Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

'Tis thy reproving voice I hear,
When from the poor and lowly cot
Content and cheerfulness appear,
Though mark'd by penury their lot.

Then shall I bear a pining heart--
While friendship, health, and peace combine
Life's dearest comforts to impart--
Ah! shall a thankless heart be mine!

No sure--content's too cold a name
For what my bosom ought to feel;
Thus favored, gratitude's sweet claim
With thanks unceasing bids me kneel:

Bids me, thus lowly bending, vow
Before the awful throne of Heaven--
Children of want, to share with you
The good its gracious power has given.

In the lines which we next select, it will be perceived that to minds of delicate fibre and poetic temperament,--the most familiar objects in nature will often suggest mournful images and recollections. A flower will awaken affecting reminiscences of some long lost and beloved object.

THE BELLE DU JOUR, OR CONVOLVULUS MINOR.

Sweet floret! beauty of a day,
And transient as thou'rt sweet;
Scarce opening to the morning ray
Ere shrinking from its heat:

Noon faded sees each early charm,
Thy blue eye closed in death;
And evening's breeze, thy wasted form
Wafts lightly o'er the heath.

While thus, sweet child of summer skies,
I see thee bloom and die;
What tender recollections rise
To prompt the pensive sigh:

For once in this lone bosom grew
As fair, as sweet a flower,
That smiled and budded forth like you
In morn's propitious hour;

But ah! while joy and hope were new
And promised bliss secure;
Like you, it drooping faded too--
And sunk to bloom no more.

Oft as I through the twilight gloom
A wandering mourner stray;
Pale shadowy tenant of the tomb,
She seems to cross my way:

For every object, every scene
Does my lost love recall,
From cheerful morning's rising beam
To mournful evening's fall.

Our readers must not be induced to cast aside the following poem, from its length. It is full of genuine feeling and pious sentiment.

EVENTIDE.

[Written in a dejected and visionary state of mind.]

Sweet beams the cheerful morn o'er happy hearts,
And every smiling scene new bliss imparts;
Each gay unfolding bud, each new born flower
Exhaling odors, owns the sun's warm power;
The new-waked birds their notes of gladness raise,
The trembling dew-drop rainbow tints displays,
In pendant beauty gems the lofty bough,
Or glitters in the velvet turf below.

On active wing abroad, the industrious bees
Their busy hum mix with the passing breeze,
The light breeze curls the silver-bosom'd flood,
Or freshening whispers through the waving wood;
The sun, now mounting, gilds the eastern skies,
Bright'ning the landscape with its glowing dyes--
Gay beauty smiles along each field and grove--
Congenial smiles--for youth, for joy, and love.

But when the soul, long since, has ceased to prove
The tender fallacies of youthful love--
And soberer joys, no more, the way adorn,
The sad heart, sick'ning, turns from sprightly morn--
Turns, pensive eve, to seek thy milder charms,
And dewy haunts, which no gay sunbeam warms.

When closing day shuts o'er its busy cares,
And onward stealing, twilight meek appears,
Drowns in obscurity the distant scene,
And casts a softening charm o'er all between--
'Tis then the sad, the lacerated mind,
Does in thy gentle gloom a soother find--
Sighs with less pain beneath its load of cares,
And mourns its sorrows with relieving tears.

Disrobed of gayer tint and gaudy hue,
Sweet Eventide! thy objects meet the view;
In modest russet clothed each shrub and flower,
Shades ever sacred to thy silent hour--
Shades how congenial! every heart must find,
Which long, long suffering, feels, but is resign'd.
So we oft see in life's bright morn display'd,
A youthful beauty gorgeously arrayed!
Unbent by care, her form erect she bears,
Bright are her eyes, unsullied yet by tears;
By thought unclouded her fair polish'd brow,
Nor does her buoyant heart a sorrow know:
Gay as the lark's first carol is her song,
As with light agile step she moves along;
Each young unwary heart to love she warms,
A sparkling wonder, and a blaze of charms!

But when this dazzling radiance is o'er
And morn's bright beauties fade to bloom no more;
When noontide clouds for evening showers prepare,
And the gay crowd no longer hail her fair--
Then, if beneath this form so heavenly bright
Some latent virtues rest--obscured from sight,
(By suffering taught its own intrinsic worth)
The struggling heart first learns to call them forth:
Taught by her own to feel another's woes,
The sweets of Heaven-born charity she knows;
While sympathetic tears unbidden flow,
And gentle pity does its balm bestow.
Now softened every gaudy trait is seen
To milder russet changed her vivid green;
Her morning splendors caught the young and gay,
But the meek mourner loves her eventide ray.

Ah! hour of twilight russet--thou art past--
And hope, sweet star of eve! has shone its last--
Nor can a ray of cheering light impart
Where midnight darkness ever wraps the heart.

At thy soft silent hour, in pensive mood,
Sweet eventide, I love to seek the wood;
And as I, musing, wind my devious walk,
With visionary forms hold fancied talk;
Forms that the cold embrace of death enfolds,
But which my soul in fond remembrance holds,
Down the lone walk, or midst the cluster'd trees,
I hear a well known voice in every breeze--
The passing object, or the shadowy green
Through their tall bolls in dim perspective seen,
Soft flitting forms present to fancy's eye,
That seem to glide with gentle greetings by.

