Chapter C: B. S (1)

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE CYCLOPEAN TOWERS, IN AUGUSTA COUNTY, VA.

On a fine morning in September 1834, a party of which the writer was one, consisting for the most part of gentlemen who had met together in the town of Staunton from various sections of the Union, resolved on a visit to certain remarkable NATURAL STRUCTURES which lay in the neighborhood of the Augusta Springs, and about twenty miles distant from the place of their departure.

After passing over a hilly and picturesque country, the road opened upon a fertile valley, which though in places narrow, was of considerable length,--and when seen from an elevated position, appeared like the bed of an ancient lake, or as it really is, the alluvial border of a flowing stream. The strata of limestone hills, followed their usual order of parallel lines to the great mountains of our continent, as though a strong current had once swept through this magnificent valley,--forming in its course islands and promontories,--which are now discoverable in numerous short hills and rocky bluffs, that are either naked and barren, or covered with a growth of stately trees. It was at such a projection, that we first descried the gray summits of what seemed a ruinous castle,--resembling those which were raised in feudal times to guard the passes of the Rhine, or like such as are still seen in mouldering majesty on many an Alpine rock. These summits or towers, of which there are seven, lifted their heads above the lofty elms, like so many antique chimnies in the midst of a grove; but, on approaching them nearer, our pleasure was greatly increased, to find them rise almost perpendicularly from the bed of a small stream, which winding around their base, serves as a natural moat to a building not made with mortal hands. The southern front of this colossal pile, presents a wall of about sixty feet elevation, terminating in three towers of irregular height, and perforated at its base by a cavern,--which, by an apt association, was denominated "_Vulcan's Forge_." The tower on the extreme right, was unanimously called "_Cocke's Tower_"--in honor of one of our party who ascended it. On the left, are two other isolated towers,--of which the centre or smaller one was distinguished as the "_Hymenial Altar_,"--a name which had its origin partly in a _jeu d'esprit_, and partly on account of a shady bower in its rear, which seemed an appropriate shade to mantle maiden's blushes. The furthest and tallest, received the title of the "_Tower of Babel_." This is also the most perpendicular of all these rocky structures; an archway passes through it, by which there is an easy ascent to the remaining two, which stand on the acclivity of the hill,--and though of less altitude, are not of inferior beauty to the rest. One of them, which is of a round form, and flat at the top, and on that account received the appellation of the "_Table Rock_"--affords from its summit a splendid view of the whole; the other, and last of the five, we distinguished as "_Shelton's Rock_"--from one of our party.

These rocks in their formation resemble the palisades on the Hudson river--but are more regular in their strata,--which appear to have been arranged in huge masses of perfect workmanship--with projections like cornices of Gothic architecture, in a state of dilapidation. Those who are acquainted with the structure of the Cyclopean walls of the ancients, would be struck with the resemblance,--which suggested the name at the head of this article.

We pause to inquire why these primeval fragments of the world have remained so long unnoticed? Why is it that men are so easily awakened to the liveliest interest in distant objects, and yet neglect those which are nearer and more accessible? "A prophet" it hath been said on high authority, "hath honor save in his own country,"--and to that strange propensity of the mind to contemn whatever is familiar, must be attributed the neglect of many of the richest treasures at our own door, which frequently impart both wealth and distinction to foreign enterprise. For many years these towers have been known in the surrounding country, by the homely appellation of "THE CHIMNEYS,"--but no one has ever stopped to examine them, or to inquire how nature formed so curious a pile in such a spot. Imagination may indeed conceive that this noble structure was once the _Scylla_ of a narrow strait connecting the waters of the north and the south, until their accumulated pressing burst through the blue ridge at Harper's Ferry, and left in their subsidence these towers, as a perpetual memorial of their former dominion.

G. C.

[We do not remember where or when the following _Sonnet to Lord Byron_ was published. All we know is that it has been in print before, and has been ascribed to the pen of the Hon. R. H. Wilde, of Georgia.]

ORIGINAL SONNET TO LORD BYRON.

Byron! 'twas thine alone on eagle's pinions,
In solitary strength and grandeur soaring,
To dazzle and delight all eyes, out-pouring
The electric blaze on tyrants and their minions;
Earth, sea and air, and Powers and Dominions,
Nature--man--time--the universe exploring,
And from the wreck of worlds, thrones, creeds, opinions,
Thought, beauty, eloquence, and wisdom storing.
O! how I love and envy thee thy glory!
To every age and clime alike belonging;
Linked by all tongues with every nation's story,
Thou TACITUS of song!--whose echoes thronging
O'er the Atlantic, fill the mountains hoary
And forests with a name which thus I'm wronging.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MUSINGS III--_By the Author of Vyvyan_.

JAMESTOWN.

Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone
Til I had bodied forth the heated mind
Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind.
_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, _Canto_ iv. _Stanza_ civ.

Tawnor nehiegh Powhatan.
_Salvage dialect_, _apud Capt. Smith_.

I stand on hallowed ground--the sacred sod
Which once an ill-starred people bravely trod
In native freedom, ere the wanderer crost
The broad Atlantic waters and love lost
The fair reward of labor, ill repaid
By base desertion--country--friends betrayed--
Misery and exile from a native land,
Ending in death upon a foreign strand.

