Chapter XXIV: Front Matter (24)

About the period of what "_I am gaun to tell_," the ancient aristocracy of Virginia had passed through its death struggle; the times when the rich were every thing and the poor nothing, had passed away; and the high pretensions of the sons of the Cavaliers had yielded to the more levelling opinions of the Roundheads. The badges of distinction, such as coats of arms and liveries, had become too odious to be generally kept up; occasionally however the latter were seen, but so rarely, that they looked like the spectres of departed greatness, and excited a feeling of contempt or pity for the weakness of the master, rather than respect for his wealth and rank. There was one class of people nevertheless, who retained all their attachment to these distinctive marks; and indeed they do so to this day: I mean the class of servants who belonged to the old families. They were the veriest aristocrats upon earth, and hated with the most unrelenting hatred all the ignoble blood of the land, and deeply deplored the transition of property from the nobles to the serfs. Though their own "_ancient but ignoble blood_" had literally almost "_crept through scoundrels ever since the flood_," they detested the poor and adored the rich. I shall never forget the Fall of the year ----. I had just graduated at one of our northern colleges, and received my two diplomas, with their red ribbons and seals attached. They were deposited by my good friend Andrew McMackin, the most expert diploma rigger in all the village, in a plain cylindrical case of pasteboard, for safe keeping, and would have remained there probably to this day unmolested, had not the rats made an inroad upon them, and in a single night demolished sigillum and signature--all that it had cost me years of hard labor to obtain--aye, and twenty dollars to boot. Not satisfied, I suppose, with the attestation of the president and venerable board of trustees, they were desirous of adding their own ratification of my pretensions to science. Be that as it may; full of delightful anticipation at the prospect of returning to my native state, after an absence of four years, I took my seat in the mail stage, and travelled three hundred miles without once going to bed. Such a journey at this day of steamboat and railroad car would be nothing, but at that time it was a great undertaking, and attended with much fatigue. The vehicles were crazy and often broke down, and the passengers had the pleasure of paying dearly for the privilege of walking many a mile through the mud. At length I arrived at the little town of F----, the end of my journey on the great mail route, where I expected to meet with some kind of conveyance to take me into the country to my uncle's. As I leaped from the carriage to the pavement, where many loiterers were gathered to witness the arrival of the stage, I found myself suddenly locked in the arms of some one, who exclaimed, "_There he is, the very moral of his grandpapa!_ God bless your honor, how do ye do? I'm so glad to see you." Extricating myself with some degree of embarrassment, because of the crowd around me, I perceived that the salutation proceeded from one of our old servants, who stood gazing upon me with the moat benevolent smile. His appearance was quite outré to one who had lived so long at the north. His old and faded livery, was blue turned up with yellow; he held in his hand a horseman's cap, without the bearskin; his boots had once been white-topped, but could no longer claim that distinctive epithet; like Sir Hudibras, he wore but one spur, though probably for a different reason; his high forehead glistened in the sun, and his slightly grey hair was combed neatly back, and queud behind with an eelskin so tight that he could hardly wink his eyes, exhibiting a face remarkably intelligent and strongly marked, with a nose uncommonly high and hawkbilled for a negro. Perceiving my embarrassment, he drew back with a very courtly bow, and begged pardon, declaring he was so glad to see me, he had forgotten himself and made too free. I made haste to assure him that he had not--gave him a hearty shake by the hand--called him Uncle Simon, a name he had been always accustomed to from me, and drawing him aside, overwhelmed him with questions about every body and every thing at home. Tell me, said I, how is my uncle? "I thank you sir, quite hearty, and much after the old sort--full of his projjecks, heh! heh! perpechil motion, and what not." What, said I, is he at that still? "Oh yes--oh yes--and carridges to go without hawses; God love you, Mass Ned, I don't think they ken go without animel nater." And how does my aunt like all this? "Ah!" said he, putting up his hands with an air of disgust, "She can't abide it--things go on badly. You 'member my four greys? So beautiful!--my four in hand!--all gone, all sold. Why, sir, I could whistle them hawses to the charrut jest as easy as snap my finger. Our fine London charut too! _that's gone_--and my poor Missis your aunt, has nothin to ride in, but a nasty, pitiful push phaton." I am sorry to hear it, Simon. "Why, Mass Ned, what mek you all let them Demmy Cats sarve you so? What you call 'em? Publicanes? Yes, _I'd_ cane 'um as old master used to do." But Simon, how is cousin Mary? "Miss Mary? Oh, Miss Mary is a beauty; gay as a young filly, and she walks upon her pasterns ----." Well, well, said I, interrupting him, Simon let us be off; what have you brought for me to ride? "Old Reglus, sir, your old favorite." Having taken some refreshment, and transferred my clothes to the portmanteau, I mounted Regulus, who still shewed his keeping. He was a bright bay, and his hair was as glossy as silk under Simon's management; his eye still glanced its fire, and his wide nostrils gave token of his wind. He knew me, I shall ever believe it, for my voice made him prick his ears, as if listening to the music of former days. It seemed to inspire him with new life; he flew like an arrow, and Simon found it impossible to keep up with me, mounted as he was on a high trotting, rawboned devil, that made the old man bound like a trapball, whenever he missed his up-and-down-position movement. His figure, thus bobbing in front of a monstrous portmanteau and bearskin, was so ludicrous, I could not forbear laughing; and reining up my steed, I told him I would ride slower for the sake of conversation with him. "Do, my good sir," cried he, "for this vile garran will knock the breath out of my body. If I had but my old hawse Grey Dick alive agin--that hawse, Mass Ned, was the greatest hawse upon the face of the yearth; I rod him ninety miles the hottest day that ever come from heaven, and when I got through our outer gate, he seized the bit between his teeth, and run away with me, and never stopped till he got clean into {182} the stable. Whenever I fed him, I was 'bliged to shet the stable door and go away, for if he heard me move or a stirrup jingle, he would'nt eat another mouthful, but stood with his head up and his eyes flying about, impatient for me to mount." I knew this was the moment to put in a leading question to bring out a story I had heard a thousand times. That was not the horse that ran away with you when a boy? "No--no--that was Whalebone; _your_ grandpapa used always to go to court in his coach and six; I can see him now, in his great big wig, hanging down upon his shoulders, and powdered as white as a sheet. I was then a little shaver, and always went behind the carridge to open the gates. Waitinman George rod the old gentleman's ridin horse Bearskin, and led Mass Bobby's hawse Whalebone; Mass Bobby rod in the carridge with old master. Well, one day what should George do but put me up upon Whalebone, as big a devil as ever was; soonever I got upon him, off he went by the coach as hard as he could stave; old master hallooed and bawled--he'll kill him--he'll kill him--George how dare you put Simon upon Whalebone? Pshey! the more he hallooed the more Whalebone run. I pulled and pulled till I got out of sight, and turned down the quarter stretch, and then _I did give him the timber_--Flying Childers was nothin to him. When old master got home, there I was with Whalebone as cool as a _curcumber_. I made sure I should get a caning, but all he said was, D--n the fellow! I 'blieve he could ride old Whalebone's tail off--heh! heh! heh!"