Hail gentle spirits! Shades of friends revered--
By tender recollections now endeared;
And you, my earliest loss, parental pair--
Though o'er your tombs the oft revolving year
Has shed its winters frost and vernal dew,
Still faithful memory fondly turns to you--
For often in idea still are seen
Your silver locks, and venerable mien.
If conscience tells me I have err'd in aught,
Your cold reproving frown straight strikes my thought;
But if my heart acquits me of all guile,
It feels the joy of your approving smile.
A brother here, the worthiest of mankind--
Oft I recall--with pain and pleasure joined;
Two sisters--one advanced in matron grace,
Strong sense and feeling blended in her face;
Plain worth and warm affections fill'd her heart,
And to each action did their hue impart:
Benevolence and truth still led her way
And held their tenor through each well spent day:
The other, just a bride, in youthful charms,
With grace and beauty fill'd her husband's arms--
When Heaven, aware a mind so finely wrought,
So mild, so gentle, so refined in thought,
With erring mortals peace could never know,
Hasted to call her from a scene of woe;
And early placed her in those blest abodes
Where care no more afflicts, nor grief corrodes.
Sure, thou Supreme! of all thy works, the part
Most form'd for woe, is the soft female heart;
Her breast, the seat of innocence and love,
Was doom'd, alas! composure ne'er to prove--
What others felt, with but a passing sigh,
Kept the meek tear forever in her eye;
The varying blush that mental suffering speaks
In quick suffusion on her lovely cheeks--
Ah gentle Anna! leave thy Heaven awhile,
Greet a lone sister with one tearful smile.

Aerial music oft I seem to hear
In gentle breathings, strike my listening ear--
Full and melodious sounds, in swelling strains,
Then soothing soft, each dying note complains;
High o'er my head in trembling cadence plays,
Or lightly passes on the sighing breeze--
The ambient air a balmy fragrance fills,
And the charm'd sense each earth-born sorrow stills;
A lambent light pervades the dewy scene,
Illumes each branch and brightens o'er the green.
Sweet powers of Fancy! can this work be thine,
Or are these sounds, these forms, indeed, divine?
For see, where lightly borne on seraph wing,
An angel band their hallelujahs sing--
Its course, a form etherial this way bends,
Stooping to earth, and at my feet descends!

Oh, beauteous shade of what was once my child!
Wept when I wept, and smiled but as I smiled;
Phantom of what long filled this vacant heart,
That still would claim thee as its dearest part--
That still must hold thy cherish'd memory dear,
And greet thy much loved image with a tear.
In thy translated spirit sure I trace
Each mortal beauty of thy gentle face;
Shaded by silken curls of auburn hue,
Meet thy soft eyes of mild etherial blue;
Their look of patient innocence still feel
Touch my heart's finest nerve, with tender thrill,
See them in silent fondness fix'd on mine,
See thee for my maternal kiss incline--
With offer'd lip and fond extended arms,
While love ineffable my bleeding bosom warms!

Oh vision fair, of many an airy dream!
Of all my youthful hopes the darling theme;
Wreck of an anxious mother's early cares,
Loved object of her late regrets and tears--
Why, beauteous messenger, why hither sent,
On what mild purpose is thy errand bent?
For thou couldst only leave the blest above
On errands mild, and purposes of love.
Comest thou to warn me from this life of pain?
To bid me hope we soon shall meet again?
Sure in thy dulcet voice I hear thee say,
"Come, poor lone mourner, come to peace away:"
Welcome the sounds, for wretched must I be
While weary life divides my soul from thee.
Ah, no! that softly sorrowing look declares
Thou comest to chide my impious grief and tears--
Grief, that would thee recall to pain and woe,
Tears, that alone from selfish motives flow:
To bid me sink on an adoring knee
And thank my God, whose mercy shelter'd thee!
Who, while he seem'd, in each severe command,
To press me with a harsh chastising hand,
Prepared the balm that now my heartfelt woes
And anguished bosom, can alone compose;
And bad me know, in the conviction blest,
Though here thy suffering body knew no rest--
That thy pure soul, as spotless as 'twas given,
By his creating hand has wing'd its way to Heaven.

With sad solicitude 'twas mine to watch,
In silent woe, my angel's midnight couch,
Guide her uncertain steps the live-long day,
Or pine in trembling terrors when away--
To see the impending stroke I could not ward,
And mourn the sufferer that no love could guard;
But this blest certainty my heart repays,
And bids it throb with gratitude and praise.
Yet pardon, Lord! my bosom's sorrowing swell,
When on past scenes I yet too fondly dwell;
And you who ne'er have felt the cruel pang,
Who still can o'er your cherish'd darlings hang;
Who have not learn'd how hard it is to part,
And bear about a sad bereaved heart--
Or not possessing, ne'er conceive the charm
With which maternal love the heart can warm--
With kind indulgence hear pale sorrow's moan,
Nor lightly judge the woes you have not known.

Should the Supreme a cherub fair bestow,
More sweet than all his hand e'er form'd below;
While all that helpless infancy endears
Wakes into life a mother's hopes and fears--
And if thy heart shall love as mine has loved,
And prove the bitter pangs that mine has proved,
Then may'st thou judge--for thou wilt truly know
That keenest pang, a tender mother's woe;
Then wilt thou, pitying, hear pale sorrow's moan,
And kindly mingle with her sighs, thy own.

Thus, shadowy eve, allured and soothed by thee,
A wand'ring visionary I shall be--
And when o'er earth thy dewy breezes sweep,
Seek thy sequestered shades to muse and weep;
Not bitter tears--or without comfort shed,
A tribute to the loved, the honor'd dead.

Hail gentle spirits! while thus memory true
In fancy's wanderings oft communes with you,
This world recedes--the silent grave appears
A blest asylum from all earthly cares!
And faith, the hope inspiring, sooths my breast,
That _there_ the sad and weary shall have rest.

