The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 12, November, 1836
    
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 12, November, 1836

Author: Various

Editor: Edgar Allan Poe

Release date: April 1, 2025 [eBook #75770]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: T. W. White, Publisher and Proprietor, 1836

Credits: Ron Swanson


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER, VOL. II., NO. 12, NOVEMBER, 1836 ***


THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.


Au gré de nos desirs bien plus qu’au gré des vents.
                                      _Crebillon’s Electre_.

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.


RICHMOND:
T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR.
1835-6.


{733}


SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II.  RICHMOND, NOVEMBER, 1836.  NO. XII.

T. W. WHITE, PROPRIETOR.  FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.




STANZAS.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.


  Would’st thou know, stranger, wherefore the vain cares,
  And envious strifes, and ills of this sad world
          Vex not my thoughts serene,
          Nor fright my peace of soul?

  Wherefore its wild commotions fret me not,
  And the vain pageants of its summer smile,
          (More fleeting than the light)
          Nor dazzle, nor distract?

  It is not that a swelling pride doth lift
  My spirit ’bove the reach of changeful Fate,
          Or shield me from the ills
          To mortal lot assigned;

  Or teach me with a scorn unwise to turn
  From good on all bestowed, the boon of Heaven:—
          ’Tis not that spells I bear
          By stern cold Reason wrought:—

  But in my spirit’s inmost treasure-house
  There is a blessed world, from evil free,
          Nor wearying cares come nigh
          The chambers of the soul!

  In this fair home hath Thought her palace reared,
  And planted living flowers; there flow the springs
          Of Fancy, pure and bright,
          In sweet rejoicing streams.

  There bends the golden heaven of Poesy,
  With gladdening sunlight fraught; there blandest airs
          Breathe o’er the fragrant soil,
          And palmy groves ascend.

  Thus is it that Life’s clamors and complaints,
  And idle vaunts, unheeded pass me by,
          Like the dull streamlet’s voice,
          Or inarticulate wind.

  Amid the jarring storm’s discordant strife,
  O, searcher after rest! may’st thou too hear
          That mightier melody
          From chords attuned of Heaven!




MODERN TRAVELLING.


Forty years ago, I used to be a great traveller, and was pretty well
acquainted with the means of transportation then in use; but about
that time, I retired to the country and settled upon a small farm,
where I have, until lately, pursued the even tenor of my way. During
the last summer, some business compelled me to set out for a distant
point, and I left my little home with extreme reluctance. As I was to
travel in a world about which I knew but little, except through the
newspapers, I thought it right to rig myself out in somewhat better
style than usual, so I put on my best _bib_ and _tucker_ and repaired
to town and sought a barber’s shop to get my hair cut and my beard
shaved, humming, as I went along, the old song,

  “I called to the barber, come shave me boy, do you hear,
   And I’ll give you sixpence for to spend in ale or beer;
   Shave me, shave me, barber come shave me,
   Make me look neat and spruce that Molly may have me.”

Sixpence quotha!—it cost me four and sixpence, at the least. When I
opened the door, I was so much astonished at the elegance of the
apartment, that I drew back, and would have retired, thinking I had
made some mistake, when two or three fellows flew out upon me, and
began brushing my coat with such impetuous violence, that I could not
escape from them; indeed, it was with much ado that I could prevent my
ears from being brushed off, by their whizzing brooms. I was as
restive, you may depend upon it, as my horse is under a cedar broom;
twice they struck me severe blows on the cheek, but always begged
pardon, so I could not be offended; and, indeed, I had made up my mind
when I left home, not to betray my ignorance of present customs. All
this time two small _shavers_ were dusting my boots, and I protest it
was with much difficulty I could keep my legs. After considerable
suffering on my part, and repeated declarations of my being satisfied
with their services, and paying each of them something, (for I saw
they expected it,) they desisted. I now expressed a wish to be shaved
and trimmed, and was immediately disrobed, and ushered to a
high-backed chair, where my head was roughly thrown back, my chin
tucked, and the operation of shaving performed in the _twinkling of an
ejaculation_. It did not take long to cut my hair and strangle me with
cologne water; but what was my surprise, when they were done with me,
to find the whole of my occiput as bare as the palm of my hand, and
nothing left upon my head but a few straggling locks at the side, time
having already stripped naked my forehead. I was sadly vexed, but what
could I say? I had voluntarily put myself in their power, and was
devoutly glad when I got into the street, that I had escaped alive
from their hands. Well, I had now paid four-and-sixpence; I had lost
all my hair; my face had been scratched by brooms and lacerated by a
razor, and I had learned in exchange, that barbers were different
folks now-a-days from what they used to be, and that men were brushed
down like horses—rather a bad speculation! I had not been in this
world, it is true, “ever since king Pepin was a little boy,” but I was
pretty old, and had never been treated so unceremoniously in my life.
I had imagined when I entered the house, that I was going into just
such a shop as my old friend Kippin used to keep, who received me with
the profoundest of bows, and shaved me with a solemnity of manner that
suited my temper exactly. No tawdry ornaments hung upon his walls; no
mirrors flashed wheresoever you turned; no newspapers lay scattered
around; no {734} Helen Jewetts or other engravings caught your eye.
His walls were mute as “Tara’s Halls”—a piece of broken looking-glass
stood upon the table, and an old shaving-can, encrusted with the smoke
of a thousand fires, sat disconsolately in the chimney; but,
nevertheless, these modern fellows cannot shave as Kippin “_used to
could_.” There is too much hurry in every thing now-a-days! It is
true, shaving must be done by steam—the water ought to be hot, but the
razor travels too incontinently fast, and the whirlpools in my beard
cannot be crossed over with such despatch—but pshaw! this is nothing
to what I have to tell of the changes in this world. My first trip was
to be made in a steamboat which was to _start_ (fly, perhaps, would be
a better word) at ten o’clock at night. I had never been in one,
having been of the same opinion with old what’s his name, who never
could be induced to go on board, not even when the boat was lying at
the wharf without a particle of fire—when urged to go, and told that
there was no earthly danger, he always shook his head doubtingly, and
declared “_there was no knowing when accidents might happen_.”
However, go I must; my business required despatch, and there was no
mode of travelling so expeditious. Accordingly, I went on board, and
passing the fire-room, where they were just _firing up_, I stopped,
with unfeigned horror, and asked myself if, indeed, I was prepared to
die! I almost fancied myself at the entrance of the infernal regions,
and the firemen, all begrimed and black and covered with sweat, seemed
like the imps of the devil, tossing the damned spirits into the
flames. I shuddered and turned away, inwardly vowing if heaven would
be graciously pleased to spare me this time, I would never again,
voluntarily, put myself in the way of being burnt to death. I
proceeded to the cabin, which I found, as yet, unoccupied, and you may
be certain if the barber’s shop had surprised me, my amazement was now
complete, at finding myself in the most splendid apartment I had ever
beheld. I shall not attempt any description, because I have no doubt,
Mr. Editor, you have seen many a one; all I shall say is, that having
examined every thing with as much wonder as did parson Polyglott when
“_he dinner’d wi’ a Lord_,” I laid myself down in a birth, and could
not satisfy myself of my personal identity, any more than could _he_
who went once to see some great man, and was treated with so much
distinction, that when he retired to bed, he lay some time revolving
all that had passed, and the scene around him, and exclaimed, “can
this be me!” Putting his foot out of bed, (he had a remarkable foot,)
egad! he cried, that is certainly _my foot_. Just so, clapping my hand
to the back of my head, and feeling that the barber had nearly scalped
me, I became assured that it was indeed your humble servant, and was
trying to compose myself, when I heard a cry of “the stage is come,”
and in a few moments in walked the captain and seated himself at his
writing-table, and immediately afterwards forty passengers, at least,
rushed into the cabin, all talking in the loudest key, and dressed in
every variety of mode, and seeming to strive with one another who
should get first to the captain to pay his money. What does this mean?
thought I; wherefore such hurry? “Why need they be so forward with
death who calls not on them?” as Falstaff says. I soon found out the
cause; they were securing births, and as they passed mine, they
severally peeped into it; at length, one prying more earnestly than
the others, exclaimed, “halloo, my hearty, you are in the wrong box;
you must come out.” I made no reply, and he repeated his command to me
to turn out—still I said nothing, and he turned to the captain: “I say
captain, here’s a Jackson man in my birth.” “Yes,” said I, feeling my
dander rise, as honest Jack Downing says, “and I shall assume the
responsibility of staying in it.” Alas! I reckoned without _my host_,
for the captain came up and desired me to evacuate the premises.
“Why,” said I, “captain, I thought possession was eleven points of
law.” “None of your nonsense, sir,” returned he, and took hold of my
arm. Seeing how matters stood, I fixed myself, Dentatus-like, with my
back to the side of the boat, and seizing my hickory stick, defended
myself manfully, but numbers prevailed over valor, and I was, at last,
ignominiously dragged forth, like Smith from the Chickahominy Swamp,
to the no small amusement of the company, some of whom hurraed for old
baldpate. Here was a pretty commencement of my journey! In the end, I
was compelled to sleep upon a table, think o’ that! and imagine my
horror when I found myself stretched out like a corpse, with a sheet
over me!! All my previous fears of being scalded to death rushed upon
my mind, and I made sure that this was indeed my winding-sheet. The
thumping of the boat; the groans of the lever above, leaping and
pitching like some vast giant struggling to be free; the snoring and
snorting around me; the intense heat, produced by the juxta-position
of so many human bodies, effectually banished sleep from my eyelids; I
was “_in a state of dissolution and thaw_,” and wished myself anywhere
else, even in “_the Domdaniel caves under the roots of Ocean_,” if
there were such a place, so that I could escape my present thraldom.
How often have I wondered, said I to myself, that people could be so
foolhardy as to live at the foot of Mount Ætna or Vesuvius, where they
are liable to be overwhelmed in a moment by burning lava; and here am
I, lying near the crater of a volcano, without the hope of escape if
there should be an eruption!! Overwhelmed by the oppressive weight of
my thoughts, I sunk, from absolute exhaustion, about daybreak, into a
doze, from which I was almost immediately aroused by a bell, which I
mistook for the last trump, and springing up, perceived that it
announced our arrival at the place of destination, and I was forced to
huddle on my clothes as fast as possible. Such a scene of confusion
and hurry as now presented itself, baffles my poor powers of
description. Passengers, porters, trunks, wheelbarrows, hackmen, every
body and every thing, in one moving mass upon the wharf, so completely
confounded the few brains I had, that I stood like a fool, while
“hack, sir?” was bawled in one ear, “hack, sir?” in another—“omnibus,
sir? do you go in the omnibus?” One pulled me by the right, another by
the left, until my limbs were almost dislocated. At last, remembering
a little of my latin, I concluded it must be right to go _with all_,
and I cried out “omnibus!” “Your baggage, sir, where is it?” “God only
knows, my friend,” said I. “Is this it, sir?” “Yes, yes.” Into the
omnibus they shoved me, with such despatch, that had I been the
“_stout gentleman_” himself, I am sure none could have seen even the
“broad disk of my pantaloons.” It was the first time in my life, that
I had ever travelled in a carriage without shutting the door, {735}
except once, upon compulsion, when my horses ran off with me; but if
you will credit me, sir, there is no door to an omnibus; so I suppose
omnibus means without a door, but in what language is more than I
pretend to know. Perhaps it may be the _Garamna_ language, but none
but the author of the Doctor can tell that. If you should be
acquainted with the tongue, Mr. Editor, just drop me a hint in your
next number, and I shall be much obliged to you.