I am sorry I cannot do more justice to the eloquence of Simon, who excelled in all the arts of oratory. His eyes spoke as much as his tongue; his gestures were vehement, but quite appropriate; he uttered some words in as startling a voice as Henry Clay, and his forefinger did as much execution as John Randolph's. As to his political opinions, he was the most confirmed aristocrat, and thought it the birthright of his master's family, to ride over the poor, booted and spurred. It was his delight to tell of his meeting one day, as he swept along the road with his smoking four in hand, a poor man on horseback, whom he contemptuously styled a _Johnny_. He ordered the man to give the road; but as he did not obey him as readily as he desired, he resolved to punish him. By a dexterous wheel of his leaders, he brought the chariot wheel in contact with the fellow's knee, and shaved every button off as nicely as he could have shaved his beard with a razor. But enough of Simon. I beguiled the way by drawing him out upon his favorite topics, until we got within sight of my uncle's house, a fine old mansion, with an avenue of cedars a mile in length. They had been kept for several generations neatly trimmed, and he who had dared to mar their beauty with an axe, would have been considered a felon, and met his fate without benefit of clergy. I have lived to see them all cut down by the ruthless hand of an overseer, who sees no beauty in any thing but a cornstalk. However, this is wandering from my present theme. Then they were in all their evergreen loveliness, and I hailed them as my ancient friends, as I galloped by them, with a joyous feeling at approaching the scene of my childhood. The folding doors soon flew wide open, and the whole family rushed out to meet me with true-hearted old fashioned Virginia promptitude. I must not attempt to describe a meeting which is always better imagined than described. Let it suffice, that after the most affectionate greeting, which extended to every servant about the premises, I was ushered to my bed room at a late hour, with as much of state as could be mustered about the now decaying establishment, and soon sunk into a profound slumber, well earned by the toils and fatigues of my journey. Early the next morning, before I left my room, my excellent and revered uncle paid me a visit, and ordered in the never failing julep,--_such a one as would have done honor to Chotank_. At the same time he suggested to me that he would greatly prefer my taking a mixture of his own, which he extolled as much as Don Quixotte did his balsam to Sancho, or Dr. Sangrado his warm water to Gil Blas. It was a pleasant beverage, he said, compounded of an acid and an alkali. He had discovered by close observation, that all diseases had their origin in acid, and that alkali of course was the grand panacea; even poisons were acids, and he had no doubt that he should be able to form a concrete mass, by means of beef gall and alkali, which would resemble and equal in virtue the mad stone. If I felt the slightest acidity of stomach, I would find myself much relieved by one of his powders. He had written to Dr. Rush on the subject, and he shewed me a letter from that gentleman, at which he laughed heartily, and in which the Doctor protested he might as well attempt to batter the rock of Gibraltar with mustard seed shot as to attack the yellow fever with alkali. I could not help smiling at the earnestness of my dear uncle, and assured him that I had no doubt of the virtues of his medicine, but as I was quite well, I would rather try the anti-fogmatic; and if I should feel indisposed, would resort to his panacea; although I secretly resolved to have as little to do with it as Gil Blas had with water. Having dressed myself and descended to the breakfast room, I there met my aunt and cousin, who soon made me acquainted with the present condition of the family. Every thing was fast declining, in consequence of the total absorption of the mind of my uncle in his visionary schemes; and I saw abundant evidence of the wreck of his fortune, in the absence of a thousand comforts and elegancies which I had been accustomed to behold. He soon joined us, and such was his excellence of character, that we most carefully avoided casting the smallest damp upon his ardor. Indeed, he was a man of great natural talent and much acquired information, and was far above the ridicule which was sometimes played off upon him by his more ignorant neighbors. I almost begin to think that _we_ were the mistaken ones, when I look around and see the perfection of many of his schemes, which I then thought wholly impracticable. When old Simon thought that a carriage could never go without _animel nater_, he certainty never dreamed of a railroad car, nor of the steam carriages of England; and when my uncle gravely told me that he should fill up his icehouse, and manufacture ice as he wanted it in Summer, by letting out air highly condensed in a tight copper vessel, upon water, I did not dream of the execution of the plan by some French projector. I must not be thus diffuse, or I shall weary the patience of my reader. A ride was proposed after breakfast, and my uncle immediately invited me to try his newly invented vehicle which could not be overset. {183} I have constructed, said he, a carriage with a moveable perch; by means of which the body swings out horizontally, whenever the wheels on one side pass over any high obstacle or ground more elevated than the other wheels rest upon; and I shall be glad to exhibit it to a young man who is fresh from college, and must be acquainted with the principles of mechanics. I readily accepted his proposal, although I trembled for my