We shall for the present, conclude with the following "_Lines written on hearing a lady use the expression of smiling autumn_."

SMILING AUTUMN.

Autumn, how should that languid air
That smoothed thy brow erewhile,
Be (though a frown thou dost not wear)
Mistaken for a smile?

The glow that dyes thy tawny cheek,
The gleam that lights thine eye,
Nor smiling grace, nor joy bespeak--
Thy every breath's a sigh.

Or if, perchance, a transient smile
Breaks o'er the fading scene,
To cheer thy plaintive brow the while
And wake its sad serene;

'Tis like the sickly smile that sits
On hidden sorrow's brow,
Or with the last faint hectic flits
When life is ebbing low.

From such heart-chilling smiles as these
Winter, I turn to thee--
Thy frowning skies and leafless trees
More welcome are to me.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STUDY OF THE LATIN AND GREEK CLASSICS.

Of all the "death-bed sayings" on record, none please me more than that of Beausobre to his son: Go, said he,

"Argentum et marmor vetus, æraque et artis
Suspice.
Suspice, et forma non fragilis
Movebit in pectore delectationis multum.
Ibi, cum Euroauster, tum erit admiratio--
Flori felicitatis suavis et jucunda."

Moving among the solid temples of "silver," and of "marble," reared by ancient literature, the intruder finds the holy beauty around him giving softness to his step, and banishing all ungentle levity. The plastic mind gradually yielding to the touch of that loveliness which has crept in through the senses, becomes of itself grand and lovely. The heart too receives its coloring--even as the cheek is colored, when standing beneath the stained windows of some real temple.

These truths have come home to _me_, at too late an hour, and a quill or two will not be worn out sinfully, in an attempt to impress their importance upon younger men.

If I fail, as most probably I shall, the consciousness of having consumed a day in useful effort, will be a tolerable reward--perhaps reward enough.

"The inner man moulds the outer," is an old and true saw. Its truth may be seen, reader, by looking around you--indeed, by looking _at yourself_. If you are a philosopher--a genuine philosopher--your glass will image forth an aspect of serene dignity. If a sophist, one of perplexed cunning. In the first instance, your _manner_ will be lofty yet affable--a key to the better feelings of all:--in the latter grovelling, yet scornful--to every one food for the most unreserved contempt. Yielding that these different appearances are produced by the workings of the inner man, can you hit upon a mode for ennobling these workings, in themselves confused and feeble, so evidently effectual as the introduction of knowledge and its all-arranging hand? Some may say that the manner is of no moment. The effects produced under every one's own observation would, if remembered, serve to stifle this assertion. Why was it that the most eloquent of Grecians struggled for years to remove the defects of a faulty bearing, if no valuable end was to be attained?

It follows then that dignity and suavity are of service: that these--in many cases essential--are the offspring of a confidence in one's own knowledge. And now, I ask, whence may we draw richer supplies of this than from the pages of ancient writers? Are they not rife with all the useful reasoning--the philosophic intelligence--the happiness of application, that cultivated man could devise for the assistance of untutored intellect?

From the logic of the sage we learn, by a spirit of imitation natural to human beings, to quicken our own powers of reasoning. The perspicuity of arrangement and expression, so admirable in our master, becomes gradually a part of our own style. We are led by the strength of example to lop off the redundancies of a corrupt method, and by the acquirement of correct notions of purity, enabled to render our productions chaste and clear. And these improvements in the reasoning powers are effected at the same time that we possess ourselves of the richest treasures of lore!

But this is only one source of advantage among many as valuable. Wit, a power of the mind seldom granted with a liberal hand by nature--receives, in the course of communion with the playful and keen, a training of no little value. Charmed by the attic grace which softens and mellows the satire of our companions, (for let us conjure up at the hearthside the great masters of the past, and through their works hold with them 'pleasant converse,') our efforts will be to increase by farther intercourse, the small store already laid up perhaps unintentionally. Thus may we, if naturally possessed of wit, so polish and sharpen the gift of nature, that no armor may resist its progress: or, if destitute of this strong weapon, form for ourselves one less beautiful indeed, but of scarce less real worth.

Without this chastening influence, native wit degenerates into a harshness excessively grating to the ear of refinement, and productive of no single good effect.

Thus is improved or created a quality allowed by all to be of much utility in the contests between mind and mind. And what is life but a field of conflict, wherein the passions of one--perpetually at strife with those of another--are forever calling to their assistance the weapons of intellect!

I have before spoken of the effect produced on the manner by a confidence in one's acquired resources. Carrying this a step farther, I will remark, that many of the qualities regarded as amiable among men, such as urbanity and modesty, may be gained not only by the act of storing the mind, but from the actual lessons and counsels of the bland teachers from whom these stores are received. Will any one deny the happy consequences of an urbane and modest deportment, in man's intercourse with his fellows? Surely none would so far forget the beauty of virtue as thus to sneer at its manifestations.

We can scarcely find among the various pursuits of men, one in which the pursuer may not be assisted by the experience and lessons of his predecessors on the same path. The painter esteems himself happy when able to collect in his studio the meanest of the antique models. The sculptor contemplates among the relics of the past those master-efforts, so deservedly famous, and is indefatigable in a study essential to the production of purity in his own manner. Extend this to eloquence. Most truly the orators of antiquity have been sturdy pioneers upon a noble path, and to neglect their guidance would retard the pursuer of the same course, and entangle him in many difficulties. Indeed, with the works of these, elocutionists have invariably recommended familiarity. The strength of Demosthenes,--_monte decurrens velut amnis_--the 'abundant grace' of the polished Tully, are of themselves milk for a giant's nurturing. But they have not come forth alone from the wreck of time. They are attended by worthy companions.