* * * * *

My spirit falls into a deeper mood
And thought goes darkly forth to gather food
For bitter contemplation;--for I trace
Some record of the spoilers of that race
Most gallant, wheresoe'er I turn mine eyes,--
While of the exiled--neath their native skies
Is scarce a token left--save what belongs
To a sad history of unnumbered wrongs.
Methinks the very sun's departing rays
With melancholy meaning seem to gaze
Upon the hostile monuments of yore,--
Yon ruined arch with ivy overgrown--
Those shattered tombs of moss-discolored stone--
That slowly moulder by the silent shore.

* * * * *

Might I the Genius of Old Time invoke,
This were the hour--the place--where many an oak
Tosses its arms and points to ancient graves
Beside the aisleless tower, which o'er the waves
Shall no more send its voice upon the air,
To call to matin or to vesper prayer.
Alone, it stands, like some grim sentinel
And in stern silence bids the world farewell!

* * * * *

Lift we the veil of vanished centuries--
Beneath the shade and shelter of these trees
The careless Indian smoked his calumet--
(The CHRISTIAN had not crost the ocean yet)--
Without a thought to mar his musing, save
To strand his light canoe beyond the wave
Or fasten it with sedgy rope secure,
Lest the next tide should steal it from the shore.
But lo! one evening as he lay beside
The margin where his native waters glide,
A sight of wonder on his vision broke;
And the deep voice of flame in thunder spoke
The doom of wo to him and all his race.
Yet fear, which might have blanched a paler face,
Quenched not the flashings of his dauntless eye,
Nor for an instant quelled that bearing high
Which best became the warrior of the wild--
The Hunter bold--the Forests' lordly child!
Ay! tho' the evil spirit of his sky,
For such well might his inexperienced eye
Have deemed it, lurked within the snow-white mist
That brooded o'er the silent river's breast,
And spoke in accents of the dark storm-cloud,
From out the folding of its gleaming shroud,
He stood prepared to meet the worst--like one
Who hath no fear of aught beneath the sun.
Methinks I see him watching by the shore,
With strained eye, intently gazing o'er
The river's course. Well may he clasp his brow
In doubt and wonder--is he dreaming now?--
The cloud seems gathering up its folds of snow,
And straight spars glitter in the sunset glow,
Far loftier than the loftiest pine that rears
Its stately crest above its tall compeers:
Beneath--a huge dark mass is seen to glide
With stealthy motion o'er the heaving tide,
Crowded with moving forms of human mould,
But of an aspect well might daunt the bold,
Gazing the first time on that pallid crew,
So foreign and so ghastly in their hue!
But hark!--the distant shout that wildly pours
Its thousand echoes on the strand, assures--
Swift to the Chiefs he speeds--the wise--the bold
In council meet--his tale is briefly told;
Then far and near they gathered in their might
And 'gainst the invader battled for their right,
As valiant men should for the altars reared
By their forefathers and the homes endeared
By thousand ties and recollections past
To which the heart clings warmly to the last.
But not to lengthen out a thrice told tale--
The Red Man never yielded to the Pale,
Though forced by foreign fire to wander far,
Homeless and houseless, neath the evening star.
Slowly and sad, the western hills they climb,
Yet find no rest beyond for wearied limb
And aching heart--no single spot of earth,
Of all the wide spread land that gave them birth,
Is theirs. They gaze upon the setting sun
And feel their course like his must soon be run--
They hear their requiem in the deepening roar
Of waves that dash upon the distant shore--
But they must wander on unceasingly
So long as space remains for footing free,
Til hemmed at last twixt ocean and the foe
They turn to bay _once more_ and perish so.

* * * * *

Oh! little dreamed the tender hearted maid,
By love and her own gentleness betrayed,
That death and desolation's fellest wrath
So surely followed--in the very path
Of good intent--to whelm her race with woes
She would have warded even from her foes.
Where yonder temporary structure frail[1]
Extends across the strait its slender rail,
The shallow waves at flood scarce overflow
The sandy bar the ebb reveals below--
'Twas there the royal daughter crost to save
The pilgrim strangers from an early grave.
Who that had seen her on that fatal night,
Swift gliding, like a startled water sprite,
To that lone Island-Fort where calmly slept
The dreaming foe, in fancied safety wrapt--
Who could have aimed at such a breast the shaft?
Tho' well apprised no other means were left
To baffle treason--not as such designed
In the simplicity of her guileless mind.
Had she been only destined to inherit
A portion of that fierce determined spirit
And deep prophetic hate--like vestal fire
Nursed in the bosom of her royal sire,
A nation's doom had not been rashly sealed
By mercy thus so erringly revealed--
But it is done--and lo! the love which hurled
An ancient race to ruin--GAINED A WORLD!!

[Footnote 1: Alluding to the new bridge erected by Collier Minge, Esq. affording passage from the main land to the island, where a wharf has been built for the accommodation of steamboat travellers.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FATED CITY.

'Twas evening, and the sinking sun
Streamed brightly in the sky,
And cast his farewell beams abroad,
Like smiles of an approving god,
O'er plain, and mountain high--
O'er waving fields of floating gold
That, round his gorgeous pyre, were rolled,
And o'er the city's glistening spires,
That flashed beneath his blazing fires.

There lay that city;--wealth and pride
Had built their temples there,
And swift-winged commerce there had brought,
From many a clime, her trophies caught:--
From Indian isles afar,
The pearl, the beryl and the gem;--
But treasures, far outvieing them,
Were with that city's wealth combined--
The priceless treasures of the mind!