Well, praised be heaven, I had escaped the death of a hog, and felt
somewhat revived by the morning air. Away we whirled with great
rapidity to the rail road depot, where the cars were ready to receive
us. We were told that from some irregularity, I never knew what, we
were to be drawn for some miles by horses, and I blessed my stars at
the occurrence, as I had been anticipating, with some dread, that
wonderful velocity of the engines of which I had heard and read so
much; but short-lived indeed was my joy, as it began to be a matter of
interesting speculation whether the cars meeting us, might not,
peradventure, be driven by steam. We had not proceeded far, before our
apprehensions were realized. Just as we turned an abrupt curvature in
the road, there came the engine roaring and snorting upon us!! Mr.
Editor, I have been pursued in my time by a mad bull; I have been upon
the point of being tossed upon his horns; I have been in the imminent
peril of being run over by squadrons of wild horses which had taken
the stampado; I have seen perils by sea and perils by land, but never
had I felt such alarm, such destitution of all hope of escape as now.
Our driver sprang from his seat, and had just time to unhitch his
horses, but what were we to do? One man jumped out and broke his leg,
the rest of us kept our seats. I _could_ not leave mine—I was
transfixed with horror—my eyes were starting from my head and my mouth
wide open. Breathless, we awaited the shock, and soon it came like a
thunder-crash. What happened to others I cannot tell. All I remember
distinctly is that the concussion was so tremendous, that it brought
my two remaining teeth so violently together, that they were both
knocked out; they were the last of the Capulets, and I would not have
taken a thousand dollars a piece for them; it is a wonder I did not
die of fright—my hair, if I had had any, must have turned grey; but
thanks to the barber, I had none. I was taken up more dead than alive,
and nothing could induce me to hazard my life again. I consigned to
the devil all cars, steamboats, rail-roads, their projectors and
inventors, solemnly vowing never to be in a hurry again as long as I
lived, but to remember the old maxim, festina lente—make haste slowly.

My business I abandoned in despair,—bought the dullest horse I could
procure,—sold my trunk and got a pair of saddle-bags, and resolved to
jog slowly and safely homeward. After a fatiguing journey, I reached
my own house, where nobody knew me. When I told my wife who I was and
what had occurred to me, she said it was a judgment upon me for being
such a fool as to cut my hair in _that_ fashion. She will never listen
to me now when I attempt to repeat the particulars of my excursion,
and that is the reason that I have concluded to trouble you with my
history. If it should entertain you, and serve as a warning to my
countrymen not to be in such a confounded hurry in doing every thing,
I shall be repaid for my trouble. The whole world seems to me to be in
a sort of neck-or-nothing state; all the sobriety, frugality and
simplicity of our forefathers seems to be forgotten, and the only
object is, to grow rich suddenly, and time and space must be
annihilated in the pursuit.

I am, sir, very respectfully, your most obedient, humble servant,

SOLOMON SOBERSIDES.




FRIENDSHIP,[1]
AN ESSAY.

Solem e mundo tollere videntur, qui amicitiam a vitâ tollunt; quâ a
Diis immortalibus, nihil melius, nihil jucundius, habemus.

_Cicero de Amicitia_.

[Footnote 1: When New York was in possession of the English during the
war of the revolution, the officers, to relieve the monotony of a
garrison life, established a society in which some subject of a
literary character was discussed at every meeting. Before this society
was read this essay, by Mr. Gilchrist—which we print from his original
MS. Of their author, personally, we know little, except that he was
not an officer in either the army or navy, nor a member of either of
the learned professions, although a gentleman of literary taste and
extensive acquirements. Henry K. White, in a letter to his brother
Neville, mentions a Mr. Gilchrist as one of the contributors to the
“Monthly Mirror,” with Capel Lofft, Robert Bloomfield and others. If
Mr. G. returned to England he was probably the author of most of the
articles in the Monthly Mirror over the signature of _Octavius_. Judge
Hoffman and Mr. Dunlap of New York, may be able to give some account
of him, as well as of the “_Literary Society_.”

About this same time there existed, perhaps in opposition to, or in
ridicule of the “_Literary Society_,” a junto formed by the young
ladies, together with the students of medicine, and other young men of
New York, and called the “_Dreaming Society_” one or more of whose
members were appointed at each meeting to prepare an essay for the
next, (either in prose or verse,) which essay was either to be a
dream, or to represent the essayist as having obtained it by means of
a dream, or to have written it while asleep. The sisters of Lindley
Murray; the late Dr. Samuel L. Mitchell; Mr. Dunlap, (we believe,) the
author of the “History of the American Theatre;” and Judge Hoffman,
were members.]


Pleasure, to be really such, must be the matter of our own free choice
and voluntary election; whatever is commanded immediately becomes a
duty; and though by the goodness and wisdom of the commander, the
paths of duty may lead to pleasure; yet strictly and properly
speaking, pleasure can never be enjoined by any authority, can never
submit to the bonds of obligation.

No virtue can be more amiable and excellent than _friendship_, no
pleasures more refined than that which it affords, and though
_friendship_ may be recommended as the most valuable acquisition and
the highest enjoyment, it cannot be enjoined as a duty, or as an
indispensable obligation; so that, if, after our utmost researches in
pursuit of it, we should be disappointed, we cannot be condemned as
criminal, or deficient in what we owe to our own happiness.

Friendship, to adopt the definition given by Lord Shaftsbury, is that
peculiar relation which is formed by a consent and harmony of minds,
by mutual esteem and reciprocal affection. Friendship, therefore, can
never be enjoined as a duty, since our lot in life may never be cast
amongst those whose minds will harmonize with our own; it is rather to
be considered a singular {736} blessing, vouchsafed, perhaps, to few,
but when vouchsafed, one of the most exquisite cordials in human life.
Intending man for social happiness, the author of his nature, in great
wisdom and goodness, hath given this impulse to the human heart; and
the heart rarely errs, or misleads us in its hints and admonitions.
What a pleasure, what a comfort is it, to have one in perfect amity
with us, to whom we can at all times unbosom ourselves with perfect
confidence and safety, with whom we can enjoy all the refinements and
peculiar pleasures of rational conversation; one who will tenderly
enter into and share all our griefs, or kindly participate in all our
joys; thus heightening the one, and alleviating the other. What
pleasure to have a friend upon the wisdom of whose counsels we can
safely rely in all our difficulties, in all our embarrassments; whose
power and interest will always be at hand to succor and assist, or
whose affection, at least, will always be forward to console and cheer
us. Providence gives nothing in mortal life more valuable than such a
friend; but the difficulty of the acquisition is in proportion to the
value.

I cannot express my sentiments better on the difficulties which attend
the acquisition of real friendship, than in the words of one of the
most masterly writers of the age. When Socrates, says he, was building
himself a house at Athens, being asked by one that observed the
littleness of the design, why a man so eminent would not have an abode
more suitable to his dignity, he replied, “That he should think
himself sufficiently accommodated, if he could see that habitation,
narrow as it was, filled with real friends.” Such was the opinion of
that great master of human life, concerning the unfrequency of such an
union of minds as might deserve the name of friendship.

Multitudes are unqualified for a constant and warm reciprocation of
benevolence, by perpetual attention to their interest, and unresisting
subjection to their passions; many varieties of dispositions also, not
inconsistent with the common degrees of virtue, may exclude friendship
from the heart. Some, ardent enough in their benevolence, are mutable
and uncertain, soon attracted by new objects, disgusted without
offence, and alienated without enmity. Others are soft and flexible,
easily influenced by reports and whispers, ready to catch alarms from
every dubious circumstance, and to listen to every suspicion which
envy and flattery shall suggest. Some are impatient of contradiction,
more willing to go wrong by their own judgment, than to be indebted
for a safer and better way to the sagacity of others, inclined to
consider counsel as insult, and inquiry as want of confidence. Some
are dark and involved, equally careful to conceal good and bad
purposes, and pleased by showing their design only in the execution.
Others are unusually communicative, alike open to every eye, and
equally profuse of their own secrets and those of others, ready to
accuse without malice, and to betray without treachery. Any of these
may be useful to the community, and pass through the world with the
reputation of uncorrupted morals, but they are unfit for close and
tender intimacy. He cannot properly be chosen for a friend, whose
kindness is exhaled by its own warmth, or frozen by the first blast of
slander—he cannot be a useful counsellor who will hear no opinion but
his own—he will not much invite confidence, whose principal maxim is
to suspect—nor can the candor and frankness of that man be much
esteemed, who spreads his arms to human kind, and makes every man,
without distinction, a denizen of his bosom. Such is the picture of
human disposition, drawn by the pen of that great moral master.

Having taken a view of the difficulties to be met with, I shall next
take notice of those qualifications which seem necessary to obtain
real and permanent friendship: and here we shall find that virtue is
the only sure solid basis on which it can be built: if founded on
other or less worthy motives, its continuance is short and precarious:
as those motives shift and vary, it will vary with them: Cicero, in
the treatise from which I have taken the prefatory lines says, “Nec
sine virtute, amicitia esse ullo pacto potest.” Such unions deserve
not the name of friendship; they are rather confederacies, so much the
more dangerous and hurtful, as the uniting causes are mean and
vicious.

To this mutual and virtuous complacency, is generally necessary, an
uniformity of opinions, at least of those active and conspicuous
principles which discriminate parties in government, or sects in
religion. When differences in regard to these subsist, debates will
arise; vehemence, acrimony and vexation, and, in time, an utter
extinction of benevolence, will ensue. Intercourse of civilities may
continue, but the poison of discord is infused, and though the
countenance may preserve its smile, the heart is hardening and
contracting; to use another quotation from the same author, “accedat
autem suavitas quædam oportet sermonum atque morum, haudquaquam
mediocre condimentum amicitiæ.”

Besides virtue and similarity of leading opinions and dispositions,
there are many other qualifications necessary to the refinement of
friendship; such as an openness and frankness of temper, joined with
the greatest faithfulness, prudence and discretion; a constancy and
firmness of mind; an evenness and uniformity of behavior, a suavity of
manners, an absence of all jealousy, a readiness to overlook little
faults and foibles, and an exquisite and generous sensibility—in
short, all the dispositions directly opposite to those before
mentioned; partly the produce of a kind and indulgent nature, and
partly of virtuous culture.

Let us not, however, forget, while we specify those good qualities
necessary to be found in another, that we are under every obligation
to cultivate them in ourselves; for as no friendship can either be
real or lasting which is not founded on virtue and the good qualities
above enumerated, it follows that our entry into the union must
encourage the cultivation of every right and amiable principle in the
soul. Two virtuous minds will stimulate each other in every laudable
pursuit, will guard each other from every wrong propensity, and
criminal deviation; and never dare either of them to commit an action
which the other would hear of with concern, or behold with a blush.