The depths of a strong mind teem with the seeds of fine thought. Ideas lofty and rich are then in embryo, and it is a tedious but an essential task to bring them to maturity. The lessons and practice of those by whom excellence was most nearly approached, cannot do other than afford aid of the strongest nature to the student, who has in immediate view an anxious care of these germs, and looking forward to the season when a gigantic growth has rewarded his culture, longs with a virtuous ambition for its coming, that he may scatter among men the fruits of mature strength. Let all remember this, and seek not only rule of guidance, but successful illustration among the pages of the past.

It would be no difficult matter to point out other important qualities, ripened by a study of the ancient classics. To show how strongly assisted the organs of judgment, &c. may be by the strength-infusing food of knowledge, winnowed as it has been by time, would be truly _labor absque labore_. But I have already trespassed on the reader's courtesy, and shall leave the unfilled catalogue to be completed, if he thinks it worth the while, at his own leisure.

It has been my object to show that "the classical student's own good and that of his fellows, would be advanced by his assiduity:" and as I have not yet remarked distinctly upon the latter, I will do so now, and briefly.

Men unable individually to defend and protect their rights, enter into compacts for mutual assistance. Certain laws are drawn up, guiding the administrator of justice. This justice is the main duct by which the social body is supplied. With it, order and tranquillity shed their light upon a nation's progress towards happiness. Without it, the members within, and the body sinks under a benumbing paralysis. It is, then, the part of every good citizen to see that justice be maintained free from impurity, and by precept and example to enliven its energies. And what is it that gives weight to counsel, if it be not the adviser's learning and reputation?

"Insani sapiens nomen ferat, æquus iniqui."

What, in a just man's practice, so softens down to our feelings all necessary roughnesses, as a secret veneration for himself?

I have shown, or attempted to show, that the character becomes chaste by communion with those exalted spirits from whom are drawn the supplies of wisdom; and we now see that both the possession of these supplies and the reputation gained thereby, are of service to the public--moreover that skill, necessary in the management of public affairs, is generated, or to say the least increased--so rendering the ruler more capable of furthering the interests of the ruled.

We see then, that the individual and the public good are advanced by the study in question. Let us now examine whether this advancement may not be effected by confining ourselves first to translations, secondly to our own legitimate literature.

With regard to the first, others have pointed out the futility of all such transfers. The Turk exchanges his turban and robe for the habiliments of the Christian. Through the mask of this assumed garb what eye can detect the original Mussulman? Is he swarthy! others of his adopted brethren are equally so. Does the tuft of long hair by which Houri hands are to draw the faithful into Paradise, differ from the unshorn locks of those around him? his assumed head-gear conceals the difference.--Thus does he lose all trace of his former being, and since the assumed qualities sit on him but indifferently, the change is always for the worse. Are we to doubt the truth of this illustration? All experience forbids us so to do. The sterling gold of Shakspeare--converted into French tinsel--was only so converted to meet with ridicule and contempt.

Secondly, may not these advantages be gained by researches into our own literature? I would say, in the first place, that this latter is but a branch engrafted on the ancient tree; and if we wish to effect thorough familiarity, we must examine downward--solving difficulties as we proceed--until we come to the root, from whence springs all lore. Farthermore:--Acquaintance with "our own literature" being but one move towards the attainment of thorough knowledge, this very admission stamps it as an inferior degree of excellence, and will any one doubt the utility of gaining the greatest in a generous pursuit?

This connexion of past lore with the present, suggests to me an important point, upon which I shall linger for a brief space.

Few are ignorant of the close connexion between the ancient and modern languages themselves. It was the influence of the polished and manly Latin that gave euphony to the barbarous jargon brought by the German tribes from their forests. It was this that spread over the nations of modern Europe, mellowing in one instance the roughness of the Norman idiom, and in fine, entwining itself inseparably with the mongrel plant brought into being in England, after the conquest of Duke William. Indeed, so much incongruity pervaded this, that many great writers have believed it a vehicle too rude and perhaps unsafe, for the conveyance of their harvests to posterity. Under this belief Bacon wrote his "_Novum Organum_," as well as many of his more important works, wholly in Latin.

So close, therefore, is the union, that familiarity with one of the principal languages of antiquity has become absolutely essential to a _thorough_ intimacy with our own.

Upon the connexion with the other I will barely remark, that the precept and practice of learned men most assuredly carry a weight at home, and was it not natural for these, filled as they were with the beauty of that tongue, whose melody and richness had lent a charm even to the outpourings of wisdom, to introduce its merits into their own less noble one? This they have done; and so originated a connexion important and harmless, inasmuch as it has benefitted the one greatly, without injuring the other.

I will now observe upon the time of life most suited to an attainment of that skill, essential in opening to the neophyte these well-stored magazines of useful and pleasing information. If the candidate for distinction in any, the simplest profession, had at the time of entering upon it, yet to master the rudiments of his language, would he not contemplate the double task in despair? Knowing that the greatest genius on earth, if without the means of expressing the teeming thoughts of a crowded mind, is but a "mighty savage," he feels, if success be his object, the absolute necessity of beginning the almost endless labor. From childhood to manhood he should be furbishing this key to his mind's resources.

