Chapter XXVII: Front Matter (27)

On last Monday evening, professor Cobb, of the medical college, sent a cranium to Doctor Powell for examination, in the presence of his class. He took it up and pronounced its prominent developments to be those of combativeness, destructiveness, secretiveness, acquisitiveness: he said that each of these propensities might have manifested itself singly; but the probability was that they co-operated, and the consequence was, that their subject was addicted to robbery on the highways, and was highly combative. After he had finished his examination, he called on professor Cobb to state what he knew of the character of the individual. He arose, and said that, so far as he was aware, the lecturer had determined truly. The skull had belonged to a Spaniard confined under suspicion of piracy, in the Cincinnati jail last winter, and who, while there, had committed suicide, and thus escaped trial.--An examination of his body proved what the lecturer had said in regard to his combativeness, as it was scarified in many places. We have since understood, that this Spaniard was arrested for attempting to stab a person in the street, and while in confinement, was recognized as a pirate, and, in order to avoid the consequences of a trial on the charge of piracy, he had cut the principal arteries of both arms, and died from the wounds thus inflicted. Dr. Powell had no intimation of the character of either of the individuals, which he portrayed with such exactness; but relied solely on phrenological science. If the doctrines be untrue, how are these results ascertained by them to be accounted for?

Our only object has been to give the lecturer as well as the science he espouses, the benefit of facts we have narrated, and to which they are so justly entitled. We leave comment for those who are curious upon the subject. We feel assured that what we have stated must be interesting to those who are desirous of investigating the science, for the purpose of determining the amount of plausibility on which it is grounded.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--As a subscriber and very sincere friend to your paper, let me beg of you to find room as soon as you can, for three extracts, all of which together, will not occupy more than three or four pages of the Messenger, and yet embrace as much deeply interesting matter on the all important subject of education, as can any where be found within the same compass. The first two you will find in the September number for the past year, of "_The Annals of Education_," a periodical published in monthly numbers of forty-eight pages each, for three dollars and fifty cents a year; or for three dollars if paid by the first of April, or for two dollars and forty cents if five copies are taken together and paid for in advance. Of this work I can affirm, without hesitation, that it contains more highly useful information on the subjects of which it treats, and at less cost, than all the other works together that are published in the United States on the same topics. Nay, I will venture farther to assert that there is not a parent or teacher in our whole country, who might not derive essential service from its perusal. This, my good sir, is no exaggeration, but my deliberate opinion; given, I acknowledge, with some hope of promoting the circulation of this highly valuable periodical from Yankee land, but without any other interest in it than every man ought to feel who is so thoroughly persuaded as I am, of the absolute necessity for educating our whole people on principles materially different from any that have yet been put into practice among us.

The third extract is from a new work by James Simpson, lately republished in New York and {206} Boston, on "_The Necessity of Popular Education as a National Object_." The short introduction is all that I will ask you to insert in your paper, as I have persuaded myself to believe that no friend to popular education can read it without feeling a strong desire to peruse the whole volume. It contains a mass of facts, illustrations, and arguments, exhibited in a style at once so perspicuous, forcible, and persuasive, as must carry conviction to every understanding capable of comprehending and feeling the vital importance of the subject in all its bearings, both upon individual and national happiness. In numbers one and two of the appendix, the topics of criminal and medical jurisprudence are treated of in a manner which, although concise, is well worthy the deepest attention of every legislator and statesman, for they contain hints for improving our criminal code that seem to me of the utmost importance to the general good.

Deem me not importunate if I petition you to publish _another_ extract of quite a different character from the foregoing. It is from the pen of the admirable _Mrs. Norton_, and expresses conjugal affection with so much touching pathos, that surely no married man, especially one from the Emerald Isle, can read it without deep emotion. It is called

SONG OF THE IRISH PEASANT WIFE.

Come, Patrick, clear up the storm on your brow,
You were kind to me once,--will you frown on me now?
Shall the storm settle _here_, when it from Heaven departs,
And the cold from without find the way to our hearts?
No, Patrick, no; surely the wintriest weather
Is easily borne, while we bear it together.

Though the rain's dropping through from the roof to the floor,
And the wind whistles free where there once was a door;
Can the rain, or the snow, or the storm wash away
All the warm vows we made in love's early day?
No, Patrick, no; surely the dark stormy weather
Is easily borne,--so we bear it together.