The sun went down, and night came o'er
That city's winding walls;
The white moon rose along the sky,
And looked down calm, and silently,
Upon the shouting halls,
Where music rang, and laughter went,
From lip to lip, in merriment;--
Where all was careless, heedless, light,
Besporting on that festal night!

An hour passed on;--what cry was that,
Which thrilled that city so?
What shrieks are those,--what means yon cloud
That wraps the temple, like a shroud,
And fills the breast with wo?--
What mean yon flames, that blazing, run
Along that mountain dark and dun?--
Why quakes the land,--why heaves the sea--
Why peal the heavens dreadfully?

Night left the earth;--the sun arose,
As wont, above the sky,
And looked,--not on that city bright,
Which he had left before the night,
With turrets gleaming high;
But on a black and blasted waste,
Dread desolation's hand had traced,--
Upon a flood of _lava_, where
Once proudly stood POMPEII fair!

A. B. M.

_Tuscaloosa, Alabama_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HYMN TO THE STARS.

BY D. MARTIN, _of Mobile_.

Ye burning blazonry of God!
Ye glittering lights that never die!
That pace the realms by seraphs trod!
And hold untiring watch on high!
And circling heaven's eternal king,
Ye dwell--His glorious fashioning!

Creation saw your timeless birth,
When from your own clear sapphire skies,
Ye looked upon the virent earth,--
An everlasting paradise!--
And seemed to mock with silent gaze,
Nature's green garb and tuneless lays!

Since then ye've read the world's black page,
And seen a stream sublime,
Roll its dark waters o'er an age
Of countless years of time!--
In whose deep, dark, unletter'd caves,
Earth hides her mighty as in graves!

Life's wasting--but ye still shine on,
And seem to me to be,
The lights upon the horizon
Of eternity's black sea!--
Pointing to the sun-lit far off west,
Where all immortal spirits rest!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO * * * * *.

Believe not that my heart is cold,
And feels not friendship's sacred fire,
If I sometimes myself withhold,
And from thy festive scenes retire.

Oh, no! I love the social bower
Where friendship smiles with joyous mirth,
And yet to me there is an hour
More dear than all those scenes on earth.

'Tis when in pensive mood, the mind,
Retires within itself to muse,
And some bright dream, long since resigned,
With sad though pleasing thought reviews;

Some golden dream of early years,
When all the heart was warm and true;
And life, unshaded yet with cares,
Displayed its best and brightest hue.

'Twas then I dreamed of faithful love,
That would o'er time and change prevail--
Food, fairy scenes of pleasure wove--
Bright, verdant spots in life's dark vale.

But time advanced, and at one sweep
My air-built castles tore away;
And, like a wreck upon the deep,
My shattered hopes and prospects lay.

Upon life's ocean still I'm tossed;
And tho' the skies are sometimes bright,
Yet on the waves again I'm lost,
Midst howling storms and pitchy night.

Believe not then my heart is cold,
And feels not friendship's sacred fire,
If I sometimes myself withhold,
And from thy festive scenes retire.

L.

_Pittsylvania_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE GRAVE SEEKERS.

BY R. S. F.

Come part the crowd, and open a way,
For those who are seeking the grave;
Some are pressing on in the light of day,
Some by the moon's obscurer ray,
Some on land and some on the wave.

Now come with me to the festive hall,
Where in mirth they dance and sing,
Till echo is answered by echo's call,
As the merry peals ring from one and all;
To the grave they swiftly wing.

Again with me, come haste away
Where the theatre shines so bright,
For there the lamps, with their peerless ray,
Have darkness changed into brighter day.
They gaze on the stage with delight!

Come follow this crowd which moves as the wave
On the gently ebbing sea;
With the scenes of the night their bosoms heave,
But little they think the next is the grave,
Not of the stage--but eternity.

See, reckless youth--maturer age
Alike are far from heaven;
In festive scenes their time engage--
They idly sport--they madly rage--
While to the grave they are driven.

Ye may trace their path as ye move along
The busy crowds of care;
In the house of God--in the house of song--
In distant isles--the waves among,
To the grave they must all repair.

So part the crowd, and open a way,
For those who are seeking the grave;
Some are pressing on in the light of day,
Some by the moon's obscurer ray,
Some on land and some on the wave.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A YOUNG CHILD.

BY D. MARTIN, _of Mobile_.

Thou hast a clear, unsullied brow,
A bright and dreaming eye,--
And a spirit free and chainless,
As cherubs in yon sky!

The meteor lights of intellect,
Glance lightly on thee now,
And play like fairy revellers,
Upon thy parian brow!

Well, be it so--and may thy life
Be like a summer stream,
That sparkles into gladness,
Beneath the sun's bright beam.

May thy brow ne'er wear the coloring
Of passion's stern commotion,--
Which darkens many a God-like one,
While on life's stormy ocean!

May the sunny hours of childhood
Be the last to pass away,--
And the setting sun of life's dark night,
Dawn on a brighter day!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CUPID'S SPORT.

"Am I in fairy land?--or tell me, pray,
To what love lighted bower I've found my way?
Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled
In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild."

Some where in Virginia, and in a certain year,--but I beg you will not inquire when or where, for you will break the thread of my discourse, and I shall be compelled, like corporal Trim when he was rehearsing the Lord's prayer before my dear uncle Toby, to begin at the beginning, at every interruption,--there lived a young man, in a certain town--

Now my dear reader, do you suppose I intend telling you a story without a single name, date or place in it? If you do, I am afraid you would see me at Kamschatka, or in Simms' hole, before you would make up your mind to travel one inch with me, or listen to one syllable.

