Chapter VIII: Part 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JUDGE BLACKSTONE--_A Poet_.

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

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.

BY SIR WM. BLACKSTONE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

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

H. E. J.

LINES.

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

_Air_--"Roy's Wife."

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

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

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE EXILE.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

THE MINIATURE.

BY GEO. P. MORRIS.

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAM.

THE MISTAKE CORRECTED.

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SPIDER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ELIZA.

_Maine_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DIALOUGE,

From the Italian of Francisco da Lemene.

BY R. H. WILDE, _of Georgia_.

TIRSIS. PHILLIS.

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

_Tirsis_. Speak out!--but what?

_Phillis_. I must not tell you that--

_Tirsis_. Dearest! why not?

_Phillis_. Perhaps you'd laugh at me?

_Tirsis_. Indeed I sha'nt.

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

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

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

_Tirsis_. Know what?

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

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

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

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

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

NEWPORT, R. I. August 29, 1834.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA,
_January 20, 1835_.

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

FROM THE NOTE BOOK OF MY MOTHER.

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THOUGHTS ON SEEING THE EVENING STAR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

JEU DE MOTS.--ON A NAME.

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

A. Z.

MISS MARTINEAU.

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

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

* * * * *

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

LINES.

ON MISS MARTINEAU.

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

_Richmond, Feb. 28_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPITAPH.

ON A YOUNG LADY.

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAM.

ON A WALTZING GIRL.

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

Q.

ANOTHER.--ON THE SAME.

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

Q.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

Oh! to forget her!--_Young_.

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

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

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

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

MONOS.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE TRUE FOUNDATION.

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

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

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

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

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

On her talking against slavery.

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

_Richmond, February 28_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUST NOT.

BY A. L. B. M.D.

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

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

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

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

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

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

VARIETY.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

From Littel's Museum of Foreign Literature.

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

* * * * *

Scraps from the "Spirit of the Times."

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

LADY'S REPLY TO AN IMPERTINENT.

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

"Niobe of nations--there she stands!"

* * * * *

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

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

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

EDITORIAL REMARKS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EXTRACTS FROM THE LETTERS OF CORRESPONDENTS.

FROM PENNSYLVANIA.

_Philadelphia, Feb. 17, 1835_.

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

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

JOSEPH HOPKINSON.

* * * * *

FROM WASHINGTON CITY.

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

* * * * *

FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA.

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

* * * * *

FROM GEORGIA.

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

* * * * *

FROM ALABAMA.

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

FROM OHIO.

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

* * * * *

FROM TENNESSEE.

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

* * * * *

FROM WESTERN VIRGINIA.

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

TO CORRESPONDENTS, CONTRIBUTORS, &c.

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

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

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

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

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