter fluids rose above
the water, forming first a strata of oily matter and next a strata of
air--that the air was then impure, containing great quantities of
earthy particles, which gradually subsided and composed a _crust_ of
earth and oil--that this crust was the first habitable part of the
earth and abode of man and other animals--that the surface was
_uniform_, no _mountains_ nor _seas_ nor other inequalities were to be
seen--that in this _state_ it remained about sixteen centuries; by
which time the heat of the sun gradually drying the crust, produced
cracks or fissures, which gradually penetrating deeper and deeper,
finally perforated the entire crust--that in an instant the whole split
in pieces and fell into the great abyss of water. _This_ (says Burnet)
was the UNIVERSAL DELUGE!--That with these masses of _earth_ were
carried vast quantities of _air_, and the masses dashing violently
against each other, accumulated and divided so irregularly, that great
_cavities_ filled with air were left between them--that the waters
gradually opened passages into these cavities. In proportion as they
were filled with water, the surface of the earth began to discover
itself in the most elevated places, till at last the waters appeared no
where but in those extensive valleys which now contain the ocean--that
islands and sea rocks are small fragments, and continents are large
masses of this ancient crust.

His theory was attacked and pretty roughly handled by his cotemporaries
Erasmus Warren, John Keill and McFlamstead, the astronomer royal.

How Burnet could imagine that man and other land animals could have
inhabited an earth which had a _plane surface_, it is difficult to
conceive. If these animals resembled those that at present inhabit this
planet, they could not have subsisted without water; and if this
element was supplied by rain, and the earth had no inequalities of
surface, the whole earth must have been covered by a sea or at least
been a swamp. It was perhaps this reflection that generated the idea of
Demailet, that man was originally a _fish_.

Mr. Robinson was a respectable clergyman of the English established
church. In 1694 he wrote what he calls an _anatomical_ description of
the earth. He contends that matter at first consisted of innumerable
particles of divers figures and different qualities; these he obliges
to move about in a confused manner until the world was finally created,
by the _infusion_ of a _vital spirit_. He is of opinion that the earth
is a _great animal_; that it has a skin, flesh, blood, &c. He lays it
down as incontrovertible, that the centre contains a vast cavity of a
multangular figure, containing crude and indigested matter, endued with
contrary qualities, and causing much strife and contention. When the
airy particles prevail, they cause hurricanes; when the fiery ones are
uppermost, earthquakes and volcanoes are the result. The mountain
chains he takes to be real ribs, and finally he seriously tells us,
that this vast animal is subject to fevers, agues, and other
distempers. Yet Robinson had his day, and all his readers did not
appear to consider him a lunatic.

Mr. John Woodward was a classical scholar and an eminent physician. He
was _also_ a man of much observation; but he was infected with the
disease of theory-making.

He agreed in part with Burnet, but _refined_ upon him.

He contended that the waters of the ocean were aided by a supply from
the central parts of the earth in effecting the general deluge. He also
believed that the _whole fabric_ was dissolved instead of the _crust_,
as taught by Burnet. He said, that in order to assist in this general
dissolution, the _power_ of attraction, of _cohesion_, was suddenly
suspended. Every thing being thus dissolved and jumbled in one common
mass, a precipitation took place according to the laws of gravitation.
Locke pronounced a panegyric upon this theory!

Mr. William Whiston, a celebrated astronomer and learned divine, also
gave loose to his fancy in an extraordinary manner.

He was of opinion that the ancient chaos from which this earth
originated, was the atmosphere of a comet; that the detail given by
Moses is not of the _creation_ of the world, but of its _passage_ from
the state of a _comet_ to that of a _planet_, so as to make it
habitable.

In the beginning, (says Mr. Whiston,) "God created the _universe_," but
the earth was then an uninhabitable comet, surrounded by darkness; and
hence, he says, we are told that, "_darkness covered the face of the
deep_;" that it was composed of heterogeneous materials, having its
centre occupied with a globular hot nucleus of about two thousand
leagues in diameter, round which was an extensive mass of thick fluid;
that this fluid contained few solid particles, and still less of water
or air; that on the first day of the creation, the _eccentric_ orbit of
the comet was exchanged for an ellipsis nearly circular, and every
thing instantly assumed its proper place. The different materials
arranged themselves according to the laws of gravity, and the annual
motion of the earth then began. That the _centre_ of the earth is a
solid body, still retaining the heat of the former comet; that round
this is a heavy fluid and a body of water in concentric circles, upon
the latter of which the earth is founded; that after the atmosphere of
the earth had been thus freed from the earthy particles of that of the
comet, a pure air remained, through which the rays of the sun instantly
penetrated, when God said "_let there be light_." He ascribes to the
_precipitation_ with which the earth was formed, the great difference
_now found_ in the materials that compose its crust, and the mountains
and vallies to the laws of gravity. He maintains that before the deluge
the water of the present ocean was dispersed over the earth in small
caverns, and that the mountains were at greater distances, and not so
large as at present; but that the earth was a thousand times more
fertile, and contained a great many more inhabitants, whose lives were
ten times longer. All this he is of opinion was effected by the
_superior heat_ of the nucleus; but that this heat augmented the
passions and destroyed the virtue of man and the sagacity of other
animals, and caused the universal sentence of death which was inflicted
by the deluge. He says, that that event was occasioned by a change in
the inclination of the earth's axis, occasioned by the tail of a comet
meeting with the earth, in returning from its perihelium, when "_the
cataracts of heaven were opened_." Newton denied that there was any
thing in astronomy wherefrom to presume this change of inclination. But
the celebrated Count de Buffon left his predecessors far behind, after
premising that the sphere of the sun's attraction is not limited by the
orbits of the planets, but extends indefinitely, always decreasing
according to the squares of the augmented distances: that the comets
which escape our sight in the heavenly regions are, like the planets,
subject to the attraction of the sun, and by it their motions are
regulated: that all these bodies (the directions of which are so
various,) move round the sun, and describe areas proportioned to their
periods; the planets in ellipses, more or less circular, and the comets
in narrow ellipses of vast extent.--He asserts, that comets run through
the system in all directions; but that the inclinations of the planes
of their orbits are so very different, that though, like the planets,
they are subject to the laws of attraction, they have nothing in common
with regard to their progressive or impulsive motions, but appear in
this respect to be absolutely independent of each other.

He then conjectures that a comet, falling obliquely into the body of
the sun, drove off a part from its surface, and communicated to it a
violent impulsive force. This effect he supposes was produced at the
time when God is said, by Moses, to have "separated the light from the
darkness," by which Buffon understands a _real, physical_ separation;
the opaque bodies of the planets being detached from the luminous
matter of which he supposed the sun to be composed, and he imagined
that the part struck off was one six hundred and fiftieth part of the
sun's body.

He informs us that this matter issued from the sun, not in the form of
_globes_, but of liquid _torrents_ of fire; and that a projectile
motion having been communicated by the stroke of the comet, the light
particles separated from the dense, which, by their mutual attractions,
formed globes of different solidities; and that the projectile force
being proportioned to the density of the particles, determined the
respective distances from the sun to which they would be carried. Our
author having thus (at one blow of a comet) created the planets out of
the superabundant materials of the sun, and having driven them to the
distances of their spheres from that body, was put to a great straight
to prevent them from obeying the law of projectiles, in returning
whence they issued, and in obliging them to revolve round a common
centre. This part of his theory is _very lame_ indeed. He first
unphilosophically ascribes this change of direction to an acceleration
of velocity; and secondly, the acceleration he very erroneously
supposed would take place by the anterior particles attracting and
hastening the posterior ones, and by the posterior ones pushing forward
or hastening the anterior ones. But appearing to be unsatisfied himself
with this explanation, he next makes the shock of the comet remove the
sun from its former situation--so that when the planets, according to
the law of projectiles, returned to the place from whence they had
departed, they did not enter into the sun again, who had thus
_fortunately_ stepped out of their way, or Buffon's ingenious creation
would have been entirely destroyed.

But to proceed. He supposes that the earth, having acquired its present
shape by its motion while in a liquid state, the fire was eventually
extinguished by its rapid passage through space, or after having
consumed all the combustible matter it contained. Mr. Buffon
acknowledges that the constituent parts of the earth's crust are now of
very different densities; but he gives no satisfactory explanation for
the change which must have taken place, if as he supposed, they were
_once homogeneous_. Nor does he account for the separation of the
_land_ from the _water_. It is true he leaves us to infer that such a
separation took place; for he says, that "the motion of the _waters_ is
_coeval with time_." He also says, that the waters occupy the lowest
grounds, and that all the mountains have been formed at the bottom of
the sea, by means of currents and tides. His primeval world must
therefore have had cavities, in which the waters were preserved.

Such is the theory of the Count de Buffon, a gentleman of great
ingenuity, taste and erudition; whose works, so long as he confined
himself to _facts_ and _reasoning_, have been universally admired; but
whose _theories_ have been as much ridiculed by _others_ as _he_
ridiculed those of Burnet and Whiston. Soon after the publication of
this theory, Buffon was summoned before the Faculty of Theology at
Paris, and there informed that fourteen propositions in his works were
reprehensible and contrary to the creed of the church. One of these,
which related to geology, was, "That the waters of the sea were
concerned in producing the mountains and valleys of the land." And it
is curious to remark that _this_, which was almost the only correct
geological proposition in the whole work, Buffon _publicly renounced!_
Upon this theory of Buffon I would take leave, upon the highest modern
authority, further to observe, that "from a long series of
observations, made with powerful telescopes, Herschel discovered that
the solar light and heat do not emanate from the _body_ or _nucleus_ of
the sun, but from certain phosphoric and pyrophoric clouds, which are
produced and developed in its atmosphere. That this immense ocean of
light is violently agitated over its whole surface, causing those
corrugations of its disc which he has so well described,--and which
indeed, may be observed through a telescope of moderate powers, by even
an unpractised eye. When this superficial structure is broken through
and widely separated, we may discern the black veil of subjacent solar
clouds, or even the solid dark nucleus of the sun itself. Hence
Herschel accounts for the dark spots which are frequently observed on
the sun's disc, and for the shelving margins which surround
them.--Across these excavations of the phosphoric film, bridges of
luminous matter, are seen to stretch, which extending in breadth,
finally cause the dark chasm to disappear, and restore to the sun all
its original brightness. The area of one of these black spots is often
much greater than the whole surface of the terrestrial globe. When the
storm subsides in the solar atmosphere, the equilibrium of its clouds
replaces the layer of light. It is well known that these spots, first
observed by Gallileo, led to the discovery of the sun's motion round
its axis, and showed that this motion is accomplished in twenty-five
and a half days."

Had Buffon been acquainted with these great excavations of luminous
matter, he would probably have ascribed them to a projection of the
solar substance giving origin to some new planet or comet, and causing
diminution of the sun's heat proportional to the darkened portion of
its orb. But Herschel has shown, on the contrary, that the seasons in
which the solar spots are most abundant, are characterized not by
decreased light and heat to the earth, but apparently by an opposite
result. He hence infers, that these spots correspond, and are owing to
an increased activity in the vibratory motions, by which the sun
excites the ether, diffused through space.

The new improvements in optics, afford a very unexpected means of
determining whether it be true, as Herschel imagined, that the solar
light does issue from an incandescent solid or fluid. When such a body,
raised to a very high temperature, becomes luminous, the rays which fly
off in all directions, do not come from the _outer surface_ only, but
also proceed, as the rays of heat do, from a multitude of material
points placed beneath or within the surface, to a certain depth,
extremely small indeed, but actually existing. Now, such of those rays
as traverse the envelope of the heated mass obliquely, acquire and
preserve a peculiar property, which can be rendered sensible by
experiment; they are _polarised_. But if the same mass, instead of
being rendered luminous by its proper temperature, be only covered with
an exterior film of flame, which is the source of its light, the rays
do _not_ then possess this property.

Science has thus been enabled to submit to this singular test, the
light which the sun sends to us. M. Arago, the author of this beautiful
experiment, has in fact discovered that the rays of the sun, when
transmitted even obliquely, _are not polarised_.

These results are _fatal_ to the _theory_ of _Buffon_. Those who belong
to his school, if any remain, can no longer contend for the _sun_ as
the eternal _furnace_ from which to make _ignited spheres_; but on the
contrary, the nucleus of that luminary may possibly enjoy a _habitable_
planetary temperature.

In 1788 Werner published, by his lectures, _his_ famous theory of the
earth. He supposed that at some former period this globe had, for a
long time, been covered with water to a greater depth than the original
altitude of the highest mountains. That this immense body of water was
then tranquil, or nearly so, and contained in solution all the
materials of all the rocks of which the present crust of the earth is
composed. That in this state, chemical deposites, exhibiting more or
less of a crystalline structure, were first gradually made, and
invested the nucleus of the earth. That these chemical deposites
constitute the primitive rocks, including the granite and trap, and are
distinguished by their crystalline form, and by the total absence of
organic remains. That during this period, most of the highest mountains
were formed; but by a gradual subsidence of the waters the summits of
these mountains were left naked, the tranquillity of the waters was
disturbed, and currents were consequently produced. That by these
currents the naked rocks were worn and partially disintegrated; and the
grains or fragments thus produced, were diffused through the mass of
water. That the rocks formed at this period would, of course, consist
partly of chemical and partly of mechanical deposites. That they would
also lie over the primitive rocks, but in consequence of the diminished
altitude of the waters, they would appear at a lower level, often
resting on the declivities of primitive mountains. That as organic
remains make their first appearance in the rocks of this period, it is
inferred that the rocky shores which had recently emerged from the
great deep, were then passing into a habitable state. That the level of
the great ocean continuing to sink, more extensive portions of the
earth were left exposed to the increasing violence of the currents, and
the solution, which was originally chemical, now became, in a great
degree, composed of grains, or comminuted fragments, detached from the
older rocks, and that hence the minerals of this period consist of
mechanical deposites; that they lie over the two preceding classes and
at a lower level, in consequence of the greater subsidence of the
waters.

That extensive portions of the globe having now become dry, new species
and genera inhabited the waters and dwelt upon the land, while numerous
vegetables adorn the shores and other parts of the earth. Hence these
rocks abound with organic remains, both animal and vegetable.

Doctor Hutton published his theory about the year 1795; he supposed
that all the solid parts which form the crust of the present globe,
have proceeded from the disintegration and destruction of former
continents, by the gradual action of the atmosphere and water; that the
ruins of those ancient continents were transported by water, and
deposited at the bottom of ancient seas; and that these heterogeneous
materials thus deposited, were consolidated by the action of
subterraneous fires; and, by the same agents, were subsequently
elevated to form the present continents. That gneiss and other
stratified rocks were only softened, elevated, and sometimes variously
inclined; while granite and other unstratified minerals were completely
fused, and in many cases forced upwards by this powerful agent through
the incumbent strata. That as _this_ earth had _arisen from the ruins_
of an _anterior world_, so _that_ had originated from the ruins of a
_former_ one, and so _ad infinitum_.

Each of the two last theories obtained numerous advocates; and a flame
of controversy respecting them was kindled, that for some years blazed
throughout Europe with great fury. As usual, both parties claimed the
victory; but impartial readers appear to think that while each party
may lay some claims to correctness, yet as an entire theory both are in
the wrong.

(_To be continued._)




A great mind may change its objects, but it cannot relinquish them; it
must have something to pursue: Variety is its relaxation, and amusement
its repose.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER FOURTH.

Bridge of Boats at Rouen--Ancient Custom--Old Tower and Town
Clock--Church of St. Paul--Jugglers and Tumblers.


ROUEN, ----.