And the case is the same with regard to the study of the elements which throw open the riches of the past to our conception. These riches are very seldom possessed when the means of doing so are not gradually acquired in very early years. The hours are not then counted--the labor does not present itself in a huge and startling mass to the narrow view of youth, but is seen part by part as the student advances. With years of inactive life before him, his time is his own, and we may almost say unlimited. Undeterred by the calls of the world, he has leisure to possess himself of every requisite for enjoying the feast to be partaken of hereafter. Turn to one who, after neglecting the acquisition of that which he has at length learned to look upon as most valuable, attempts to rectify his error. With the duties of life accumulating every moment on his hands--with the toil to be endured spread out like a map before his eye, he rarely has energy enough to persevere. The task is given up as a hopeless one, and his judgment, on the ground of interference with essential duties, sanctions the decision urged by timidity. Then deprived of all means of gaining the treasure, he laments the error by which its acquisition was deferred until too late a season.

I have said nothing of the exquisite entertainment to be drawn from the study before us. My object has been to work on the feelings of real and palpable interest, so effectual in ruling men of the present day.

Let us now turn to a picture, to me of great beauty. The strifes and toils of the world are left behind us. We have sought the shades of retirement, to consume in domestic happiness the few remaining years of our earthly term. The merchant has come from the hills and valleys of the east to the banks of the Nile. He brings with him

"Munera terræ
Et maris extremos Arabas distantes et Indos."

His wanderings have been among the groves of spice, and over the sands of the great deserts. His cheek has been shaded by the palm and the cool cedar, but it has too been blistered by a scorching sun. All this is at length passed, and chaunting the "Allah Acbar," wearied--yet joyful in his weariness--he plants his pavilion on the quiet shore, there in patience to abide the coming of Dyerm or Xebeck, appointed for his passage to the destined mart. Thus after experiencing the various fortunes of active life, we sink into ease.

To him who has no '_munera scientiæ_'--no attachment to polite research, from which to draw pleasure in the hours of solitude, this seclusion is worse than a foretaste of that grave so soon to succeed it. His mind is a mere void, aching to be filled. Accustomed to satiety, before the affairs of life were relinquished, the contrast is now all the more painful. It is this that accounts for the discontent of those "_refugees from the closed shop_," whom we see around us. But on this picture I do not love to linger. There is another, possessing in the home of his retirement, a home of placid delight. Surrounded by the fruits of mental exertion--the parent tree long dead--he revels among the richly flavored and the luscious, until existence becomes one continued feast. His influence in the world is undiminished--his works are remembered with feelings of reverence and affection. Afar from the restless crowd he is, as has been beautifully said, like the moon in her relation with ocean; and rendered no less influential by the tranquil steadiness with which he keeps aloof from the scenes of his influence. To such a man the treasures of ancient lore are invaluable; they are charms possessing power to call up the host of worthies, by nature and assiduous cultivation, great and excellent. In the sacred recesses of his studio he communes with these. He is cheered by his intercourse with companions so pleasing, and his path to the grave is smoothed by flowers of the softest leaf. At length the drama draws to a close! Like the chaste Talbot, he breathes his gratitude to those who have been to him the fountains of 'sweet joy.' It is his last breath. Loved for his virtues, and venerated for his good works, he sinks to the grave, on whose brink he has long been lingering, and whose ideal horrors, the lessons of true knowledge have rendered to him objects to be welcomed, not dreaded--loved, not feared.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MEMORY.--AN ALLEGORY.

An evil genius visited the happy islands which repose upon the bosom of the deep blue sea. In these smiling gardens the blest recline, remote from the turmoil and confusion of life: there are trees loaded with golden fruits--flowers of a thousand hues, and sweet fountains of limpid water spread their silvery lines along the emerald lea. The melody of singing birds, the soft murmur of running streams, and sounds of distant music, fall upon the ravished ear. The wanton breeze steals fragrance from the flowers as it passes on, and sweet perfumes scent the air. Here childish innocence reposes on beds of flowers; there groups of maturer years recline on verdant knolls, enjoying the passing hour. Pairs wander arm in arm in pursuit of pleasures that never pall, and gay crowds lightly dance their hours away in mirth and song. The genius pronounces the fatal word, and each breathing figure is transformed to mute and changeless stone. The voice of mirth is hushed, the tones of music have fled, years roll away, and the living statues still look in marble coldness on the changing scene. Its flowers wither--its trees of golden fruits die one by one away--the birds flee from their green retreats, and the creeping serpent hisses in the tangled brake--tall rank grass covers the favorite walks, or choke the streams, whose turbid waters force their sluggish way. At length a passing vessel stops--a stranger wanders over the wondrous scene. On a pillar an inscription is engraved; he pauses to read the word, and instantly the spell is broken--the marble statues melt into silent shadows of the human form, and flitting forth in pairs and groups, they wander over their once loved home. They seek their familiar haunts; they search for the objects of their love; and each shadow as it passes, whispers, _gone_: and returning to their places, their forms resume their marble lineaments, and stand once more cold monuments of their former selves. Such indeed is the human mind. First comes youth's genial season; hopes linked with loves in happy pairs, wander around the smiling scene, which fancy decks with flowers. Here joy dancing to the song of mirth, lightly whiles his hours away; there young affections and gentle thoughts, like virgin sisters of a primeval race, pursue their quiet way to the bright abode which fancy hath created so beautiful and fair. But at length sorrow comes to breathe its spell. How many hopes, and loves, and pure affections, and pleasant thoughts, are changed and gone! Inurned in icy coldness, they are sepulchered in memory's cave; and yet, perhaps, some simple word of other times is breathed, its spell evokes departed joys and buried loves. Dim shadows of the past arise--they fleeting come. But fancy too is changed; it no longer forms the gay creations of its youth, but fills its gloomy fields with pictures at which the heart doth shrink. The very thoughts for which we sighed, are now without a home, and seek to pass away.