Nor is this union of less utility for the improvement of the lesser
virtues, the graces of life, the arts of pleasing, the “amiable
attentions”—as we will surely be solicitous to excel in those
attentions, and to become amiable in proportion as we wish to be
loved.

To enumerate all the advantages and all the pleasures of friendship,
were I equal to the task, would far exceed my limits—that friendship
which gives to human life {737} its highest relish, and affords to
virtue the strongest support and encouragement. I shall conclude,
therefore, with the sentiment with which I began, “quâ a Diis
immortalibus nihil melius habemus, nihil jucundius.”




MISPAH.


A late writer tells us, that being on board the packet ship Silas
Richards, on his way from New York to Liverpool, the captain one day
opened the letter bags in the round house, to sort the contents; and
to amuse the passengers standing about him, read aloud some of the
most singular superscriptions, when he came to a letter which had a
seal with an epigraph on it which ran thus: “Mispah—Gen. xxxi. 49.”
“Here,” said he to a clergyman by, (the writer himself, I suppose,)
“this is for you to expound.” But the clergyman not being able to do
so, ran for his Bible, and soon returning with it open at the place
referred to, read out, “Mispah: the Lord watch between me and thee,
when we are absent one from another.” “Beautiful!” said one.
“Beautiful!” said another. “A gem! a gem!” exclaimed a third. “A gem
indeed!” cried all together. “And surely,” adds the writer, “the
brightest, most precious gem of all, was to find, in such a place and
circle, these prompt and full-souled expressions of sympathy on this
announcement of religion and christian piety. There were, indeed,
powerful tendencies to such sympathy in the circumstances of us all.
For who present, whether going _to_ or _from_ his home, did not feel
himself separated from those he loved, and loved most dear? And who,
with a wide and fitful ocean before him, tossing on its heaving bosom,
would not feel his dependence, and looking back or forward to home and
friends, lift up his aspirations to that high Providence who sits
enthroned in Heaven, and rules the land and sea, and breathe to him
the sweet and holy prayer—‘The Lord watch between me and mine, while
we are absent one from another?’”

These reflections are all just and natural enough; but they are,
perhaps, a little too vague and indefinite. At least, they do not
strike me as quite true to the text. For the word “watch” here does
not mean simply _protect_, but rather _witness_, and Laban’s idea when
he said “Mispah,” was, “may the Lord stand witness, and look out to
guard against any infraction of the covenant which has just been made
between us.” So the author wanders a little from the point of the
thing. And he does so again when he proceeds to ask, “And whose was
the hand that fixed this stamp of piety on this winged messenger of
love—of love that grows more ardent and more holy as it is distant and
long away from its object? The first post-mark was Quebec, and the
letter was directed to a quarter-master in London. Was it then, from a
wife to a husband? or from a sister to a brother? or what was the
relation?” Obviously, such a seal could be used with strict propriety
only by one who either was, or was engaged to be, married, to the
writ_ee_, and who might very nicely use it at once to assure and
remind the absent partner of that conjugal, or connubial fidelity
which they had vowed before God. At any rate, it must be felt, I
think, by every one, that it would have a peculiar charm when used by
a person who might happen to be in such a predicament. And taking the
thing in this light, and putting myself for a moment in the shoes of
the fair young _fiancée_ who has just set the seal to her letter, I
would expound or explain the motto upon it, something in this way:

  O what can sooth the sorrow, love,
    This anxious absence brings,
  But to reflect that one above,
    With overshadowing wings,
  The witness of our plighted troth,
  Will hear, and help, and keep us both?

  O may he still our guardian be,
    As he hath ever been!
  And watch, my love, o’er me and thee,
    While ocean rolls between!
  And bring thee back, all perils past,
  To make our bonds more sweetly fast!

Q.




CHARACTER OF CORIOLANUS.


Coriolanus possessed those traits of character, which in an unpolished
age, and amongst a people so renowned for their chivalry as the
Romans, are fitted to command universal admiration. Of high birth—of a
frank, ingenuous nature—wise in the council-chamber, as he was ardent
and intrepid in the field, it would have been strange if he had not
soon won his way to the esteem and confidence of his countrymen.
Accordingly we find him, after having signalized his name by a series
of the most brilliant exploits in a campaign against the Volsci,
returning to Rome, to receive in the gratitude and applause of his
fellow-citizens, the reward of his heroic deeds. But neither the fame
of his splendid successes, nor his own intrinsic dignity, could exempt
him from the reverses of fortune. The chaplet with which the fickle
goddess one moment decks the conqueror’s brow, the next she snatches
away, and leaves him the wretched victim of disappointed ambition.
Thus was it with Coriolanus. The Tribunes of the People, those
infamous panders to the morbid appetites of the mob, finding it
necessary to sacrifice him, the panoply of virtue proved a poor shield
against their virulence. Taking advantage of that hauteur of which
there was certainly a spice too much in his composition, they very
dexterously managed to excite him to expressions of contempt for the
commons, on the one hand, and, on the other, to inflame their minds
with a sense of imaginary wrongs, and impress upon them a conviction,
that if they would not be trampled in the dust, they must dispute
every inch of ground with the Patricians, and omit no opportunity to
strike a blow at a class of men they were taught to consider their
natural enemies. As the influence of the tribunes with the people was
unlimited, so their success was complete—their machinations resulting
in the condemnation of Coriolanus to perpetual exile. Alas, that we
have to deplore that the magnanimity this great man had so often
exhibited, should desert him in the hour when most he needed it! Stung
to madness that his distinguished services to the state should meet so
base a return, he resolves, in an ecstacy of resentment, that Rome
shall suffer the meed of her dark ingratitude. He goes over to the
enemy, who {738} receive him with open arms, and signify their
readiness to do his bidding. An army is placed at his disposal, with
which he invades the Roman territory, and ravaging the country as he
passes along, at length draws up his legions within a few miles of the
city, prepared, in the event of a refusal to comply with his harsh and
extravagant requisitions, to whelm friend and foe in one
indiscriminate ruin. Seized with consternation at his sudden and
unexpected approach, the Romans sue for mercy. Successive deputations,
consisting of the friends who had fought at his side in battle, and of
the principal citizens who had stood by him when the decree was passed
for his unjust and cruel banishment, are in vain sent to intreat him
to lay aside his unnatural rebellion. Nothing can move him until, his
wife and mother coming out to the camp, and throwing themselves at his
feet, he reluctantly grants to their prayers and tears the amnesty
which all feebler considerations had not availed to obtain.

Now suppose, for a moment, that the reprobation which the Christian
code of morals pronounces on the principle of revenge, be laid out of
view; and let it be granted that Coriolanus had a right to retaliate
on the men who had so deeply injured him; yet how shall we excuse the
design he meditated of involving his innocent friends in the same
heavy penalty? When he was banished, it was by a majority of only
three tribes. The whole body of the Patricians were in his favor, and
profoundly sympathized in his calamity; and he must have foreseen that
if the Volscian soldiery, the ancient and uncompromising enemies of
Rome, were admitted into the city with Aufidius, his co-equal in
command, at their head, that nothing sacred or venerable would be
spared by their rapacious violence—that the rights of property, the
quiet and security of old men, the purity of virgins and matrons, and
the sanctity of temples—in a word, all that age, or innocence, or
religion had consecrated, would be made the inevitable victims of the
same ruthless invasion. And all this he contemplated unmoved. Surely,
in the very conception of an act implicating, in such tragical
consequences, not his enemies merely, but his friends also, and those
who should have been dearer to him than his own life—his family and
kindred—there was a monstrous perfidy from which every mind that has
not been too deeply corrupted to appreciate the force of any moral
motive, must revolt with horror.

But it may be asked, “How can Coriolanus be justly charged with the
crime of those consequences which his clemency prevented?” In
estimating character, the man who has once evinced the inveterate
malignity of his heart, must be branded with eternal infamy, unless it
appears that he subsequently became penetrated with profound
contrition, and changed his conduct from the purest and most virtuous
motives. Was this true of Coriolanus? Having contemned the higher
claims of his country, and thrown off her allegiance, his ultimately
yielding to the yearning voice of natural affection was a weakness—an
amiable weakness, it may be said—but still a weakness. Such is our
mental conformation, that we behold a congruous character with a
degree of complacency, even though the character be a bad one; and
although we may lend a measure of our sympathy to those good acts of
confessedly bad men, which are the mere gratification of a physical
propensity, the unbending rigor of reason sternly refuses to allow any
moral excellence to those deeds, or to insult the majesty of virtue by
assigning them as her offspring. We return, however, to a point
temporarily merged, in order to follow up another branch of the
argument. The principle of revenge is wholly, and under all
circumstances, inadmissible. Nor is it a proper reply to this
proposition to say, that ours is an age of moral and intellectual
light, and that it is unjust to apply to one who lived two thousand
years ago, the same rigid rule of judgment to which he would be
subjected at the present day. In the trial of questions involving an
abstract principle, there should manifestly be but one standard for
all ages and nations. Any other hypothesis will lead to the most
glaring absurdities. For if the moral quality of an action could be
modified by the unimportant circumstances of _time_ or _place_, there
is no crime in the decalogue which may not be justified. Modern
heathen nations almost universally allow polygamy; in certain portions
of the world murder is deemed innocent; and the ancient Spartan, we
know, regarded theft as the prince of virtues. Where is the man who
would presume to excuse these practices because they pertain to a
barbarous nation, or to a period of moral darkness? Yet may it as well
be done, as to justify the practice of revenge in the case under
consideration. The ignorance of the age or nation may _palliate_ the
conduct of an individual; it cannot justify what is intrinsically
wrong; and it would be in the last degree preposterous to put out the
lights by which we are surrounded, and go to seek the radiant form of
virtue in the dim twilight of heathenism. If Coriolanus had displayed
a fortitude in suffering equal to his bravery in action—if he had
never suffered a thought of retaliation upon his ingrate country to
invade his breast; but, when thrust out from home and kindred, and all
that on earth he held most dear, he had sought, in the conscious
purity of his heart, and, in a sense of duty discharged, that tranquil
happiness which, to a wise man, is of far higher price than the shouts
and huzzas of the multitude—that mental peace which can cheer the
gloom of solitude, and whose elastic energy can buoy up the soul under
the heaviest distresses, his name would have come down to posterity
circumvested with a halo of glory, ever enlarging, ever brightening.
As it is, there is a spot upon his fame which all his splendid
achievements may not wipe off. The man who courts toil, and suffering,
and danger in his country’s cause, earns well the patriot’s meed; but
he who conquers himself, achieves a nobler triumph. He bequeaths to
the generations of all time, in the bright example he leaves for their
emulation, a rarer and richer legacy.

  There may be glory in the might
  Which treadeth nations down;
  Wreaths for the crimson conqueror,
  Pride for the kingly crown;
  But nobler is that triumph hour
  The disenthralled shall find,
  When evil passion boweth down
  Unto the Godlike mind.

In his contempt of this sentiment consisted Coriolanus’ great error.
Alas for his fame, that he had not discerned its truth and acted
accordingly!


{739}


MR. EDITOR,—Reading the “Belles of Williamsburg” in your July number
of the Messenger, induced me to search amongst some old papers for the
enclosed graphical and beautiful lines, which though not written at
quite so early a period as 1777, will serve to show that in 1799 the
halo of refinement and wit was still shining around that classical
spot so famed in Virginia history.