_Dear Jane:_--

"Another letter from Rouen!" you'll exclaim; yes, my dear sister, even
so--for papa being well pleased with our accommodations here, and
finding the town contains more curiosities than travellers are usually
aware of, we have thus prolonged our stay; but to-morrow go we _must_,
as our seats are engaged in the diligence for Paris. Since I wrote you
three days ago, we have seen divers other objects worthy of notice,
though not so interesting as those I have described to you. To-day we
saw the bridge of boats which connects the city with the suburb of
Saint Sévere; it rises and falls with the tide, and is divided into
compartments that can be easily separated for ships to pass through at
any moment. The invention of this bridge is attributed to an Augustin
monk. A handsome stone bridge is now building over another part of the
Seine.

Every evening at 9 o'clock we hear the tones of a clear sonorous bell,
sounding what is termed the "_retreat_." This is merely the
continuation of an ancient custom, practised during the Norman wars,
when it was necessary to give a signal for those persons who might be
without the city to enter, ere the gates were shut for the night. This
bell is also rung on occasions of public ceremonies, festivities, or
calamities, and is called the _silver_ bell, because according to
tradition, it was made of _money_ raised from taxes. It hangs in the
belfry of a curious old gothic tower, whose archway spans one of the
chief streets of Rouen, and on the side of which is placed the city
clock, resembling the face of a gigantic watch. This afternoon we
purpose visiting the botanical garden, and after that taking a farewell
drive in the neighborhood of the town; there are many beautiful
prospects to be seen from the surrounding hills.

Yesterday Edgar and myself walked to the terrace of St. Paul, a plain
and antique little church, built it is said on the ruins of a temple of
Adonis. From the terrace you enjoy a fine view; and near it is a
mineral spring, the second in Rouen. Here we met with a number of
ladies and gentlemen, and were much diverted at the tricks of a fellow
who mimicked the peculiarities of different nations; and when about to
show off the _English_, cried out, "Maintenant pour 'Got dam;'" he made
the most ridiculous faces you can imagine, and excited great mirth. It
was surprising what power of muscle and expression he possessed; one
moment his nose appeared turned up, his eyes squinting, and his mouth
too small to admit a _plum_; the next, you'd think he could take in a
_melon_--and his physiognomy would so completely change, that you could
scarcely believe it was the same person before you. Sometimes to
increase the effect, he put on a huge pair of spectacles and sung a
droll song, a companion playing merrily on the violin all the while,
and suiting the melody to the performance. After this came a band of
tumblers, and three children tawdrily dressed--exhibited sundry feats
on the back of a chair, and on the head and shoulders of a man. It was
painful to behold the little creatures in such jeopardy; and having
contributed our sous for their benefit, we quitted the scene. Adieu.

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER FIFTH.

Paris--Modes of Living--Rue de la Paix--Place Vendome--Rue
Castiglione--Garden of the Tuileries--Louvre--Italian Boulevard--Dress
of the Ladies--Soirées--Admiralty--Mademoiselle Mars.


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane:_--

Not a question, I pray you! about the journey from Rouen hither. I can
only tell you that we chose the lower route; that the prospects were
lovely, and the diligence rolled rapidly along the banks of the Seine;
that we stopped only to swallow our meals as quickly as possible, and
had not time to examine any thing. We entered Paris by the Porte de
Neuilly and Champs Elysées, at dusk, and witnessed the beautiful sight
the latter presents, when illuminated by its numerous lamps, which
instead of being fixed on posts, were suspended high above our heads
from ropes swung across the road. The resemblance of these lamps when
lighted, to a range of brilliant stars, occasions the gate by which we
entered to be called the "barriére de l'étoile." We found rooms ready
for us, papa having written to request Mr. Dorval to engage a suite in
the pleasantest quarter of the city.

Here there are four modes of living customary among visiters. First,
boarding in a hotel by the day, week, or month: second, boarding at a
lodging house by the week, month or year: third, hiring furnished
apartments and eating at a restaurateur's, or being supplied thence:
fourth, furnishing rooms yourself, and having your own cook. The first
of these plans, being the least troublesome, we have preferred. It is,
however, more expensive than either of the others. Our hotel is
delightfully situated, and commands a view of the Italian Boulevard and
of the Rue de la Paix, at the corner of which it stands; the latter,
one of the widest and handsomest streets in the metropolis. From our
windows we can also see the "Place Vendome," with its superb and
stately bronze column, erected by Napoleon, in imitation of that of
Trajan at Rome. It is made of the cannons taken by him at the battle of
Austerlitz; the principal events of that campaign are represented in a
_bas-relief_, which is carried spirally around the whole shaft, the
figure of the Emperor being prominent in each compartment. His statue
formerly crowned the summit of the column; but since his downfall it
has been removed, and the vacancy is now supplied by a simple
banner.[1]

[Footnote 1: The statue of Napoleon has been replaced since the last
revolution; the dress is the great coat and three cornered cocked hat
in which he is so frequently represented, and he holds in his hand a
short telescope, or rather opera glass.]

Beyond the Place Vendome is the Rue Castiglione, with its fine shops
and arcades; and at the end of this street is the garden of the
Tuileries, where we repair before breakfast every morning, to enjoy its
shades, and contemplate its statues, flowers and fountains. In flowers
it always abounds, for they are planted in pots concealed in the
ground, and as soon as one set goes out of season, it is replaced by
another in bloom.

From eleven until four o'clock we study the pictures in the magnificent
gallery of the Louvre, whose halls are open for the benefit of
strangers and students on every day of the week, except _Monday_. On
Sunday they are open to _every body_, and consequently on Monday
require the operations of the broom and brush. The halls appropriated
to sculpture are on the ground floor, and the ceilings of several are
superbly painted. It was from the window of one of these apartments
that Charles the Ninth fired upon his persecuted subjects during the
massacre of St. Bartholomews. (August 24, 1572)

Our usual evening resort is the Boulevard, where we listen to music,
and observe the motley crowds around us; and when tired, refresh
ourselves with ices or lemonade in a café.

Dear me! how tastefully the French ladies dress! What beautiful robes,
and hats, and gloves, and shoes and boots they wear! and how well each
article corresponds with another. If they have on different colors,
they take care that they shall contrast agreeably, and not be an
uncouth mixture, displeasing to the eye. In the morning their toilette
is remarkably neat and appropriate. You'll probably find them when you
call, in a simple gingham dress, with pelerine to suit, and a black
silk apron; their hair arranged in puffs, and quite unadorned. Now is
this not more rational than to be furbelowed, and curled, and richly
clad, as if they were expecting company, instead of being usefully
employed? At entertainments and in the public promenades, they display
their fine clothes. We have already received and returned the visits of
several of the French families to whom we brought letters; but much to
our regret, the venerable Count Ségur is out of town, and Baron
Hottinguer, his lady and son, are at their country seat. The Minister
of the Marine (Mr. Hyde de Neuville) and Madame his spouse, are
extremely pleasing and amiable. They still have their regular soirées,
notwithstanding the advanced season, and we intend to avail ourselves
of their polite invitation to attend them. By the by, I should tell you
(what M. Dorval told _me_,) that in Paris many persons have an
appointed evening for receiving their acquaintances, once a week,
fortnight, or month, (as suits their convenience,) and on this evening
they illuminate their rooms for the reception of their guests. The
greater number of these remain only a half hour, and then repair to the
opera, or to some other _soirée_, as such an assembly is termed. It is
usual to go to three or four on the same night. There is seldom any
refreshment offered, and the amusements are conversation and,
écarte--_sometimes_ billiards; and when the soirée is social and small,
they even introduce childish plays, such as "Colin, Maillard," "Le
Mouchoir," "Tierce," &c. in which elderly people frequently join with
all the vivacity of youth.

Monsieur and Madame de Neuville reside in a superb mansion, that was
formerly the "Garde meuble," or royal wardrobe. It is now called the
"Admiralty," and appropriated to the use of the Minister of the Marine
and Colonies. On its roof is a telegraph, and its front is embellished
with sculpture, and columns, which support a portico as long as the
building itself.

A few nights since we were at the Theatre Francais, and saw
Mademoiselle Mars perform the part of the Duchesse de Guise in "Henri
Trois." To the astonishment of every body she excels in this character,
although it is a difficult one to play, and her first attempt at
tragedy. Her talents hitherto, you know, have been devoted to comedy.
She is the most lovely and youthful looking woman of her age I ever
beheld. What do you think of her being passed fifty, and yet not
appearing as old as twenty-five? She is so graceful too! and then her
voice is melody itself! But I must cease my encomiums, or I shall not
have space to assure you that I am your affectionate sister,

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER SIXTH.

Palais Royal--King's Library--Hotel de Ville--Mint--Palace of
Justice--Holy Chapel--Flower Market.


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane:_--

What a variety of places we have visited since I despatched to you my
last letter! _Par exemple_, the Palais Royal, with its agreeable garden
and jets d'eau, surrounded by arcades, under which are splendid shops
and cafés, that are dazzling when illuminated at night; the Royal
Library, with its vast collection of manuscripts and engravings, and
its cabinets of antiquities and medals--the latter considered to be the
most complete in the world; the Hotel de Ville, on the Place de Grève,
where the guillotine sometimes plies its dreadful work; the Exchange,
with its sixty-four corinthian columns, fine hall, and superb
imitations of bas-reliefs, so admirably executed, that you can scarcely
be convinced they are the effect of the _brush_ instead of the
_chisel_. Add to these several churches and fountains, the Mint, where
we witnessed the curious process of coining, and the "Palais de
Justice." In this vast structure of antiquity, the judicial courts of
Paris hold their sittings. It was founded in the ninth century, and is
termed a palace, because it was once the abode of the French monarchs.
I remember having read in some history of the magnificent
entertainments they gave here, in a grand hall containing statues of
their race and a marble table of uncommon size, at which none but
princes of the blood were allowed to feast. In 1618 nearly the whole
edifice was burnt, and the wonderful table and statues destroyed; it
was rebuilt by Desbrosses, the architect of the Luxembourg. Besides the
court rooms and many others above them, filled with the judiciary
archives of the kingdom, there are long galleries which have on each
side rows of petty shops and stalls. Beneath these galleries are the
gloomy prisons of the conciergerie, wherein such atrocities were
committed during the revolution. Here we saw the dungeons in which
Marie Antoinette and the Princess Elizabeth were immured; the cell in
which Robespiérre was confined; and that of Louvel, who assassinated
the Duke de Berri. We were shown the prison room of the gallant Ney.
The cells that inclosed the unfortunate queen and her sister-in-law,
are now converted into a small chapel, which communicates by means of
an arch, with another of larger dimensions. In the latter, the captives
of the conciergerie are permitted to attend mass on the Sabbath. The
arch is decorated with medallions of Louis the Sixteenth and the
Princess Elizabeth, and a few lines extracted from his will are
inscribed on an altar in the smaller chapel. On the wall of this hang
three pictures in oil colors; the first represents Marie Antoinette
taking leave of her family just before she was brought to the prison;
in the second, you behold her standing wrapt in meditation by her
miserable cot-bed, after the door is barred upon her; in the third, you
see her at confession, preparatory to ascending the scaffold.
Melancholy themes, and well suited to the gloom of the place! You
approach the Palace of Justice through an enormous iron gate remarkable
for its workmanship and guilding. On the left of it stands an ancient
building, called the "Holy Chapel," from its having been erected by
Saint Louis for the reception of the sacred relics he brought with him
from Palestine, whither he went on a crusade, in fulfilment of a vow he
had made during a dangerous illness. His oratory is still shewn, and
once served as a refuge from popular fury to the present King Charles
the Tenth, in the time of the revolution. The painted windows of the
chapel are beautiful,--the colors so bright and various. Around the
interior, instead of altars and _confessionals_, are a range of cases,
containing archives and records. By the by, among those we saw in the
upper galleries of the Palace of Justice, (which communicates with the
"Sainte Chapelle,") were the condemnation of Joan of Arc, and that of
Jean Châtel, who attempted to stab Henry the Fourth, but failed, and
having been seized was put to a dreadful death, according to the
mandate which we read. He was stretched on the rack, then drawn on a
sledge to the Place de Grève, his flesh torn with hot pincers, and his
right hand cut off; finally, his limbs were tied to four wild horses,
and thus rent asunder. When dead, his body was burnt, and his ashes
scattered to the winds! The dress he wore when he attacked the King,
and a rope ladder he used in endeavoring to escape while confined, are
carefully preserved in a box, with a scull that was found in the
possession of a famous robber, and is said to have served him as a cup,
out of which he compelled has victims to drink wine, and then swear
allegiance to him. The condemnation of Joan of Arc is replete with
superstition and abuse of that poor warrior damsel; she is pronounced a
sorceress, a blasphemer, a devil, &c. and numerous other opprobrious
epithets are given to her besides. We were likewise shewn the hand
writing of Francis the First, Louis the Eleventh, and that of several
others of the French monarchs; and to speak the truth, I don't think
their penmanship does them much credit.

Returning home, we stopped at the flower market, and were surprised at
the beauty and cheapness of the flowers. You may buy them growing in
pots, or arranged as boquets. The market is held on the Quay Dessaix,
under two rows of trees, in the midst of which a plentiful fountain
refreshes the air, and affords water for the plants. Adieu. Ever yours,

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER SEVENTH.

Church of St. Roch--Pére la Chaise.


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Sister:_--

Your letter (received within a few hours) gave us all great pleasure,
and we are rejoiced to learn that _folks_ and _things_ are going on so
well at the Lodge. What a fine time you and Albert have for
_sentimentalizing_! Make the best of it; for you know October is only a
few months off, and when it comes you'll perhaps find me at your elbow
oftener than you anticipate. I shall have so much to talk about; for
believe me, altho' my communications are so long and frequent, a great
deal will remain to be told when we reach "sweet home."

Now, let me inform you of the strange sight we have just been
witnessing in the Church of St. Roch; a funeral and two weddings
solemnizing in the same place and at the same moment! To us it was
shocking, and _certes_ if _I_ had been one of the votaries of hymen on
the occasion, I should have experienced sad forebodings of evil in the
connubial state. Really, it was sometimes difficult to hear the priests
who were performing the marriage rites, their voices being drowned in
the loud requiem chanted over the dead. The coffin was strewed with
white flowers, emblematical of the youth and maidenhood of the
deceased.