ALPHA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

The following lines were found, written in a "delicate bird-quill hand," on a blank leaf on the Petrarch of one, among the prettiest of my fair cousins. The authoress perhaps caught a certain quaintness of expression from the strained verses of the Italian lover; but the idea I am inclined to believe original, notwithstanding the assertion "This was stolen from Boccacio," with which the lines are capped. Stevens, the Puck of commentators, asks "What has truth or nature to do with sonnets?" and Byron echoes the question. There may be some truth in this, though the opinion of the first sprung from hatred towards Malone, and that of the latter from chagrin at his own want of success. If the proper characteristic of the sonnet be an artificial quaintness, my cousin has succeeded admirably,--which I presume Mr. White will have too much gallantry to deny.

THE CREATION OF THE ANTELOPE.

The tone of coming Ariel's voice was sweet
To wise Prospero; he had flown the girth
Of this green sphere, and gifts from wave and earth
Were bound with flowers upon his pinions fleet,
As singing came he to his master's feet.
Four aspen leaves plucked in the shivering north--
The Palmiste bough and fruit--of eastern birth--
And leaf of Abelè--a thorny sheet--
Were there: And in a cask of quaint device
Was pent the flash thrown from the gaudy plume
Of Sopor's empress-bird, of thousand dyes--
Then by this flash begot--from glamour's womb,
Gleamed into being two most gorgeous eyes
Like those twin stars that lit creation's gloom.

And hoofs most delicate the wise man wrought
Of Ariel's gift of restless aspen leaves:
And skilfully as slim Tarantul' weaves
The curtain to her silken couch, soon brought
The sheet of Abelè to beauty: naught
Torn from Earth's Edens by his wily thieves
So soothed their master as this gem of leaves!
With downy softness from his magic caught,
It lay a snowy skin. Next of the bough
And fruit pluck'd from the Palmiste's sinewy stem,
A neck and graceful head formed he: Life's glow
Then tinged each vein. "'Tis done--gleam thou bright gem,"
Pleased Prospero said, "on Hemalaya's brow,
A living jewel to his diadem!"

E. D.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND.--NO. 3.

BY A VIRGINIAN.

_Pittsfield, Mass., July 26th, 1834_.

One means by which Prussian tyranny sought to break down the spirit and health of Baron Trenck, during his long and rigorous imprisonment at Magdeburg, was to have him roused by a sentinel, every fifteen minutes of his sleeping hours. You can form a lively conception of the efficacy of the plan, if you have ever been compelled by exhausted nature to woo her "sweet restorer" in a stage-coach, over a very uneven road: but what think you of dozing it _outside_, on the driver's seat? Instead of _two_ this morning, the waiter called me at _one_; when I had not slept a single wink--("sleepless myself, to give my readers sleep.") Sickened by the motion of the close and crowded coach, I presently mounted beside the driver; where drowsiness soon overcame me. So, tying one arm with my handkerchief to the iron on the stage roof, I took, for about two hours, such slumber as was permitted by the heavings of our vehicle, on a hilly road: such slumber, as one might enjoy while tossed in a blanket, or "upon the high and giddy mast," rocking his brains, "in cradle of the rude imperious surge." On fully awaking, half an hour before sunrise, I found we were ascending a mountain (part of the Green Mountain,) by a gentle slope of three or four degrees, continuing for six miles. The scenery, (wildly picturesque in itself,) bursting thus suddenly upon the view, was particularly striking. Indeed, no day of my tour has presented a greater number of boldly beautiful landscapes. That I never try to spread these beauties upon my page, you must ascribe to the fear that they would but 'evanish' in the endeavor, and by no means to any profane contempt--unpardonable, you know according to Dr. Beattie, for

--------"the boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields;
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even;
All that the mountains sheltering bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of Heaven"--

I most devoutly worship them all. But humbler themes befit and demand my pen.

It is a New England custom, to bury all the dead of a township, or of a certain subdivision of it, in a common grave yard; usually, not within any village, and apart from any church. This yard is enclosed with a wall; and every grave is marked by a stone (commonly hewn marble,) with a neat and simple inscription of name and years, supplying "the place of fame and elegy." By a sort of tacit consent, each family is allowed to cluster its dead together in a separate portion of the ground; sometimes in a capacious vault, marked with the family name. The curious may at any time find an hour's amusement--aside from the more serious thoughts proper to the place--in reading, on the tombstones, the surnames common and peculiar to New England, and the Christian names--mostly scriptural--betokening the original and enduring sway of Puritanism. A southerner naturally wonders why the grave yards are without the villages. To an inquiry of mine into the reason, a _'cute_ female (evidently far wiser than her husband, who was also in company,) answered, that it was "to accommodate those who live at a distance." How it did this--or how, if the distant on one side were accommodated, those on the other were not equally incommoded--my sage instructress did not expound. The village itself (at least its ordinary _nucleus_, the meeting-house) is usually central to the town, for the equal convenience of all. It seems more probable that _health_, and the readier command of space, influence the location of burying grounds.