P.


BEAUTY TO THE
BEAUX OF WILLIAMSBURG.


  Gallants! who now so brisk and gay
  From night to morn can dance away
    As if you ne’er could tire,
  Can beauty only warm your heels?
  What, is there not one beau that feels
    Her flame a little higher?

  Have Phœbus and the sacred Nine
  Been banished from their wonted shrine
    Where Love his tribute paid?
  Unaided by Apollo’s rays
  Will hymeneal altars blaze
    Though sacrifice be made?

  Gods! shall Amanda pass unsung?
  Shall Stella fair and gay and young
    Not swell the note of praise?
  Shall blythe Cassandra’s art and fire,
  Her tuneful voice and tuneful lyre
    No kindred effort raise?

  Shall gentle Mira’s sparkling eyes,
  In ambuscade where Cupid lies,
    Still sparkle on in vain,
  As if, instead of lambent fire,
  Like Leoparda’s filled with ire
    Or clouded with disdain?

  Shall twenty other Nymphs beside
  Unnoticed pass adown the tide
    Of Time so swiftly flowing,
  Without one stanza to their praise
  To tell the folks of future days
    That they were worth the knowing?

  Should Valentine’s once blythesome day
  Thus quite neglected pass away,
    Like some dull Sunday morning,
  Narcissa may begin to frown,
  Nay, Flora with disdain look down,
    So Beaux, I give you warning.

BEAUTY.

_Idalian Grove, 14th February 1799_.




PHILOSOPHY OF ANTIQUITY.


NO. I.

Of all the benefits that modern times owe to antiquity, the most
important but at the same time the least often acknowledged, is the
boon of philosophy. The poets, orators, and historians of Greece and
Rome are in the hands of every school-boy, and are the pleasure and
study of all who pretend to education, while the works of Plato,
Aristotle, Plotinus, and the other lights of antiquity (the heralds,
they have been called, of the true cross) languish here and there on
the shelves of some old library, or in the shop of some antiquarian
Bibliopole. There is this remarkable difference between philosophy and
the lighter literature of antiquity. Homer and Herodotus, Demosthenes
and his fellow orators, flashed out, as it were, from the bosom of the
people with no warning—no precursor, and first established that order
or sequence of literary cultivation which the experience of subsequent
ages has proved infallible; I mean first, poetry and eloquence—next,
history, and last of all, philosophy. Philosophy itself was no child
of the moment. As the sea-beach gains something as each wave rolls
over it, so was it with philosophy. Each age made its deposit at the
bank of truth, and slowly and imperceptibly, but with not less
security, was that mountain raised, which, however wildly raged the
storms of the middle ages—how much so ever its fair face was
obscured—still never ceased to exist, but served as a place of rest to
the weary bird of literature, a rest whence the yet callow philosophy
and unfledged history might wing their infantine flight. We may give
an era to history—for there is great difference between it and
tradition—we may positively ascertain the first poet, but we cannot
approximate to the first philosopher. Socrates is not the only sage
who never gave his lucubrations to posterity, and we learn from its
very name, (love of wisdom,) that it is coeval with mind, nay, almost
one of its principles. Were we to treat as philosophy only what has
been written, we should be forced again to bound our researches by
what has descended to us, and short indeed would be our course; but it
is not so. We know with as much certainty the opinions of those who
never wrote, as we do those of Plato and his followers, and are thus
able to trace philosophy _ab ovo usque ad mala_, from the alpha not to
the omega, for that has not been reached, but to the point at which we
find it now.

Philosophy first presents itself to the historian about the
commencement of the sixth century. The country where we first behold
it, is Asia Minor; beneath its warm climate the Grecian colonists, who
from time to time had settled there, grew day by day more and more
cultivated, till at length they were the tutors of their father-land.
Thales of Miletus, Pittacus of Mytelene in Lesbos, Bias of Priene
flourished in a quick succession, while as yet Hellas had produced but
Solon, who was more lawgiver than sage, and who would better be
associated with Lycurgus than with Thales.

The philosophy of Ionia was echoed back with increased vigor from
Magna Grecia. It is customary for the imagination, when Italy is its
theme, to fly back to the days of Rome—to revel with Horace and with
Cicero, with Virgil and Macænas. How great so ever may be our
veneration for those later ages, they should never blot out from
memory Italy’s earlier civilization, when Apuleia and Brutium were
seats of learning instead of Tuscany, and when Pythagoras was master
of its philosophy instead of Cicero and Seneca.

The _point de depart_ of philosophy was the origin of the world and
its elementary principle. Perhaps it was necessary that the mental
machinery should first be employed upon the grosser matter ere it
should seize hold of that most delicate of all materials, mind—that
{740} the artillerymen of logic should first acquire skill in
battering to pieces erroneous opinions on natural philosophy ere his
piece should be directed against errors in ethics and psychology. Its
_modus operandi_ was, generally, that of empiricism. This is in a
degree true of all from Thales to Plato.

As the astrologers and alchemists of all ages, so did the philosophers
of the time of Thales. Though arguing on correct bases, they obtained
the most improper results. Pushing their analysis beyond the bound of
reason—not content with the phenomena of matter, of which experience
has taught us more than suffices for the mind of man, they sought to
discover the _arcanum_, the hidden principle of the world’s existence.
They failed of course, and it is a humiliating though not less
instructive task to glance in succession at the varied, though not
less incoherent, labors of those great spirits who, notwithstanding
that absurdity which belonged more properly to their age than to them
individually, yet emitted occasional glimpses of what we in vain would
hope had led to better results.

According to Thales the principle of the world is water. He is said to
have been induced to adopt this, in consequence of some partial
experiments. There was besides another principle, prime mover of all
things, which he called _nous_. To him we are indebted for that best
and most ancient of maxims, _Know thyself_.

Friend and townsman of Thales was Anaxamander. He lit his lamp at the
same light and cast its blaze on the same subjects. His _point de
depart_ is infinity, which he surnamed all-containing and divine,
without determining it more precisely. Perpetual changes of earth and
of things can take place in infinity. These were his _principia_, but
from them he developed multitudes of doctrines which it is not now
important to examine. He bent his attention to astronomy, and nearly
similar were the doctrines of Pherecydes of Syros. He called his
trinity of principles, God, time, and matter. He attempted to explain
animated bodies and mankind. He considered the soul as imperishable.
Anaxamander and Pherecydes were the two first philosophers who wrote
their doctrines out.

Now bursts on us a genius of the most astounding kind—Pythagoras.
Mighty as was his fame—great as the influence he exerted on
posterity—Homer-like, it seems his doom was to have “no place of
burial or of birth.” Iamblychus, in his life of Pythagoras, makes him
appear even from his infancy a sage and a philosopher. Where he was
instructed—how—by whom—we know not. There are accounts that he
travelled far and wide in search of science, studied among the
Egyptians for twenty-two years, and travelled so far as to meet and
converse with the Indian Gymnosophists. His life was a varied one—now
persecuted from town to town—now a prisoner at Babylon. With the sages
of Egypt he doubtless there met with, and imbibed a portion at least
of that God-revealed doctrine, which we have reason to believe had
sent some glimmerings of its glorious radiance to Babylon, the Rome,
the Athens of the East.

In our days, when the genius of the press flits from clime to
clime—when distance is annihilated, it seems a small matter to us to
study the philosophy, to pour over the lucubrations of distant lands;
but it was not so then. Each dogma was learned with difficulty and
attained with labor; we may then judge how great was that philosophic
spirit which prompted its possessor to so long and painful voyages,
and how strongly circumstances favored him, turning even apparent
obstructions into favorable events. For another paper we reserve the
philosophy of Pythagoras.




THE GIRL OF HARPER’S FERRY.


  Ah! tell me not of the heights sublime,
    The rocks at Harper’s ferry,
  Of mountains rent in the lapse of time—
    They’re very beautiful—very!
  I’m thinking more of the glowing cheek
    Of a lovely girl and merry,
  Who climb’d with me to yon highest peak—
    The girl of Harper’s ferry.

  She sailed with me o’er the glassy wave
    In yonder trim-built wherry;
  Shall I ever forget the looks she gave
    Or the voice which rang so merry?
  To the joy she felt, her lips gave birth—
    Lips, red as the ripest cherry—
  I saw not Heaven above, nor Earth—
    Sweet girl of Harper’s ferry!

  We clamber’d away over crag and hill
    Through places dark and dreary;
  We stooped to drink of the sparkling rill
    And gather the blushing berry;
  Dame Nature may sunder the Earth by storms
    And rocks upon rocks may serry,
  But I like her more in her fragile forms,
    My girl of Harper’s ferry.

  I followed her up the “_steps of stone_”
    To where the dead they bury;
  On Jefferson’s rock she stood alone,
    Looking on Harper’s ferry—
  But I, like Cymon, the gaping clown,
    Stood, lost in a deep quandary,
  Nor thought of the river, the rock, the town,
    Dear girl of Harper’s ferry.

  She carv’d her name on the well known rock,
    The rock at Harper’s ferry;
  You would not have thought me a stone or stock
    Bending o’er charming Mary—
  Insensible rock! how hard thou wert
    Hurting her fingers fairy,
  Deeper she writ upon my soft heart—
    The girl of Harper’s ferry.

  Ye who shall visit this scene again,
    This rock at Harper’s ferry,
  Come pledge me high in the brisk Champaigne
    Or a glass of the palest Sherry—
  And this is the name which ye shall quaff,
    The name of Mary Perry!
  She’s fairer than all your loves by half—
    The girl of Harper’s ferry.


{741}


THE KIDNAPPER’S COVE.


I have always felt deeply interested in the past history of the
Aborigines of our country; and with a pleasure amounting to
enthusiasm, embrace every occasion of retracing the annals of that
once noble and heroic, but now degraded and scattered race. Who that
has any taste for the wild and picturesque, would not love to roam
along the Susquehanna, and call up the associations with which its
leafy forests are rife? They were once the favorite hunting grounds of
the numerous tribes of Indians, belonging to the empire of the Five
Nations, whose sway extended over every mountain, plain and river,
from Champlain to Carolina.