We have visited Pére la Chaise, and spent nearly a whole day in reading
the inscriptions on its numerous and varied monuments,--many of them so
magnificent! many so neat and simple! The inscriptions are generally
beautiful and touching--they speak to the hearts of all; and the lovely
and odoriferous flowers that decorate the tombs, seem to rob the grave
of its sadness, and shed their balmy influence o'er the mind of the
beholder. Several tombs are also adorned with miniatures inserted in
the stone, and portraying the once animated countenances of those who
rest beneath them. This romantic burying ground spreads itself over the
side of a hill, and from the upper part you have a noble prospect of
the city and its environs. In the fourteenth century it was the site of
a splendid mansion, built by a wealthy grocer, whose name was Regnaud.
Its magnificence being incompatible with his rank, it was soon entitled
"Regnaud's Folly." The Jesuits afterwards obtained possession of it,
and gave it the name of "Mont Louis," because Louis the Fourteenth when
a boy, witnessed from its summit the battle in the Faubourg St.
Antoine, between the Frondeurs,[2] commanded by the Prince of Condé,
and the Court Party, under Marshal Turenne. I recollect reading in
Voltaire's history of that monarch's reign, that during this bloody
skirmish, Mademoiselle d'Orleans (Louis's cousin) sided with the Prince
of Condé, and had the cannons of the Bastile pointed against the royal
troops. This ruined her forever in the opinion of the king; and
Cardinal Mazarin remarked, knowing her desire to marry a crowned head,
"_ce canon la, vient de tuer son mari_"--"that cannon has killed her
husband." But I've digressed from my original theme, and hasten to
resume it. Pére la Chaise, one of the Jesuits, became confessor to
Louis, and had entire control of ecclesiastical affairs. The king was
very fond of him, and as a mark of his esteem, presented him with the
estate of "Mont Louis," having considerably enlarged and embellished it
for his use. On the death of the holy father, it reverted to his
brethren, and was called after him. These wily priests projected there
the Revocation of the edict of Nantes, and issued thence many a lettre
de cachet, decreeing imprisonment to their enemies. They retained
possession of the place until the abolishment of their order in 1763,
when it was sold for the benefit of their creditors, and had divers
owners, until purchased by the Prefect of the Seine, and appropriated
to its present purpose in 1804. There are three kinds of graves: first,
those termed _public_, in which the poor are gratuitously buried; but
each body can remain only five years, the time supposed to be
sufficient for its decomposition. These graves resemble immense
ditches, and the coffins are deposited one upon another, and side by
side, as close as they can lay. They are wretchedly made, and soon drop
to pieces; and therefore it is not uncommon, in burying a corpse, to
see the exposed head and limbs of another! Is'nt this horrible? Second,
_temporary_ graves, wherein the dead remain undisturbed during ten
years, for the sum of fifty francs. At the close of that period, unless
the grave be rendered of the third kind, _perpetual_, by the payment of
a larger portion of money, its ghastly tenant is removed. The oldest
and most interesting sepulchre is that of Abelard and Héloise; it is
formed of the ruins of the paraclete, and covered with antique
sculpture and ornaments. It represents a gothic chapel, in the centre
of which the bodies of the lovers are represented extended on a bier;
the whole is of gray stone. The monument of the Countess Demidoff, a
Russian lady, we considered the richest and handsomest in the
collection. It is composed of pure white marble highly polished. A part
of the cemetery is appropriated to the use of strangers, and a
considerable space allowed to the Jews. The gate is always thronged
with carriages that have brought either visiters or mourners. On each
side of the entrance are stalls, where wreaths and bunches of flowers
may be purchased. I must now conclude, and am sure you will dream of
church yards and hobgoblins, after reading this letter, from your
attached

LEONTINE.

[Footnote 2: This party were termed _frondeurs_ or slingers by their
opponents, in allusion to the boys who were then in the habit of
throwing stones with slings In the street, and who ran away when any
one appeared. The _Soubriquet_, as has frequently happened, was adopted
by them as their distinctive appellation.]




ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.


  _For the Southern Literary Messenger_.

AN ORATION on the Life and Character of Gilbert Motier de Lafayette,
delivered at the request of both Houses of the Congress of the United
States, before them, in the House of Representatives at Washington, on
the 31st of December, 1834, by John Quincy Adams, a Member of the
House. Washington: Gales and Seaton. 1835. pp. 94.

EULOGY on La Fayette, delivered in Fanueil Hall, at the request of the
Young Men of Boston, September 6, 1834; by Edward Everett. Boston:
Nathan Hall & Allen & Tichnor. 1834. pp. 96.

       *       *       *       *       *

"An Oration in praise of Hercules!!! And who ever thought of blaming
Hercules!"

The limits of the old world bounded the labors of Hercules. There
nature had planted imperishable landmarks; and on these the gratitude
of nations had inscribed, in imperishable characters, the name of their
benefactor. What could the breath of man add to his glory?

But the pillars of Hercules have been passed. Beyond this _ne plus
ultra_ of the ancient world, the genius of Columbus opened a way to new
regions, and extended the sway of his imperial master around the
circuit of the earth. A new hero was wanting, whose labors,
commensurate with this enlarged theatre, might compass the globe, and
convey to the new world the benefits which his illustrious prototype
had conferred on the old. Such a hero the bounty of Providence
vouchsafed to man. But the spirit has returned to him who gave it; and
it is in praise of his memory, that two distinguished orators have been
required to task their acknowledged powers.

But "who ever thought of blaming La Fayette?" Who feels it necessary to
utter his praise, even in this simple question? Who feels it necessary
to answer it? Is not such silence the most expressive praise; the
silence imposed by a common sentiment, which all are conscious is felt
by all?

What can be expected from eulogy in such a case? What is there in the
breath of praise; what is there in the pomp and circumstance of funeral
pageantry, but a solemn mockery of the feelings that "bleed deep in the
silent breast?" We find a natural though sad pleasure in telling the
world of the unobtrusive merit of some good man, who in voluntary
privacy had passed and closed a virtuous and useful life. We may have a
purpose in erecting monuments to the _common great_, which, perishable
as they are, may somewhat prolong the memory of those to whom they are
dedicated. The undying strains of bards may rescue from oblivion names
which might have perished. There were heroes before Agamemnon; but they
had no Homer to record their deeds, and died without their fame. But
what need had Hercules of Homer? What need has La Fayette that one
should tell his fellow of him? Why proclaim to the world what all the
world already knows? Why tell posterity what posterity can never
forget, until man has lost the records of the history of man?

We talk of monuments to Washington. Why is none erected? Is it for want
of reverence for his memory? For want of love? For want of gratitude?
These questions are reproachfully asked, from time to time, by novices
in politics, who, in striving to signalize their patriotism, their
enthusiasm, or their _eloquence_, do but signalize their ignorance of
the human heart. Such appeals are always answered by silence. It is the
answer dictated by the unsophisticated feelings of our countrymen.
Where would you place the monument? _In_ the capitol? Is not the
_capitol itself_ too small? But the capitol may be considered
symbolically as imbodying the free institutions of the country which he
made free. What then? Is not the _thing itself_ worthier than the
symbol? Is any monument to Washington so appropriate as that reared by
his genius, his toils and his virtues,--HIS COUNTRY? And what matters
it under what part of that vast tablet, every where emblazoned with his
glory, his bones repose? The silence of the people is the appropriate,
the only _natural_ expression of those sentiments which all can feel,
though all know not how to speak them. The unsuccessful orator who,
having uttered his premeditated declamation, goes his way, reproaching
their apathy, does but expose himself to scorn, as one who would
substitute _lip service_ for the homage of the heart. But even that
scorn, (such is the influence of the all-pervading reverence for the
mighty dead,) even that is repressed, and finds no voice.

These remarks are made because they illustrate the difficulty of the
task imposed on Messrs. Adams and Everett. It is a difficulty which
grows out of the nature of the subject. We are not sure that any man,
endued with all those qualities which enter into the composition of the
perfect orator, would not instinctively shrink from such a task. Mr.
Webster declined it; and it does not appear that it was sought by Mr.
Clay, Mr. Leigh, or Mr. Preston.

Of one thing we are sure. Whoever attempted it must have failed. All
such attempts must end in failure. The eulogies on Washington were all
failures. Those on Adams and Jefferson were failures too, but from a
different cause. When, on the 4th of July, 1826, the Declaration of
Independence was celebrated in jubilee over the continent; while the
political partizans of both those illustrious men, whose rivalship had
so long divided the people, were hyming their praises, it pleased him
whose instruments they had been, to touch them with his finger, and to
show that they were dust. Never was any people so suddenly and so
awfully reminded that it is _God alone_ who doeth his will on earth and
in the armies of heaven; and never did any people use so strenuous an
effort to shake off a salutary impression. They refused to lay to heart
the admonition of Providence. "The Lord of Hosts had called to weeping,
and to mourning, and to baldness, and to girding with sackcloth; and
behold joy and gladness; slaying oxen, and killing sheep; eating flesh,
and drinking wine." The worship of the living was closed by the
_apotheosis_ of the dead: the best talents in the land were engaged in
the solemn mockery: and the very ministers of the living God were seen
officiating in the profane ceremonial. What could come of all this;
what did come of it, but failure? We have no fear of offending any one
of the distinguished men who tasked his powers for that occasion, by
saying that his effort was a failure. Each one must have felt that it
was so; and each one will readily accept the excuse furnished by the
unfitness of the ceremony to the occasion. How many of those who
witnessed it, went home with hearts oppressed by a consciousness of
something wrong? And as the evils of man-worship have advanced, (_as
they are now advancing_,) to their fatal consummation, how many,
recalling the circumstances of that ceremonial, have heard a voice as
that of Jehovah, whispering, "Surely this iniquity shall not be purged
from you, until you die?"

We trust that the temper of these remarks will not be misapprehended.
They cannot be made in the spirit of party, for the subjects of them
were the very antipodes of conflicting parties. Whatever feelings such
thoughts awaken in our minds, the thoughts themselves are suggested by
considerations purely critical. We have but attempted to imbody and
apply two maxims that every master of the art of eloquence will own as
true. First; that, _in cases calling for the highest reach of that
art_, every attempt that _falls short_ of it is _felt_ to be a failure.
Second; that under circumstances that _offend the better feelings of
the heart_, the _highest reach of eloquence_ is unattainable by human
powers.

It may be readily believed that we have felt reluctant to sit in
judgment on the works of men so renowned as Messrs. Adams and Everett.
A decided condemnation would seem to many the height of presumption.
Even to ourselves it has so much of this appearance, that we are
desirous to have it in our power to charge the main defects of their
performances rather on the occasion than on themselves.

Mr. Everett has certainly made the most of it. His delineation of the
character of La Fayette is highly graphic; the incidents of his life
are judiciously and tastefully selected, and told with spirit,
simplicity and distinctness; and the comparative summary of his claims
to the grateful admiration of the world, commands the acquiescence of
the reader. The whole is interspersed with just thoughts and natural
sentiments, which do honor to the head and heart of the speaker.

But a higher praise is due to Mr. Everett. The history of La Fayette is
the history of man, in the most portentous and eventful era of his
existence. Of the events of that era Mr. Everett so speaks as to show
that he has understood and rightly applied the lesson which they teach
to the world. _He_ does not profess to see any thing "cheering and
refreshing" in the progress or the results of the French revolution.
How should he? How should a man of "untaught feelings, with a heart of
flesh and blood beating in his bosom," find any thing cheering in
theoretical good, purchased at such an expense of actual crime and
suffering? How should a friend of liberty look, but with despondency,
on the result of a series of horrors unutterable and inconceivable,
only serving to confirm the sad truth "that men of intemperate minds
cannot be free?" Those who could "hope against hope," shut their eyes
as long as possible, and tried to forget that _rational liberty_ is but
another name for _self-government_. But they have been forced to see
that some appropriate training is necessary to qualify man for freedom.
In what that training is to consist, it is not easy to say. Its
application depends on him who rules the world. When he shall please so
to order events as to qualify men by the discipline of life, for
_self-government_, they will then be capable of freedom, and not till
then. A corollary from this important truth comes nearer home to
ourselves. _When men, thus qualified for freedom and thus made free,
become wiser than their teachers, and impatient to unlearn the lessons
taught in this school of discipline, there is danger that they may
imperceptibly lose those personal qualities on which their fitness for
the function of self-government depends._ The personal qualities of a
limited monarch, who is but the minister of the actual sovereignty, may
be of small consequence; but on the personal qualities of a free
people, the efficient sovereign, _de facto_ as well as _de jure_, every
thing depends. If these be lost in experiments on the _theory_ of
government, all is lost.

We should extend our remarks too far, if we indulged in all the
reflections on this subject suggested by these two orations. By that of
Mr. Adams they are provoked by repeated allusions to it, which give to
his performance something of the character of a dissertation (not very
philosophical) on the philosophy of government. He doubtless felt the
difficulties of his situation, not the less sensibly, because he had
obviously sought it. The whole proceeding seems to have been planned by
himself, but he was probably not aware how hard a task he had
undertaken, until he set about its performance. He seems throughout to
have been at cross-purposes with himself; never decided whether to play
the statesman, the philosopher, or the orator; and not always certain
which of his two sets of political opinions had the ascendant for the
day. His digression at page four, in which he wanders away into a
statement of the titles of Louis XV and George II, is certainly one of
the strangest aberrations from the subject that we have ever seen. It
is hard to imagine his motive for it, unless he was seeking an
opportunity to record his testimony against _hereditary monarchy_. Why
he should have felt this necessary, he best knows. But his observations
on this point, after all, are superficial to very childishness; and we
can hardly help questioning his sincerity when we see him affecting to
be wholly unconscious of the true grounds on which the statesmen of the
old world place their preference of the _hereditary_ to the _elective_
principle. Yet of these Mr. Adams could not have been ignorant, and had
no right to suppose his hearers ignorant. What right had he then, to
speak over their heads, to the uninitiated multitude, who have not yet
learned that, in the judgment of the enlightened friends of liberty, it
is not desirable that the throne should be filled by a man of high
personal endowments? Such are the men to whom dangerous powers are
conceded. Such are the men who seize prerogatives never claimed before,
and transmit them to their successors. Even if the statesmen of England
had been silent on the subject, could we have supposed them so
unobservant of the history of their own country, as not to have
remarked that _all concessions in favor of liberty_ of which their
annals bear record, have been obtained from _weak princes_, from those
who held by _doubtful titles_, or from _minors_? Do they not know that
the odious tyranny, the folly, the weakness, and the cowardice of John
gave birth to _magna charta_? Had not this been extorted from him,
could it have been wrung from the stern grasp of the first or third
Edward? During the reign of this last, where slumbered that fierce
spirit which broke out on the accession of the minor Richard II, and
slunk away rebuked, the moment he showed that, though a boy in years,
he was a man in spirit? Can we identify the abject slaves who crouched
to the will of the bold and resolute Elizabeth, with the contumacious
subjects of her silly and imbecile Scotch successor? Could the spirit
which tumbled his son from the throne, have prepared itself for
explosion during her vigilant and energetic reign? If little was gained
at the restoration, it was because little was asked. The people had
lost a sense of the value of liberty, from experience of the abuses
perpetrated in her name. They only asked to be freed from a sour and
gloomy tyranny which invaded the privacy, and marred the comforts of
the domestic circle. They ask for nothing but leave to enjoy life.
Charles opposed irreligion to fanaticism, and they wished no more.

The revolution found them in a different mood. Appetite was gorged,
mirth had become stale, animal passion had spent its force, and men
found themselves once more requiring something to engage the nobler
faculties of the heart and mind.

Do we ask why, in this temper, they gained so little from William? Look
at the character of the man, and you have your answer. Able, energetic,
sagacious, firm and cold, he had power, even in the act of mounting the
throne, to arrest the progress of reform in mid career.

The weak princes of the house of Brunswick enjoyed an advantage of a
different sort, which supplied the place of talent to them. By contrast
with the odious pretender of the house of Stuart they were popular; and
this counter-prop upheld the power of the crown until that race became
virtually extinct. So sensible of this was the purest, the ablest, and
the most resolved of the friends of liberty in the reign of George II,
(we speak of Mr. Shippen)--so sensible was he of the advantage which
freedom has in contending with a weak prince, and an unpopular name,
that he had serious thoughts of bringing in the pretender with that
view.

But the house of Stuart passed off the stage; the bugbear of a popish
succession was removed; the cant of the "great and glorious revolution"
went out of fashion; and people instead of looking back to that, took
leave to look forward to something better. Our own revolution was the
first fruit of this change in public sentiment. That which was
preparing in England was arrested by the horrors of the premature
explosion in France. But that interruption of its progress was but
temporary, and it is now finding its consummation under the reign of
one who, having passed from first to second childhood, without ever
being a man, seems fitted by Providence for the place to which the
order of succession called, and in which the order of events required
him.