One of the objects that have struck me most pleasingly, is the _Liberty Pole_, in almost every village. Its use is to hoist a flag upon, on the Fourth of July, and other festal days. It figures exquisitely in "McFingal"--that best poem, of its length, that America has produced; so often quoted for Hudibras, and so inadequately honored, not only in the south, but here, in its native north. Do take down the book, or, if you have it not, go straight and buy it; turn to the second or third canto--I forget which--and be grave if you can, while you read how the Tory hero "fierce sallied forth" attended by

"His desperate clan of tory friends:
When sudden met his angry eye
A pole ascending thro' the sky:--"

the ceremonies of its rearing and consecration; the attack, not _wordy_ alone, of the hero upon it; his inglorious discomfiture; his wadling flight,

("With legs and arms he worked his course,
Like rider that outgoes his horse;")

his fall, and decoration with tar and feathers; the hoisting of the tory constable by a rope fastened to his waistband,

"Till, like the earth, as stretched on tenter,
He hung, self-balanced, on his centre;"

where, as Socrates (according to a witty comic poet of his day) got himself swung in mid air to clear his perceptions,

"Our culprit thus in purer sky,
With like advantage raised his eye;
And looking forth in prospect wide,
His _tory errors clearly spied_."

I had enjoyed so many a laugh at the whole scene, that when a Liberty Pole was first shown me (at Hartford) by an interesting fellow traveller, it required all my phlegm to refrain from clapping my hands with pleasure.

* * * * *

_Albany, July 27_.

It was nearly eleven--two hours later than usual--when we arrived last night. A series of little casualties delayed us: a thunder storm, quite as magnificent as most that we have in Virginia, only our thunder and lightning are far superior; a tree, of eight or nine inches diamater, blown across the road by a _semi_-tornado that accompanied the cloud; and divers other detentions. The storm met us near the top of a mountain, upon the line of Massachusetts and New York; obliging us to halt, and fend off the rain as best we might, by buttoning down the curtains. The descent hitherward, winds, for perhaps a mile, along the steep mountain side; commanding a fine view of the pretty village of Lebanon, and its prettier valley. Near Lebanon is a settlement of Shakers. The only incivility I have yet experienced from a stage driver, was a few miles this side of Lebanon; when, availing myself of a brief halt at a hotel to get some refreshment, I received an indistinct notice that the stage could not wait: and a minute or two after, some one called to me, "you are left, sir!" On going to the door, sure enough, the horses were in a sweeping trot, twenty or thirty yards (or, as they say here, four or five rods) off. I soon overtook them; and was admitted, the driver surlily grumbling at the unreasonableness of expecting him to _wait all day_. He was soured by being so late. And whoever considers how nice a point of honor--aye, and of duty, and interest--it is with that fraternity to be punctual, will not blame him very severely. They have been civil and obliging to me; the one by whom I slept yesterday morning, was even kind.

So well established is this good character of New England stage drivers, that ladies often travel by stage for scores of miles, with no other protector. And the driver does protect them, vigilantly. Every way, however, the freedom with which females trust themselves abroad there, and in the south, is remarkably different. I have seen handsome young ladies, of refined appearance, driving in a chaise, with no male attendant, to a town seven or eight miles from their home. And such things are of every day occurrence, attracting no especial notice. This freedom arises, I believe, from several causes. It is unquestionably owing, in part, to the sober, honest, and peaceful habits of the people, and to the certainty, that any wrong or insult offered to a female, would be promptly resented and punished; as in Ireland, under the reign of Brien the Brave, a beautiful damsel, richly attired, could walk alone, safe and fearless, from end to end of the kingdom.[1] Contiguity of residences aids this effect. Then, in the country villages of the north, there are many more ladies than gentlemen, from the emigration of the latter westward, and from their resorting to the maritime cities and to the ocean, for trade and seafaring employment. Besides, New Englanders have less time for pleasure than we have; and no Virginian will deny that "to tend the fair" is a _pleasure_. But the freedom of female movements is partly attributable also to the prevalence, among the New England men, of a less tender and obsequious _manner_ at least, towards the fair sex, than southrons habitually shew. They do not practise those minute, delicate attentions--that semi-adoration--ingrained in the very constitutions of our well bred men. (Not dandies--I speak of _men_.) Indeed our claim to superiority may be pushed still further. In affability to inferiors, our northern brethren are decidedly behind us. In their middling and lower classes, nay and in the lower _tier_ of their upper classes, this short-coming is particularly discernible: and extends even to their deportment towards equals. Clowns and servants--I beg pardon--"_helps_"--seem not to expect, or to relish, the courtesy which, in the Old Dominion, every true gentleman pays to the poorest man. Soon after entering the country, I found it necessary, if I would have respect from them, to abate much of the respectful address, which habit had rendered essential to my own comfort. Can these deficiencies of manner--supposing them to exist--and _my_ belief of them is confirmed by that of others--be ascribed to the utter proscription of _duelling_--that vaunted nurse of courtesy? I should rather attribute them to three other causes. _First_--a dislike to outward displays of emotion; a hard-featured sturdiness of soul, which, content to _feel_ kindly and deeply, and to _act_ kindly too in things of solid import, forgets or disdains the petty blandishments of _manner_, as idle forms, often the offspring of deceit, and unworthy of a mind bent upon substantial good. This estimable, but unamiable trait--derived purely from his sire, John Bull--makes Jonathan disliked on a superficial view. But those who consider him with candid attention, and bearing in mind the true saying of honest Kent, that