neck; but declared I had no mechanical turn whatever, and could not construct a wheelbarrow. He was sorry to hear this, as he was in hopes I would be the depositary of all his schemes, and bring them to perfection in case of his death, for the benefit of his family. We soon set off on our ride; and Simon was the driver. As I anticipated, in descending a hill where the ground presented great inequality, the whole party were capsized, and nothing saved our bones but the lowness of the vehicle. Never shall I forget the chagrin of my uncle, nor the impatient contemptuous look of Simon, as he righted the carriage; he did not dare to expostulate with his master, but could not forbear saying that he had never met with such an accident when he drove his four greys. "Ah, there is the cause," said my uncle, much gratified at having an excuse for his failure; "Simon is evidently intoxicated; old man, never presume to drive me again when you are not perfectly sober; you will ruin the most incomparable contrivance upon earth." Simon contented himself with a sly wink at me, and we made the best of our way home; my uncle promising me another trial in a short time, and I determining to avoid it, if human ingenuity could contrive the means. The next day, as I was amusing myself with a book, my uncle came in from his workshop, with a face beaming with pleasure; and entering the room, proceeded in the most careful manner to close all the doors; and producing a small crooked stick, said to me with a mysterious air, "My boy, this stick, small and inconsiderable as it seems to be, has made your fortune. It is worth a million of dollars, for it has suggested to me an improvement in my machine for producing perpetual motion, which puts the thing beyond all doubt." Is it possible, cried I, that so small a stick can be worth so much? "Yes, depend upon it--and I carefully closed the doors, because I would not be overheard for the world. Some fellow might slip before me to the patent office, and rob me of my treasure." I observed that nobody was there who could possibly do so. "Yes, somebody might be casually passing, and I cannot be too vigilant. I take it for granted," he resumed, "that you are apprised of the grand desideratum in this business. You do not imagine, with the ignorant, that I expect to make matter last longer than God intended; the object is to get a machine to keep time so accurately, that it may be used at sea to ascertain the longitude with precision. Do you know that a gentleman has already constructed a time piece, for which the Board of Longitude paid him fifty thousand pounds; but owing to the metallic expansion, it would not be entirely accurate." I answered that I had not so much as heard of the Board of Longitude--and he proceeded to explain his improvement, of which I did not comprehend a syllable. All that I felt sure of, although I did not tell him so, was that he would not succeed in realizing the million of dollars; and, accordingly, when admitted as a great favor into his sanctum sanctorum, the work shop, to witness his machine put in motion, it stood most perversely still after one revolution, and "_some slight alteration_" remained to be made to the end of the chapter,--until hope became extinct in every breast save that of the projector. I could fill a volume with anecdotes of this sort, but will add only one, as descriptive of the very great height to which visionary notions may be carried. My uncle was a federalist, and of course hated Buonaparte from the bottom of his soul. He told me as a most profound secret, that he had discovered the means of making an old man young again, by removing from him the atmospheric pressure, and that nothing deterred him from patenting his discovery, but the fear that Buonaparte would attach his machinery to a body of soldiers and fly across the British Channel, and thus light down in the midst of England, and make an easy conquest of the only barrier left upon earth to secure the liberties of mankind. Eheu! jam satis! thought I. In this way did my poor uncle spend his time, to the utter ruin of a fine estate, which was surrendered to the management of that most pestilent of the human race, an overseer,--who would not at last be at the trouble of furnishing the old gentleman with wood enough to keep him warm in his spacious edifice. The means he resorted to, to reprove the overseer, were not less characteristic and laughable than many of his singular notions. One very cold day he sent for him; the man attended, and was ushered with much solemnity into an apartment where a single chump was burning feebly in the chimney place, and a table was standing in the centre of the room, covered with papers, pen and ink. My uncle received him with unusual courtesy, and ordered the servant to set a chair for Mr. Corncob by the _fire_,--with a peculiar emphasis on the word. "I have sent for you, Mr. Corncob," said he, "to get you to witness my will. You see, sir," pointing at the same time to the fire--"you see, sir, how small a probability there is that I shall survive the present winter. I am anxious to settle my affairs previous to my being attacked by the pleurisy, and have therefore sent for you to aid me in doing so." This was a severe reproof, and the man having done as he was bid, retired with an air the most sheepish imaginable. I fill up the picture by stating that I married my cousin, and inherited the estate in due course of time; but a mortgage swallowed it up as effectually as an earthquake--and poor old Simon died of a broken heart when Regulus was knocked off at the sale of his master's property at twenty dollars, to the man whom he hated of all others, Christopher Corncob, Esquire.