When you stole out to woo me, when labor was done,
And the day that was closing, to us seem'd begun,
Did we care if the sunset was bright on the flowers,
Or if we crept out amid darkness and showers?
No, Patrick; we talk'd while we brav'd the wild weather,
Of all we could bear, if we bore it together.

Soon, soon, will these dark dreary days be gone by,
And our hearts be lit up by a beam from the sky;
Oh! let not our spirits, imbittered with pain,
Be dead to the sunshine that comes on us then:
Heart in heart--hand in hand--let us welcome the weather,
And sunshine or storm, we will bear it together.

From the New England Magazine.

A GLIMPSE AT BASIL HALL.

At the palace of the Prince Borghese in Rome, several young English and American artists were engaged, last winter, in copying the renowned productions of the old masters. Portray to yourself, kind reader, two large halls--the walls of which are lined with paintings, and intercommunicating by a side door, now thrown open for the benefit of the parties. In the first of these apartments are erected three easels--before which, in the attitude of painters, stand--first, a Virginian, intent upon the exquisite Magdalene of Correggio,--opposite, the native of a country town of Great Britain--transferring, as nearly as possible, the Prodigal Son, of the great Venetian,--while, within a few feet of the former, a Londoner is travailing for the inspiration of Titian, by contemplating his "Sacred and Profane Loves." The artists may thus be said to occupy, relatively, the three points of an isosceles-triangle. Gaze now, through the above-mentioned passage, and behold, at the extremity of the second and lesser hall, the figure of a Baltimorean--fancying, perchance, the surprise of the natives when they see _his_ copy of the inimitable Cupid beside him.

These worthy followers of the rainbow art were wont to amuse themselves, and beguile the time, with conversations upon the merits and manners of their respective countries; and occasionally, by a very natural process, such amicable debates would assume not a little of the earnest spirit of controversy. Then would the brush fall less frequently upon the canvass--their eyes linger less devotedly upon the great originals around, and ever and anon the disputants would step a pace or two from the object of their labors, raise aloft their pencils--as though, like the styles of the ancients, they subserved equally the purposes of art and of warfare, or wave their mottled pallets as shields against the errors of argument. A full history of these discussions, hallowed by the scene of the combat, diversified by the characters of the combatants, and disguised by the nature of the points contested--would doubtless be a valuable accession to our literature. The great topics of national policy, domestic manners, republicanism, aristocracy, slavery, corn laws, etc. as unfolded, in the elegant and discerning disputations of the absentees in a Roman palace, would prove something new, vivid and seasonable. But to me falls the humbler task of narrating one scene of the drama, as illustrative of the wisdom and safety of keeping one's own secret.

On a day, when the war of words had ran unusually high, there was a momentary, and, as it were, a spontaneous quietude. After the manner of their predecessors in the same city--years bygone, the gladiators rested upon their arms. There was an interlude of _silence_. They gradually reassumed the appropriate occupations of the hour. A few unusually fine touches were bestowed upon the slowly-progressing copies--when the aspiring portrayer of the beautiful parable thus opened a new cannonade:

"Well, smooth over, as you may, the blot of slavery--and deny or palliate, as you best can, the charge of non-refinement, the world will never admit the existence of true civilization in a country where so barbaric a practice as _gouging_ prevails."

At the commencement of this speech, the pencil of the Virginian had stopped transfixed within an inch of the pensive countenance on his canvass; and with nerves braced in expectancy, he awaited the issue. And when the orator, like a second Brutus, paused for a reply, his adversary was mute--perhaps from indignation, probably in the absorption consequent upon {207} preparing to refute and chastise. The Londoner wheeled around, and, with a nod of congratulation to his brother islander, and a provoking and triumphant smile upon the Virginian, begged to be informed "of the origin and nature of the _American_ custom of gouging?" When lo! there were heard quick steps along the polished floors, and as the eyes of the artists followed their direction, the form of the Baltimorean emerged from the adjoining hall. His painter's stick, pallet and brush, were grasped convulsively in his left hand, as with energetic strides he reached the centre of the arena, and gazed meaningly upon the disputants.

"You would know, sir," he exclaimed, eyeing fiercely the hero of the British capital, "what is gouging? Go, sir, to Basil Hall--your literary countryman: when ascending the Mississippi, _he_ was put on shore by the captain of a steamboat for ungentlemanly deportment--and on the banks of that river, sir, _he was gouged!_" As the last emphatic words exploded, a gentleman, who had been viewing the paintings, abruptly left the room. The Londoner looked wonders, his compatriot tittered, the Cupid-limner wiped his brow. "Who was that?" inquired the Virginian. "That, sir, was Captain Hall!"

