Chapter XL: Front Matter (40)

Whom or what does man rebuke? If the writer meant "_under_ rebuke," he should have said so. Again--

"Gather about his pall,
And let the sacred memory of years
That he made glorious, call back your tears,
_Or_ LIGHT _them as they fall!_"

If the writer had an idea connected with the last line it is incomprehensible to us.

The hymn of four short stanzas being destitute of any original thought, has not merit enough to be chargeable with any particular fault. There _may be_ something new, though common-place, in the last stanza. Astronomers tell us that Venus and Mercury are morning and evening star by turns. Our poet, if we can understand his orrery, has a mind to make the name of La Fayette both morning and evening star at once.

_For the Southern Literary Messenger_.

THE BEAUTIES of the Court of Charles the Second; a series of Memoirs, Biographical and Critical, illustrating the Diaries of Pepys, Evelyn, Clarendon, and other contemporary writers. By Mrs. Jameson, authoress of "The Loves of the Poets," "Lives of Female Sovereigns," "Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad," &c. &c. Philadelphia: E. L. Cary & A. Hart. pp. 304. 8vo.

Few portions of history are more replete with characters illustrating the good and evil of human nature, in both extremes, than that of the reign and court of Charles II. The stern dominion of a sour and superstitious bigotry had just passed away; the disgusting hypocrisy which had disguised all vice under the mask of religion and virtue had been exposed; and the disclosure had awakened a doubt, even in the minds of the wise and good, whether unbounded license was not more tolerable than the enormities practised in those hiding-places of crime, into which the severe discipline of the Protectorate had driven it. The public eye might impose some restraint; but when the indulgence of harmless mirth and the enjoyment of innocent amusement were unsafe, except in private, who could tell what unseen abominations might be perpetrated in recesses which the world was not permitted to look into.

Nothing is more true, than that the appetite for pleasure grows by indulgence, and that, pushed to the verge of what is lawful, it is too apt to pass into criminal excess. But _innocent_ pleasures men _will_ have. What security that they will be content with these? None but the influence of public sentiment, constraining them to respect the almost viewless boundary that divides the extreme of lawful indulgence from the beginnings of licentiousness. The exercise of this influence is a duty society owes to itself; but to exert it, we must bear to look upon the scenes where its authority should be felt. If we fastidiously turn away, and refuse to the young, the gay, the sanguine and the thoughtless, the benefit of that aggregate judgment concerning right and wrong, which we distinguish by the name of "public sentiment," we incur more risk of becoming "partakers of the sins of others," than we should by looking on with that complacent smile of benevolent sympathy, which its objects would not willingly exchange for the frown of merited disapprobation. In this smile and this frown are the sanctions for that "regulated indulgence" which a wise and good man has pronounced to be "the best security against excess."

When Charles on his accession avowed a disposition to claim for himself, and to allow to others the unbounded license which his foreign habits had rendered necessary to him, it was of course, that multitudes should eagerly avail themselves of the privilege. It was not wonderful that even the virtuous should acquiesce in this new scheme of things, instead of endeavoring to apply correctives which they had just seen so much abused.

The consequence was, that during that most flagitious reign, the mind was left to put forth all its wild unpruned luxuriance. Human nature displayed itself in all the forms of all of its varieties, each in the most extreme dimensions. Vice walked abroad in naked deformity; and orgies, such as the sun had never before been permitted to look on, were perpetrated in the face of day.

But if the "poor virtues of the age lacked countenance," how conspicuous was that virtue, which still resolutely resisted all the allurements with which fashion invests pleasure, and in the midst of a corrupt generation, preserved its purity inviolate. God has never left himself without a witness. There were, even in that day, men devoted to all their duties to him, to their fellows, and to themselves, and their light did but shine the brighter for the darkness that surrounded it. The pacific policy of a monarch, who is now known to have been the pensioner of the natural enemy of his {313} country, afforded few opportunities to acquire fame in the service of the crown. It was chiefly in private life that virtue had to seek that honorable distinction which it naturally covets. That distinction the character of the age rendered more conspicuous and honorable, and it was therefore the more eagerly sought.

We are not particularly anxious about this theory, but it helps us to understand, not only how it was that the pure and muddy waters mingled without blending, but how it happened that the _unexampled_ excellence of in Ormond and an Ossory were found side by side with the unheard of depravity of a Buckingham and a Rochester.