I set out upon my summer ramble, attracted by the feelings I have
mentioned, to visit scenes of so much traditionary interest; and being
unacquainted with the topography of the adjacent country, I sought out
one of its oldest settlers in the hope of obtaining a guide, and some
information respecting the most remarkable relics of the past. I was
so fortunate as to fall in with a real old forester, one who loved
nature in her wildness, who had trod her labyrinths of shade ere the
woodman’s axe was heard clearing the way for rising villages and busy
factories. I found him animated with antiquarian zeal, with a memory
filled with stories of by-gone days, and a spirit of poetic fervor,
which could re-people every spot with living images of the wild beings
who had there fulfilled their mysterious destiny. He readily offered
to be my guide in Indian antiquities, and we set out on our
pilgrimage; Oliver Oldham (thus was my cicerone called) beguiling the
way, now with a story, now with a song of ancient time, suggested by
this well-remembered pass, that over-hanging rock, or steep waterfall.
All was animated, all interesting, on the tongue of this old narrator.
He carried me back to the days when the Indians and the white settlers
were united in bonds of amity and love; when the unsuspecting red man
showed no dispositions but those of the most friendly and confiding
nature, towards the race before which he was so soon to disappear, and
from which he was fated to receive such injuries. He retraced the
history of aggression, and related several incidents of harrowing
barbarity, in which the power of our race was perverted to oppress and
finally to crush our ancient friends and allies. My mind retaining
some historical recollection of the massacre of the Conestogo Indians
by the white inhabitants of Pextang, I requested my companion to
proceed towards the site of that ancient settlement. As we advanced,
we saw nothing to remind us of the first masters of the soil, save the
magnificent features of nature, still bearing the appropriate epithets
of their language. The mighty voice of the Susquehanna still roared
through its breakers, and the dark form of the Black Warrior lifted
itself on high. Having arrived at the supposed spot of the cruel
massacre, Oliver gave me a short history of the war-like and generous
tribe who once inhabited the extensive and flourishing settlement,
lying between the Susquehanna and Conestogo creek. Among the rocks and
fastnesses to which it is said the Indians fled for refuge in the
general destruction of their tribe, he particularised one, called the
“Rock of Sacrifice,” with which, he remarked, there was a singular
tradition connected; and another story of still deeper interest, with
a bend in the river just below it, which he pointed out as the
“Kidnapper’s Cove;” thus designated from a remarkable circumstance
which once happened there. “But,” said he, “as both places are
inseparably connected in my own mind, I will begin with the ‘Rock of
Sacrifice,’ and tell you what the Indian legends relate of both.”

The tradition is, that only six warriors escaped the murder of their
people; and not wishing to survive the fall of their nation,
sacrificed themselves on this spot to the god of vengeance, believing
they should be permitted in the land of spirits to behold the day of
just retribution on their murderers. One of these chiefs was known by
the appellation of the “Spread Eagle,” from his power and majesty. He
was a famous chief; his word in council, and his arm in war, were
alike irresistible. He was the friend and ally of the whites. He said,
“they are wise, they will teach us their arts, there is room enough
for us both, let them fell the trees and till the soil, the wilderness
stretches to the great waters, our young men can follow the chase, and
our old ones learn to grow a great nation. Our white brethren must
dwell among us.” His counsel was followed, and mutual amity
established between the two races. At length the rapacious thirst for
gain fomented discord, and the Indians were assailed and murdered in
cold blood. The Spread Eagle, by his wonderfully muscular strength,
fought through the enemy, bearing two children (the only remaining
members of his family) on his shoulders. He fled to the habitation of
Colonel Carlisle, who in the general defection had maintained the
cause of the persecuted Indians. His confidence in this tried friend,
while all around was treachery and bloodshed, wavered not; and he
rushed through the infuriated crowd to the covert of his protection.
Exhausted by exertion and mental anguish, he had scarcely reached the
door, when he beheld his murderers in close pursuit. Darting forward
with a last effort, he threw his children at the feet of Carlisle,
exclaiming, “is there mercy, is there faith, in the heart of one white
man?” “Fear not,” replied the voice of his protector, “I will defend
you from every assault of your enemies.” The Indian’s emotion was
overwhelming. He vented not in words the deep feelings with which his
heart was torn, but his large chest heaved with the inward struggle.
After a few moments he became tranquil, and uttered his determination
in a few brief words—“Carlisle, my people are gone—their blood dyes
the ground—the smoke of their wigwams darkens the sky—I will not stay
to see their ashes scattered by the wind—I will join my brothers in
the spirit-land—see you yonder rock? It points upwards. To night its
blaze will tell that the last Conestogo chiefs have gone to call down
vengeance on their murderers. The Great Spirit drinks the blood of the
brave, but he calls not for the death of the young, they must live to
do deeds of glory. Carlisle, your children have sported with mine on
the brink of the roaring stream—let them roam together until ten
winters have stripped the leaves off the trees: then, my children,
mind the course of the sun—he rises in the east, but he goes down in
the west—follow his path until you find the home of the red man.
Arrowfoot and Caraola, my children, remember the words of your father.
Make not your home with the white man—get far away from him, but shed
not his blood—you have eaten of his bread, and slept by his fire: die
sooner {742} than do him harm, lest the frown of the Great Spirit
darken your souls, but forget not he has shed the blood of your
people, and broken the faith of his promise.” He rose, and unloosing
his wampum belt, presented it to Carlisle, which he received as the
pledge of faith and friendship. The next moment the “Spread Eagle” was
gone. As soon as it was dark, Colonel Carlisle looked towards the
beacon rock. Its fires were just kindling, but soon six figures were
seen within the circle of their ravages. They stood, like the rocks
around, unmoved and unterrified by the fury of the conflagration. He
watched, until the fiery billows swept over the self-devoted victims.
Arrowfoot and Caraola were also spectators of the scene. Their
sympathies, unlike those of the little group around, were not
expressed in tears of grief, or shrieks of terror. In silent and fixed
attention they stood with their backs against a tree, until the last
flickering spark was gone. Then each took the hand of the other, and
pointing to the extinguished pile, promised to obey their father’s
command.

Arrowfoot and Caraola were immediately taken as inmates into Colonel
Carlisle’s family, and the natural shyness and suspicion of the Indian
character, dispelled by the affectionate attention bestowed on them by
every member of the household.

Colonel Carlisle had been very unfortunate in his domestic ties. Death
had successively swept to the grave six children; and last of all his
beloved wife, who sunk under the repeated strokes of family
affliction. Eva and Eldred were now the melancholy father’s only ties
to existence. She was the oldest. Eleven summers had fanned the auburn
ringlets on her snowy brow, and health and joy sparkled on her radiant
cheek. But little Eldred, though nine years old, was feeble and
infantine; claiming a double share of his father’s care and
tenderness. The Indian children soon became the favorite and happy
companions of Carlisle’s own. They bounded with them through the wild
woods of the Susquehanna, Caraola bearing Eldred on her shoulder as
lightly as a bird skipped over the rocks; and Arrowfoot teaching the
nimble foot of Eva where to rest in climbing the steep precipice. His
dexterity in the use of the bow was an unceasing source of amusement:
and the young foresters often spent the day pursuing the chase, and at
night brought home a fawn, the trophy of Arrowfoot’s skill.

Such was the childhood of Eva and Eldred—passed amidst the
magnificence of nature, with two of her untutored children to teach
them how to love and commune with her in the thundering waterfall, the
deep voice of the coming storm, or the whispers of the evening
wind—each was alike delightful, because each was alike expressive of
her beauty or her grandeur. The disposition of Arrowfoot was naturally
contemplative—that of Caraola, tender and romantic. While he, in
thoughtful mood, watched the swift current of the mighty river,
journeying to meet its kindred fountains in the deep, and imagined
himself also a traveller in ceaseless step in pursuit of an unknown
destiny, she would sit on the beetling rock, overhung by the dark
hemlock, and chant the funeral dirge of her tribe, and, pointing to
the Indian mound, describe to her little group of wrapt listeners, the
mysterious rites of interment, and the plentiful supplies which are
left with the dead, to sustain them till they reach the spirit-land.
Her soul seemed to live in the memories of the past, associating with
the majestic scenery around her recollections of the faded glory of
her people.

Colonel Carlisle thought it his duty to instruct these young orphans
in some of the most useful branches of education; but he soon found
that their spirits could not be tamed down to con over the dull
elements of the white man’s language. They loved better to climb some
rocky steep in search of the young eaglet, or follow the bounding deer
into the depths of the near forest. It was only when the young Eva
became his teacher, that Arrowfoot listened to the page of
instruction, and even then his eye would stray from the lesson, to the
bright countenance that hung over it, in which his musing fancy beheld
all it could picture of beauty and happiness. Believe not those who
say the Indian’s heart is only susceptible of the fierce emotions.
Love, in all its strength and purity, often lies hidden in the deep
recesses of his nature, prompting him to deeds of high daring and
self-sacrifice, which the energies and feelings of civilized life,
dissipated upon a thousand objects, are too weak to achieve. Arrowfoot
looked on young Eva’s face of sunshine, and felt the pride and
sternness of his soul melt before it. At first he was happy, for it
beamed on him in his lonely walks, and gladdened the darkest wood
path. But a change came over him, when he attempted to analyze the
feelings that soon warred within his bosom. He became moody and sad,
for he knew the vision he had so long dwelt on would never pass away
from his soul, and he remembered the promise that bound him. He held
it sacred, for it was made to the parent and the chief; but darkness
fell upon his soul, and no star lighted the dim and dreary destiny to
which he was hastening. The struggle was however fearful between the
dignity and firmness of the Indian character, and the softer but still
powerful feelings that are called forth in men of every tribe and
language, by the fascinations of beauty, and the smiles of artless
affection. One day, when Eva was trying to awaken his interest in the
records of history, he exclaimed, turning on her a countenance of
grief and wounded pride, “Does Eva wish Arrowfoot to forget the
misfortunes of his race? Then tell him not of the triumphs, the
glories of other nations. Once the Indian could boast of the valor of
his warriors, and the number of his captives, but now he is driven
from his war-paths, and his hunting grounds. He is robbed of his
rights; and his injuries swell the page of your nations triumphs. If
he receives justice, it is because the oppressor grows weary of
trampling on the fallen. If he receives kindness, he is base enough to
forget the wrongs of his people. But Eva, my father’s death-song
sounds in my ears. His voice calls to me from the spirit-land, and
bids me break the spell that has bound me even near the grave of my
nation. He says the daughter of the white man has smiled on me, and
the coil of the serpent is around my heart. Oh, start not! The bright
sun warms into life the poison hemlock, and the healing balsam. But I
must go. It is the hand of destiny that shapes our lot; we may war
against it, but we cannot control it.”

The spring of the young Indian’s activity seemed gone. He no longer
took delight in the difficult and perilous adventure. He wandered amid
the solitude of nature, only to indulge the musings of a sensitive and
unhappy mind.

{743} Colonel Carlisle marked, with deep interest, the change which
had come over the boy. He knew too well the silent, dignified
fortitude of the Indian, to make any direct inquiry as to the cause of
his sadness. His sympathy was only shown in redoubled acts of
kindness, which availed nothing but to make Arrowfoot throw a deeper
covering of reserve over his feelings, and avoid, as much as possible,
the society of those he loved best. Months passed away, and still
there was on his countenance, “the settled shadow of an inward
strife.” The cause was a mystery to all, but it acted as a check upon
the full tide of joyful existence, which animated Eva and Eldred.

The lapse of two years wrote its changes on the brows of all that
household. In Eva, the lovely child expanded into the fair and
beautiful proportions of womanhood. Eldred’s pale cheek was exchanged
for the ruddy glow of health and exercise, and his frame became more
vigorous as he grew old enough to share the mountain sports of the
young Indian, who, now tall and athletic, displayed all the physical
powers of his race. His constitutional fortitude, strengthened by the
habits of reflection acquired in civilized life, enabled him to bear
his fate with great endurance; and he looked on the object of his
affections with the fixed and melancholy gaze, which some lovely
wanderer might cast towards the pure star, that shone bright and far,
above him. He sought not to attain her; he made no effort even to gain
her sympathy: but his way was not altogether so dark as if the beam
had been withdrawn.