Well, then, in a _certain_ place, and at a _certain_ time, as young _Timothy_ was sitting in the cool evening's shade, musing o'er the events that human life befall, and reflecting upon the many ups and downs he must necessarily encounter during the residue of his life, that _old_ heathen god, who, paradoxical as it may appear, is still as _young_ as he was at the day of his birth, I mean sly Cupid, who was, is, and ever will be a boy to all eternity, happened to have been snugly perched upon a branch of the very tree under which our friend was reclining, and the little urchin sat pluming his variegated wings, and feeling the points of his keen feathery arrows, preparing for his evening's sport.

Poor Tim! how little did he dream he was the subject the young god had selected for as merry a frolic as ever fortune smiled upon in her merriest mood. Tim was in his twentieth year,--"a leal light heart was in his breast," he knew not the cares and anxieties of the world, nor had he yet encountered fortune's frowns; he had enjoyed a full portion of her smiles and blandishments, and his life had flitted along like a gay summer's dream. He had yet to learn that all his castles were but air built and fanciful, and it was necessary he should plod a little upon his mother earth. Tim was none of your dashing thorough-going bloods, who soar aloft with the eagles of the day, ever and anon to pounce upon some harmless pigeon,--nor was he one of your gig and tandem boys,--flourish and dash,--tinsel and paint,--who whirl about for a season, and are all the go while the chink or the credit lasts, but who, finally whirl off to jail, or into obscurity and insignificance, nobody knows where, and nobody cares when. He was a mild, pleasant, merry-making fellow. As for his person,--my dear miss, you must excuse me; I know from your looks, you are curious to know whether he had black hair and black eyes,--or light hair and blue eyes,--or red hair and grey eyes,--but, really, I can't tell you,--certain it is, he had eyes and a nose, and

"When he happened to grin,
His mouth stood across
'Twixt his nose and his chin."

There he lay, all defenceless, on his right side, (I like to be particular,) with his clean white roundabout, and his waistcoat unbuttoned, both thrown carelessly over his left arm; there lay his heart, gently swelling and subsiding and he unconscious of its undulating flow--while Cupid--I was about to say, while Cupid's keen eyes were penetrating its inmost recesses, and eyeing it as a hawk some sunny perch in a limpid stream,--but, alas for Cupid--the ancients have interdicted the use of his eyes; nevertheless, on the present occasion, it is necessary for my purposes that Cupid should, at least, take the bandage from off his eyes, and the ancients to the contrary notwithstanding, I do maintain that the sly god has as beautiful a pair of eyes as ever were seen,--yes, and he is able to change them at his pleasure. At one time, he appears with the mildest, softest, kindest, clearest, heavenly blue eyes;--at another, with the keenest, blazing, and yet the blackest eyes that ever flashed wit, and eloquence, and expressing all the passions that the heart ever darts through its open portals. All eyes are his, of every hue and every form,--and at this moment, he was using as playful and as devilish a pair, as ever bewitched and enchanted a trembling maiden. He sat quietly selecting the most mortal parts of that defenceless heart, with bow well strung, and barbed arrows, and ever and anon, he placed the winged messenger to the string and twanged his silver bow. Cupid sometimes but tips his arrows' point with a poison, as rapid in its action and as efficacious as the most powerful prussic acid, and wo to the youth or the maid who feels the deadly pang; at other times, he slightly dips the barb, and leaves it to time and circumstances to develop its potent influence. On the present occasion, having smitten poor Tim with a double portion, away he flew, to practise his wiles on other subjects. Gentle reader, you are now introduced to our young friend Tim,--you have seen him in a condition worse than that of Daniel in the lions' den, and whether he is delivered or not your patience will enable you to discover. Would that I could have interposed a shield to protect the youth, but what the fates decree no mortal can prevent,--and you know, what is to be, happens for the best.

Have you ever seen a lady setting her cap for a beau? This is an every day occurrence, and yet how difficult to explain, though ever so easy to perform. It is one of those things that delicate fingers alone can accomplish or pourtray. For my part, I have seen, and heard, and thought, and talked much and often of these caps, that, nine times in ten, are no caps at all, and yet the exact method of setting them is not to be described. Were I to describe the lady's habiliments, you would have not the least idea how her cap was set,--were I to dwell upon the peculiar cut of the cap itself,--its points or its quillings, its trimmings or its laces, and how it was placed, whether on the tip of the head, or down upon the ears, or a little to one side, or square,--or round,--it matters not, you would still be wide of the mark; but yet, when the "cap is set," there is no mistake in the matter.