NUGATOR.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES WRITTEN IMPROMPTU,

On a Lady's intimating a wish to see some verses of mine in the Messenger.

A Lady requests me to write
Some lines for your Messenger's muse,
And I cannot be so impolite,
By any means, as to refuse.

So I scribble these words in my way,
In spite of Minerva, you see;
But Venus will smile on my lay,
And that is sufficient for me.

A. B.

{184}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE PEASANT-WOMEN OF THE CANARIES.

Beautiful Islands, how fair you lie
Beneath the light of your cloudless sky,
And the light green waves that around you play,
Seem keeping forever a holiday;--
Beautiful Islands, how bright you rise
'Twixt the crystal sea and the sunny skies!

The luscious grape, with its royal hue
Veil'd in a tint of the softest blue,
Hangs on the vine in its purple prime
As proud to garnish its own sweet clime,
And the olive sports in your soft, sweet air
Its pale green foliage--a native there.

Music is ceaseless your trees among,
Thou Island-home of a choral throng;
Music unheard on a foreign shore;--
Songs of the free--which they will not pour
When exile-minstrels compelled to roam--
They're sacred songs to their sweet isle-home.

Why, though it's light in the Olive-bower,
And fragrance breathes from the Orange-flower,
And the sea is still and the air is calm
And the early dew is a liquid balm--
Why are the young ones forbade to roam,
Or stray from the door of their Cottage-home?[1]

In the light that plays through the Olive-bower,
In the scent that breathes from the Orange-flower,
In the liquid balm of the early dew,
In the smooth, calm sea with its emerald hue,
Can the Peasant-mother no charm descry
To protect from the curse of the "evil eye."

While they shall loiter the trees among,
Echoing the wild Canary's song,
The "_mal de ajo_" may on them rest
And blight the pride of the mother's breast;
Her bosom throbs with a secret dread,
Though paths of Eden her loved ones tread.

Lo, from the Peak, with its hoary crown,
The "_el a pagador_" sails down,
And over the Cot in the moon-light floats,
Foreboding death in its awful notes--
Who in that Cottage but pants for breath,
And hears that voice as the voice of death?

Richly the vine with its deep green leaf,
Girdles the base of the Teneriffe,--
Yet there, in the prime of the sunny day,
The Peasant-maiden dares not to stray,
Till the secret charm to her arm is set,
And her bosom throbs to an amulet.

When, oh! when, shall darkness flee,
From the rosy Isles of the sunny sea?
The light of Truth with its living ray,
Pour on their dwellers a clearer day,
And _Mind_ from the chain of its darkness rise,
Like a bird set free, to its native skies?

ELIZA.

_Maine_.

[Footnote 1: D. Y. Brown's Superstitions of the Canary Islands.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE HEART.

Man's heart! what melancholy things
Are garner'd up in thee!--
What solace unto life it brings
That none the heart can see--
'Tis shut from every human eye,
Close curtain'd from the view;
The scene alike of grief or joy--
Man's Hell and Heaven too.

Should all mankind combine to tear
The curtain, thrown around,
Their labor would be spent in air--
It is his hallow'd ground:
Within thy magic circle, Heart!
So potent is his spell,
No human hand hath strength to part
Or turn aside the veil.

In sadness, there's a pleasure soft,
"Which mourners only know;"
My heart affords this treasure oft,
And there I love to go;
It is the chosen spot where I
Can live my life anew--
My Home!--my Castle!--my Serai!
Which none must dare break through.

In thee, my Heart! I am alone
Quite unrestrained and free,
Thou'rt hung with pictures all my own,
And drawn for none but me;
All that in secret passes there,
Forever I can hide;
Ambition--love--or dark despair--
My jealousy--or pride.

Yes, when ambitious--ardent--young--
I thought the world my own,
My glowing portraits there were hung;
How have their colors flown!--
Some are by Time, defaced so far
I look on them with pain;
But Time nor nothing else can mar
The portrait of my JANE.

I placed her there who won my soul;
No creature saw the maid;
I gazed in bliss, without control,
On every charm displayed:
It was a sweet, impassion'd hour,
When not an eye was near
To steal into my lonely bower,
And kiss her image there.

Earth held not on its globe the man
Who breathed that holy air;
No mortal eye but mine did scan
My folly with my fair;
Sole monarch of that silent spot,
All things gave place to me;
I did but wish--no matter what--
Each obstacle would flee.

And did she love? She loved me not,
But gave her hand away; {185}
I hied me to my lonely spot--
In anguish passed the day;
And such a desolation wide,
Spread o'er that holy place,
The stream of life itself seemed dried,
Or ebbing out apace.