Have these things been lost on Mr. Adams himself? And has not his _own_
experience taught him the advantage which a questionable title, or the
folly of a ruler may give his subjects? Has he yet to learn that vanity
and obvious weakness may provoke a clamor for reforms, which the man of
spirit and address, who is brought in to effectuate them, may laugh at?
Does he believe that the revolution so "cheering and refreshing" to his
spirit, would have taken place, had Henri IV occupied the throne of
Louis XVI? Does he think the reform now going on in England would have
commenced under Elizabeth or her grandfather Henry VII? Does he believe
that the people of the United States would, at this moment, address
themselves to the reform of their representation, however unequal,
however corrupt, if its corruption only produced subserviency to the
will of Andrew Jackson? In short is he to learn, at this time of day,
that the power which the exigencies of public affairs require to be
lodged in the hands of the Executive of a _great and ambitious_ nation,
implies a _faculty of usurpation_? That such power, passing from
generation to generation successively, into the hands of men of mature
age, of bold spirits and commanding minds, will increase and multiply
itself without end, is certain. That such power will be deemed
necessary, so long as men give themselves up to dreams of glory and the
lust of conquest, is equally sure.

Why did our fathers hope that the experiment of free government might
succeed with us, though it had failed every where else? Was it not
because our local situation removed us far from war, and the
entanglements of foreign politics? Let any infatuation tempt us to
throw away this advantage, and seek the evil that seeks not us, and it
is not difficult to foresee the consequence. We shall soon find
ourselves, like the friends of freedom in England, reduced to inquire,
"what hope remains to us, but to regulate the succession on a principle
which may afford the people a chance of wresting from a weak prince,
the advantages gained by the ability and address of his predecessors?"
The solution of this problem was found in the device of "blending
together the principle of hereditary succession with that of reformed
protestant christianity," at which Mr. Adams sneers so bitterly. Its
inventors were the truest friends to freedom in the world. They were
our masters in the science of government. Relieved from the necessity
which drove them to this device, _we_ imbodied in our institutions the
lessons we had learned from them. Should our folly throw away our
peculiar advantages, and our vices render some contrivance of the sort
necessary to us as to them, may we be equally fortunate in applying the
maxims learned from them! If monarchy become necessary, (and they who
most feel the necessity often most deeply lament it,) may we hit on
some contrivance as well adapted to give the people the comfortable
sense of security, while the ruler is made to feel that he holds his
power only by their will. That in every stage of our political
existence we may choose wisely, let us shut our ears to those who would
disguise their well known predilections for strong government, by _ad
captandum_ sneers at any of its _particular modes_. What end can such
sneers answer at this moment, but to confirm our people in the fatal
error of supposing liberty secure because the _forms_ of the
constitution are preserved? because our monarch is elective, not
hereditary; a man and not a child?

Of a piece with this is the declaration (at page forty-three) that, in
the contemplation of the great results of the French revolution, Mr.
Adams finds something "cheering and refreshing." It is well known that
while the friends of freedom were animated with a hope, that the dark
hour of its commencement was but the forerunner of a day of light and
liberty and happiness, Mr. Adams belonged to a school which taught that
this bright hope was but illusory; that all the horrors of the _reign
of terror_ were gratuitous; and that the French people would, in the
end, return as near as might be, to the condition from which they were
struggling to escape. These bodings have been fulfilled. The younger
branch of the house of Capet has taken the place of the elder. The
unteachable folly of those who could neither learn nor forget, has been
superseded by the address, the subtlety, the energy and spirit of Louis
Philippe. By these qualities, and by what is _instar omnium_, his
private wealth, he has been able to stay the tempest of revolution in
its wildest rage, and to establish himself firmly on the throne. The
condemnation pronounced by Mr. Adams's school of politics, in the
earlier stages of the revolution, has been justified by the event, and
_he_ finds something "_quite refreshing_" in the result!

We have perhaps extended these observations too far, and left ourselves
but little room to remark on the style of these compositions. There is
certainly much to praise in Mr. Everett's, and we would gladly adorn
our pages with copious extracts from it; but it is in every body's
hands, and will be read by thousands whom our humble pages will never
reach.

It has been well said "that truth is sometimes more incredible than
fiction." The history of La Fayette is a chapter in the romance of real
life, more strange and interesting than any tale that imagination has
ever suggested. The succinct sketch of that history, which forms the
body of Mr. Everett's eulogy, must be read with great interest even by
those already familiar with the facts. It is quite felicitously hit
off.

We have already intimated the opinion, that the nature of the occasion
fixed the doom of failure on the attempts of both gentlemen, however
executed. We wish we could say that no part of the fault attached to
the execution itself. The circumstances justified the expectation that
each oration should be perfect in its kind. Men selected from among
millions for the occasion, and having months for preparation, were
bound to furnish specimens of composition without blemish. We are sorry
to point out faults which would merit censure in works of less
pretension. In Mr. Everett's eulogy we mark a few.

Does he mean, at page six, to intimate that the "boldness of truth" was
ONLY "_not_ WHOLLY _uncongenial_" to the character of La Fayette? We
take this as a specimen of the faults into which men blunder, who adopt
a sort of diluted style, in which affirmative propositions are stated
by _disaffirming the negation of the affirmative_. This may be very
polite and genteel. It betokens an amiable aversion to say any thing
offensive; an eagerness to qualify and explain; and sometimes even a
readiness to take back any thing that may displease. It may be called
the _apologetic_ or _bowing_ style; for whenever we meet with it, we
presently have before us the image of the speaker, ruffled, powdered
and perfumed, and accompanying every sentence with the appropriate
gesture of a deferential bow. This is Mr. Everett's besetting fault.
But for this he might have been an orator.

At pages twelve and thirteen, we were inextricably puzzled (to say
nothing of the ungraceful introduction of the _egomet ipse_,) by the
following sentence.

"Yes, fellow-citizens, that I may repeat an exclamation, uttered ten
years ago by him who has now the honor to address you, in the presence
of an immense multitude, who welcomed 'the nation's guest' to the
academic shades of Harvard, and by them received with acclamations of
approval and tears of gratitude; when he was told by our commissioners,
'that they did not possess the means or the credit of procuring [credit
of procuring!] a single vessel in all the ports of France, then,
exclaimed the gallant and generous youth, 'I will provide my own.'"

The reader may unriddle this. We cannot. If the thing were possible,
the most plausible guess would be, that the words "I will provide my
own," were the words of Mr. Everett. It is the only exclamation we hear
of.

We have not often had the pleasure of hearing Mr. Everett speak, and
cannot pronounce whether he possesses that magic power of voice, and
countenance, and attitude and gesture, which _should_ have been
displayed in the utterance of his closing paragraph. Without these, it
is a school-boy declamation. We rather fear that Mr. Everett is not so
endowed. Such was our impression on hearing him, and this is confirmed
by the fact, that his power over the house of which he has long been a
member, is no way commensurate to his acknowledged talents. We subjoin
the paragraph, adding this advice--"that no man attempt to utter such a
passage who is not very sure of his own powers." He who can do it as it
should be done, may rival Cooke in Richard, or Cooper in the
ghost-scene in Hamlet. This is the paragraph.

"You have now assembled within these _renowned_ walls, to perform the
last duties of respect and love, on the birth-day of your benefactor,
beneath that roof which has resounded of old with the master voices of
American _renown_. The spirit of the departed is in _high communion_
[does this mean _high mass_?] with the spirit of the place;--the temple
worthy of the new name, which we now behold inscribed on its walls.
Listen, Americans, to the lesson, which seems borne to us on the very
air we breathe, while we perform these dutiful rites. Ye winds, that
wafted the pilgrims to the land of promise, fan in their children's
hearts, the love of freedom;--blood which our fathers shed, cry from
the ground; _echoing_ arches of this _renowned_ hall, _whisper_ back
the voices of other days;--glorious Washington, break the long silence
of that votive canvass;--speak, speak, marble lips, teach us THE LOVE
OF LIBERTY PROTECTED BY LAW."[1]

[Footnote 1: Subjoined to Mr. Everett's speech is an account of the
circumstances of the ceremonial, much in detail. From this it appears
that _by his side_, on the platform where he stood, was placed a bust
of La Fayette, on a pedestal _just high enough_ to bring the _face on a
level with the speaker's_. The taste of this we de not propose to
discuss with the committee of arrangement. It seems to have imposed on
Mr. Everett a sort of necessity to have a word to say to the figure,
and we do not know that he could have done it better than he has done.
We incline to suspect that he would gladly have escaped from that part
of his task. We are glad he got through it so well. We are glad too we
were not there. The thought of Punch and the Devil knocking their noses
together, might have made us laugh most unreasonably. Now that the
thing is over, we venture to intreat that no man of genius and taste
may be placed in a situation so perilous and so painful.]

At pages six and seven, we have a passage, which besides savoring of
transcendentalism, smacks of the school of Garrison and Tappan. We pass
it by, because it is not with a mere occasional volunteer like Mr.
Everett that we would discuss the subject there hinted at. Indeed we
would touch him with a lenient hand, for his eulogy has great merit,
and has deepened the kindly impression which his amiable character and
classic talent had already made on us. The blemishes we have noted are
but

    "Stains upon a vestal's robe,
  The worse for what the soil."

We recommend it to the perusal of all (if any there be) who have not
read it.

We had noted for animadversion some of the most faulty passages of Mr.
Adams's oration, but do not find them so much at variance with the
general character of the work as to merit particular censure. When
Secretary of State to a President, who, while minister to England,
informed his government, in an official despatch, that he "had
_enjoyed_ very bad health," he acquired by contrast the reputation of a
fine writer. He was the _cheval de battaille_ of the administration.
Afterwards, when the head of a dominant party, it pleased him to lay
claim to the first place among the writers of the day, and his
followers of course accorded it to him. A fatal claim, most fatally
acknowledged! Had he known no more of writing than his successor, he
might have been President now. As it was, he perilled the enjoyment of
power, for the sake of vaunting it, in well turned sentences about
"light-houses in the skies." His vanity tore away the veil under which
federalism had lain securely hid for years. Had he, like his successor,
unmasked a battery in doing so, he might have done it safely. This may
explain some of our former remarks, when classing him among those whose
weakness afforded the people an opportunity (fatally abused) of
retrieving their rights.

Mr. Adams's style is any thing but felicitous. He has not the art of
gliding gracefully on from topic to topic. His digressions are abrupt,
untimely and rectangular; his allusions are generally of the ebony and
topaz school; his blows are never inflicted with that dexterous sleight
which engages our admiration too much to permit sympathy with the
sufferer. They never take effect but when the victim is bound hand and
foot, or on some imbecile wretch, like Jonathan Russel, who can neither
parry nor elude them. His oratory reminds us of the _fa sol la_ of a
country singing school, differing as much from the easy flow of
spontaneous eloquence, as the mellifluous stream of real music from
that harsh jangling in which each note claims its separate syllable.

To those who may be startled at this account of Mr. Adams's style, we
recommend the perusal of his oration as an exercise. We venture to
predict that by the time the sixty thousand copies ordered by Congress
have found as many readers, our judgment will be confirmed by at least
fifty-nine thousand of them. But that will never be.

To Mr. Everett's address are appended a requiem and a hymn, of which we
will say, but more emphatically, what we said of the orations. They
should have great excellence and no fault. Each should be a gem of the
first water, and without flaw. The first consists of six stanzas, of
which two or three are very fine. But what shall we say to this:

  "One pulse is echoing there."

An echoing pulse!

         "One pulse is echoing there!
  The far voiced clarion and the trump are still,
  And man's crushed spirit to the changeless will
          Bows in _rebuke_ and prayer!"

Whom or what does man rebuke? If the writer meant "_under_ rebuke," he
should have said so. Again--

          "Gather about his pall,
  And let the sacred memory of years
  That he made glorious, call back your tears,
          _Or_ LIGHT _them as they fall!_"

If the writer had an idea connected with the last line it is
incomprehensible to us.

The hymn of four short stanzas being destitute of any original thought,
has not merit enough to be chargeable with any particular fault. There
_may be_ something new, though common-place, in the last stanza.
Astronomers tell us that Venus and Mercury are morning and evening star
by turns. Our poet, if we can understand his orrery, has a mind to make
the name of La Fayette both morning and evening star at once.


  _For the Southern Literary Messenger_.

THE BEAUTIES of the Court of Charles the Second; a series of Memoirs,
Biographical and Critical, illustrating the Diaries of Pepys, Evelyn,
Clarendon, and other contemporary writers. By Mrs. Jameson, authoress
of "The Loves of the Poets," "Lives of Female Sovereigns," "Visits and
Sketches at Home and Abroad," &c. &c. Philadelphia: E. L. Cary & A.
Hart. pp. 304. 8vo.

Few portions of history are more replete with characters illustrating
the good and evil of human nature, in both extremes, than that of the
reign and court of Charles II. The stern dominion of a sour and
superstitious bigotry had just passed away; the disgusting hypocrisy
which had disguised all vice under the mask of religion and virtue had
been exposed; and the disclosure had awakened a doubt, even in the
minds of the wise and good, whether unbounded license was not more
tolerable than the enormities practised in those hiding-places of
crime, into which the severe discipline of the Protectorate had driven
it. The public eye might impose some restraint; but when the indulgence
of harmless mirth and the enjoyment of innocent amusement were unsafe,
except in private, who could tell what unseen abominations might be
perpetrated in recesses which the world was not permitted to look into.

Nothing is more true, than that the appetite for pleasure grows by
indulgence, and that, pushed to the verge of what is lawful, it is too
apt to pass into criminal excess. But _innocent_ pleasures men _will_
have. What security that they will be content with these? None but the
influence of public sentiment, constraining them to respect the almost
viewless boundary that divides the extreme of lawful indulgence from
the beginnings of licentiousness. The exercise of this influence is a
duty society owes to itself; but to exert it, we must bear to look upon
the scenes where its authority should be felt. If we fastidiously turn
away, and refuse to the young, the gay, the sanguine and the
thoughtless, the benefit of that aggregate judgment concerning right
and wrong, which we distinguish by the name of "public sentiment," we
incur more risk of becoming "partakers of the sins of others," than we
should by looking on with that complacent smile of benevolent sympathy,
which its objects would not willingly exchange for the frown of merited
disapprobation. In this smile and this frown are the sanctions for that
"regulated indulgence" which a wise and good man has pronounced to be
"the best security against excess."

When Charles on his accession avowed a disposition to claim for
himself, and to allow to others the unbounded license which his foreign
habits had rendered necessary to him, it was of course, that multitudes
should eagerly avail themselves of the privilege. It was not wonderful
that even the virtuous should acquiesce in this new scheme of things,
instead of endeavoring to apply correctives which they had just seen so
much abused.

The consequence was, that during that most flagitious reign, the mind
was left to put forth all its wild unpruned luxuriance. Human nature
displayed itself in all the forms of all of its varieties, each in the
most extreme dimensions. Vice walked abroad in naked deformity; and
orgies, such as the sun had never before been permitted to look on,
were perpetrated in the face of day.

But if the "poor virtues of the age lacked countenance," how
conspicuous was that virtue, which still resolutely resisted all the
allurements with which fashion invests pleasure, and in the midst of a
corrupt generation, preserved its purity inviolate. God has never left
himself without a witness. There were, even in that day, men devoted to
all their duties to him, to their fellows, and to themselves, and their
light did but shine the brighter for the darkness that surrounded it.
The pacific policy of a monarch, who is now known to have been the
pensioner of the natural enemy of his country, afforded few
opportunities to acquire fame in the service of the crown. It was
chiefly in private life that virtue had to seek that honorable
distinction which it naturally covets. That distinction the character
of the age rendered more conspicuous and honorable, and it was
therefore the more eagerly sought.

We are not particularly anxious about this theory, but it helps us to
understand, not only how it was that the pure and muddy waters mingled
without blending, but how it happened that the _unexampled_ excellence
of in Ormond and an Ossory were found side by side with the unheard of
depravity of a Buckingham and a Rochester.