Good reader, you are not acquainted with my little Mary. She had as happy a knack of setting a cap, as ever a lass had since the days of mother Eve, and on this very evening, she will appear with it set to such advantage, that all the family servants, as she passes them, will utter an involuntary "umph--u--u!"--Can you conceive the peculiar sound here vainly attempted to be embodied--for of all utterable exclamations it is the most exhilirating to a miss in her teens. If you cannot:--know, that it signifies, "I tell you what, young massa, you better steer clear." Little Molly is not the greatest beauty of the age, nor yet the loveliest flower that ever bloomed, but she was pretty enough to make Cupid's little arrows rankle in Tim's susceptible heart, and fate would have it, that they should accidentally meet, some how or other, wherever they went. She had a peculiar way of her own, of fixing on a bonnet,--a little gipsy bonnet,--down the sides of which, hung her long flaxen ringlets, and where she parted her hair on her forehead, there was carelessly pinned a half blooming moss rose, behind which sat Cupid laughing in his sleeve. I say carelessly pinned, because it seemed as though it mattered not whether 'twere there or not, and yet, more care had been used in giving it its particular position, than all the rest of her dress,--and perhaps, after all, this was "setting her cap." Tim had never seen little Molly look half so sweet before, and when his eyes and her's would meet, there was a sensation created that thrilled through his every fibre; to him, that rose bud seemed to be instinct with life and animation, and Cupid's laughing eyes and smiling face made every leaf "a heart quake." Tim had been thought to be brave, his comrades always looked up to him as a leader in daring enterprizes. Men have been known to walk up to the cannon's mouth when the gunner stood with the lighted match within a few inches of the powder, but to storm a rose bud, manned by Cupid, on so polished a brow, required a dare-devil spirit that human nature shrunk from,--and though Tim would have given the world to have touched that bud, he could not have advanced his finger an inch towards it by any possibility. This first symptom of the operation of Cupid's arrows but few have escaped. You would give the world to approach the loved object, and yet a touch would create a shock as violent as that from a Leyden jar, well charged with the electric fluid. Little Molly's was what would be termed a laughing face, her clear blue eyes were lighted up by a mind vivid and playful; cheerfulness and contentment were conspicuous on her brow,--but yet she was one of your real mischievous little imps, who knew a thing or two, and was up to all kinds of tricks,--in truth, she used to say of herself that she had a little devil in her;--now don't be alarmed my good reader; I don't mean the evil spirit who roams about, seeking whom to devour--"that tailed, horned, heartless chiel,--the very deil,"--but, she had a way of practising so many little artful, innocently wicked things, and they were done in so artless a manner, that though you would think from their effects his satanic majesty alone was the guilty perpetrator, yet you could not help loving his highness the more for his misdeeds. Of all things in the world, she seemed to derive most pleasure from practising her playfulness on friend Tim, and at every successive effort, Tim would only exclaim, "surely the devil's in the girl! what in the devil does she mean?" Tim had better have suffered the devil to go about his business--but no, he kept inquiring what in the devil the girl meant, till Cupid had him, head and ears, neck and shoulders, heart and soul, body and life, as safe a prisoner as ever was incarcerated in a dungeon's darkness. Little Molly was perfectly innocent of any intention to entrap our friend; nothing was further from her thoughts; she only intended at the outset to gratify her disposition for fun, and she knew no more the state of her own heart than if she had been deprived of that throbbing, thumping, turbulent member; but when kindred hearts often sport together, and kindred eyes often meet with kindred glances, kindred throbs will beat, awakening kindred feelings, which some little flaxen haired, clear, blue eyed lassies find truly difficult to obliterate.

Reader, dost thou expect me to give thee in black and white my hero's courtship? Of all the things in the world, the most tame and insipid are lovers' courtships,--it may be the most interesting, animating, soul-stirring, thrilling courtship that ever mortal breathed, but canst thou enter into the feelings and go along with the heart in its gentle outpourings? 'Tis not words, sentences, nor ideas, clothed in the dress of fancy, or robed in imagination's best attire. 'Tis the look, the touch, the action, that constitutes the universal language of love none can misunderstand.

I must take thee my good friend, (for we must be friends who are travelling so cosily together,) and place thine eye at a key hole, where "you shall see what you shall see." Alas poor Tim! I have been watching thy movements; thou evidently knowest not what thou doest,--instead of reading as thou wast wont, thou hast been serving thine apprenticeship to that _manufacturer_ Cupid! Of all the epithets that ever were applied to a heathen god, none can be more appropriate, though I say it who should not, than this epithet bestowed by me upon Cupid.--Cupid a manufacturer? Yes, a manufacturer. Whenever you see a poor fellow sweating over the fire, filing, and stretching, and polishing rings, carving hearts and diamonds, and the like, you may set it down that Cupid is teaching his apprentice the first rudiments of his art,--for he is the master workman who superintends the manufacture of all such invaluable tokens, and teaches the how, and the where, and the when, they are to be distributed and bestowed. You are now seated at that key hole; I have told you what has been Tim's employment, make the best use of your eyes, and tell us what you see. Who ever saw a fellow try on a ring in that way before?--putting the ring upon the fore-finger?--the rogue knows as well as you do, that that little ring will not go over the first joint of that finger, but then it is so pleasant to try, the finger is so soft and white. Trying it on the middle finger?--he knows that the ring will not go over the nail, but that finger is so tapering, how could he avoid it. Had it been you or I, we should have placed it at once on the ring finger, and there would have been an end of the matter,--but look! the fellow is trying it upon the little finger--that finger is so little, and some how or other, so lonely, he feels for it a tender compassion. A little finger look lonely when in company with three fingers and a thumb? Aye,--lonely,--and its little nail is so thin you may see the blood circulating under it, and of all things to see the blood flowing fresh from the heart, so delicately tinged, is----The fellow has slipped the ring on, is gently squeezing the whole hand, and "has raised his wistful eyes to heaven,"--and little Molly has gently tapped him on the cheek with her fan, as much as to say "you rogue."

Get away from the door, my good friend, you have now seen as much as we bargained for: and my dear miss, you are curious to know what conversation passed all the while between Tim and little Mary; I'll tell you: there did not pass one solitary word, but two little hearts were in as much of a flutter as ever was made by a flock of partridges, springing from their cover.