H. T. T.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE PASSAGE OF THE BERESINA.

"The moan of mortal agony which arose from the despairing multitude became at this crisis for a moment so universal, that it rose shrilly audible over the voice of the elements and the thunders of war, above the wild whistling of the tempest and the sustained and redoubled hourras of the Cossacks. The witness from whom we have this information, declares that the sound was in his ears for many weeks. This dreadful scene continued till dark, many being forced into the icy river, some throwing themselves in, betwixt absolute despair and the faint hope of gaining the opposite bank by swimming, some getting across only to die of cold and exhaustion."--_Scott's Napoleon, Vol. II. Page 385_.

What scene is here? The dying moan, the wailing cry
Come on the gusty blast that speeds so swiftly by;
The river rolls heavy as it struggles with dead,
Who writhe in their blood ere the spirit hath fled--
And chafed by the winds in the wrath of the storm,
Its red clotted waters flow tortured and warm.
Thousands lie here; kindred and aliens in race,
They are rigid and fixed in death's cold embrace;
They clench and they cling in the last dying grasp,
And the living, the dead, reluctantly clasp:
Or, fearing a friend in his last cold embrace,
They spurn him beneath to his dark dreary place.
A many-voiced moan now saddens the air,
Whose tones are all blent with wild curses and prayer;
And the deep hollow moan that wails o'er the flood,
As spirits pass away in storm and in blood.
In the sad welkin tremble heart-rending shrieks,
So piercing, that startled, the deep echo speaks.
There's mirth that's of madness, one laughs in his fear,
And prayer thrills in tones of the wildest despair;
And the deep solemn curse from the blasphemer stern,
Who weeps not, who wails not, tho' his dying soul burn.
Oh spirits pass away so sad in their strife,
That the living still cling more closely to life:
With unearthliest cries, grim phantasied shapes
Brood o'er the senses ere the spirit escapes;
On the wings of the wind how swift speeds the blast,
With pinions all viewless it fleets as the past;--
Oh say, does it bear the spirits that have fled,
In the last bitter strife, ere the dying be dead?
To the last dying sense comes a vision more dread,
For Death flaps his wings o'er the fields of the dead:
His deep hollow tones called away and away
Spirits immortal, disengaged from their clay;
And rearing aloft his deep sable plume,
On wings of the wind rose in shadow and gloom,
Still bearing them on with invisible trace,
As he swept the broad fields of infinite space--
Whilst Terror, all wild in his deep, horrid lair,
Made sad with his moans the invisible air.

The night wind sighs drear, in its last dying breath;
The clouds fleet away, like the shadows of death,
From the face of the moon, whose sepulch'red light
Steals softly upon the dark bosom of night,--
As the last smile of hope, ere the spirit hath fled,
Lingers tranquil and bright o'er the face of the dead.

ALPHA.

The lines which follow ought to be preserved in a more permanent form than the columns of a newspaper. They were written and published before Mr. Johnston's lamentable death. It will be recollected that he perished by the explosion of a steamboat, ascending the Red River.

After the above was penned, the melancholy intelligence reached us of Mr. Davis's death. Patriotism will mourn his loss, and the Columbian Muse hang a garland over his tomb.

From the Augusta (Geo.) Chronicle.

The following beautiful parody, which we met with in the hands of a respected friend, and were permitted by him to take a copy for publication, is attributed to the Hon. Warren R. Davis of South Carolina--a gentleman no less distinguished, admired and beloved for his many and striking literary acquirements, private virtues, social qualities, fine manners, polished, varied and brilliant wit and vivid fancy,--than for his ardent patriotism, open and fearless honesty, independence, eloquence, and disinterested devotion to his gallant and glorious state. It is said to have been written, on the sportive suggestion of the moment, as a contribution to the Album of the talented, accomplished and witty lady of the Hon. Mr. Johnston of the United States Senate from Louisiana. The old air of "Roy's Wife of Aldavalloch" is, we think, one of the most rare and beautiful specimens of that class of Scottish music, which was probably introduced from Italy, in the time of the brilliant but unfortunate Queen Mary.

PARODY.

Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
The fairest flower that ever bloomed
In southern sun or gay savannah.[1] {208}
The Inca's blood flows in her veins--[2]
The Inca's soul her bright eyes lighten;
Child of the sun, like him she reigns,
To cheer our hopes, our sorrows brighten.
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
The fairest flower that ever bloomed
In southern sun or gay savannah.

Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
She hath a way to win all hearts,
And bow them to the shrine of Anna!
Her mind is radiant with the lore
Of ancient and of modern story--
And native wit of richer store
Bedecks her with its rainbow glory.
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
She hath a way to charm all hearts,
And bow them to the shrine of Anna!

Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
The hapless bard who sings her praise,
Now worships at the shrine of Anna?
Twas such a vision, bright but brief,
In early youth his true heart rended,
Then left it like a fallen leaf,
On life's most rugged thorn suspended.
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
Johnston's wife of Louisiana!
The hapless bard who sings her praise
Wept tears of blood for such an Anna!

[Footnote 1: "The gayest scene in nature is a southern savannah, enamelled with its rich variety of flowers."--_Humboldt_.]

[Footnote 2: "The Incas claim their descent from the sun."--_Las Casas_.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BEAUTY WITHOUT LOVELINESS.

He looked on the chiselled _form_ and _face_,
And the roseate blush beguiling,
And the arch of the eye-brow's pencilled trace,
And the lip in moisture smiling:

He looked on the raven _curls_ that fell
O'er the _brow_ of Parian whiteness,
And the _silken lash_ that softened the spell
Of the _eye_ that swam in brightness:

He looked on the _slender hand_ that shone,
Where the sparkle of gems abounded,
Like the star of eve on her vesper throne,
By the pearls of the sky surrounded:

He looked on the _arm_, as in floating grace,
It waved o'er the chords entrancing,
And the feathery _foot_, as it marked each trace
Of the melody in dancing.

He looked on all these, while links of gold
With the silken chain were blended;
And yet in his bosom calm and cold,
No wave of the soul ascended.

No rapture glowed in his tranquil gaze,
The tremulous thought revealing;
He looked for the light of soul in the face,
And saw not a ray o'er it stealing.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HAPPY LOVE.

The Nightingale sings to the midnight air,
All darkling and alone:
And the Lover's lute, mid the gloom of despair,
Gives forth its sweetest tone.

But the Lark springs up with the morn's first blush,
And mounts the clouds above;
As he sings to his mate, in the hawthorn bush,
The tale of his happy love.

But hark, that note from the clustering shade!
It has reached his listening ear;
And, with pinions closed, to her leafy bed,
He comes, like a falling star.

O! happy Love! O happy pair!
O for that tuneful art!
That I might breathe in my Lucy's ear
The voice of a happy heart.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SORROWS OF LOVE.

TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL ON SEPARATION.

Oh! weep not tho' we're bid to part,
Since time nor distance e'er can sever
The links that bind my changeless heart,
To thy angelic form forever.

As summer clouds that hide the sun,
When once removed restore him brighter;
This night of woe as soon as done,
Will make our love-day morn the lighter.

Affliction now our hearts has proved,
And shown our passion's depth more clearly;
In joy we might have known we loved,
But grief has taught us, oh! how dearly.

The foregoing was written by a gentleman of fine genius, and is published without the author's knowledge.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTEMPORAL LINES.

On hearing Mr. Wickham's Speech at the Bar of the House of Delegates, on the 6th instant.

When Wickham stood up at the bar of the House,
And every one there was as still as a mouse,
I trembled myself, (to acknowledge the truth,)
Lest his age should forget the fine feats of his youth;
And I thought that his Horace had warned him in vain,
"Release the old racer in time from the rein,
Lest he falter at length in a laughable pace,
And finish his course in diverting disgrace."
But soon, very soon, all my fears were relieved,
And hopes took their places that were not deceived;
For I saw that his motions were sprightly and strong,
And, spite of his weights, he went gaily along,
Till, safe at the goal, pleasure broke from my lips,
And I cried out delighted, "hurrah for Eclipse!"[1]

_January, 1835_.

[Footnote 1: Solve senescentem maturè sanus equum, ne
Peccet ad extremum ridendus, et ilia ducat.
_Hor. Epist. Lib. i. 1._]

{209}

MRS. WOOD'S MANUSCRIPT POEMS.