But what I did--what madly said--
I cannot tell to any--
Her portrait in its place hath staid,
Though years have flown so many;
Nor can each lovely lineament
So deep impress'd, depart,
Till Nature shall herself be spent,
And thou shalt break, MY HEART.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--I send you a Parody upon Bryant's Autumn, apparently written by some disconsolate citizen of Richmond after the adjournment of the Legislature in time past. If the picture be faithfully drawn, it may perhaps amuse the members of the assembly who are now in your city.

NUGATOR.

PARODY ON BRYANT'S AUTUMN.

The very dullest days are come, the dullest of the year,
When all our great Assembly men are gone away from here;
Heaped up in yonder Capitol, how many bills lie dead,
They just allowed to live awhile, to knock them on the head;
Tom, Dick, and Harry all have gone and left the silent hall,
And on the now deserted square we meet no one at all--
Where are the fellows? the fine young fellows that were so lately
here
And vexed the drowsy ear of night with frolic and good cheer.
Alas! they all are at their homes--the glorious race of fellows,
And some perhaps are gone to forge, and some are at the bellows.
Old Time is passing where they are, but Time will pass in vain;
All _never_ can, though _some_ may be, _transported_ here again:
Old "_What d'ye call him_," he's been off a week, or maybe more,
And took a little negro up, behind and one before;
But _What's his name_ and _You know who_, they lingered to the last,
And neither had a dollar left and seemed to be downcast;
Bad luck had fallen on them as falls the plague on men,
And their phizzes were as blank as if they'd never smile again;
And then when comes December next, as surely it will come,
To call the future delegate from out his distant home,
When the sound of cracking nuts is heard in lobby and in hall,
And glimmer in the smoky light old Shockoe Hill and all,
An old friend searches for the fellows he knew the year before,
And sighs to find them on the Hill Capitoline, no more;
But then he thinks of one who her promise had belied,
The beautiful Virginia, who had fallen in her pride.
In that great house 'twas said she fell where stands her gallant
chief,
Who well might weep in marble, that her race had been so brief--
Yet not unmeet it was he thought--oh no, ye heavenly powers!
Since she trusted those good fellows, who kept such shocking hours.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

Audire magnos jam videor duces
Non indecoro pulvere sordidos.--_Hor. Car. L. ii. 1._

I stood upon the heights above Charlestown, and was silently contrasting the then peaceful aspect of the scene with that which it presented on the day of wrath and blood which had rendered the place so memorable in story, as my fancy filled with images of the past and once more crowded the hill--not indeed with knights and paladins of old,

Sed rusticorum mascula militum
Proles, Sabellis docta ligonibus
Versare glebas, et severae
Matris ad arbitrium recisos
Portare fustes.--_Hor. Lib. iii. Car. 6._

As the silent hosts arose in imagination before me, I thought of the complicated feelings which on that day must have stirred their hearts; I thought of the breasts which kindled under the insult of invasion and were nerved with the stern determination to play out the game upon which was staked their all of earthly hope or fear, and it struck me that the gallant Warren, whose voice had often made the patriot's heart to glow and nerved the warrior's arm, might perhaps have addressed them in sentiment something as follows:

THE BATTLE OF BREED'S HILL.

Look down upon the bay, my men,
As proudly comes the foe;
Ah! send them back their shout agen,
That patriot hearts may glow.

They come to us in pomp of war--
The tyrant in his gold;
Our arms are few--they're stronger far,
But who will say as bold?

No Briton ever forged the chains
Shall bind our hands at will;
The Pilgrim spirit still remains,
Out on the western hill.

Their power may awe the coward slave,
But not the stalwart free;
Their steel may drive us to the grave,
But not from liberty.

Our fathers spirit boils along
Impetuous through our veins;
We ask to know, where are the strong,
To bind us in their chains?

Then let the foe look to his steel,
And count his numbers strong;
We bide him here for wo or weal,
As he shall know ere long.

We'll dare him to the last of death--
We've sworn it in our hearts;
We stand upon our native heath--
We'll hold till life departs.

Oh! what is death to slavery!
The dead at least are free:
And what is life for victory!
We strike for _liberty!_

This sod shall warm beneath our feet,
All reeking in our gore,
And hearts that gladly cease to beat,
The foe must trample o'er. {186}

Our boys are bold--their mothers stern,
Will rear them true and brave,
And many noble hearts shall burn
To free a father's grave.

Let every tongue be hushed and still,
Each soldier hold his breath--
They're marching up the sloping hill,--
And now prepare for death.

ALPHA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A LADY.

Oh! do not sing--my soul is wrung
When those sweet tones salute mine ear;
Thou canst not sing as _thou hast_ sung--
As _I have heard_, I cannot hear.
Then do not breathe to me one strain
Of those I loved in years gone by;
Their melody can only throw
A darker cloud upon my sky.

Speak not to me!--thine accents fall
By far too sadly on my ear;
They _told_ of love, and hope, and joy--
They _tell_ of life made lone and drear.
No word speak thou! The tones are changed
That breathed to me thy young heart's vow
Of all-enduring fondness; aye!
Thou canst but speak in _kindness_ now.

And worse than all would be the smile
Which once was mine, and only mine;
Thou wert my hope--thy love my pride--
Thy heart my spirit's chosen shrine.
But _now_--oh! smile not on me _now_;
'Tis insult--worse, 'tis mockery!
Estranged, and cold, and false, thou art;
Smile if thou wilt--but not on me.