"They are not empty-hearted, whose low sound
Reverbs no hollowness"--

perhaps find the unsightly iron casket stored with the richest jewels. _Second_--(a less creditable cause; applicable only to the imputed want of courtesy towards inferiors)--The employment of whites, as servants. A master cannot treat these as his equals: it is utterly incompatible with the relation. His demeanor towards them, he naturally extends to their kindred, and to their class; that is, to all the poor around him. According to that general principle of divine wisdom and goodness, which, by a counterpoise of good and evil, equalizes every human lot, the blighting curse of slavery seems to carry this mitigation along with it--a more delicate and scrupulous regard, in the free, to even the _minute_ gratification of their fellow-free. Hence--and from their greater leisure to cultivate _manner_--chiefly arises, we may suppose, the superiority of slave-holders in the several points of politeness. Just so, according to Montesquieu, good-manners characterize a monarchy. Those who can see in this, a recompense either for a privation of the glorious right of self-government, or for the unmeasured ills entailed by domestic slavery upon a community, are welcome to the consolation. _Third_--(applicable, like the last, only to intercourse with inferiors)--the system of electioneering practised in the northern states. Usage and public opinion allow no man to declare himself a candidate for office. His doing so, would be political suicide. He must be _nominated_ by a CAUCUS--or CONVENTION, as "ears polite" now require it to be called. The convention is got up in this wise: One, or two, or three, tolerably influential men, having a friend whom they wish to exalt, call a private meeting of those over whom their influence especially is, and after insinuating his merits into the minds assembled, get a resolution passed, for a general _caucus_, of the whole party, in the _town_, or election district. All who were at the private meeting, bestir themselves diligently to congregate at the caucus, such persons, chiefly, as they, or some of them, can control: and in this they are so successful, that a nomination there, of the individual designated by the first movers of the scheme, is almost sure to result. This nomination goes abroad, as made by a _meeting of the people_; and unless some more skilfully conducted or powerfully headed counter movement take place, our candidate may count with reasonable certainty upon his election. Such is the machinery by which aspirants get themselves hoisted into office; as explained to me by one familiar with it--who had actually profitted by it more than once--and who owned that it was rather a shabby feature in the politics of his country. All aspirants, therefore, (and in our country, how few are not so--openly or covertly!) pay court, not to the people at large, but only to the known leaders of the caucus. Contemning the passive wires and puppets, they regard only the hand that works them. Thus the commonality, losing their importance in elections, lose their strongest hold upon the civility of their superiors. I need not run out the process. 'Twere well, if deprivation of bows, and smiles, and kind words, were all that the million suffer by the caucus system. But, by rendering them _insignificant in the body politic_, that system threatens popular government itself with overthrow. I wish, I long, to see my fellow Virginians copy our brethren of the north in many things: but _this system_, may they shun as the cholera! May they always adhere to their own frank and manly plan, of having the candidate appear before them, and face to face declare his sentiments and manifest his ability to defend the great interests with which he asks to be entrusted!

[Footnote 1: See T. Moore's Irish Melody--

"Rich and rare were the gems she wore."]

While talking of _manners_, it would have been seasonable to speak of the _impertinent inquisitiveness_, commonly ascribed to the Yankees. I have seen no trace of the fault: not even so much as our own people sometimes shew. While on foot, in the country, I was sometimes asked _where I was from_; but it was always where the question was suggested and justified by the course of conversation, or by the tenor and number of my own inquiries; or, to furnish a starting place for our colloquy--a platform whence to toss the ball of discourse: never, in a manner the least abrupt or offensive. Among the better classes, such as are casually met in stage-coaches and hotels, there was all the delicate forbearance in this respect, which marks true politeness every where.

Again--Our brother Jonathan is reputed, with us, a great sharper. _Yankee tricks_, and _Yankee knavery_, are ideas inseparable from the word _Yankee_. Now my own experience does not enable me to add a single one to the catalogue of anecdotes, by which that characteristic is supposed to be proven. Not a single cheat--not a single trick--was practised upon me during my sojourn in Yankee land: unless, indeed, it was so adroitly done, as to have been hitherto imperceptible to me. The fact is, our ideas on this point are derived almost entirely from those delectable samples of honesty, ycleped "Yankee pedlers," who for many years have so swarmed over the south: a race, by whom their countrymen at home protest, with hands uplift, against being judged; and by whom, in very truth, it is no more fair to judge them, than it would be to judge of us by the vilest scum of our society, who may have fled to Carolina or the Western forests, from the just punishment of their crimes, or from the detestation that dogged their vices.

It hardly needs be said--common fame loudly enough proclaims--that religion flourishes in New England, as much as in any part of the world. Yet it does not obtrude itself upon the traveller's notice. It is a quiet, Sabbath-keeping, morals-preserving, good-doing, and heaven-serving religion, free from several extravagancies, that have elsewhere crept into christianity. Meetings for eight, ten, or twelve days together, and suspending, meanwhile, all attention to important secular duties, I have not seen or heard of: even a meeting at all, on a working day, did not meet my view during the (nearly) four weeks of my stay; except funerals. The people seem to think both parts of the third commandment alike binding: "_Six days shalt thou labor_," as well as "_Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy_." Dancing is by no means proscribed, or unusual. It is taught at many or most of the high female boarding schools. Even in Connecticut, "junkettings" are not unfrequent, lively enough to have pleased our venerable Pendleton, yet "soberly" enough conducted, to have suited Lady Grace. At New Haven, within bowshot of Yale College, a dance was kept up for two successive nights till eleven or twelve o'clock, in an apartment just across the street from my lodging. True, I have seen no match for my father's friend and mine, Dr. K----, who, since the birth of his seventh grandchild, has so often realized that pleasing trait in the picture of French rural life--

"And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,
Has frisked beneath the burthen of three score;"