Of the private as well as public history of the courtiers of Charles
II, we have the most authentic records, and they are full of amusement
and instruction. It has been lamented that they have been, for the most
part, transmitted to us through channels which must soil the reader's
mind, and endanger an injury more than commensurate to the value of the
information. We have reason to rejoice therefore, that we are at length
permitted to receive them through the refining filter of a female mind,
from which they are transmitted pure and "bright as diamond spark."

What lover ever read the history of Grammont without lamenting that it
was impossible to impart any portion of his delight to his mistress.
The difficulty is now removed; and Mrs. Jameson deserves the thanks of
her sex, for having rendered accessible to them, not only a theme of
most amusing gossip, but one of the most instructive and edifying
chapters in the history of man. We especially recommend this work to
their perusal. The witty Hamilton and the gay Grammont will still
perhaps be most read by the men, but even they will derive advantage
from looking, through the chaste eyes of a virtuous female, on the same
scenes and the same characters exhibited by this profligate pair.

Of the manner in which this work is executed, nothing need be said to
those familiar with the writings of Mrs. Jameson. It is every way
worthy of her well merited reputation. We extract a few passages, which
may serve as examples of the work. But they are not selected for any
particular merit, but merely to illustrate the foregoing remarks. They
are most attractive pictures of virtues, the exact opposite of the
vices which characterized the age; and we are not sure that they do not
as widely differ from the average standard of the human character.

What can be more captivating than this account of _La belle Hamilton_.

"She was then just arrived at that age when the budding girl expands
into the woman: her figure was tall, rather full, but elegantly formed;
and, to borrow Lord Herbert's beautiful expression, 'varied itself into
every grace that can belong either to rest or motion.' She had the
finest neck and the loveliest hand and arm in the world: her forehead
was fair and open; her hair dark and luxuriant, always arranged with
the most exquisite taste, but with an air of natural and picturesque
simplicity, which meaner beauties in vain essayed to copy; her
complexion, at a time when the use of paint was universal, owed nothing
to art; her eyes were not large, but sparkling and full of expression;
her mouth, though not a little haughtiness is implied in the curve of
the under lip, was charming, and the contour of her face perfect.

"The soul which heaven had lodged in this fair person was worthy of its
shrine. In those days, the very golden age of folly and affectation,
the beauties, by prescriptive right, might be divided into two
factions, whom I shall call the _languishers_ and the _sparklers_; the
languishers were those who, being dull by nature, or at least not
bright, affected an extreme softness--lounged and lolled--simpered and
sighed--lisped or drawled out their words--half shut their eyes--and
moved as if 'they were not born to carry their own weight.' The
sparklers were those who, upon the strength of bright eyes and some
natural vivacity and impertinence, set up for female wits: in
conversation they attempted to dazzle by such sallies as would now be
scarcely tolerated from the most abandoned of their sex; they were gay,
airy, fluttering, fantastical, and talkative--they dealt in bon mots
and repartees--they threw their glances right and left, _a tort et a
travers_--and piqued themselves upon taking hearts by a _coup-de-main_.
Miss Hamilton belonged to neither of these classes: though lively by
nature, she had felt perhaps the necessity of maintaining a reserve of
manner which should keep presumptuous <DW2>s at a distance. She wore her
feminine dignity as an advanced guard--her wit as a body of reserve.
She did not speak much, but what she said was to the purpose, just what
the occasion demanded and no more. _Fiere a toute outrance_, whenever
she was called upon to stand on the defensive, she was less possessed
with the idea of her own merit than might have been supposed; and, far
from thinking her consequence increased by the number of her lovers,
she was singularly fastidious with regard to the qualifications of
those whom she admitted upon the list of aspirants."

In the family of Ormond we have a galaxy of excellence. The following
extracts make us balance the truth of history and our experience of
real life. Whom do we know like old Ormond and his wife? Whom like his
noble son and his charming countess?

Take the character of the Duchess from the lips of an enemy.

"When the Duke of Ormond withdrew to France, in 1655, he found himself
obliged to leave his wife and family behind: and soon afterwards
Cromwell caused the Earl of Ossory to be arrested upon no specific
charge and committed to the Tower. His mother waited upon the protector
to remonstrate, and to solicit his enlargement, pleading the quiet and
inoffensive life which she led with her children in London. Cromwell
told her plainly, that he had more reason to fear her than any body
else. She replied with dignity and spirit, and in the presence of a
numerous drawing-room, that 'she desired no favor at his hands, but
merely justice to her innocent son;'--and that 'she thought it strange
that she, who had never been concerned in a plot in her life, nor
opened her mouth against his person and government, should be
represented as so terrible a person.' 'No, madam!' replied Cromwell,
'that is not the case; but your worth has gained you so great an
influence over all the commanders of our party, and we know so well
your power over your own party, that it is in your ladyship's breast to
act what you please.'"

The following descriptions of the Earl and Countess of Ossory are
delightful.

"At this time, the Earl of Ossory was about four and twenty; he was
tall, well made, and handsome; with an open expressive countenance, and
fine teeth and hair; he rode, fenced, and danced remarkably well;
played on the lute and the guitar; spoke French eloquently, and Italian
fluently; was a good historian; and seems to have had a taste for light
and elegant literature, for Sir Robert Southwell represents him as so
well read in poetry and romance, that 'in a gallery full of pictures
and hangings, he could tell the stories of all that were there
described.' These however were the mere superficial graces which
enabled him to please in the drawing-room, and to these he added all
the rare and noble qualities which can distinguish a man in the cabinet
and in the field. He was wise in council, quick and decided in action,
as brave in battle as an Amadis of Gaul--gallant 'beyond the fiction of
romance'--humane, courteous, affable, temperate, generous to profusion,
and open almost to a fault. 'In a word,' says the historian, 'his
virtue was unspotted in the centre of a luxurious court; his integrity
unblemished amid all the vices of the times; his honor untainted
through the course of his whole life;' and it is most worthy of remark,
that in those days, when the spirits of men were heated with party
rage; when profligate pens were wielded by profligate and obscure
individuals, and satire 'unbated and envenomed,' was levelled at
whatever was noble, or beautiful, or good in the land; not a single
expression can any where be traced to contradict or invalidate this
universal testimony. 'No writer,' (I quote again from history,) 'ever
appeared then or since, so regardless of truth and of his own
character, as to venture one stroke of censure on that of the Earl of
Ossory.'"

"'She was, indeed,' adds the grave historian of the family, 'an
admirable economist; always cheerful, and never known to be out of
humor, so that they lived together in the most perfect harmony
imaginable. Lord Ossory never found any place or company more agreeable
than he found at home; and when he return thither from court, they
constantly met with open arms, with kind embraces, and the most moving
expressions of mutual tenderness.'

"But this picture, bright and beautiful as it is, had its shades. In
this world of ours, 'where but to think, is to be full of sorrow,' Lady
Ossory was so far most happy, that though she suffered _through_ those
she loved, (as all must do who embark their happiness in their
affections,) she never suffered by them: but she lost several of her
numerous family at an early age; and the frequent absence of Lord
Ossory, whilst engaged in the highest civil and military employments,
must have doomed her to many widowed hours. The reckless valor too,
with which he exposed his life, and which was such as even to call down
a rebuke from his brave father, must have filled the gentle bosom of
his wife with a thousand fond anxieties: yet might not those partings
and meetings, those alternations of hope and fear, those trembling
terrors for his safety, those rapturous tears which greeted his return,
have assisted to keep freshly alive, through a long series of years,
all the romance of early passion? And was not this much? Did Lady
Ossory buy too dearly the proud happiness of belonging to that man,
upon whom the eyes of all Europe were fixed to gaze and to admire; who
from every new triumph brought her home a faith and love
unchanged--deposing his honors at her feet, and his cares in her gentle
arms? Let the woman who reads this question, answer it to her own
heart."

The following anecdote, with the appended note, illustrates a point of
character on which we always dwell with delight, though it is not often
found associated with prudence and wisdom.

"In 1671 occurred that extraordinary attempt on the life of the Duke of
Ormond by the ruffian Blood, of notorious memory; it is supposed at the
instigation of Buckingham. There was, in fact, something so audacious
and so theatrical in the idea of hanging the duke upon the gallows at
Tyburn, that it could only have originated with that 'Fanfaron de
crimes.' Such, at least, was the general opinion at the time. A few
days after this event, Lord Ossory meeting the Duke of Buckingham in
the king's chamber, the color flushed to his temples with passion, and
his eyes sparkled with such ire, that the duke took refuge behind the
king's chair. 'My lord,' said Ossory, stepping up to him, 'I know well
that you are at the bottom of this late attempt of Blood's upon my
father, and therefore I give you fair warning, if my father comes to a
violent end by sword or pistol,--if he dies by the hand of a ruffian,
or the more secret way of poison, I shall not be at a loss to know the
first author of it; I shall consider _you_ as the assassin; I shall
treat you as such, and I shall pistol you, though you stood beside the
king's chair; and I tell it you in his majesty's presence, that you may
be sure I shall keep my word.' So saying, he turned upon his heel,
leaving the duke so completely overawed, that he had not even spirit to
utter a denial."[1]

[Footnote 1: I believe no writer has remarked the singular coincidence
between the characters and fortunes of the Duke of Ormond, and his
ancestor, the Earl of Ormond, of Elizabeth's time. Both were brave,
popular, enthusiastically loyal, and inflexibly honest; both were
accomplished courtiers, and lived to experience the ingratitude and
injustice of the princes they had served; both experienced many changes
of fortune, and lived to an extreme old age, so as to behold their
heirs in the third generation. Both were opposed to the reigning
favorites, for the enmity of the Duke of Ormond and Buckingham was at
least equal to that of the Earl of Ormond and Lord Leicester. As
Buckingham was believed to have instigated Blood in his attempt on the
Duke of Ormond, so Leicester was known to have attempted the
assassination of Ormond, by means of a hired cut-throat, who was
afterwards, like Blood, forgiven and rewarded. The following anecdote
is very characteristic:--The Earl of Ormond coming one day to court,
met Lord Leicester in the antechamber: after the usual salutations, "My
lord," said Leicester, insolently, "I dreamed of you last night!"
"Indeed!" replied Ormond, "what could your lordship dream of me?" "I
dreamed that I gave you a box on the ear." "Dreams are interpreted by
contraries," replied the high spirited Irishman, and instantly lent him
a cuff on the ear, which made the favorite stagger; for this he was
committed to the tower by Elizabeth.]

We will conclude by adding the character of a lady (the wife of Hyde
Earl of Rochester,) of whom it is praise enough to say, that she was
beautiful, rich, noble and powerful, and chose to love her husband,
nurse her children, and live in obscurity.

"It is perhaps the highest eulogium that could be pronounced on the
character and conduct of his fair, gentle-looking, and really amiable
wife, that while her husband was treading the steep and tortuous paths
of court diplomacy, rising to rank and honors, and filling the highest
offices in the state, we do not even hear of her, except in her
domestic relations. In the recent publication of the Clarendon papers,
Lady Rochester is seldom mentioned; but from the manner in which she is
alluded to, we may infer, without danger of being mistaken, that she
was the excellent and submissive wife of an impatient and despotic
husband; that she lived in the utmost harmony with her children and her
relatives; that she frequented the court but little.

"It should seem that her days flowed along in one even course of
unpretending duties and blameless pleasures: duties such as her sex and
station prescribe, pleasures such as her rank and fortune
permitted,--interrupted and clouded by such cares and infirmities as
are the common lot of mortality. This description of Lady Rochester may
appear a little insipid after the piquante adventures of a Cleveland
and a Chesterfield, and others of her more brilliant and interesting
contemporaries; yet there is in its repose and innocence something that
not only refreshes, but sweetens the imagination: as in a garden where
peonies, and pinks, and carnations, and tall lilies,

  'And canker blooms, with full as deep a die,
   As the perfumed tincture of the roses,'

flaunt to the eye and allure the sense, should we suddenly find a
jasmine, trailing its light tendrils and luxuriant foliage round a
lordly elm, with what delight should we appropriate its starry,
unsullied blossoms, and place them in our bosom!"


CALAVAR; or The Knight of the Conquest: a Romance of Mexico.
Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1834.

Who reads an American book? was tauntingly asked some years since, by
the Edinburg or Quarterly Review,--we do not recollect which,--nor is
it important to know. For the present we will answer the question
somewhat in the Hibernian or Yankee style, by a remark which is not
exactly responsive; and that is, that if Sir Walter Scott himself were
living, he would have the candor and honor to acknowledge that
"Calavar" was vastly superior to some five or six of the last litter of
his own great genius, and not very far behind the very best of those
renowned performances which have thrown a classic glory over the bleak
hills and barren moors of Scotland. But whether that would have been
the award of Sir Walter or not, impartial critics on both sides of the
Atlantic, and coming generations, if "Calavar" should escape the vortex
of oblivion,--will undoubtedly render a judgment somewhat similar. It
is certainly the very best American novel, excepting perhaps one or two
of Mr. Cooper's, which we have ever read; that is, if boldness of
design, vigor of thought, copiousness and power of language,--thrilling
incident, and graphic and magnificent description, can constitute a
good novel. For the first fifty or sixty pages, it is confessedly
somewhat heavy; still the reader will perceive that a master spirit is
at work, to whose guidance he confidingly trusts. In a short time the
whole interest of the narrative rushes upon him; he gazes in
imagination upon the beautiful and Eden-like vallies of Mexico; he
throbs with pain at the spectacle of slaughtered thousands of the brave
aborigines, and he sympathises with the tender sorrows and heroic
sufferings of the only female who figures in the story, and she too in
the unwomanly garb of a page, destined to perform the somewhat curious,
and certainly very unthankful office, of a _menial to her own lover_.
Here we think the author has decidedly failed,--we mean in the
invention and arrangement of his story. He is entirely too _unnatural_
even for romance. There is too much improbable and miraculous agency in
the various life-preserving expedients, and extraordinary rescues which
are constantly occurring,--and which, although taken singly, do not
surpass the strange events of actual life, shock us nevertheless by
their perpetual succession, and impart to a tale founded upon
historical truth, an air of oriental fiction which is not agreeable.
The author, who is vastly superior to Cooper in dialogue, is, we fear,
equally unqualified with that writer, to depict the female character in
all its exquisite traits and attractive graces--else why not give us
more than a mere glimpse at the daughter of Montezuma, (the beloved of
the melancholy De Morla,) whose image we behold as in a "glass darkly,"
and whose wretched fate we regard with the less anguish, knowing so
little as we do of the fair and unfortunate victim. Even Jacinto is a
mysterious and shadowy, though lovely being, with whom we have not, and
cannot well have much sympathy. Some few passages indeed, illustrate
the disguised princess with great force,--and throughout there is an
unaccountable anxiety felt towards her; but she is not sufficiently
presented in the foreground of the picture, to awaken a positive and
powerful interest in her behalf. Jacinto, alias Leila, is nevertheless
a most delightful vision,--seen always under very unfavorable
circumstances,--but when seen, winding around the heart of the reader
in spite of himself,--a beautiful, modest, heroic boy,--and yet a
girl,--the discovery of whose sex, though anticipated, does not beam
upon the reader until towards the latter end of the story. By the way,
there is something very strange and improbable in the idea, that this
same sweet creature should have waited upon her own lover in the
assumed character of page or servant, _and he, the lover, not to know
it_. It is altogether too marvellous, and the author of "Calavar" ought
not to have drawn such a heavy draft upon the reader's credulity. As to
Don Amador de Leste, he is in fact the hero of the story; instead of
that demented melancholy uncle whose name gives the title to the
romance, but whose agency in it is of very little importance, and whose
wild and mournful aberration of mind attracts less of admiration than
pity, sometimes mingled with a feeling allied to disgust. The character
of Botello too, half knave and half conjurer, is, we think, somewhat of
a failure; perhaps not altogether so, for he relieves the mind from the
contemplation of spectacles of blood and misery,--and that of itself is
a refreshment for which we ought to be thankful.