The pious and excellent Mrs. JEAN WOOD, who died in this city some years since, was the relict of General James Wood, a distinguished officer of the revolution, and afterwards Governor of Virginia. The qualities for which she was remarkable, were familiarly known to a very large circle of friends, by whom, at least such as survive her, her memory is still held dear. She was indeed in the justest sense, a mother in Israel,--a lady of shining christian benevolence, whose kindly feelings towards her race did not consist in mere sentiment only,--but were evinced in a life of active, useful, and unostentatious charities and labors of love. Her piety moreover, though profound and ardent, was free from austerity; and there was a grace and cheerfulness in her manner and conversation, which won upon all of every age and condition who approached her. Well known as she was however, and universally respected for her virtues, there were but few comparatively who were apprised of her varied endowments or who knew that her practical good sense and experienced judgment were united to the lighter attractions and more ornamental graces of the intellectual character. Literature was to her the solace which refreshed the intervals in her works of goodness; it furnished that balmy repose to the spirit,--which it often needs amidst the conflicts and agitations of human life, even in its most favored condition. The proud, the selfish and avaricious, or the gay and luxurious, may each indulge in his own enjoyment or follow his own delusive phantom,--but next to the consciousness of doing good, there is no earthly happiness so pure and unalloyed as that which springs from the silent communion with our own spirits, or with the marvellous and multiform external objects which surround us. "There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know." There is an exalted sense of enjoyment in contemplating all that is beautiful and good in the moral and physical world, and this indeed constitutes the empire of poetry in its more general and unrestricted sense. We do not claim for Mrs. Wood very extraordinary powers in this enchanting department of literary effort,--for how few of the thousands who have ever essayed to climb the hill of Parnassus have reached its highest pinnacle; and on the contrary how many have been content to tune their unambitious lays in humble seclusion--without courting or even desiring renown. Mrs. Wood wrote neither for fame nor the public eye, and it is this circumstance alone which will impart an additional interest to the natural and unstudied effusions of her muse. Her numerous friends and relatives will at least experience a melancholy pleasure, in tracing in these _memorolabilia_ of their deceased friend, some of those qualities of mind and heart, which rendered her in life an object of respect and love,--and in death,--of veneration and regret.

The first poem we have selected, entitled "Retrospection," appears to have been written in 1809--when a severe illness threatened the life of her husband. In the frame of mind natural under such circumstances, she recalls the principal sorrows of her life, and among them there was none more poignant than the loss of an only child, a daughter of eighteen years old. The closing lines will indicate the source to which she was accustomed to look in the season of human affliction.

RETROSPECTION.

Why should mysterious Heaven bestow
A warm and feeling heart--
Yet doom it naught but pain to know,
And rankle in its smart?

That it might agonize and bleed
At every suffering pore,
The soft affections why decreed
To centre in its core?

The tender ties my heart has proved
That heart has held most dear,
And those most dearly, fondly loved,
Have cost the bitterest tear!

A tender parent's weeping nurse
My early youth I pass'd;
And Heaven did but those tears disperse
To bid them flow more fast:

For rich in worth, a youth appear'd--
I gave my virgin heart;
But Hymen scarce our vows endeared
Ere we were doomed to part:

He, through war's ravaged fields to roam
Eight sad revolving years--
I, droop'd, a widow'd wife at home,
In unavailing tears:
But ah! the pang was yet to feel,
(The worst the heart can know,)
The pang no earthly power can heal,
The climax of all woe!

To me a cherub fair was given,
I placed it next my heart;
It seemed the choicest gift of Heaven--
My bosom's dearest part:
While yet I mark'd each opening charm
That graced its baby brow,
Disease approach'd, in direful form,
To lay each promise low.

And oh! how worse than death to see
The ruins of a mind,
Which, in its dawning, seem'd to be
For better hopes design'd;
To watch with anxious hopes and fears
The daily deep'ning gloom,
Till eighteen sad and suffering years
Had laid her in the tomb.

Though keen the parting pang I felt,
And did my child deplore;
Yet soon in gratitude I knelt--
_Her_ sufferings were no more.
My mind's composure once regain'd,
A competence still ours;
My loved companion, too, remain'd
To cheer my lonely hours:

Fondly I hoped life's evening shade
Might yet in peace descend,
And grief no more my heart invade
Till closing life should end. {210}

But now alas! the transient calm
Flits fast and far away--
The hope that o'er my fancy swam,
And soothed my wasting day;
For dire disease again appears
To break the mild serene;
Again commands my streaming tears,
And clouds our closing scene!