By this time Tim had become grave and sentimental, and oh! if you ever heard music!--morning, noon, and night, there was the most incessant fluting,--fluting,--fluting. It was all of that soft die-away kind, you would have thought that Tim's soul was melting away and softly escaping through his flute. His heart, too, had undergone as thorough a change as that of the silk worm transformed into the fluttering moth. His mind was etherealized: instead of the humdrum, commonplace, prosing thoughts he once indulged in, his imagination now soared aloft,--he was dwelling amid the heights of Parnassus, his soul was drinking in the nectar of poesy and revelling in the ambrosia of fancy. You may talk of the pierian spring as the fount of knowledge; you may invoke the muses from their heavenly habitation, and Apollo and Minerva may attend in their train, but unless Cupid's arrows have drank of the heart's blood, tinging the sources of the mind's impressions, poesy will still be steeped in Lethe's wave, and never spring into life's gay morn. Now, every thought is dressed and ornamented, and oh! the fantastic flights!--oh! the soft mellow pastorals,--the country life, the blue vaulted arch unspotted with a cloud--nature, simple and gay; there she is, sweetly clad all beautiful and fresh--aye, and the loved one!--pearls and gems, and diamonds, and roses, and lilies, and stars, and suns, and firmaments in splendor glowing, and "could the busy bee but taste those lips, he'd quit his hollow domes to revel 'mid the sweets upon that hallowed spot."

As for little Molly, she, too, had undergone a metamorphosis, she who was wont to play so many "tricks before high heaven," who loved to play them off upon poor Tim, better than on all others, had grown so shy, you would have sworn she hated the very sight of him. In the company of others, when Tim was present, she scarcely opened her mouth,--to him, she scarcely ever spoke,--of him--no word of remembrance broke from her lips,--you would have thought he was obliterated from her mind; but more could be read by these two in a single glance of the eye, than volumes could express. As for me, I'd rather have the sensation produced by one of those stolen glances than be made a king. In such a situation, I would not be compelled to talk, by all the racks of the inquisition--silence is delight. But at such a time, to be bored with one of your real clatter, clatter, jabbering, never ending, incessant talkers, is the most horrible purgatory. Poor Tim was just in this situation. Little Molly had a noisy, officious cousin, who, he thought uglier than the veriest hag that ever shrank and shrivelled into stringy nothingness, and yet the girl was comely enough. She had taken it into her head, that her cousin Mary hated the aforesaid Tim, and therefore kindly volunteered to rid her of so troublesome a companion; and in consequence of such sage surmises, never failed when Tim paid a visit, to intrude herself among them;--and oh the clatter!--Tim's heart sank within him--he came not to talk!

My dear young miss, whoever thou art, that seest these lines, let me advise thee as a friend, to take thyself to thine own apartment, and remain in solitude the balance of thy life, rather than interfere in these critical moments; for you may rely upon it that thou art hated, contemned, abhorred and despised to a degree that is truly sinful. Thou art cursed with ten thousand more curses than ever Dr. Slop poured upon the head of luckless Obadiah.

Gentle reader, (for thou must be gentle to have travelled with me so far without wincing, and yet have heard so little,) can you tell me how it is that when a man is in love, however rambling and roving his disposition may have been before, as soon as he is fairly caught, he becomes from that moment confined to one solitary route. Let me explain myself,--for I have been carefully noticing our friend Tim. He and little Molly lived in the same town, but at a considerable distance apart, and yet to whatever part of the town Tim was called, he was as certain to pass by little Molly's house as he was to pass out of his own door. For instance, he would go to the post office, and from the frequency of his visits, you would have supposed he had more correspondents than all the merchants of the place put together, and while the post office was up town, little Molly's was down town, and yet he invariably went down town by little Molly's to get up town to the post office. One might suppose that Tim expected to see little Molly at the windows, but she was not one of your starers, who employ themselves in gazing at the comers and goers, and I'll venture to say, that in six months, Tim never saw her once, and yet go in what direction he might ultimately intend, go down town in the first place he must,--and he experienced more pleasure in passing that house than in eating his breakfast or his dinner.--This is a species of hydrophobia that I will leave you to think on and cure.

These incidents had occurred--these symptoms had been made manifest.--In the mean time two years rolled onwards.--Tim was in his twenty-second year, and little Molly in her eighteenth.

One day as Tim stood ready with his hat in his hand to take his leave after an interview,--it had been a long and hopeless one,--looking wistfully at her, he said energetically and in a voice deep toned--"It is the _last_ time I will ask. If you are in earnest, I go forever!" I listened, but could not hear the reply. There was a pause. Perhaps, nothing was said. I thought I heard a kiss. I may be mistaken, but certain I am, that instead of hearing Tim leave the house, I heard him walk rapidly to the table, and throw down his hat. When I again saw him,--the pensive, musing, meditative Tim was the merriest fellow that ever cracked a bottle.

When a man has had his hat in his hand, and with a wo-begone countenance has risen to make a final adieu, under the impression that he is utterly discarded and despised, and suddenly resumes his seat with such evidences of change of purpose; we generally presume he has obtained the liberty of hanging his hat up, which is tantamount to obtaining the liberty of the domicil, and is what I should call the gentleman's setting his hat, in contradistinction to the lady's setting her cap.