Notwithstanding these strictures, which impartial justice required, we
still maintain the opinion that Calavar is the production of a man of
great capacity. If he follows up this first effort by corresponding
success in the region of historical romance, he will assuredly outstrip
all his competitors on this side of the Atlantic. The history of the
conquest of Mexico, affords an admirable field for the novelist; and in
the faithful delineation of Cortez, the extraordinary spirit who
directed the work of devastation and surmounted almost superhuman
difficulties in his triumphant career,--we think that the author of
"Calavar" has been wonderfully successful.

We forbear making quotations from the work, or entering into a more
minute analysis of the story. Our chief object is to inform our readers
that "Calavar" is an American production, which will not shrink from
competition with the very best European works of the same character.
Faults it has, and some of them obvious and censurable; but its display
of intellectual power and its various beauties are so transcendant,
that its blemishes are lost like specks upon the orb of day.

The description of the flight of the Spaniards over the dike of Tacuba,
and of the horrors of the "Melancholy night," so called in history, is
awfully sublime. In truth the whole work abounds in powerful
delineation both of character and scenery, and it is with pride that we
hail it as at once assuming and commanding a proud rank in the
department of historical romance.




JUDGE BLACKSTONE--_A Poet_.

A correspondent in January's Messenger said, that on the death of this
great lawyer, _poems_ were unexpectedly found among his papers. The
following is the only one of them we have seen. Its smooth yet vigorous
numbers, its simply touching strain of thought and language, the deep
and just feeling it evinces, and the apt felicity of its imagery, prove
the author to have possessed a genius which, had it been so inclined,
might have rendered him as conspicuous in the flowery paths of elegant
literature, as he actually became in the sterner walks of the law.
There is something strikingly magnanimous in the _self-denial_, which
could make such a mind relinquish pursuits so congenial to its tastes
and so meet for its abilities, for a profession the most abounding of
all others in dry, ponderous, and perplexing drudgery, yet amongst the
most vital to the well-being of society. What a lesson to our
_dilettanti_, who, even after having adopted that profession, cannot
bravely face and grapple with its difficulties, but remain entranced by
the Circean draughts and Syren songs of the lightest and most frivolous
of the Muses! What should be their humiliation, when they compare their
own inability to renounce the novel, the newspaper, and the frothy
magazine, with Blackstone's generous farewell to his so far noble muse?
They may rest assured, that it is only to one capable of such a
sacrifice, that Lord Coke's parting wish is not addressed in vain: "I
wish unto him the gladsome light of Jurisprudence, the lovelinesse of
temperance, the stabilitie of fortitude, and the soliditie of justice."

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.

BY SIR WM. BLACKSTONE.


  As by some tyrant's stern command,
  A wretch forsakes his native land,
  In foreign climes condemned to roam,
  An endless exile from his home;
  Pensive he treads the destined way,
  And dreads to go, nor dares to stay;
  Till on some neighb'ring mountain's brow
  He stops, and turns his eye below;
  There, melting at the well known view,
  Drops a last tear, and bids adieu:
  So I, thus doomed from thee to part,
  Gay queen of fancy and of art,
  Reluctant move with doubtful mind,
  Oft stop, and often look behind.

  Companion of my tender age,
  Serenely gay, and sweetly sage!
  How blithesome were we wont to rove
  By verdant hill and shady grove,
  Where fervent bees with humming voice
  Around the honeyed oak rejoice,
  And aged elms, with awful bend,
  In long cathedral walks extend!
  Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods,
  Cheered by the warbling of the woods,
  How blest my days, my thoughts how free,
  In sweet society with thee!
  Then all was joyous, all was young,
  And years unheeded roll'd along:
  But now the pleasing dream is o'er,--
  These scenes must charm me now no more:
  Lost to the field, and torn from you,
  Farewell!--a long, a last adieu!

  The wrangling courts, and stubborn law,
  To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw;
  There selfish faction rules the day,
  And pride and avarice throng the way;
  Diseases taint the murky air,
  And midnight conflagrations glare;
  Loose revelry and riot bold
  In frighted streets their orgies hold;
  Or when in silence all is drowned,
  Fell murder walks her lonely round;
  No room for peace, no room for you,--
  Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu!

  Shakspeare, no more, thy sylvan son,
  Nor all the arts of Addison,
  Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease,
  Nor Milton's mighty self must please.
  Instead of these a formal band
  In furs and coifs around me stand,
  With sounds uncouth, and accents dry,
  That grate the soul of harmony.
  Each pedant sage unlocks his store
  Of mystic, dark, discordant lore;
  And points with tottering hand the ways
  That lead me to the thorny maze.

  There, in a winding, close retreat,
  Is justice doom'd to fix her seat;
  There, fenced by bulwarks of the law,
  She keeps the wondering world in awe;
  And there, from vulgar sight retired,
  Like eastern queens, is much admired.

  Oh let me pierce the secret shade,
  Where dwells the venerable maid!
  There humbly mark with reverend awe,
  The guardian of Britannia's law;
  Unfold with joy her sacred page,
  (Th' united boast of many an age,
  Where mixed, though uniform, appears
  The wisdom of a thousand years.)
  In that pure spring the bottom view,
  Clear, deep, and regularly true,
  And other doctrines thence imbibe,
  Than lurk within the sordid scribe;
  Observe how parts with parts unite
  In one harmonious rule of right;
  See countless wheels distinctly tend,
  By various laws, to one great end;
  While mighty Alfred's piercing soul
  Pervades and regulates the whole.

  Then welcome business, welcome strife,
  Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,
  The visage wan, the pore-blind sight,
  The toil by day, the lamp by night,
  The tedious forms, the solemn prate,
  The pert dispute, the dull debate,
  The drowsy bench, the babbling hall,
  For thee, fair justice, welcome all!

  Thus, though my noon of life be past,
  Yet let my setting sun at last
  Find out the still, the rural cell
  Where sage retirement loves to dwell!
  There let me taste the home-felt bliss
  Of innocence and inward peace;
  Untainted by the guilty bribe,
  Uncursed amid the harpy tribe;
  No orphan's cry to wound my ear;
  My honor and my conscience clear;
  Thus may I calmly meet my end,
  Thus to the grave in peace descend!




There are moments of despondency, when Shakspeare thought himself no
poet and Raphael no painter; when the greatest wits have doubted the
excellence of their happiest efforts.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

I do not know that the author of the following lines designed or wished
them to appear in print; but I am sure that the readers of the
Messenger, and especially that portion who saw the parody of "Roy's
Wife," in the last number, will be obliged to the publisher for their
insertion. The author is one, as far as I can judge, who, like Garrick,
between the muses of tragedy and comedy, has his attachments to poetry
and music so nicely balanced, that neither can be said to have won his
superior regard. Such a one was peculiarly qualified to pour out a
tribute to the memory of the orator and poet, and at the same time to
adapt his words to that truly beautiful air which was first imbodied in
language by Burns, and afterwards by the lamented Davis with scarcely
less success.

H. E. J.

LINES.

Written as a tribute to the memory of the Hon. Warren R. Davis;
suggested by his inimitable verses to "Johnston's Wife of Louisiana."


_Air_--"Roy's Wife."

      He's gone to join his sainted "Anna,"
      He's gone to join his sainted "Anna."
      Extinguished is the brightest beam,
      That lighted up the "gay savannah."
  The wit--the poet--patriot--sleeps!
    But long his country's brilliant story,
  Will glitter through the tear she weeps,
    O'er one so blended with her glory.
                He's gone, &c.

  The "Inca's" radiant mantle fell,
    Its splendor round his form revealing;--
  His glowing heart proclaimed the spell,
    And overflowed with generous feeling.
                He's gone, &c.

  When flushed with hope and manhood's prime,
    One form controlled his heart's emotion;--
  Love triumphed o'er the power of time,
    And sanctified his last devotion.
                He's gone, &c.

  His harp is broken--hushed the breath
    Which won the free and chained the wise;
  But "Time shall hurl a dart at Death,"
    Before another DAVIS dies.
                He's gone, &c.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE EXILE.


  I go from the land where my forefathers dwelt;
    I go from the land of my home and my birth:
  The dark doom of exile has rung in my ear,
    And I go, a lone wand'rer, abroad through the earth.

  No more shall I bend o'er the grave of my sire,
    And dream that his spirit is hov'ring around!
  I never shall mingle my ashes with his--
    I never shall rest in that dear hallow'd ground!

  And is there a feeling more desolate still?
    More dreary and heart-breaking even than this?
  Oh, yes! there is one--'tis the thought that my cheek
    Has felt for the last time, a lov'd mother's kiss.




We select the following exquisite little gem from the "_New York Spirit
of the Times_." The "Times," by the way, is a weekly paper devoted to
the Literary, Fashionable and Sporting world, and is one of the most
lively, spirited and interesting papers of the kind in the whole
country. It is edited by William T. Porter.

       *       *       *       *       *

The annexed little poem was written many years ago, and has travelled
all over the world. It has been translated in the French, Spanish,
Italian, and German languages, and several times set to music in
Europe. It has been the rounds of the American press a number of times
credited to the English journals. Its great popularity was the cause of
its being claimed by our worthy contemporary of the Mirror, who
published it originally without his signature in that superb repository
of American belles-lettres. Like most of the productions of that
gentleman, it contains point, piquancy, and quiet humor. We found it
again the other day snugly ensconced in the poet's corner of the
Evening Star,--let the Major alone for finding out a good thing,
wherewith to delight his readers.

THE MINIATURE.

BY GEO. P. MORRIS.


  William was holding in his hand
    The likeness of his wife--
  Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,
    With beauty, grace, and life.
  He almost thought it spoke:
    He gazed upon the treasure still,
  Absorbed, delighted, and amazed,
    To view the artist's skill.

  "This picture is yourself, dear Jane,
    'Tis drawn to nature true:
  I've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
    It is so much like you."
  "And has it kissed you back, my dear?"
    "Why--no--my love," said he.
  "Then, William, it is very clear,
    It is not all _like me_!"




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAM.

THE MISTAKE CORRECTED.


  Anne, my foolish fancy's o'er,
  And I cannot love you more--
  Nay, sweet girl, why knit your brow?
  Cannot love you more--_than now_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SPIDER.

The Spider taketh hold with her hands and is in Kings'
palaces.--_Proverbs of Solomon_ 30:28.--


  What dost thou there, unlucky wight,
      Upon that cornice fair,
  Midst things so beautiful and bright?
  Thy many eyes might sure have sight
  To see that it would not be right
      To do thy spinning there!

  These things, I own are wondrous fine
      And beautiful and bright;
  And eyes, accustomed less than mine
  To things that so resplendent shine,
  No doubt to wonder would incline
      And gaze at such a sight;

  But I've been used to splendid things--
      Familiar long at Courts;
  In all the palaces of Kings,
  My beauteous five-twined net-work swings,--
  Of this a sacred poet sings
      And History reports.

  The wisest of the sons of men--
      (And glorious too was he)
  With graphic and historic pen
  Describes the blessed era, when
  Amidst his court--in glory then--
      He gave a place to me.

  Since then, each Queenly drawing-room
      Hath own'd me for a guest,
  And where the eternal roses bloom,
  In Tapestry, from the Gobelin's loom,
  To hang my own, I dare presume--
      Finer--by all confest.

  Tapestry in needle-work is seen
      In stately Hardwicke Hall;
  Done by the famous Scottish Queen
  When captive there,--her thoughts to wean
  From chequered past, or gloomier scene
      That might her steps enthral.

  My skill with her I used to try,
      When she was sad and lone,
  And oft amused her languid eye
  By spinning down so merrily;
  And now her handiwork close by
      Is proudly hung my own.

  Poor Coligni's untimely doom,
      When Medicis was Queen,
  Was pictured in the Gobelin's loom;--
  Colors of light o'er thought of gloom,
  Like sun-shine on an unblest tomb--
      Portray'd the historic scene.

  The broach and reed I saw them ply,
      And work the wondrous loom;
  Nor broach nor loom nor silk had I,
  But spun my web and wove it by,--
  They watch'd me with invidious eye
      And swept me from the room!

  The wise may triumph o'er the proud:
      Their work of skill complete
  Adorn'd the palace of St. Cloud,--
  And there, amidst the courtier crowd,
  Where weaver Gobelin never bowed,
      I took my honored seat.

  'Twere long, my life and works to trace
      Through lines of Kings renown'd--
  How mirrors proud my net-works grace
  Where daily shines a princely face
  And hang--most worthy of the place--
      Corregio's pictures round.

  None _my prerogative_ disown,
      Nor is it ought to me
  What Dynasties the nations own;--
  Whether _Legitimates_ alone
  Or "_Citizens_" usurp the throne
      _To make the people free_.

ELIZA.

_Maine_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DIALOUGE,

From the Italian of Francisco da Lemene.

BY R. H. WILDE, _of Georgia_.


TIRSIS. PHILLIS.

_Phillis_. I'd love you Tirsis, but ...

_Tirsis_.                      Speak out!--but what?

_Phillis_. I must not tell you that--

_Tirsis_.                          Dearest! why not?

_Phillis_. Perhaps you'd laugh at me?

_Tirsis_.                           Indeed I sha'nt.

_Phillis_. You wo'nt?--I'll tell you then--O no! I ca'nt!--

_Tirsis_.  Tell me at once, you plague! do'nt teaze me so!--

_Phillis_. Well then--I'd love you Tirsis--but I know ...

_Tirsis_.  Know what?

_Phillis_. You're vowed to CHLORIS--a'nt it true?

_Tirsis_.  And what of that? I'll vow myself to you.

_Phillis_. What! two at once! D'ye take me for a fool?

_Tirsis_.  "Love those that love you"--is not that the rule?

_Both_.   |Then we must love each other!--yes, we must!
          |Swear to love those that love you!--a'nt it just?

NEWPORT, R. I. August 29, 1834.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

  UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA,
  _January 20, 1835_.

MR. WHITE,--I enclose you the following lines for insertion in the
Messenger. They are copied from the note book of a dear departed
parent, whose affectionate tenderness, and sincere and ardent
piety,--are portrayed in every line, and breathe from each word, of
these simple and touching verses. I am unable, at this moment, to say
whether they are, or are not, original; but be this as it may, they
cannot fail I think to interest your readers.

FROM THE NOTE BOOK OF MY MOTHER.


  When morning, from the damps of night,
  Beams on the eye with rosy light,
  And calls thee forth with smile benign--
  Then think whose heart responds to thine,
  And still, with sympathy divine,
                              "Remember me."
  When gentle twilight, pure and calm,
  Comes leaning on reflection's arm,
  When o'er the throngs of cares and woes,
  Her veil of sober tints she throws
  And woos the spirit to repose,
                              "Remember me."
  When the first star, with crescent bright,
  Beams lonely from the arch of night,
  The moon sends forth her cheering glance,
  Then--gazing on the blue expanse,
                              "Remember me."
  When mournful sighs the hollow wind,
  And pensive thoughts enwrap the mind,
  If e'er thy heart, in sorrow's tone,
  Should sigh, because it feels alone,--
                              "Remember me."
  When passing to thy silent bower,--
  Devotion claims the sacred hour,--
  When bending o'er the holy page,
  Whose spirit calms affliction's rage,
  Directs our youth and cheers our age,
                              "Remember me."
  Oh! yet indulge the ardent claim,
  While friendship's heart the wish can frame,
  For, oh! but transient is my lay--
  And, mingling soon with kindred clay,
  My silent lip no more shall say
                              "Remember me."
  And when in deep oblivion's shade,
  My cold and mouldering form is laid,
  If near that bed thy steps should rove,
  With one short prayer, by feeling wove,
  One glance of faith, or tear of love,
                              "Remember me."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THOUGHTS ON SEEING THE EVENING STAR.