Why, then, my God! thus closely twine
Around this bursting heart,
Those fond affections which are mine,
Such misery to impart!
Dare I, presumptuous, seek to know
What mocks our mortal sight;
Enough for me, thou will'st it so--
It, therefore, must be right.

The piece which follows, our readers will agree with us, is not only very agreeable verse, but what is still better, is replete with pure moral sentiment.

THE CAPTIVE BIRD.

Say, little caged flutterer, say,
Why mournful waves thy drooping wing?
Why silent sit, the live-long day?
Nor Vespers chaunt, nor Matins sing.

When first a captive thou wert made
And in thy wiry dwelling swung,
Suspended in the leafy shade
Or sunny door, you gaily sung.

My careful hand supplied thee store
Of ripest berries from the hill;
Thy cup replenished, strewed thy floor
With glittering gravel from the rill.

Beneath the same luxuriant vine,
The same kind hand supplies thy fare;
The sun's first cheering rays are thine,
Yet thou art sad and silent there.

Ah! little captive, couldst thou see
What passes in this wayward breast,
Thou'dst ask, perhaps, the same of me,
And why vain wishes break my rest.

Thou'dst ask me, why this quiet shade
Which late a paradise I deem'd,
Though still in verdant sweets array'd,
A melancholy prison seemed?

And bid me mind, each passing day
That wholesome viands crown'd my board,
That flowers and fruits and sunshine gay
For me, too, vernal sweets afford.

Nay, more,--that liberty is mine
And lends a ray to every joy--
While sad captivity is thine,
Mingling with all its sad alloy.

Thou "still small voice" that will be heard,
Whose whispers thrill the inmost soul!
Reproving friend--beloved and feared--
Conscience, this is thy mild control!

Oft hast thou urged this conscious truth,
When gloomy tears have fill'd mine eye;
Or discontent, with brow unsmooth,
Was fain to force th' unwilling sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

THE BELLE DU JOUR, OR CONVOLVULUS MINOR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our readers must not be induced to cast aside the {211} following poem, from its length. It is full of genuine feeling and pious sentiment.

EVENTIDE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aerial music oft I seem to hear
In gentle breathings, strike my listening ear-- {212}
Full and melodious sounds, in swelling strains,
Then soothing soft, each dying note complains;
High o'er my head in trembling cadence plays,
Or lightly passes on the sighing breeze--
The ambient air a balmy fragrance fills,
And the charm'd sense each earth-born sorrow stills;
A lambent light pervades the dewy scene,
Illumes each branch and brightens o'er the green.
Sweet powers of Fancy! can this work be thine,
Or are these sounds, these forms, indeed, divine?
For see, where lightly borne on seraph wing,
An angel band their hallelujahs sing--
Its course, a form etherial this way bends,
Stooping to earth, and at my feet descends!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SMILING AUTUMN.

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

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

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

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

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

{213}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STUDY OF THE LATIN AND GREEK CLASSICS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We can scarcely find among the various pursuits of men, one in which the pursuer may not be assisted by the experience and lessons of his predecessors on the same path. The painter esteems himself happy when able to collect in his studio the meanest of the antique models. The sculptor contemplates among the relics of the past those master-efforts, so deservedly famous, and is indefatigable in a study essential to the production {214} of purity in his own manner. Extend this to eloquence. Most truly the orators of antiquity have been sturdy pioneers upon a noble path, and to neglect their guidance would retard the pursuer of the same course, and entangle him in many difficulties. Indeed, with the works of these, elocutionists have invariably recommended familiarity. The strength of Demosthenes,--_monte decurrens velut amnis_--the 'abundant grace' of the polished Tully, are of themselves milk for a giant's nurturing. But they have not come forth alone from the wreck of time. They are attended by worthy companions.

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

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

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

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

"Insani sapiens nomen ferat, æquus iniqui."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Few are ignorant of the close connexion between the ancient and modern languages themselves. It was the influence of the polished and manly Latin that gave euphony to the barbarous jargon brought by the German tribes from their forests. It was this that spread over the nations of modern Europe, mellowing in one instance the roughness of the Norman idiom, and in fine, entwining itself inseparably with the mongrel plant {215} brought into being in England, after the conquest of Duke William. Indeed, so much incongruity pervaded this, that many great writers have believed it a vehicle too rude and perhaps unsafe, for the conveyance of their harvests to posterity. Under this belief Bacon wrote his "_Novum Organum_," as well as many of his more important works, wholly in Latin.

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

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