The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 6, February, 1835
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Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. I., No. 6, February, 1835

Author: Various

Editor: James E. Heath

Release date: March 28, 2017 [eBook #54451]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Ron Swanson

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER, VOL. I., NO. 6, FEBRUARY, 1835 ***

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.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I, NUMBER 6

VIRGINIA HISTORICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY

VIRGINIA GAZETTEER: by Mr. Joseph Martin

SONNET—THE SEA: by A. L. B. M.D.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY and Present Condition of Tripoli, with some accounts of the other Barbary States (No. IV): by R. G.

REMARKS ON A NOTE TO BLACKSTONE'S COMMENTARIES, VOL. I, PAGE 423: by a Virginian

THE ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE

EXTRACT FROM A LADY'S ALBUM

THE PRAYER: by Octavian

SELECTIONS FROM MY PORT FOLIO: by P. H.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.—NO. 4.: by a Virginian

EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL

ARTICLES EXTRACTED FROM THE "AMERICAN ANNALS OF EDUCATION"
HEINROTH ON THE EDUCATION OF INFANCY
EFFECTS OF MATERNAL INDULGENCE

AN ADDRESS ON THE SUBJECT OF LITERARY ASSOCIATIONS TO PROMOTE EDUCATION: by James M. Garnett

THE CONTRAST: OR, A FASHIONABLE AND AN UNFASHIONABLE NEW ENGLAND WIFE: by S. H.

HINTS TO STUDENTS OF GEOLOGY.—NO. II: by Peter A. Browne, Esq.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER

ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES
AN ORATION on the Life and Character of Gilbert Motier de Lafayette: by John Quincy Adams
EULOGY on La Fayette: by Edward Everett
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
CALAVAR; or The Knight of the Conquest: a Romance of Mexico.

JUDGE BLACKSTONE—A Poet.
THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE: by Sir Wm. Blackstone

LINES: submitted by H. E. J.

THE EXILE

THE MINIATURE: by Geo. P. Morris

EPIGRAM. THE MISTAKE CORRECTED

THE SPIDER: by Eliza

DIALOUGE, From the Italian of Francisco da Lemene: by R. H. Wilde

FROM THE NOTE BOOK OF MY MOTHER

THOUGHTS ON SEEING THE EVENING STAR

JEU DE MOTS.—ON A NAME: by A. Z.

MISS MARTINEAU
LINES. ON MISS MARTINEAU

EPITAPH. ON A YOUNG LADY

EPIGRAM. ON A WALTZING GIRL: by Q.
ANOTHER.—ON THE SAME: by Q.

LINES: by Monos

THE TRUE FOUNDATION

TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD

LINES TO MISS H—— M——On her talking against slavery

TRUST NOT: by A L. B. M.D.

VARIETY

EDITORIAL REMARKS

EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF CORRESPONDENTS

TO CORRESPONDENTS, CONTRIBUTORS, &C.

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

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.

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,—negro 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 colored persons, | 607
| 5,737

By the census of 1830, the free whites amounted to

| 7,755
Slaves, | 6,349
Free colored, | 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.

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 Papists, 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.

1

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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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."

4 Chapoltepec signifies the mountain of grasshoppers; from Chapolin, a grasshopper, and tepetl, mountain.

5 Vol. 2, Book 3, c. 8.

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.

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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

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 unbelief 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

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 colored 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

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.

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

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 fops 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

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 Fop?" 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 negroes 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.

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Table of Contents

- SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

- EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE

- THE FINE ARTS.

- CONTENTS OF VOLUME I, NUMBER 6

- SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

- VIRGINIA HISTORICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY.

- VIRGINIA GAZETTEER.

- SONNET—THE SEA.

- SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

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

- THE ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE.

- EXTRACT FROM A LADY'S ALBUM.

- THE PRAYER.

- SELECTIONS FROM MY PORT FOLIO.

- LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.—NO. 4.

- EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

- HEINROTH ON THE EDUCATION OF INFANCY.

- EFFECTS OF MATERNAL INDULGENCE.

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

- THE CONTRAST:

- HINTS TO STUDENTS OF GEOLOGY.

- LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

- ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.

- JUDGE BLACKSTONE—A Poet.

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- THOUGHTS ON SEEING THE EVENING STAR.

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