  Mild star of the soul! in the vesper glow
    Of the lingering daylight beaming--
  There's a priceless balm to the bosom of woe
    In the light from thy coronet streaming.

  From the placid arch of the evening sky,
    And the waveless ether sleeping--
  Thy spell descends to the dewy eye,
    And our woes dissolve in weeping.

  On the lightning wings of memory borne,
    We retrace the paths of our gladness,--
  And the bounding bliss of our vernal morn
    Brings smiles to lighten our sadness.

  With the airy step and the bird-like song
    Of our youth on the star-lit mountain,
  We dance to the streamlet's tuneful tongue,
    Or lave in the gelid fountain.

  We renew the joys of the wild-rose bower
    Where the burning vow was plighted;
  And again in the calm of the genial hour
    We drink the warm kiss delighted.

  In the smiles of a _Mother's_ love we stand,
    The tears of joy repressing,
  And we thrill at the touch of a _Father's_ hand,
    As we kneel to ask his blessing.

  These--these are the thoughts that thy talisman ray,
    Calls up from the years departed;
  And these are the joys that in hope's decay,
    Yield a balm to the broken-hearted.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

JEU DE MOTS.--ON A NAME.


  Says Hal, "This Miss A----'s a charming young _belle_,
  But has she a _beau_, my dear Will, can you tell?"
  "Indeed," replied Will, "it is more than I know;
  But an _archer_, I think, must of course have a _bow_."

A. Z.




MISS MARTINEAU.


Our city has lately been favored with a short visit from this
celebrated lady, who has distinguished herself so much by her
Illustrations of Political Economy, and other popular writings. She
excited, of course, no small sensation in the _monde_ here, in which
she appeared like a "star shot" _brightly_, (we cannot say "_madly_")
"from its sphere;" and she has certainly left a very favorable
impression of herself behind her. We had the pleasure ourselves to be
in her company for a short time, and have set her down in our
_souvenir_ as a woman of fine understanding; a ready talker; easy,
affable, and unaffected in her manners; and altogether more feminine
and pleasing than we had expected to find her.

We understand that Miss M. is making a sort of moral and political
_reconnoissance_ of our country, for the purpose of giving the British
public a more accurate account of our institutions, and the state of
things amongst us, than any one has yet done. In some points, we think,
she is admirably qualified for such a work; but in others, we should
apprehend, she may be a little deficient. She has good sense,
certainly; and, we suppose, a good disposition to do us justice; but we
doubt whether she will have the best opportunities for obtaining full
information upon some subjects; and, in many cases, her very sex must
shut her out from the most proper sources of intelligence. Still she
will, no doubt, give us something rather better than the scandal of
Mrs. Trollope, or the blunders of Basil Hall. So we shall look out for
her book with interest; and not the less for having seen and chatted
with her for a few moments, whilst she was here.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss M. we believe, is not at all poetical; but, it seems, she has
inspired a friend of ours, who is also a friend of the Muses, to write
the following tribute to her merit, which, with his permission, we
append.

LINES.

ON MISS MARTINEAU.


  When Martineau came, I was curious to see
  What sort of a body the damsel might be:
  A writer of sensible stories, I knew,
  On labor and wages; but was she _a blue_?
  Was she grave as a judge? Did she talk like a book?
  (A sort of man-woman,) and how did she look?
  So I waited upon her, and, venturing near,
  I whispered some words in her ivory ear;
  When she broke forth at once in her voluble chat,
  And talked away freely of this and of that,
  With such feminine ease, and such masculine sense,
  Without any portion of pride or pretence;
  (_Illustrating_ all that she said with a smile,
  That showed she could charm if she thought it worth while;)
  That I dub her, you see, "an agreeable dame,
  And worthy of Hymen, as well as of Fame."

_Richmond, Feb. 28_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPITAPH.

ON A YOUNG LADY.


  Where this bending willow weeps,
  All alone, Myrtilla sleeps:
  Softly scatter nard and myrrh,
  Lest ye should awaken her.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAM.

ON A WALTZING GIRL.


  There's a charming young girl that I know,
  And I've thought that, if I were a beau,
  I should like to engage her in chat,
  To feast on her smiles, and all that,
  And drink her sweet words as they flowed
  From her musical mouth, like an ode;
  But there's one thing that shocks me, I own,
  And drives me to let her alone:
  She has one of the worst of all faults--
  _She is fond of this new-fangled waltz_.

Q.


ANOTHER.--ON THE SAME.


  She is pretty, I agree;
  But she waltzes, sir, you see;
  And I would not give a fig
  For a _dancing whirligig_.

Q.




For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

  Oh! to forget her!--_Young_.


  Oh! give me that oblivious draught
    That comes from Lethe's silent shore!
  And when the charming cup is quaff'd,
    I may forget--and love no more.

  Forget? Forget? And can it be?
    And is there aught beneath the sun
  Can wean my constant heart from thee,
    Thou lovely and beloved one?

  Ah no! Remembrance cannot choose
    But hold thy precious image fast;
  And Time, whatever else I lose,
    Shall spare me that--till all is past.

  Long nights of sorrow may elapse
    When all the stars of joy are set;
  This heart may bend--may break perhaps--
    But never, never can forget.

MONOS.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE TRUE FOUNDATION.

  Quisquis volet perennem
    Cautus ponere sedem, &c.
              _Boet. Lib, II, Met. 4_.


  Say, wouldst thou build a lasting seat,
    Secure from Fortune's rage;
  A quiet and a safe retreat,
    To rest thy weary age?

  Set not thy house upon the sand,
    By ocean's sounding shore;
  Vain Pleasure's palace cannot stand
    When tempests rise and roar.

  Nor yet upon the mountain's side
    Command thy tower to rise:
  How oft the airy hall of Pride
    Calls lightning from the skies!

  But build upon the solid rock,
    In that sweet vale of green
  Where the Good Shepherd feeds his flock,
    And wait life's closing scene.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


        There's a tuneful river
          In Erin's Isle,
        Where the sunbeams quiver
          In silvery smile;
        Where the leaves that fall
          'Neath the autumn sky,
        Grow gem-like all,
          And never die:
  And such is the stream, by truth enlightened,
  That leaves the breast by wisdom brightened,
  Where even the joys that the storms dissever,
  Are turned to gems that glow forever.

        There's a darkling tide
          In the Indian clime,
        By whose herbless side
          There's a sulphury slime--
        To the flower that it touches,
          A scorching wave,--
        To the bird that approaches,
          A weltering grave:--
  And such are the waters of bitterness rising
  In the desart bosom of dark disguising;
  And the birds of joy, and the flowers of feeling,
  Must perish, wherever that wave is stealing.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

TO MISS H---- M----

On her talking against slavery.


  You're a foe to all slavery, Harriet, you say;
  Then why do you talk in so charming a way?
  For I too have surely a right to be free,
  And yet you are fastening your chains upon me!

_Richmond, February 28_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUST NOT.

BY A. L. B. M.D.

            "Ay they that find
  Affection's perfect trust on aught of earth,
  Have many a dream to start from."


  Trust not to aught of earthly mould;
    O! trust not woman's love--
  The warmest heart will soon grow cold,
    The purest faithless prove.

  Put not thy trust in glowing smiles,
    Or lips of rosy hue;
  O! fly thee far from woman's wiles,
    Her heart cannot be true.

  O! never trust the sunny beam
    In maidens sparkling eye,
  How bright soever it may seem,
    It glistens but to die.

  The lips that once could speak of love,
    Can breathe another strain;
  And, O! the warmest breast may prove
    The seat of proud disdain.

  Then leave the hall of love and song,
    Cast off the gaudy chain,
  Nor worship with the craven throng,
    Where truth must sue in vain.




VARIETY.


The subjoined advertisement, which appeared, we believe, in the
Lynchburg Virginian some time since, escaped our notice until recently.
We are gratified that the opinion expressed by a correspondent of the
"Messenger," in respect to the stanzas referred to, is sustained in so
_substantial_ a manner. We feel authorized to say that the name of the
author can be communicated by us if desired.

"The author of the piece which appeared in the Southern Literary
Messenger, recently, commencing--

  'I'd offer thee this heart of mine
   If I could love the less,' &c. &c.

will receive a Gold Medal, by writing to 'W. B. T.' Lynchburg,
Virginia, and giving his name, which the writer of this notice wishes
to have engraved upon it."

       *       *       *       *       *

  From Littel's Museum of Foreign Literature.

_Byron and Brougham_. It may not be generally known that the late Lord
Chancellor Brougham is the real author of the famous article in the
Edinburgh Review, on Byron's juvenile production "Hours of Idleness,"
for which Jeffrey was so severely taken to task in the satire "English
Bards and Scottish Reviewers." We have this fact from an authority on
which we can place the utmost reliance.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Scraps from the "Spirit of the Times."

A SIGNIFICANT QUESTION. Stuart once asked a painter, who had met with a
painter's difficulties, "how he got on in the world?" "Oh," said the
other, "so, so! hard work--but I shall get through." "Did you ever hear
of any body that did not?" was the rejoinder.

       *       *       *       *       *

CLERICAL ERROR. An ignorant priest celebrating mass, finding in the
rubric, "_salta per tria_," meaning "_skip three_" (that is, three
pages,) took three leaps in front of the altar, to the astonishment of
the congregation.

       *       *       *       *       *

LADY'S REPLY TO AN IMPERTINENT.

  "Louisa, you've the brightest eyes,
    They look me _through_, just like a dart."
  "Do they, Sir <DW2>?" Louisa cries;
    "If so, I'm sure _they see no heart_."

       *       *       *       *       *

A scrap from a conversation between too "literary and fashionable
characters," in the immediate vicinity of Thorburn's garden.

"Hist now and I'll sing you a _solo_."

"Well, sing it _so low_, then, that nobody can hear it."

       *       *       *       *       *

A wag of the first water closed an amusing and spirited article in the
last Knickerbocker with the following "brace" of clever items. I have
been sick of poetry since I saw the Vermont editor's quotation from
Shakspeare. Speaking of the free <DW64>s in New York, and their
depredation on society, he says, that during the fervors of a summer's
solstice, they come,

  --------"from the sweet South,
  _Stealing and giving odor_."

But more especially, since a friend of mine travestied a noble line of
Byron's by applying it--while riding along a road which commanded a
view of Weathersfield, Connecticut--to that place of onions, tears and
pretty maidens:

  "Niobe of nations--there she stands!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The following epigram from the North American Magazine, is a "Bonne
bouche."

  I'm sorry dear M----, there is a damp to your joy,
    Nor think my old strain of mythology stupid,
  When I say that your wife had a _right_ to a boy,
    For Venus is nothing without a young Cupid.

  But since Fate the boon that you wished for refuses,
    By granting three girls to your happy embraces,
  She meant, while _you_ wandered _abroad_ with the _Muses_,
    Your _wife_ should be circled at _home_ by the _Graces_.




EDITORIAL REMARKS.


We have placed the whole of the letter of our correspondent in
Shepherdstown, (_See Letters from Correspondents_,) before our readers,
and we do it the more readily, as it contains some gentle thrusts at
ourselves, which we receive in very good part.

We take leave also to offer one or two words of explanation. The writer
is totally mistaken in supposing that in order to obtain admission into
the columns of the "Messenger," it is necessary that its contributors
should be personally known to the Publisher, or his Editorial
Auxiliaries, or that the contributors themselves should be individually
known to fame. The great design of the Messenger, from its commencement
to the present moment, has been much misconceived, if such an inference
has been deemed in the slightest degree warrantable. Its principal aim
has been, to foster and encourage native genius--no matter how obscure
or humble, and without inquiring whether the writer be a friend and
acquaintance, or a stranger. Its columns are open to the fair claims of
him who inhabits the lowly cottage, as well as of the proud tenant of a
wealthier mansion. That some articles have met with a kind reception
which did not deserve it, is extremely probable; and it is not less
probable, that some have been excluded, or hitherto suspended, for lack
of proper discrimination in our council of criticism. We will endeavor
to make amends however, by sharpening our optics a little in future;
and, if we cannot please all, we will strive to give offence to none.
Our correspondent we think, however, is a little harsh in his
criticisms. It is easy to select particular words or passages from any
production, and by showing partial defects, involve the whole in
ridicule or censure.

  "A perfect judge will read each work of wit,
   With the same spirit that its author writ;
   Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find
   Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind."

We make this quotation from Pope, for the special benefit of our
Shepherdstown friend. Does he see no beauty, no merit, no poetry, in
the "Song of the Seasons?" We grant there are defects, and we
endeavored gently to point them out; but we still contend that the
writer (we have reason to believe him a very young man,) is endowed
with talents of no mean order. Who has written more quaintly and
obscurely than Ben Johnson or Cowley; or to come nearer to our own
time, than Wordsworth or Coleridge? And yet who will deny to either of
these bards the possession of genius. The remarks of our correspondent
upon "The Passage of the Beresina," are, we think, also couched in too
much severity. He seems to think there can be no good poetry without
exact metrical arrangement and harmony; but there are numerous examples
to the contrary. We do not say indeed that all his observations are
unjust, but some at least strike us as hypercritical. We take pleasure
in concurring with him however, in the high praise which he bestows
upon the two little poems which appeared in the last number, to wit:
"Beauty without Loveliness," and the lines to "Ianthe."

We hope that no one whose eye may light upon the fourth number of the
_Tripoline Sketches_, will forego the pleasure of reading it. The
energy and enterprise of our brave countryman, General Eaton, were
worthy to be recorded by such a pen. Note: We have to call the reader's
attention to a typographical transposition of _two_ words in the fourth
number of the "_Sketches_." In the first column of page 261, eleven
lines from bottom, instead of "_Mourad, joined the Turks, others sided
with the French_," read "Mourad, joined the French, others sided with
the Turks."

Impartial justice would have required the insertion of the answer to a
_Note to Blackstone's Commentaries_, even if it had not been demanded
by higher considerations. The author has won many a trophy on the field
of logic and eloquence; and even an adversary who should contend that
his weapons were pointless, would not deny that they were highly
polished, and dexterously wielded.

We are mistaken if the "_Romance of Real Life_" be not highly
commended.

We particularly invite the reader's attention to the fourth number of
the "_Letters from New England, by a Virginian_." It is replete with
interesting facts and reflections, presented in the writer's peculiarly
happy and forcible style.

The "_Extracts from my Mexican Journal_," are from a gentleman every
way qualified from his opportunities for accurate observation, to
present vivid pictures of the city of Montezuma and its environs. We
hope he will feel no reluctance to furnish us with further glances at
his journal.

Mr. Garnett's _Address before the Institute of Education at Hampden
Sidney College_, never before published, needs no commendation from us.
His ability as a writer, and his ardent zeal in the cause of education,
are well known to the public. To the graver portion of our readers,
especially such as have thought deeply upon the necessity of wise and
extended systems of instruction, and their intimate connexion with the
preservation of sound morals and rational liberty, this paper will be
particularly acceptable.

The "_Contrast_," by a lady, whose pen has heretofore charmed our
readers, will be read with interest. It is a touching illustration of
the consequences which await the love of pleasure and a life of
imprudence, as well as of the solid benefits which attend a contrary
course.

The second number of "_Hints to Students of Geology_," is a learned
epitome of the various theories with which geologists have puzzled
themselves and mankind. That absurd views have been entertained
concerning this science, does no more detract from its
importance,--than that because of the vain and visionary speculations
which were once indulged respecting astronomy, the now certain truths
of that sublime branch of knowledge should be discredited.

The "_Letters from a Sister_," which have reached their seventh in the
present number, increase in attraction. They will amply repay the
reader.