Of the private as well as public history of the courtiers of Charles II, we have the most authentic records, and they are full of amusement and instruction. It has been lamented that they have been, for the most part, transmitted to us through channels which must soil the reader's mind, and endanger an injury more than commensurate to the value of the information. We have reason to rejoice therefore, that we are at length permitted to receive them through the refining filter of a female mind, from which they are transmitted pure and "bright as diamond spark."

What lover ever read the history of Grammont without lamenting that it was impossible to impart any portion of his delight to his mistress. The difficulty is now removed; and Mrs. Jameson deserves the thanks of her sex, for having rendered accessible to them, not only a theme of most amusing gossip, but one of the most instructive and edifying chapters in the history of man. We especially recommend this work to their perusal. The witty Hamilton and the gay Grammont will still perhaps be most read by the men, but even they will derive advantage from looking, through the chaste eyes of a virtuous female, on the same scenes and the same characters exhibited by this profligate pair.

Of the manner in which this work is executed, nothing need be said to those familiar with the writings of Mrs. Jameson. It is every way worthy of her well merited reputation. We extract a few passages, which may serve as examples of the work. But they are not selected for any particular merit, but merely to illustrate the foregoing remarks. They are most attractive pictures of virtues, the exact opposite of the vices which characterized the age; and we are not sure that they do not as widely differ from the average standard of the human character.

What can be more captivating than this account of _La belle Hamilton_.

"She was then just arrived at that age when the budding girl expands into the woman: her figure was tall, rather full, but elegantly formed; and, to borrow Lord Herbert's beautiful expression, 'varied itself into every grace that can belong either to rest or motion.' She had the finest neck and the loveliest hand and arm in the world: her forehead was fair and open; her hair dark and luxuriant, always arranged with the most exquisite taste, but with an air of natural and picturesque simplicity, which meaner beauties in vain essayed to copy; her complexion, at a time when the use of paint was universal, owed nothing to art; her eyes were not large, but sparkling and full of expression; her mouth, though not a little haughtiness is implied in the curve of the under lip, was charming, and the contour of her face perfect.

"The soul which heaven had lodged in this fair person was worthy of its shrine. In those days, the very golden age of folly and affectation, the beauties, by prescriptive right, might be divided into two factions, whom I shall call the _languishers_ and the _sparklers_; the languishers were those who, being dull by nature, or at least not bright, affected an extreme softness--lounged and lolled--simpered and sighed--lisped or drawled out their words--half shut their eyes--and moved as if 'they were not born to carry their own weight.' The sparklers were those who, upon the strength of bright eyes and some natural vivacity and impertinence, set up for female wits: in conversation they attempted to dazzle by such sallies as would now be scarcely tolerated from the most abandoned of their sex; they were gay, airy, fluttering, fantastical, and talkative--they dealt in bon mots and repartees--they threw their glances right and left, _a tort et a travers_--and piqued themselves upon taking hearts by a _coup-de-main_. Miss Hamilton belonged to neither of these classes: though lively by nature, she had felt perhaps the necessity of maintaining a reserve of manner which should keep presumptuous fops at a distance. She wore her feminine dignity as an advanced guard--her wit as a body of reserve. She did not speak much, but what she said was to the purpose, just what the occasion demanded and no more. _Fiere a toute outrance_, whenever she was called upon to stand on the defensive, she was less possessed with the idea of her own merit than might have been supposed; and, far from thinking her consequence increased by the number of her lovers, she was singularly fastidious with regard to the qualifications of those whom she admitted upon the list of aspirants."

In the family of Ormond we have a galaxy of excellence. The following extracts make us balance the truth of history and our experience of real life. Whom do we know like old Ormond and his wife? Whom like his noble son and his charming countess?

Take the character of the Duchess from the lips of an enemy.

"When the Duke of Ormond withdrew to France, in 1655, he found himself obliged to leave his wife and family behind: and soon afterwards Cromwell caused the Earl of Ossory to be arrested upon no specific charge and committed to the Tower. His mother waited upon the protector to remonstrate, and to solicit his enlargement, pleading the quiet and inoffensive life which she led with her children in London. Cromwell told her plainly, that he had more reason to fear her than any body else. She replied with dignity and spirit, and in the presence of a numerous drawing-room, that 'she desired no favor at his hands, but merely justice to her innocent son;'--and that 'she thought it strange that she, who had never been concerned in a plot in her life, nor opened her mouth against his person and government, should be represented as so terrible a person.' 'No, madam!' replied Cromwell, 'that is not the case; but your worth has gained you so great an influence over all the commanders of our party, and we know so well your power over your own party, that it is in your ladyship's breast to act what you please.'"

The following descriptions of the Earl and Countess of Ossory are delightful.