Colonel Carlisle had resided in Pennsylvania from early manhood: one
sister shared with him the valuable funded property left by their
father, a wealthy Bristol merchant; but a large proportion of the
estate he had realized, was vested in land, which, according to the
custom of the country, only descended in the male line. The feeble
state of Eldred’s health through infancy and childhood, led many to
anticipate the time when these large estates would pass from Colonel
Carlisle’s family, to that of his sister; who, married to an East
Indian, was the mother of a wild and roving boy. Communication was
tardy and uncertain in those days; for the hidden powers of earth, air
and water, had not then been called into action, by the commanding
energies of man; and Colonel Carlisle having united his fortune with
the early adventurers in the colonies, while animated by the ardor of
youth, soon felt that the ties which bound him to the home of his
childhood, were feeble, compared with those man frames for himself in
maturer years.

He was sitting one evening, revolving in his mind some of the pleasant
memories of days long past, and scenes in which that sister had been
always at his side, when a purpose he had formed, of writing forthwith
to inquire after her welfare, and inform her of the health and
happiness of his own domestic circle, was frustrated by the arrival of
tidings from New York, that an officer in the British Navy, the son of
his sister Mrs. Fitzgerald, had just arrived in port, and would come
down to visit him in a few days. The heart of the affectionate old man
throbbed with joy at the prospect of embracing his young relative. “He
is a noble fellow I doubt not,” said he to his daughter. “A little
wild in his youth, I have heard that his strange adventures gave my
sister much pain, but young men will be thoughtless, and women’s fears
often outrun discretion, you know, my little Eva.” “Yes,” he continued
to himself, as she went dancing on, to spread the joyful news of the
arrival of a gay young visitor, through the house, “the boldest and
finest spirits often commit extravagancies, before education and
experience give them the right bent, ‘the upward and onward course.’
Poor fellow! he has had little of that best instruction, a father’s
high and pure example. Fitzgerald is an honest man, as the world goes,
but I doubt if he could teach his son any thing better than to scrape
together ingots. But half the blood in his veins is _Carlisle_, and
that could not flow on in the same current with any thing mean or
dishonorable. Besides, he wears his majesty’s uniform; so, as his
father would say, _the balance_ is in favor of his being a brave man
and a true.”

The expected guest at length came, and was welcomed by Colonel
Carlisle with honest warmth. As he surveyed the noble figure of his
nephew, in the imposing costume of the British navy, he felt assured
that all his hopes for him were realized; and was proud of the
relationship between them. Eva and Eldred with beating hearts gave a
timid welcome to their dashing kinsman, but were not perfectly at ease
until, with the frankness of a sailor, he inquired if they believed
him to be “the old man of the sea,” told of in children’s story books?
“Ah,” he said, taking Eva by the hand, “I have dreamed of your blue
eyes and sunny curls, but I never _even dreamed_ that you would not be
glad to see your own cousin Julian. You will not confess it, but I
hope this warm hand and mantling cheek, tell another tale.” Then
turning to Eldred, he exclaimed, “Is this the little fellow I have
often heard my mother talk of, who was’nt quite large enough to be
elected king of the fairies? Why here he is a sturdy boy, who could
heave the anchor of my schooner.” Then the young Indians were
introduced, and a few particulars added to what Julian already knew of
their history. Caraola was struck with the glitter of the young
officer, but Arrowfoot looked coldly on him, and soon turned away.
Between the visitor and the stern Indian there existed, from the
first, a sort of repulsion, such as we see between substances of the
most opposite nature. It was attributed by those around them, to the
difference of nature and habit, which had brought all the feelings and
mental qualities of the sailor to the surface, and buried those of
Arrowfoot in impenetrable reserve. This assumed the rigidity of marked
dislike towards the stranger, who evidently felt uneasy at “the keen
encounter” of his dark eye. The Indian was often reproached by the
open-hearted company, for avoiding their society, and taking part in
none of their plans of amusement: but as he gave no reason, his
coldness was attributed to some trivial prejudice, or intuitive
dislike. This was a check upon the hilarity of the young party: for
Julian was the spring of all their gaiety. Now, gathered around him,
they hung with breathless interest upon the fascinating adventures of
the sailor’s life; now, seated in the pleasure boat, they skimmed the
clear waves of the Susquehanna, he chanting some merry or sentimental
air, and keeping time with the graceful dip of his oar. The person of
the young officer never appeared to so much advantage as when borne on
the surface of his own element; his spirits seemed to acquire an
elasticity which gave grace to every motion, while {744} his full,
black eyes sparkled through the thick curls that floated in the
evening breeze. Arrowroot never failed to join these excursions;
though apparently unobservant of what was passing, he sat silent and
apart. Julian was evidently incommoded by his presence, and sometimes
seemed to shrink from his searching eye. What could there be about the
gay visitant to awaken the suspicion or the hatred of the Indian! It
could not be jealousy. The young foreigner had disclaimed all
pretensions to the hand of his fair cousin, by urging her, with the
freedom and affection of a brother, to accept the addresses of a
youthful admirer in the neighborhood. Indeed, Eldred appeared Julian’s
favorite, from the deep interest he took in all the boy’s amusements,
and the fatigue and self-denial he would undergo to promote his
pleasure. With all the zest of fifteen, he hunted, sailed or angled as
suited the whim of Eldred; and declared he would joyfully exchange the
deck of his schooner, for the hunting grounds of the Susquehanna. He
had so completely won the boy’s heart, that Eldred talked boldly of
forsaking his books and going abroad with Fitzgerald. The proposition
was actually made to Colonel Carlisle, who, at first, treated it as a
jest; but when he perceived that his nephew was serious in urging the
thing, and that he had gained Eldred’s hearty assent, he firmly but
affectionately refused to suffer his son to go beyond parental
restraint at his early age. Eldred was disappointed, but with the
gentleness which marked his disposition, cheerfully submitted to his
father’s wishes; but Julian was not only disturbed, but displeased.
This was the first time he had exhibited any thing of a sensitive or
suspicious nature. He asked if his uncle had not confidence in the
affection he had evinced for Eldred, or in the promises he had made to
guard him from all evil? His feelings were only calmed by new
assurances on the part of Colonel Carlisle, that his confidence in the
regard of his nephew was greatly heightened by this last expression of
it.

The day following, Julian, with a melancholy countenance, informed
Colonel Carlisle, that he had received orders to leave port in less
than a week, and of course he must reach his vessel in time to make
the necessary arrangements; two or three days more were all he could
spend with the beloved relatives to whom his heart was doubly bound by
the ties of kindred and affection. These tidings spread gloom over
every face but Arrowfoot’s. With a penetrating glance, he sought to
read the secret purposes of the stranger, whose words he heeded not.
Julian turned from the inquisitive look; and, with averted eyes,
remarked to Colonel Carlisle, that business called him immediately to
the neighboring town; but as he should only be detained a few hours,
he hoped to return in time to take a last sail with the little party
on the noble river, which would ever dwell in his memory, the mirror
of many past joys.

But I see you are curious to know whether the young Eva was proof
against the attractions of the gallant officer? Did her guileless
heart receive no arrow from the vagrant Cupid, who is so apt to make
one in water excursions and rambles in search of the picturesque; and
who, often an unbidden guest, forces himself into pleasant country
parties, to disturb their harmony and mar all their pastimes. She
remained “fancy free;” for Julian Fitzgerald deigned not to borrow
from the quiver of the mischievous boy, and Eva’s was not a love to be
bestowed, unsought. She was a being, too, of deep affections: and
though her cousin was handsome, brave, full of recitals of wild and
varied interest, and amusing sketches of life and manners, which she
knew only through books, his character was not one to excite her
enthusiasm. It seemed to her romantic spirit, deficient in the lofty
qualities which could alone call forth the enduring love of a refined,
feeling woman; though she admitted that it must be a very pleasant
world where the men were all as gay, and agreeable, and courteous as
he. With his knowledge of the human heart, he might have found it no
very difficult matter to deceive his cousin Eva’s penetration, had his
pride or vanity, or any of the thousand springs of action by which men
are actuated, been put in motion: but he existed for more stirring
scenes; though, now like a bird pursuing its mysterious way from one
far land to another, he paused to rest for awhile amid song and
sunshine.

The hours of Fitzgerald’s absence were spent by the family in
preparing mementos of regard, for him to take to their mutual friends
in England. He returned before Eva had completed her package; and, as
if to drive away care, rallied her on the Quaker taste of her
presents. But though he assumed gaiety, he was restless and uneasy,
and sometimes fell into fits of abstraction, from which he would
suddenly start, and attribute his unusual sadness to the prospect of
parting so soon from his only friends in America. Eldred hung on him,
persuading him with artless and disinterested affection to renounce
his wandering life, and share with him the large domains that would be
his in a few years. But the young officer smiling at the boy’s
simplicity, replied that he would “owe fortune only to his own arm,
and to the favoring gale.”

The evening came on, and the little party embarked on the bright
river. The breeze was fresh, dimpling it with smiles, and soft and
fleecy clouds flitted over them, on their way to form a canopy of
splendor the retiring monarch of day. The scene seemed to revive the
spirits of Julian, and he resumed his animated tone, as he called over
the roll for the excursion. “Where is our pilot Arrowfoot?” said Eva,
looking round. “Oh, the Indian boy,” replied Julian, “I did not
perceive he was missing. But you will not deny me the pleasure of
commanding your little bark this last cruise we shall make together? I
am sure I shall steer as gallantly as he, and as safely too.” “No
doubt of it, dear cousin,” answered Eva, “but there is something
singular in his leaving his post, without giving us any reason for
it.” “I thought,” said Eldred, “he had gone with you, Julian. I hav’nt
seen him since your return.” “No, indeed,” replied the young officer,
“I believe he has no desire for my companionship. These Indians are
strange beings; I would as soon think of taming the mountain eagle as
of civilizing them.” “Slacken sail,” cried Eldred, “if I mistake not,
that speck on the waters is Arrowfoot’s bark canoe. Yes, I know the
dash of his paddle; he is making towards us with all his strength.”
“What can the boy have been after?” remarked Fitzgerald, in rather an
anxious tone: but the next moment the Indian came alongside, and
bounded into the boat, leaving his own light canoe to drift down the
current.