Day after day, go when you would, and peep into that passage, you would find Tim's new beaver hanging upon the same hook, and these two young innocents sitting side and side, cheek and joke, feasting on each others' eyes.

Tim would sometimes talk of the future, and develop his little schemes for their mutual happiness; but if ever he touched upon that most delicate of all subjects, the ascertainment of the period when their two hearts were to be linked indissolubly together, all the delicacy of the female character would instantly be aroused, and little Molly, in a playful mood, would sing out "time enough yet, time enough yet."

Matters remained in this unsettled condition, our friend Tim still enduring the same uncertainty, living in that half delightful, half vexatious state which totally unfits a man for any occupation, unless it be "breathing soft music through a mellow pipe." Our friend thought more than once 'twas time these scenes should be ended: accordingly he determined to inform his good mother of his happy prospects, as a prelude to his future movements. Many ineffectual efforts were made, but it was a delicate business. How to commence these soft narrations has puzzled more heads than one. He had given the old lady repeated chances to help him out, by sly hints and inuendoes, but she would never perceive what he was driving at. The truth was, she had selected in her own mind a most eligible match for her son, and she could not believe he was so blind as not to discover its advantages. Money was the foundation upon which that edifice was to be erected; but Tim, poor fellow, belonged to an ill-fated family. Not one of his ancestors had ever married other than a poor girl, from the remotest antiquity, and he had a sentimental notion of such affairs, that would forever exclude the idea of his marrying a rich one, whatever other qualifications she might possess.

At length, Tim succeeded in getting his mother safely cornered, the door shut and no one else present. Walking backwards and forwards for a minute or two, he stopped suddenly, as if he was about to commence. The old lady was knitting away by the fire. Instead of commencing, Tim walked to a chair as if he was about placing it close along side and stating the whole case like a man; but turning about, he deliberately sat the chair in the corner and folded his arms.

"Mother," said Tim, and then he cleared his throat. "What, my son?" "I have been thinking whether it would not be better to have our old house painted?" This was a new idea, one that never had crossed Tim's mind till it was uttered, and as it happened, 'twas not an inappropriate one. "But, my child, it will answer very well as it is, for such an old body as I, and if you begin to paint, you will be compelled to furbish up every thing else." "But, mother, suppose I should think of courting some young body?" "Oh, if you will fall in love with my little favorite, you can afford to paint and furbish too." That was a chord Tim had heard struck before to-day. "Suppose _she_ wont love me, and somebody else will." "Faint heart," said his consoling mother, "never won fair lady." The old lady was off upon the old track; but Tim having fairly begun, was not to be so easily baffled this time--so taking up his chair, he walked deliberately to the fire and seating himself, placed his feet upon the fender.

"Mother," said Tim, "it is time I should tell you that"--rap, rap, rap,--tantarara, bang--rang the old brass knocker at the outer door. "See who is there, my son." Hang all the world thought Tim--shall I never have an opportunity of telling the old lady? Tim took no candle with him to the door. "Who's here?" "Harry, sir." "Well, uncle Harry, what do you want?" "Mass Tim, Miss Mary send her complements, and tell me give you dis letter." Tim ran his hand into his pocket and gave old Harry a bit of silver. "I reckon," said Harry, who began to think Mass Tim and he were old cronies, "I reckon young Missus dont send letters to young Massa for nutting." "Wait for an answer a moment, uncle Harry," said Tim kindly. "Who's at the door, my son?" said the old lady, as Tim returned, holding an open letter in his hand. "A servant, madam," was the reply. "What," said Tim to himself, as he walked to the candle, "does my Mary want?"

Good reader, while old Harry is waiting at the door in the best humor in the world, because he had the good fortune to be the bearer of a _love letter_ as he shrewdly suspected, from his young mistress to so good a young gentleman, and while the good old lady is knitting away and thinking how to induce her son to fall in love with _her_ favorite, if thou wilt follow my example, thou mayst perceive what is going on for thyself. Thou seest that I am about to take a sly peep over friend Tim's shoulder, and if thou wilt peep over the other, thou mayst discover what otherwise thou wilt never have an opportunity of perceiving.

"_Saturday Evening_.

"MR. TIMOTHY WILBERFORCE.

"Can Mr. Wilberforce forgive and forget one who has injured him much? Oh! how I reproach myself for having given you hopes, my friend, that can never be realized. Mr. Wilberforce, you must forget me; and oh, can you not attribute my strange conduct to my youth? I am so young and thoughtless. Indeed, I would not willingly give you pain. Can we not continue friends? I hope we may, but indeed you must forget the promises I have made you, and if possible forgive me. I find I do not love you as I ought. Let us be friends, but nothing more. MARY."

Tim had seen his mother watching his countenance while he was reading: so putting on a smile, "Is that all? Pshaw, I thought it was something important," said he, going to the outer door. "Harry, there is no occasion to wait--no answer is necessary." Slam went the door. The bolt rang with a double turn. The letter was wadded in his breeches' pocket. "Who was that letter from, Tim?" said his mother. "A young friend has asked me to go serenading with him," replied honest Tim. Down he sat, with his feet upon the fender, and his arms folded over his breast. Then seizing the poker,--punch, punch, punch--you would have sworn it was freezing. Every coal was upturned--the room was filled with dust and smoke. "My son, it is not very cold to-night." Tim kept stirring the fire. "Did you desire to have the old house painted, Tim? If you wish it, my son"--"madam?"--"You were saying, Timothy, that you were about to tell me something?" "Did I?" Down went the poker, and Tim paced the apartment.