"At this time, the Earl of Ossory was about four and twenty; he was tall, well made, and handsome; with an open expressive countenance, and fine teeth and hair; he rode, fenced, and danced remarkably well; played on the lute and the guitar; spoke French eloquently, and Italian fluently; was a good historian; and seems to have had a taste for light and elegant literature, for Sir Robert Southwell represents him as so well read in poetry and romance, that 'in a gallery full of pictures and hangings, he could tell the stories of all that were there described.' These however were the {314} mere superficial graces which enabled him to please in the drawing-room, and to these he added all the rare and noble qualities which can distinguish a man in the cabinet and in the field. He was wise in council, quick and decided in action, as brave in battle as an Amadis of Gaul--gallant 'beyond the fiction of romance'--humane, courteous, affable, temperate, generous to profusion, and open almost to a fault. 'In a word,' says the historian, 'his virtue was unspotted in the centre of a luxurious court; his integrity unblemished amid all the vices of the times; his honor untainted through the course of his whole life;' and it is most worthy of remark, that in those days, when the spirits of men were heated with party rage; when profligate pens were wielded by profligate and obscure individuals, and satire 'unbated and envenomed,' was levelled at whatever was noble, or beautiful, or good in the land; not a single expression can any where be traced to contradict or invalidate this universal testimony. 'No writer,' (I quote again from history,) 'ever appeared then or since, so regardless of truth and of his own character, as to venture one stroke of censure on that of the Earl of Ossory.'"

"'She was, indeed,' adds the grave historian of the family, 'an admirable economist; always cheerful, and never known to be out of humor, so that they lived together in the most perfect harmony imaginable. Lord Ossory never found any place or company more agreeable than he found at home; and when he return thither from court, they constantly met with open arms, with kind embraces, and the most moving expressions of mutual tenderness.'

"But this picture, bright and beautiful as it is, had its shades. In this world of ours, 'where but to think, is to be full of sorrow,' Lady Ossory was so far most happy, that though she suffered _through_ those she loved, (as all must do who embark their happiness in their affections,) she never suffered by them: but she lost several of her numerous family at an early age; and the frequent absence of Lord Ossory, whilst engaged in the highest civil and military employments, must have doomed her to many widowed hours. The reckless valor too, with which he exposed his life, and which was such as even to call down a rebuke from his brave father, must have filled the gentle bosom of his wife with a thousand fond anxieties: yet might not those partings and meetings, those alternations of hope and fear, those trembling terrors for his safety, those rapturous tears which greeted his return, have assisted to keep freshly alive, through a long series of years, all the romance of early passion? And was not this much? Did Lady Ossory buy too dearly the proud happiness of belonging to that man, upon whom the eyes of all Europe were fixed to gaze and to admire; who from every new triumph brought her home a faith and love unchanged--deposing his honors at her feet, and his cares in her gentle arms? Let the woman who reads this question, answer it to her own heart."

The following anecdote, with the appended note, illustrates a point of character on which we always dwell with delight, though it is not often found associated with prudence and wisdom.

"In 1671 occurred that extraordinary attempt on the life of the Duke of Ormond by the ruffian Blood, of notorious memory; it is supposed at the instigation of Buckingham. There was, in fact, something so audacious and so theatrical in the idea of hanging the duke upon the gallows at Tyburn, that it could only have originated with that 'Fanfaron de crimes.' Such, at least, was the general opinion at the time. A few days after this event, Lord Ossory meeting the Duke of Buckingham in the king's chamber, the color flushed to his temples with passion, and his eyes sparkled with such ire, that the duke took refuge behind the king's chair. 'My lord,' said Ossory, stepping up to him, 'I know well that you are at the bottom of this late attempt of Blood's upon my father, and therefore I give you fair warning, if my father comes to a violent end by sword or pistol,--if he dies by the hand of a ruffian, or the more secret way of poison, I shall not be at a loss to know the first author of it; I shall consider _you_ as the assassin; I shall treat you as such, and I shall pistol you, though you stood beside the king's chair; and I tell it you in his majesty's presence, that you may be sure I shall keep my word.' So saying, he turned upon his heel, leaving the duke so completely overawed, that he had not even spirit to utter a denial."[1]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JUDGE BLACKSTONE--_A Poet_.