“I thought,” said Eldred joyfully, “that our old pilot {745} would not
desert us altogether. But where have you been? Out of breath, and as
pale as a corpse! Have you been fighting with a wolf, or capsized by
the water-fiend?” “You will not speak,” exclaimed Eva, as he turned
silently away, and fixed his eyes on the dark cove they were nearing;
“can you not tell us whether the spirit who haunts yon depths will be
propitious, for we are going to invade his realms?” “You have nothing
to fear from the water-spirit,” replied Arrowfoot, “but why do you not
sail up the river as you have always done before?” “Because Julian
wishes to see the cove,” said Eva gaily; “and with you at the helm we
fear nothing.” “Trust not to that,” replied he, in a low tone, “I
would guard you from danger with my life, but—I would we were sailing
up the stream,” he continued with increased anxiety. “What can you
mean, Arrowfoot?” cried the now alarmed girl, but immediately
recovering her natural buoyancy of spirit, she rallied him on his
superstition. “Have you seen a raven hovering over us, or does the
moon dip her horn?” she laughingly inquired. “Believe not the omen,
but let us follow these merry waves that go dancing by us, to ‘the
cave of their slumbers,’ and hear the wild song of the water-spirit
soothing them to rest under yon rude canopy of rock.” Fitzgerald now
approached. “I do not like to see my cousin’s bright countenance
wearing this shadow? What gloomy forebodings are these that disturb
you, Eva?” “I wish,” answered she, “that we had taken the usual
course, for Arrowfoot thinks we are not quite safe in venturing into
the cove this evening. Night is coming on, and perhaps we may strike
upon some hidden rock.” “Never fear,” rejoined he, “I am an old
cruiser, who has doubled Cape Horn and been baptized by Neptune. I
want to show you how we steer through dangers in real nautical style.
This young Indian,” he continued in a lower tone, “knows nothing about
it.” “More perhaps than you think he does,” said Arrowfoot, sternly;
for the almost whispered accents had reached his acute ear. Julian
turned away apparently disconcerted, but in a few moments was himself
again, and that he might obliterate every uneasy feeling from the
breasts of the little party, played off Jack-tar for their
entertainment with so much odd singularity and humor, that all, save
the lone Indian, entered into the spirit of his drollery, and forgot
every thing but the fantastic drama before them. He stood apart,
gazing first on the dark masses of rock which overhung the river, then
down its broad and deep solitudes of water, on which no skiff or
fishing boat was visible. They were now entering the unfrequented
cove. Seldom was it that even the canoe of the wild Indian disturbed
the stillness of this spot. How strange was it then to see a small
boat rise as it were out of the waters, and emerge from the shadow of
the rocks within a few hundred yards of them. Arrowfoot, whose wary
ear had heard the dash of oars before it was visible, stood with
straining eye fixed upon it as it rapidly approached them. “I’ll
declare, the water-spirit you were talking of,” said Fitzgerald, “has
taken the form of a fishing boat, and Arrowfoot is going to answer his
demand why we presume to come into his presence. But let me speak him
as we do a ship at sea, and lo! the charm will dissolve, and the whole
affair turn out to be nothing more than a trader going down stream.”
In a moment he took out an instrument something like a bugle, but of a
peculiar tone, and blew a few notes, which were answered by another of
the same kind, and an attempt on the part of the trader to overhaul
them. “I told you,” said Julian, “it was no water-witch. See she
wishes to give us a friendly salute, and learn where we are bound.”
Eva’s looks were directed first to her cousin and then to the Indian,
but for whose look of alarm and defiance she would have enjoyed the
adventure. The boat came nearer, and yet seemed steered by invisible
hands, for no one could be seen beneath the awning which was raised at
one end of it. “What lazy hulks,” exclaimed Fitzgerald, “to let their
boat float on with the current, while they lie dozing there. I’ll pipe
them again, and if they dont answer more gaily I’ll board them
straightway.” He raised his bugle just as they were in the act of
passing, and sounded a note, which was replied to by two figures
masked and muffled in short cloaks, springing on the side of their
little bark. “Good God! who are you? what is your purpose?” cried he,
in a tone of consternation. “Villains! Murderers!” shouted Arrowfoot,
straining the terrified Eldred close to his bosom. The ruffians rushed
upon him, and the cry of despair he uttered when he found he could not
retain his hold upon the boy, revealed their success. The struggle had
been momentary. The Indian was shaken off into the water, by men whose
nerve had been strengthened by many a scene of blood and strife; and
the child he had so vainly striven to defend was heaved into the boat
of the strangers. One wild shriek pierced the silence of the cove and
all was still, while the pirates pushed silently down the stream. Eva
sunk lifeless on the bosom of Caraola, who seemed stunned by the
events which had just occurred, but soon her mournful wail told her
utter hopelessness. Julian Fitzgerald stood silent and unmoved. Where
was his vaunted courage, which had made no effort to rescue a helpless
boy? “Caraola,” he at length said, “I have been thinking what course
we had best pursue, to overtake these murderers before they have
completed their bloody purpose. I would follow them immediately, but
we must first get assistance for this fainting girl.” “Oh go,” cried
she, “I can steer the boat—I can revive Eva.” Her voice, as it dwelt
on the emphatic word “go,” roused the unconscious sufferer to a sense
of her wretchedness. “Go—haste—save him—my brother, my father’s
darling,” she shrieked in agony. “Julian, do you hesitate?” “No, Eva—I
am rowing with all my strength—I must leave you in safety. My plan is
formed. Your father will approve it. We must raise forces and scout
the country around, for the ruffians will not dare to execute their
design on the river. We can rescue the boy before they reach a place
of concealment.” “Oh Julian, speed, speed fast,” she said, in a tone
of touching entreaty, “my brother’s life depends upon your arm. Oh
Caraola, is Arrowfoot too gone? I know he clung to him as long as life
remained. Did they kill him?” “They threw him off,” replied Caraola,
“but he lives still. I saw him striving to reach yonder shore. His
heart is strong, and though his young arm bends like the sapling, I
know the Great Spirit will strengthen it.”

The night had fallen dark and gloomy ere they reached Colonel
Carlisle’s door. Eva’s cry of anguish caught her father’s ear, and he
rushed to meet them. {746} “Is it my child’s voice I hear?” exclaimed
he, with alarm. “Speak Eva! where is your brother? Oh God! what has
befallen him?” “He is gone, father—gone! seized by strangers; hasten
to pursue—Julian, tell him all!” she said, as she gasping, fell into
Caraola’s arms. He briefly sketched the events of the evening, and the
probable design of the ruffians, to obtain the costly watch and
diamonds which it was ascertained Eldred wore as a pledge of the
inheritance to which he was heir. It might be from some motive of
revenge to the father, but that Colonel Carlisle’s open heart and
hand, his high-minded and useful career, checked the supposition of
his having a secret enemy.

The necessity for instant exertion prevented the old man’s heart from
bursting under this unexpected calamity. A company was raised for
immediate pursuit. Julian co-operated in every plan to regain the lost
boy, and set out as the leader of a party to search every spot where
it was possible the villains had found a harbor. Colonel Carlisle
himself headed another, but being scarcely able to guide his own
steps, he yielded to his nephew’s counsel, and returned home, that he
might not delay others in their search.

We will leave Fitzgerald engaged in this fruitless enterprise, and
follow the trace of the boat which bore Eldred away from all he loved
on earth. He lay still in the bottom of it, with a gag in his mouth
and his tender frame enveloped in a seaman’s cloak. He heard but the
splash of the oars and the shrill cries of the night-hawk scared from
its solitary resting place. The hardened wretches, whose victim he had
become, heeded not his stifled sobs, but leaving the wide Susquehanna,
rowed up Conistoga creek until they came to a little inlet, which
formed a very secluded cove, overhung by precipitous banks and
surrounded by unbroken wood. There they lifted out the now senseless
boy, and making fast their boat to the rocks, bore him through rugged
paths to an old tenantless habitation, which had once been a
mill-house, but all its works having been destroyed by a recent flood
it had been left a wreck in the midst of desolation. Not until they
had deposited their burden in the remotest corner of the building, did
these murderers break the profound silence in which they had
travelled. Having descended the ladder by which they had entered the
upper story, and carefully concealed it from view, they began to
consult upon the best means to adopt. “Did he say,” asked McMurdough,
“that he would be here before day light? I am against delaying the
thing. A bird in the hand may flutter.” “He said we might depend on
him,” replied Hawkins. “I would rather obey orders in these things. It
is enough for my conscience to do the deed; let them bear the
responsibility that get the money.” “Hush!” whispered the other;
“didn’t you hear the leaves stir?” “Nothing,” said his comrade, “but
that cursed whippoorwill going to set up its screech. I’ll tell you,
Hawkins, I had just as lief tap the boy on the head as to crack an
egg, but this Antonio is a cunning fellow. He always leaves some hole
to creep out at himself, but his poor followers must take care of
themselves. He likes to get others to do his dangerous deeds too, but
I know I must hear the clink of the Spanish dollars or he never sets
foot on the deck of the Scudder again, and so I’ve told him.”
“McMurdough,” said Hawkins, “did I tell you what I heard them Yankee
lubbers say, as we cruised off Newport?” “Who cares for their guesses?
As soon set a parcel of clams to privateering as such as them.” “Not
so fast. They showed some cuteness in their talk. One tapped the other
as our vessel was gliding by and said, ‘Jonathan, as ever I hope to
eat pumpkin pie thanksgiving day, that’s no English trader, though she
does spread their colors. Notice how clear she keeps of “old
Ironsides.” I bet you don’t find her shaking hands, if she can help
it. I’ll stake a Jews-harp she hoists other colors before she gets
much farther.’ ‘And strikes them too,’ replied the other. ‘That's all
talk,’ said the first: ‘I’ve heard all about the Buccaneers, as they
call ’em, and what nice traps are laid for ’em, but where’s one they
have ever catched? Catch a pirate before you hang him say I.’” “So say
I too,” said McMurdough, laughing. “As long as we have satisfaction
among ourselves we may defy the devil; but some things must be
altered, or I don’t serve under, Antonio.” “McMurdough, the boy keeps
very quiet,” observed Hawkins: “like as not you fixed him, so he’ll
die before his time.” “May be so—he’s but an unfledged bird, and will
not stand rough handling. No concern of mine, I did but _his_
bidding.” “The moon is wrapping herself up in as black a cloak as
ours,” remarked Hawkins, “so we might as well take a little rest. But
first I’ll step above and see about the child. If he’s smothered, all
the better; I never had so little mind to a job in my life.” “Why so?
he says there is no doubt of the fortune—just put this one out of the
way, and he’s the next heir.” “It goes against my conscience,
McMurdough, to shed the blood of the young and innocent; let there be
guilt where I strike.”

He ascended the ladder, and groped for the spot where lay the victim
of their cruelty. No sound escaped from him, and it was not until he
pulled away the gag and uncovered his face, that he perceived the boy
still breathed. His pulses were quick and faint, betokening exhausted
and failing life. He was evidently locked in a deep slumber, which
neither the terrors of his situation nor the gripe of the iron screws,
had power to break. Folded in the sweet mantle of forgetfulness, he
was insensible to every thing but the busy fancies that sported in his
brain. Even the stern heart of the murderer relented, when a
straggling moonbeam fell on the pale face, and revealed the bruises
made by the hand of violence. The fresh air seemed already to revive
the young slumberer, and he had not the heart to shut it out, but
turned his head towards the rent in the wall, and then endeavored to
seek repose in another part of the building.

The covering of night was not so secure as the banditti supposed. The
faithful Arrowfoot, with untiring step, had followed all the windings
of their rugged course. Resolving not to lose the traces of their
flight, he had traversed dangers which by day light would have
appeared impassable; and while they were placing their charge in the
upper story of the house, crept within hearing and laid himself down
in a thick underwood, where his ear caught every word which passed
between them. It was his presence which had scared the whippoorwill
from its perch, and gave occasion to the imprecation of the ruffian.
He listened intently to their discourse, which revealed all he
suspected, that Julian was the contriver of the whole scheme of {747}
abduction and murder. As soon as he heard this, he moved off as
lightly as the air itself, and making his way to the boat they had
left, seized the oars, and with the skill of a practised hand pushed
over the water, straining every nerve to give the alarm before
Fitzgerald’s arrival at the designated spot.