M. S. L.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO IANTHE.

Think of me when the morning wakes,
With a smile that's bright and a blush that's new;
And the wave-rocked goddess gently shakes
From her rosy wings, the gems of dew.

Think of me, when the day-god burns
In his noon-tide blaze and his purest light;
And think of me when his chariot turns
To the sombre shades of silent night.

Think of me, when the evening's store
Of brilliance, fades on the wondering eye;
And think of me, when the flowers pour
Their incense to the star-lit sky.

Think of me when the evening star,
Through the deep blue sky shall dart his beams;
And think of me when the mind, afar,
Shall chase the forms of its joyous dreams.

Think of me in the hour of mirth--
Think of me in the hour of prayer--
Aye! think amidst each scene of earth,
You feel my spirit is mingling there.

For morning's beam--nor evening's light--
Nor days of woe--nor hours of glee--
Nor e'en religion's holiest rite,
Can steal or force my thoughts from thee.

FERGUS.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET.

FROM THE PORTUGUES OF CAMOENS.

BY R. H. WILDE, _Of Georgia_.

Sonnet xliii. of the edition of 1779-1780.

"O cysne quando sente ser chegada," &c.

They say the Swan, though mute his whole life long,
Pours forth sweet melody when life is flying,
Making the desert plaintive with his song,
Wondrous and sad, and sweetest still while dying;
Is it for life and pleasure past he's sighing,
Grieving to lose what none can e'er prolong?
Oh, no! he hails its close, on death relying
As an escape from violence and wrong:
And thus, dear lady! I at length perceiving,
The fatal end of my unhappy madness,
In thy oft broken faith no more believing,
Welcome despair's sole comforter with gladness,
And mourning one so fair is so deceiving,
Breathe out my soul in notes of love and sadness.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAMME FRANCAISE.

Lit de mes plaisirs; lit de mes pleurs;
Lit on je nais; lit on je mours;
Tu nous fais voir combien procheins
Sort nos plaisirs de nos chagrins.

TRANSLATION.

Couch of Sorrow; Couch of Joy;
Of Life's first breath, and Death's last sigh;
Thou makest us see what neighbors near
Our pleasures and our sorrows are.

The above was the execution of a task proposed by a French gentleman, who, boasting the piquant terseness of his language, said that the original could not be rendered into English.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUE CONSOLATION.

He had wept o'er the honored, in age who die;
O'er the loved,--in beauty's bloom;
O'er the blighted buds of infancy:
Till all earth was to him a Tomb.

And sorrow had drunk his youthful blood,
And hastened the work of Time;
And the cankering tooth of ingratitude
Had withered his manhood's prime.

But he turned from earth, and he looked to the sky,
His sorrow by faith beguiling;
Where Mercy sits enthroned on high,
With his loved ones round her smiling.

He looked to Eternity's bright shore,
From the wreck of perished years;
And Mercy's voice, through the storm's wild roar,
Came down to sooth his fears.

That gentle voice has charmed away
The frenzy from his brain;
And his withered heart, in her eye's mild ray,
May bud and bloom again; {187}

And her smile has chased the gloom from his brow,
So late by clouds o'ercast;
And his cheek is bright with the sun-set glow,
That tells that the Storm is past.

And his heart returns to the world again,
But forgets not the world above;
For Heaven sends love to sooth earthly pain,
But Heaven's whole bliss is Love.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET.

BY R. H. WILDE, _Of Georgia_.

Thou hast thy faults VIRGINIA!--yet I own
I love thee still, although no son of thine;
For I have climb'd thy mountains, not alone--
And made the wonders of thy vallies mine,
Finding from morning's dawn 'till day's decline
Some marvel yet unmarked--some peak whose throne
Was loftier; girt with mist, and crown'd with pine,
Some deep and rugged glen with copse o'ergrown,
The birth of some sweet valley, or the line
Traced by some silver stream that murmured lone;
Or the dark cave where hidden crystals shine,
Or the wild arch across the blue sky thrown;[1]
Or else those traits of nature, more divine
That in some favored child of thine had shone.

[Footnote 1: The Natural Bridge.]

[The following letter, written by a distinguished President of the oldest College in Virginia, has been already or rather formerly before the public;--but no apology is necessary for transferring it to the columns of the "Messenger." Its elegant style and still more excellent sentiments, will always command admiration,--and we doubt whether we could render a more essential service to society than to republish it annually, in order that every young married lady (at least within the range of our subscription) should receive the benefit of its precepts. Certain we are, that more wholesome advice conveyed in more agreeable language, we have seldom seen contained in the same space. It is of itself a volume of instruction, and we do most cheerfully recommend it to the softer sex, whether married or single; for the married may profit by it even after years of conjugal tranquillity--and the single may at least _expect_ to profit. It is more especially applicable, however, to her who has just sworn her vows on the altar of hymen--whose life of bliss and peace, or misery and discord, may depend upon the first six or twelve months of "prudent, amiable, uniform conduct."

Let it not be understood, however, that we are believers in the doctrine, that the pleasures of the matrimonial voyage are wholly dependant upon the conduct of the lady. She is but the second in command, and still greater responsibilities rest upon him who stands at the helm and guides the frail bark of human happiness. We should indeed be thankful if some of our highly gifted and experienced friends would prepare a _counterpart_ to this valuable letter of advice, designed more particularly for the edification of such of us lords of creation as have either contracted or are likely to contract the nuptial bond. As to the old bachelors they are an incorrigible race, upon whom such advice would be wasted, and therefore they need not trouble themselves to read it.]