A correspondent in January's Messenger said, that on the death of this great lawyer, _poems_ were unexpectedly found among his papers. The following is the only one of them we have seen. Its smooth yet vigorous numbers, its simply touching strain of thought and language, the deep and just feeling it evinces, and the apt felicity of its imagery, prove the author to have possessed a genius which, had it been so inclined, might have rendered him as conspicuous in the flowery paths of elegant literature, as he actually became in the {316} sterner walks of the law. There is something strikingly magnanimous in the _self-denial_, which could make such a mind relinquish pursuits so congenial to its tastes and so meet for its abilities, for a profession the most abounding of all others in dry, ponderous, and perplexing drudgery, yet amongst the most vital to the well-being of society. What a lesson to our _dilettanti_, who, even after having adopted that profession, cannot bravely face and grapple with its difficulties, but remain entranced by the Circean draughts and Syren songs of the lightest and most frivolous of the Muses! What should be their humiliation, when they compare their own inability to renounce the novel, the newspaper, and the frothy magazine, with Blackstone's generous farewell to his so far noble muse? They may rest assured, that it is only to one capable of such a sacrifice, that Lord Coke's parting wish is not addressed in vain: "I wish unto him the gladsome light of Jurisprudence, the lovelinesse of temperance, the stabilitie of fortitude, and the soliditie of justice."

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE.

BY SIR WM. BLACKSTONE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{317}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

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

H. E. J.

LINES.

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

_Air_--"Roy's Wife."

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

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

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE EXILE.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

THE MINIATURE.

BY GEO. P. MORRIS.

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAM.

THE MISTAKE CORRECTED.

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SPIDER.

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

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

These things, I own are wondrous fine
And beautiful and bright;
And eyes, accustomed less than mine
To things that so resplendent shine,
No doubt to wonder would incline
And gaze at such a sight; {318}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ELIZA.

_Maine_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DIALOUGE,

From the Italian of Francisco da Lemene.

BY R. H. WILDE, _of Georgia_.

TIRSIS. PHILLIS.

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

_Tirsis_. Speak out!--but what?

_Phillis_. I must not tell you that--

_Tirsis_. Dearest! why not?

_Phillis_. Perhaps you'd laugh at me?

_Tirsis_. Indeed I sha'nt.

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

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

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

_Tirsis_. Know what?

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

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

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

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

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

NEWPORT, R. I. August 29, 1834.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA,
_January 20, 1835_.

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

FROM THE NOTE BOOK OF MY MOTHER.

When morning, from the damps of night,
Beams on the eye with rosy light,
And calls thee forth with smile benign--
Then think whose heart responds to thine,
And still, with sympathy divine,
"Remember me."
When gentle twilight, pure and calm,
Comes leaning on reflection's arm,
When o'er the throngs of cares and woes,
Her veil of sober tints she throws
And woos the spirit to repose,
"Remember me."
When the first star, with crescent bright,
Beams lonely from the arch of night,
The moon sends forth her cheering glance,
Then--gazing on the blue expanse,
"Remember me."
When mournful sighs the hollow wind,
And pensive thoughts enwrap the mind,
If e'er thy heart, in sorrow's tone,
Should sigh, because it feels alone,--
"Remember me." {319}
When passing to thy silent bower,--
Devotion claims the sacred hour,--
When bending o'er the holy page,
Whose spirit calms affliction's rage,
Directs our youth and cheers our age,
"Remember me."
Oh! yet indulge the ardent claim,
While friendship's heart the wish can frame,
For, oh! but transient is my lay--
And, mingling soon with kindred clay,
My silent lip no more shall say
"Remember me."
And when in deep oblivion's shade,
My cold and mouldering form is laid,
If near that bed thy steps should rove,
With one short prayer, by feeling wove,
One glance of faith, or tear of love,
"Remember me."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THOUGHTS ON SEEING THE EVENING STAR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

JEU DE MOTS.--ON A NAME.

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

A. Z.

MISS MARTINEAU.

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

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

* * * * *

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

LINES.

ON MISS MARTINEAU.

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

_Richmond, Feb. 28_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPITAPH.

ON A YOUNG LADY.

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

{320}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAM.

ON A WALTZING GIRL.

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

Q.

ANOTHER.--ON THE SAME.

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

Q.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

Oh! to forget her!--_Young_.

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

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

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

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

MONOS.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE TRUE FOUNDATION.

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

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

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

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.

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

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

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

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

On her talking against slavery.

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

_Richmond, February 28_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUST NOT.

BY A. L. B. M.D.

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

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

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

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

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

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

{321}

VARIETY.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

From Littel's Museum of Foreign Literature.

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

* * * * *

Scraps from the "Spirit of the Times."

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

LADY'S REPLY TO AN IMPERTINENT.

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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