My good friend, were you in such a situation, what would you do? Only think of that rap at the door at such a moment--of the contents of that _love_ epistle--of that dear uncle Harry! For my part, I shall ever believe as long as I live, that there is something in names, and that none but a very old Harry Scratch himself could have been charged with such a scrawl. What would you have done? Tell the old lady the whole matter? What! with all those contending, conflicting feelings--passions--hopes--blasted and utterly destroyed! As for me, I think a man would be _almost_ excusable if he had walked premeditatedly to his razor case and cut his throat. Tim did no such thing. He walked to--bed.

Will you be so kind as to explain to me, why little Mary--our sweet, innocent, flaxen-haired little Molly, who was as much in love as ever lassie was, should have acted thus strangely? You who pretend to fathom the profundity of human motives and to ascribe proper causes for every action, will you unriddle this enigma? But the day before, she was as kind, as affectionate as usual, and in every way the same to Tim. From this time forward, too, she was as friendly as any other friend; and yet, as indifferent as if their hearts had never beat in unison--as if their eyes had never read the inmost thought of each others soul--as if their lips:--to me and to Tim, it is utterly inexplicable.

Time--old father time--flies with his mowing scythe. This is the account the ancients give of the matter, but I have a notion that we should as well exclaim, time--old doctor time--flies with his healing balm, cicatrizing every wound; for if it was not for doctor time, Cupid might be more appropriately represented with his sickle gathering in his harvest; but time with his "balm of Gilead," or some pleasing draught, manages to cure many a bleeding heart. I thank thee, good doctor, thou hast come "with healing under thy wings," more than once to me.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY CLASSMATES.

By the author of the "Extract from a Novel that will never be published."

There were two among my companions at College with whom my intimacy was particularly close. They differed much from each other, as I did from them, in character and mental powers, but we were from the same state, viz. Virginia, although from different parts of it; and the presence of each of us spoke to the others of our distant homes, and formed a tie that bound us closely together. There is besides, a strong local attachment, separate and distinct from national feeling, (a peculiar one, as far as my observation extends, in our country,) pervading the native born inhabitants of that state, particularly the eastern and southern section of it, which draws them like brothers together when abroad. However reserved a Virginian may be to others, his heart immediately opens to one who possesses the same birthright with himself; and for him, if called upon, he will encounter pecuniary inconvenience and personal risk. I have known many instances of this feeling. But to my tale. The elder of us three, by name Morriss Heywood, was one of those beings on whom has been bestowed the fearful--almost fatal gift of genius. He stood pre-eminent among us all, towering in intellect, piercing the veil of truths hid from our dimmer eyes, revelling in the gardens of imagination barred to our dull and every day capacities. While we with pigmy steps and slow, crept along the paths of knowledge, urging our toilsome way with many a groan, he pressed forward with a giant's stride, and left us a sightless distance in the rear. His disposition too was noble as his mind. Generous beyond the bounds of prudence--brave to the verge of rashness--ever ready to afford assistance to those who required it--to promote their welfare, and to condole with, and partake of their grievances. Like most persons of extraordinary powers, his temper was unequal. At times gloomy and abstracted, shunning all communion, avoiding all recreation, abstaining from exercise and almost from food,--he would bury himself in the seclusion of his chamber, devoting day and night to intense application; then sated for a time with his "deep draught" at "the well spring of science," he would come among us full of life and gaiety, the soul and promoter of every frolic, breathing into us the spirit of his own warm heart, robing common things with the hues of his own bright fancy, and lighting up the very regions of dulness with the quick and brilliant flashes of his wit. The grave professors regarded him with amazement, and some of them even with fear; for sometimes in the spirit of mischief, he would sport with their heavy and useless learning, and puzzle them sadly with the subtleness of his inquiries,--leading them unconsciously into the mazes of metaphysical absurdities, and then leaving them with a quibble or a jest to pick their way out as they could, floundering at every step, and conscious of the ridicule they incurred. My other friend, Charles Drayton, had no peculiar characteristic that calls for present description. He had ordinary intellect, great application, a kind but not a warm heart, and a disposition to submit to legitimate authority; for all which, when we were graduated, he was rewarded with some fifth or sixth rate honor. The busy pursuits of life soon separated me from them after our departure from college. They commenced the study of the law, while I doubting my powers to succeed in the learned professions, and naturally inclined to an active life, turned my attention to commerce, and in the course of business, was called on to leave "my native land" to sojourn in a far distant one, and my return was not until after an absence of many years. During those years of labor and various fortunes, my time and talents devoted to one ruling object, the acquisition of wealth, (but not, I trust, influenced by sordidness, or ever induced to employ unworthy means,) my communications with home had been very rare, and of my early friends I had received no tidings; but often after reposing from the toils of the day, when the bustle of occupation was hushed, and the wearied mind revolted from following up the many schemes of aggrandizement that so constantly taxed it, memory would roll back to those halcyon days of my youth, and the images of Heywood and of Drayton would be mirrored in freshness to my fancy, while I busied myself in conjectures as to their probable fate and fortunes. Were they still among the living? Had Heywood fulfilled the promise of his early youth, and climbed with vigorous step

"The hill, where fame's proud temple shines afar?"

Had the perseverance of Drayton won for him wealth and respectability in his profession? More he could not attain to. And amid their busy struggles, did they ever recur to the friend who was absent, with the same deep feeling that dwelt in his heart for them?