We cannot say that we coincide in every particular with the able and
eloquent author of the Review of the Orations of Messrs. Adams and
Everett on the death of La Fayette. Some of his criticisms are
undoubtedly just, but some perhaps have more _piquancy_ than the
subject deserved. We cannot concur in the sentiment that the fame of La
Fayette, or even of Washington, has placed either of those great men
superior to eulogy. The most sublime events and the most heroic actions
have generally found some poet or historian of sufficient
qualifications to record them with dignity and effect. Even the most
exalted truths which have ever dawned upon mankind,--the facts and
doctrines of revelation,--have lost none of their grandeur in the
simple narratives of plain and unlettered men. We somewhat fear too
that a few of the passages in the review may be supposed rather too
_political_ for a literary journal. We hope however that in this
respect our apprehensions are unfounded.

To the same vigorous pen however, we award all the praise which is due
for the judicious and discriminating notice of Mrs. Jameson's Book,
which appears in the present number.

We can fearlessly recommend the _poetry_ in this number,--if not
faultless, as at least superior to the carpings of illiberal and
puerile criticism. There are some little great men in the world, who
have the vanity to conceive that their taste and judgment (if they have
any) is the standard for all mankind--and if all do not exactly conform
to it, they snap and bark like the curs which infest our streets, and
annoy the by-ways. True criticism is the sentence of a liberal and
enlightened judgment, which delights as much in approving what is
worthy of praise, as in condemning what deserves censure. By such an
arbiter, and by such alone, let the specimens of native genius which we
now present to our readers be tried. Reluctant as we are to
discriminate, we cannot forbear to express the hope that the author of
"_Truth and Falsehood_," and another piece in the present
number,--will, from time to time, unfold his "Port Folio" for our
special use--and that he will delight others with some of those dulcet
strains with which he has beguiled his own toilsome and victorious
march in the severer paths of science.

The lines commencing "Oh! give me that oblivious draught," are
beautiful.




EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF CORRESPONDENTS.


FROM PENNSYLVANIA.

_Philadelphia, Feb. 17, 1835_.

I enclose five dollars for my subscription to the "Southern Messenger."
Allow me to take the occasion to express my particular gratification in
the perusal of the "Letters from New England." Although their merit as
literary compositions, as bright and graphical descriptions of the
condition and manners of an interesting people, much misunderstood, is
of a high order, they have, in my estimation, a still higher value.
They tend to remove prejudices excited by vulgar anecdotes and the
practices of vulgar men; to bring the members of the American family
better acquainted with each other; to cultivate a fraternal feeling and
mutual respect among them; and to show that there is no important
difference of character, education or habits, between gentlemen of the
same grade in the South and North. Each have some local peculiarities
in their modes of life, but none of them affect the substantial
ingredients of their personal and national character.

If your Journal should do nothing more than promote this good feeling
throughout our great Republic, it will entitle itself to the patronage
and thanks of every sound American. With great respect,

JOSEPH HOPKINSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM WASHINGTON CITY.

I am happy to tell you, that I hear your Messenger spoken well of in
many high quarters. A young lady here, who, in talent, education and
taste, has not, I think, her equal among the ladies of America,
yesterday told me that it contained better original poetry than any
other periodical she had ever seen.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA.

I cannot let this occasion pass, without expressing my high sense of
the merits of your most excellent periodical, the "Southern Literary
Messenger." It is read here with universal applause. As a Virginian, I
have used and shall continue to use my best efforts to promote its
success here.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM GEORGIA.

Permit me to compliment you, sir, on your undertaking; and deem it no
flattery when I express myself delighted with the numbers of your work
which have been thus far published. The sincere good wishes of every
man interested in the cause of "southern literature," are with you; and
if these wishes do but dictate, as I have no doubt they will do,
_sincere exertions_, success will crown your efforts, and triumph
attend your periodical. Your "Messenger" shall not depend upon the "Old
Dominion" alone for encouragement in its pioneering pilgrimage. From
the land of the palmetto and the orange-grove, shall tributes to your
budget flow. _Macte virtute_.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM ALABAMA.

I have received four numbers of the Southern Literary Messenger, and am
well pleased with the work. I have no doubt but it will be more
extensively circulated than any literary work in the United States.
There is something in every number interesting and instructive to the
youth, the middle, and the aged.

       *       *       *       *       *

Your numbers of the "Literary Messenger" were received by the last
evening's mail. My anticipations relative to its merit, though of the
most exalted nature, were more than fully gratified. That you may be
amply compensated, both in honor and lucre, for so laborious and
magnanimous an undertaking, is my most ardent wish.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM OHIO.

Permit me to add here, that I am heartily glad that the _experiment_
(for such it is,) of publishing a literary paper in the south, is
likely to succeed. I do hope that the southerners, and especially the
_young men_, have _pride_ and _patriotism_ sufficient to sustain the
Messenger, both by their funds and talent. As a native of the south I
feel an interest in its permanent success.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM TENNESSEE.

I am much pleased with the Messenger, particularly the third and fourth
numbers, and hope you will continue as you have begun, and not let it
degenerate and become filled up with the light stuff that is generally
found in the columns of the periodicals of the day.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM WESTERN VIRGINIA.

The opinion entertained of the Messenger, is, perhaps, more clearly
manifested by becoming subscribers, than in any other way; you will
therefore know that it is very favorably received in this section when
I give you the following list of five subscribers.




TO CORRESPONDENTS, CONTRIBUTORS, &c.


We have given the communication of "_Spectator_" the disposition which
he suggested, in case of its exclusion from our columns. It is due to
the writer to state, that we lament with him, the innovations upon the
ancient simplicity of Virginia manners, which are daily becoming more
popular and fashionable. We remember well the time, when an attempt to
introduce public _waltzing_ between the two sexes, would have been
sternly rebuked, by those who now not only tolerate, but encourage it.
We think, however, that his satire is too severe and pointed; and
might, possibly, do more mischief than good. We are aware that satire
is almost the only weapon by which customs violating propriety, can be
driven from society,--and especially from that circle which, _par
excellence_, is called the _first_; but then, to be effective, the
arrow must be keen and elegant; and neither barbed nor tipped with
venom. We are not sure either, that "_Spectator_" strikes at the root
of the mischief. Why should he level all his wit at the poor girls, and
suffer their fathers, and mothers, and brothers, who aid and abet the
custom complained of, to escape censure? Young females, just entering
into society, are liable to receive the strongest impressions, from
those who are most likely to share their confidence. It is one of the
privileges of the sex too, to be won by assiduous attentions; and, if
their heads are sometimes made a little giddy by adulation, it is less
imputable to them as a fault, than to those flippant flatterers who
pour the "leperous distilment" into their ears,--and as often laugh at
the fruits of their own folly and insincerity.

We beg leave to say to our worthy young friend, and frequent
correspondent, who resides somewhere in a nearly due north line from
the Metropolis, that we had pledged our pages to an answer from another
quarter to the "_Note to Blackstone's Commentaries_"--before the
receipt of his essay on the same subject. With respect to his _poetical
effusions_, we hope he will not take the remark amiss, that, whilst we
should like to gratify him, by their insertion--we fear that he has not
bestowed sufficient care upon most of them--to authorise the belief,
that our readers would also be gratified. We ask him candidly, to say,
whether he does not think that the following stanza, in the "_Lines to
Lillia_," might be considerably _improved_.

  "Take the verse and oh if joy,
   Blooms to print one votary there
   Bear the strain with thee and brightly
   Thou shalt in its joys share."

We confess that we cannot very readily perceive its claim to the rank
of poetry, nor indeed penetrate its real meaning--though it is
probable, that, owing to the peculiar character of the hand writing,
the language of the writer may not be truly represented.

We have a number of favors on hand which we shall attend to as speedily
as possible. Among those whose exclusion from the present number we
particularly regret, is the article on the _fine arts_.

We have received the poetical communications of a writer who chooses,
for some reason or other, to sign himself "_Fra Diavolo_;" but too late
for our present number. We shall publish them in our next, according to
his wish, "as poetry" (and very fine poetry it is,) but with some small
omissions which we _must_ make, not so much for the sake of our
"orthodoxy," as for that of common decency, which the lines excluded
would, in our judgment, grossly offend. Such things indeed, may be only
"dramatic," and quite in character for a "Lover Fiend;" but we do not
choose, for our part, to deal with one of his cloth, in any form or
shape whatever. We have, in fact, no sort of taste for German
"_diablerie_," which, in our judgment, sins against good taste, as well
as against good morals. In saying this, however, we must not be
understood to insinuate any thing against the character of our
"unknown" correspondent himself, who, for aught we know, may be the
very pink of virtue and decorum. We only speak of his pieces "as
poetry," and not as articles of his creed, which we should be sorry to
suppose them. Indeed it is sufficiently apparent to us that, in the
worst parts of his verses, he is only affecting something that is
foreign to himself, but which he happens to think very fine; and we
regret that he should thus fancy to imitate such vicious models as
Byron, Shelly, and other gentlemen of "the Satanic school," as it has
been called, who, we think, have had their day. It is a pity, in truth,
that he should do so; for he has evidently a fine vein of his own, and,
we are confident, would do better if he would only dare to be a little
more original. Let him reform his poetry, then, (we do not say
himself,) and we will give him "a fair page," at any time, for the
effusions of his genius, which, we can truly assure him, we shall
always be happy to receive, and to display.

We thank our correspondent D. for the Parody of the Lines on the Death
of Sir John Moore, which he has so obligingly sent us; and which, we
think, is worthy of all the praise he gives it--for the _poetry_. We
believe, however, that we have seen it in print more than once already;
and we must reserve our columns, as far as possible, for original
matter. We are of opinion, moreover, (though in this we may be
singular,) that it would not be exactly right, or in good taste, to
_profane_, as it were, one of the very finest odes in our language, by
associating it in our remembrance, with a burlesque imitation of it,
which might rather injure its beauty in our minds. Indeed we hate all
parodies; or, at least, all such as cast an air of ridicule over their
originals; because they give us a lower and baser pleasure, for one of
a higher and purer strain. So we hope our friend D. will excuse us for
shutting his article out, (good as it is in its way,) and send us
something better for it, from his own pen.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM SHEPHERDSTOWN, JEFFERSON COUNTY, VA.

As you do not _know_ me, I take it for granted that this communication
will not be honored with a place in the "Messenger;" for I have
discovered by your "editorial remarks," that the authors of almost all
the pieces which adorn the columns of that work, are persons _already_
distinguished in the literary world, (as, for instance, "Death among
the Trees," "the production of a distinguished female writer already
known to fame,") or else they are individuals with whom you have a
personal acquaintance,--as the author of "Lines on the billet of an
early friend," whom you "know as a gentleman of fine taste and varied
endowments," &c. &c. Now all this is very well, and no one can object
to it, so long as the productions of those persons are really worthy of
your notice, or of a place in the Messenger. And as the pieces which I
have just quoted are very beautiful, I can make no objections to
_them_. But how the authors of some of the poetical effusions which
grace the columns of your fifth number, have managed to get into your
good graces, is to me a mystery, unless it was through a personal
acquaintance with yourself, and your reluctance to wound their feelings
by refusing to publish their pieces, for I know that you have too much
taste to have published them through choice. I do not pretend to say
that the poetical contributions for the Messenger are, generally
speaking, indifferent; on the contrary, I believe it contains more
truly excellent original poetry, than any periodical I have ever seen.
Even the fifth number is not entirely destitute of beauty in this line.
It contains several very talented and beautiful pieces of original
poetry; among which, the piece headed "Beauty without Loveliness,"
stands pre-eminent. I have seldom met with a more chaste and beautiful
piece of composition than that. In my opinion, it is surpassed by
nothing that has ever appeared in the Messenger, unless it be the piece
to "Ianthe," in the fourth number, beginning--"Think of me," &c. and
signed "Fergus." You have not thought either of those pieces worth
noticing in your "_remarks_;" but I am confident that if you will read
them again, you will agree with me in thinking that they are surpassed
by nothing that the Messenger has ever contained.

But while I admire these and many other beautiful _gems_, I cannot but
marvel why you should crowd your columns with such trash as most of the
pieces contained in your fifth number. For example, the "Song of the
Seasons," by "_Zarry Zyle_," the "youth of _unquestionable talent_,
perception," &c. He certainly must be a youth of _great perception_,
and judges every one by himself, or else he never would have inflicted
upon the public the _study_ of his "_song_." I perfectly agree with you
in thinking it advisable for him to change his _style_, and write less
obscurely; for as we are not all youths of _his perception_, it is
quite difficult for us

  "To comprehend, the mystery of what he means."

If, instead of talking about "amethystine beams," "bugle-bees," (a new
species I presume, as I never heard of them before; perhaps Zarry meant
"bumble" bee,) "old summer's _conck_," robins with _golden_ breasts,
(they _used_ to be _red_,) and _gauze_ wings, and "_soughing_ blasts,"
&c. &c. he would give us a little more _common sense_ and a little
better measure in his next, we will like it better. But if Mr. Zyle's
song were the only objectionable piece contained in the fifth
number,--or if it were the _worst_ that it contained, we might "grin
and bear it." But there are many others even more dull and common than
this. I will name but one more--"The Passage of the Beresina." Now I
appeal to you as a man of candor and good taste, to know if there is
any thing in this effusion which should entitle it to a place in the
Messenger? Has it one single attribute of true poetry? If it has I
beseech you to point it out in your next number, for I confess _I_
cannot discover _one_. No, it has not even _measure_. I beg you to take
the trouble to read it over again, for I am certain you never gave it a
very careful perusal, or you never would have printed it; your taste is
too good. Read it once more, and if you can discover any thing like
_poetry_, or even like common sense in the following lines, I hope you
will let us know what it is in your next:

  "Thousands lie here; kindred and aliens in race,
   They are rigid and fix'd in _death's cold embrace_;
   They _clench_ and they _cling_ in the last dying grasp,
   And the living, the dead, reluctantly clasp:
   Or, fearing a friend in his last cold embrace,
   They spurn him beneath to his dark dreary place."

Now I say if you can discover any thing like _poetry_ in these lines,
or can tell us how _thousands_ who are "rigid and fixed in _death's_
cold embrace," can "_clench_ and _cling_," or "_spurn_" a friend to his
"dark dreary place," you will very much oblige more than one of your
subscribers. I could make you many other quotations from the same
piece, equally as obscure as the above. As--

  "With unearthliest cries, grim phantasied shapes
   Brood o'er the senses ere the spirit escapes;
   On the wings of the _wind_ how swift speeds the blast,
   With pinions all viewless it fleets as the past;--
   Oh say, does it bear the spirits that have fled,
   In the last bitter _strife_, ere the _dying_ be _dead_?"

I should presume not, as it would be rather a difficult matter for the
spirit to _have fled before_ the "dying be dead." Now the idea of the
"_blast's_ speeding on the _wings_ of the _wind_," is certainly
_original_; but not satisfied with _this_, the author has also hoisted
death upon the same wings. I wonder what the _wind_ did in the
meantime? Took it _a-foot_, I s'pose; or perhaps it borrowed death's
wings for a few moments.

The two last lines of this piece would be very pretty, if it did not
unfortunately happen to be impossible for the "smile of Hope" to linger
upon the "face of the dead" _before_ "the spirit be fled." Dead, fled,
and dread, seem to be favorite rhymes with this author.

Your correspondent from "Eastern Virginia," has given you some
excellent advice: I hope you will follow it _next time_.

You say, those who dislike the contents of the Messenger, should write
better pieces themselves. I do not exactly agree with you. We pay for
reading the paper, and are entitled to the _best_ pieces that _are_
written for it, and not merely those of your personal friends and
acquaintances. I am one of your subscribers, and most sincere well
wisher.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol.
I., No. 6, February, 1835, by Various

*** 