ADVICE FROM A FATHER TO HIS ONLY DAUGHTER.

WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER HER MARRIAGE.

_My dear Daughter_,--You have just entered into that state which is replete with happiness or misery. The issue depends upon that prudent, amiable, uniform conduct, which wisdom and virtue so strongly recommend, on the one hand, or on that imprudence which a want of reflection or passion may prompt, on the other.

You are allied to a man of honor, of talents, and of an open, generous disposition. You have, therefore, in your power, all the essential ingredients of domestic happiness; it cannot be marred, if you now reflect upon that system of conduct which you ought invariably to pursue--if you now see clearly, the path from which you will resolve never to deviate. Our conduct is often the result of whim or caprice, often such as will give us many a pang, unless we see beforehand, what is always the most praiseworthy, and the most essential to happiness.

The first maxim which you should impress deeply upon your mind, is, never to attempt to control your husband by opposition, by displeasure, or any other mark of anger. A man of sense, of prudence, of warm feelings, cannot, and will not, bear an opposition of any kind, which is attended with an angry look or expression. The current of his affections is suddenly stopped; his attachment is weakened; he begins to feel a mortification the most pungent; he is belittled even in his own eyes; and be assured, the wife who once excites those sentiments in the breast of a husband, will never regain the high ground which she might and ought to have retained. When he marries her, if he be a good man, he expects from her smiles, not frowns; he expects to find in her one who is not to control him--not to take from him the freedom of acting as his own judgment shall direct, but one who will place such confidence in him, as to believe that his prudence is his best guide. Little things, what in reality are mere trifles in themselves, often produce bickerings, and even quarrels. Never permit them to be a subject of dispute; yield them with pleasure, with a smile of affection. Be assured that one difference outweighs them all a thousand, or ten thousand times. A difference with your husband ought to be considered as the greatest calamity--as one that is to be most studiously guarded against; it is a demon which must never be permitted to enter a habitation where all should be peace, unimpaired confidence, and heartfelt affection. Besides, what can a woman gain by her opposition or her differences? Nothing. But she loses every thing; she loses her husband's respect for her virtues, she loses his love, and with that, all prospect of future happiness. She creates her own misery, and then utters idle and silly complaints, but utters them in vain. The love of a husband can be retained only by the high opinion which he entertains of his wife's goodness of heart, of her amiable disposition, of the sweetness of her temper, of her prudence, and of her devotion to him. Let nothing upon any occasion, ever lessen that opinion. On the contrary, it should augment every day: he should have much more reason to admire her for those {188} excellent qualities, which will cast a lustre over a virtuous woman, when her personal attractions are no more.

Has your husband staid out longer than you expected? When he returns, receive him as the partner of your heart. Has he disappointed you in something you expected, whether of ornament, or furniture, or of any conveniency? Never evince discontent; receive his apology with cheerfulness. Does he, when you are housekeeper, invite company without informing you of it, or bring home with him a friend? Whatever may be your repast, however scanty it may be, however impossible it may be to add to it, receive them with a pleasing countenance, adorn your table with cheerfulness, give to your husband and to your company a hearty welcome; it will more than compensate for every other deficiency; it will evince love for your husband, good sense in yourself, and that politeness of manners, which acts as the most powerful charm! It will give to the plainest fare a zest superior to all that luxury can boast. Never be discontented on any occasion of this nature.

In the next place, as your husband's success in his profession will depend upon his popularity, and as the manners of a wife have no little influence in extending or lessening the respect and esteem of others for her husband, you should take care to be affable and polite to the poorest as well as to the richest. A reserved haughtiness is a sure indication of a weak mind and an unfeeling heart.

With respect to your servants, teach them to respect and love you, while you expect from them a reasonable discharge of their respective duties. Never tease yourself, or them, by scolding; it has no other effect than to render them discontented and impertinent. Admonish them with a calm firmness.

Cultivate your mind by the perusal of those books which instruct while they amuse. Do not devote much of your time to novels; there are a few which may be useful in improving and in giving a higher tone to our moral sensibility; but they tend to vitiate the taste, and to produce a disrelish for substantial intellectual food. Most plays are of the same cast; they are not friendly to the delicacy which is one of the ornaments of the female character. HISTORY, GEOGRAPHY, POETRY, MORAL ESSAYS, BIOGRAPHY, TRAVELS, SERMONS, and other well written religious productions, will not fail to enlarge your understanding, to render you a more agreeable companion, and to exalt your virtue. A woman devoid of rational ideas of religion, has no security for her virtue; it is sacrificed to her passions, whose voice, not that of GOD, is her only governing principle. Besides, in those hours of calamity to which families must be exposed, where will she find support, if it be not in her just reflections upon that all ruling Providence which governs the Universe, whether animate or inanimate.

Mutual politeness between the most intimate friends, is essential to that harmony, which should never be once broken or interrupted. How important then is it between man and wife!--The more warm the attachment, the less will either party bear to be slighted, or treated with the smallest degree of rudeness or inattention. This politeness, then, if it be not in itself a virtue, is at least the means of giving to real goodness a new lustre; it is the means of preventing discontent, and even quarrels; it is the oil of intercourse, it removes asperities, and gives to every thing a smooth, an even, and a pleasing movement.

I will only add, that matrimonial happiness does not depend upon wealth; no, it is not to be found in wealth; but in minds properly tempered and united to our respective situations. Competency is necessary; all beyond that point, is ideal. Do not suppose, however, that I would not advise your husband to augment his property by all honest and commendable means. I would wish to see him actively engaged in such a pursuit, because engagement, a sedulous employment, in obtaining some laudable end, is essential to happiness. In the attainment of a fortune, by honorable means, and particularly by professional exertion, a man derives particular satisfaction, in self applause, as well as from the increasing estimation in which he is held by those around him.

In the management of your domestic concerns, let prudence and wise economy prevail. Let neatness, order and judgment be seen in all your different departments. Unite liberality with a just frugality; always reserve something for the hand of charity; and never let your door be closed to the voice of suffering humanity. Your servants, in particular, will have the strongest claim upon your charity;--let them be well fed, well clothed, nursed in sickness, and never let them be unjustly treated.

ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.

VATHEK--An Oriental Tale, by Mr. Beckford, author of Italy, &c. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1834.

The publishers of this _fashionable_ romance, by way of smoothing its path to general reception and favor, have attached to the title page various opinions expressed by English journalists,--to wit: The _Quarterly Review_ says, "a very remarkable performance. It continues in possession of all the celebrity it once commanded." The "_Printing Machine_" (a paper we presume of that name) says, "As an Eastern story, we know nothing produced by an European imagination that can stand a comparison with this work." The _Morning Post_ exclaims, "The finest Oriental tale extant!" and the "_Gentleman's Magazine_," pronounces it "a creation of genius that would immortalize its author at any time, and under any taste." These are very imposing authorities, and superadded to them all, it is said that Mr. Beckford is now living, is one of the richest men in England, and occupies so high a rank in social life, that royalty itself has been known to court his society. Nor is this all. Lord Byron pronounced "Vathek" to be a most surpassing production--far superior as an Eastern tale, to the "Rassalais" of Johnson,--and whatever has been said by Lord Byron, especially in matters of taste, will pass with some persons as incontrovertible orthodoxy. We have not examined particularly to ascertain what our own critics have said on the subject; but we believe that some of them at least, have echoed the plaudits of the British periodicals. Be this as it may, we happen to have an honest opinion of our own, and we must say, in our poor judgment, that a more impure, disgusting, and execrable production, than this same "Vathek," never issued from the English or American press. That the author was a youth of extraordinary genius, is acknowledged; (he wrote before twenty years of age)--but it was {189} genius totally perverted and poisoned at its source. The work could hare been written by no one whose heart was not polluted at its very core. Obscene and blasphemous in the highest degree, its shocking pictures are in no wise redeemed by the beauty and simplicity of Oriental fiction. We should pronounce it, without knowing any thing of Mr. Beckford's character, to be the production of a sensualist and an infidel--one who could riot in the most abhorred and depraved conceptions--and whose prolific fancy preferred as its repast all that was diabolical and monstrous, rather than what was beautiful and good. We shall not even attempt a detailed account of this volume--but when such works are recommended to public favor, we think it is time that criticism should brandish its rod, and that the genius of morality--if there be such a spirit in our land--should frown down the effort.

LEISURE HOURS, or the American Popular Library; conducted by an Association of Gentlemen. Boston: _John Allen & Co._ 1835.

Here is another contribution to the constantly increasing store of popular literature. If the present generation does not surpass all its predecessors in the acquisition of knowledge in its various forms, it will not be from any deficiency of intellectual food. In England, the Family Library, the Libraries of Useful and Entertaining Knowledge, the Penny Magazine, and innumerable other productions of the same class, are employed to diffuse through every portion of society, sound and valuable instruction; and many of these excellent publications are not only reprinted in the United States, but the time is not distant when we may justly boast of others of entirely domestic origin. The work before us seems to have been commenced under favorable auspices, and with laudable objects. The editors in their advertisement, which we quote at length for the benefit of our readers, "propose to publish, at convenient intervals, a series of volumes of standard merit, calculated to interest and instruct every class of the community. Although they have chosen for the title of the series, the name of the American Popular Library, it is not to be understood that it is to consist wholly, or even principally, of American works. Nor, on the other hand, will any work, however popular, be introduced into the series, unless, in the opinion of the editors, it shall possess such a character as will secure to it a continued reputation, after it shall have ceased to interest by its novelty. In their selections they do not propose to be limited to any one class of works, but to include such books in each department, as shall appear to them to be most deserving of a place in the library of an enlightened christian family.

"It seems to them important, that the attention of our reading community should be turned to works of more _permanent_ value, than belongs to most of the periodical literature of the day, or at least that it should not be confined exclusively to works of only a temporary interest. The spirit of the times appears also to demand, that the separation, which has too often been made between elegant literature and pure christianity, should cease to exist, and that a christian literature should take the place of that, which has, in many cases, begun and ended in infidelity. It is the design of the editors of this publication to promote, so far as shall be in their power, the union of polite literature, sound learning and christian morals. Beyond this they do not suppose it necessary that they should pledge themselves to the public. A sufficient security for their patrons seems to be provided, in leaving it optional with the purchaser to take only such part of the series as he may choose.