He was conscious of his danger in meeting the false-hearted villain,
and blessed the thick veil of darkness which concealed his little bark
from view. His only thought was to reach home before the star of
Eldred’s fate had set forever; and kind nature almost seemed to stay
her rapid wheels, to give the devoted Indian the only boon he sought,
time to arrest the murderer’s knife. Having reached the landing, he
bounded like the shot arrow, to the chamber where the wretched father
paced the floor in the phrensy of despair. Arrowfoot rushed into his
presence, exclaiming, “Where is Fitzgerald?” “Not returned,” replied
the deep voice of agony, “the search is fruitless—Julian delays to
confirm the fatal tidings.” “Hasten, Carlisle, if ever you hope to see
your son again—he lives, but the hour for his death is appointed—the
assassin waits but the sentence from the mouth of your nephew
Fitzgerald to despatch him. Stand not motionless. Doubt not the
certainty of what I tell you. I have pursued the ruffians and heard
all the plot. In two hours, Eldred’s fate may be sealed: for the
ruffians wait but the return of their leader, Julian Fitzgerald. Arm
yourselves and follow me,” he cried to the gathering retainers of the
household, as, seizing the first weapon that came to his hand, he
darted towards the river where he had fastened the little skiff.

While Arrowfoot is leading the way towards the lonely habitation where
he had left the imprisoned boy, we will follow the covert footsteps of
Julian. After he had prevailed on Colonel Carlisle to retire from the
search, he dispersed the band under his guidance, in every direction,
but the right one, and under pretence of making inquiries at a small
fishing station, sailed down the river alone, intending to take this
opportunity to meet the instruments of his dark purposes.

The brow of McMurdough lowered with angry impatience, as leaning
against an overshadowing tree, he waited the appearance of Fitzgerald.
The assassin knew too well his rapacity for wealth to believe that any
trivial cause could detain him, and yet the “slow paced night” had
nearly finished her circuit without his coming. At length the glimmer
of twilight gave place to the broad day, and still he came not. In a
state of fearful doubt and uncertainty McMurdough strode backwards and
forwards, resolving the part he should take.

The return of light roused the sleeping senses of Eldred. The
unfinished dream still floated in his fancy, and gave color to his
words. “Oh! Arrowfoot you have saved me from falling headlong down the
precipice. I should have perished but for you.” “Who?” muttered the
hoarse voice of Hawkins. Shuddering, at the sound the boy looked up,
and beheld the savage visage of the robber bending over him. His
recollection suddenly returned, and clinging to the cloak of the
robber who was endeavoring to withdraw, he plead for mercy in the most
moving terms. “What have I done,” he exclaimed “how have I wronged
you, or any one else? Tell me, and I will restore you fourfold. Only
spare my life, that is all I ask, and you shall be rewarded. I am my
father’s darling, he will give all he has for my life. Think, were you
a father, had you but one son, the hope of your age, the pillow of
your widowed heart, and he were torn——” “Boy, boy, your words
pierce me like a sword! And yet it is not the voice of a child that
can shake the mind from its purpose. It is the voice of the Almighty,
crying _blood for blood!_ What! can nothing pay the forfeit of blood,
but blood again? Whose blood must pay this boy’s? The deep answer
speaks in my soul, my own child’s blood is the price. I dare not, no I
will not shed a drop of yours. Let others answer for their own deeds,”
he said, slowly retiring. As soon as he was alone, Eldred lifted up
his heart to God, and prayed that he who hears the young ravens when
they cry, would deliver him out of the hands of his enemies. Feeling
tranquillized by casting himself upon the Almighty arm, he calmly
surveyed the waving woodlands, and rushing streams, where had been the
pastime and joy of his childhood. His eye caught the upwards flight of
the “cloud cleaving eagle” soaring with unchained wing in boundless
air, and he thought of the days when his heart bounded on wing as free
and joyous, and the tears gushed from their full fountains as his head
sunk on the broken aperture of the wall on which he was leaning.
Absorbed in deep sorrow he heeded not the angry colloquy of the
Kidnappers below, debating the point of his instant death or release,
Hawkins refusing to take any further part in his destruction, and
McMurdough in brutal ferocity at Fitzgerald’s delay, threatening his
immediate assassination. A confused noise of voices approaching, broke
in upon their dialogue, putting every other idea to flight, but that
of immediate escape; and they fled towards a deep ravine, hoping to
secrete themselves in it, until the pursuit was over; but it was too
late. The wary Indian had placed a guard at every pass, and they were
soon made prisoners. What was their astonishment to see Fitzgerald in
the train of their pursuers? The unusual darkness of the night,
prevented his finding the secret path to the place of rendezvous, and
seeing himself totally at fault, he was obliged to await the glimmer
of day light, in order to proceed more securely. Arrowfoot’s ear
caught the sound of his stealthy tread, and warning his followers to
advance cautiously, he darted forward, and intercepted Fitzgerald, at
the spot where his followers had left the boat. It instantly flashed
across his mind that his base design was known to the Indian; and
resolving that his secret should perish with him, he drew his sabre
and attempted to close with his adversary. But the movement was
perceived in time for Arrowfoot to place himself on his guard; and
although Julian was quick of eye and firm of foot, he gained no
vantage ground. He was confident of success, for few had ever resisted
that arm who encountered it in deadly strife: but Arrowfoot, with
agile spring, always eluded the sweep of his weapon, and repaid his
efforts by honest downright blows with a battle axe which he had
seized from the boat of the Pirates. In the first moment of conflict,
a shrill cry had given signal to the band of pursuers, but before they
reached the spot, Julian Fitzgerald lay prostrate and disarmed at the
feet of their leader. The skill and self possession which until now
had always ensured him victory, failed in his struggle with the
Indian. Conscience, defied so {748} long, at last asserted its power,
and unnerved his arm. He uttered no word of wrath or of fear; but his
clenched teeth, and the wild glare of his eye, spoke the roused
ferocity of the demon within. Arrowfoot, leaving the prisoners in the
care of the rest of his party, flew to the captive boy. Eldred was
aroused from his slumber by his hurried steps. Thinking his murderers
had returned to do the work of death, he dropped from his resting
place on the wall, and terror depriving him of every other sensation,
he heeded not the rush of many feet, or the cries of his distracted
father calling his name. The deeply moving voice of Arrowfoot at
length awoke him to the consciousness of life and hope. A faint sob
was the only expression he was able to give to these overpowering
emotions. In speechless ecstasy he gazed on the haggard face of his
father; who, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, gave thanks to the
Almighty for his merciful interposition.

The Indian soon became aware of the danger of such a reaction in the
feelings of the boy, and bore him from Colonel Carlisle’s presence
into the near forest, where placing him on the bank of a murmuring
rivulet, he bathed his temples, and, aided by the soothing sights and
sounds of nature, soon restored him to tranquillity, and enabled him
to return with his father and friends to the home where his sister
watched with straining eyes, for some messenger who would tell her of
his safety or his death.

Meantime the officers of the law took charge of the criminals. The
general delight at receiving the lost one again shut out for a time
all recollection of the traitor from the hearts of this affectionate
family. But the indignation of the community was strongly excited, and
numbers surrounded the prison, calling loudly for the instant trial of
the prisoners. On examination, Fitzgerald protested that he was
innocent of the crime laid to his charge. McMurdough maintained an
obstinate silence. But Hawkins confessed the whole plot, and further
added, that Fitzgerald had joined the Buccaneers in the West Indies in
the preceding year—had distinguished himself in their piratical
depredations by his daring courage; and was now commander of a small
cruiser on the Chesapeake. Fitzgerald, he said, had not specified to
him the person to be put out of the way, but only that one life stood
between him and a large fortune, which all should share, provided his
hand was not seen in the business. This evidence was sustained by that
of Arrowfoot. When asked why he suspected the pretended affection of
Fitzgerald for the boy, he replied in the sententious manner of his
race, that he “saw him cast an evil eye on him, when he first met
him.” When questioned as to his knowledge of the scheme laid to entrap
Eldred, he said that he saw “something dark working in Fitzgerald’s
mind, and followed him to the fishing town. There unperceived he saw
him meet two men drest as fishers, and all three walked off together.
After a while, the fishermen returned, but Fitzgerald was gone, where,
he knew not; he only suspected some evil was intended against the boy,
for his fortune.” When it was inquired why he did not reveal his
suspicions? he replied, that he “scorned the part of a meddler or tale
bearer, and he had no positive evidence of what he believed.” The
testimony was now summed up, and the jury retired to consider the
verdict. Colonel Carlisle sent in a petition, recommending his guilty
nephew to the mercy of the court, but the intercession was rejected,
and sentence of death pronounced on Fitzgerald and McMurdough.
Hawkins, who was considered less guilty and who was penitent, was
doomed to ten years imprisonment. The night preceding the day fixed
for their execution, the prison was discovered to be on fire; and
before any aid could be procured, the devouring flames had enveloped
the building, and rendered all access to the prisoners’ rooms
impossible. The next morning diligent search was made for their
skeletons, but as they were never found, it was universally believed
that the arch-villain Fitzgerald had found means to fire the prison,
and taken advantage of the general confusion to fly with his
associates from the penalty of the law.

Another cloud was soon to rest on Colonel Carlisle’s family. The
period destined for the departure of their Indian friends was at hand.
Arrowfoot spoke not of his purpose, until his plans were matured, but
his countenance betrayed the struggle within. There was something
almost solemn in the secrecy and silence with which these young
Indians made preparation for their pilgrimage. Lest they should yield
to the sympathies of nature, in receiving the expressions of the love
and gratitude of the companions of their childhood, they kept almost
aloof from them; and it was only by stealth that Eva and Eldred
conveyed to their secret depository, stores for their long journey,
and mementos of attachment.

Colonel Carlisle, while he lamented deeply the obligation which must
separate the Indian orphans from their only earthly friends, could not
violate his pledge to their father by attempting to detain them. He
restored to Arrowfoot the wampum belt of the Spread Eagle, remarking,
that it contained something which he must not examine till he had
crossed the great western river. The Indian made the promise, deeming
it some mysterious token left him by his father; and Colonel Carlisle
hoped the large sum of gold he had prevailed on him by this stratagem
to accept, would be of use to him in after life.

The evening preceding his departure, Arrowfoot’s heart seemed lighter
than usual. He led Eva to one of the favorite haunts of their
childhood. “Eva,” he said, “you have seen my dark and sad countenance;
you have thought me ungrateful and unhappy. Yes, the soul of Arrowfoot
is debased; it has rebelled against the command of my dying father,
and preferred degradation and pity to the high hopes of my brethren in
the West. Eva, you know it not, but it was the spell of Eva’s voice,
the charm of Eva’s eye, that darkened my soul; but now, that dream is
gone, my soul rises from its sleep, and brushes away the dew that
dimmed its sight.” The tears of Eva flowed fast, to think that she had
ever caused grief in such a noble heart. She turned to speak some word
of comfort to him, but he had left her side, and plunged into the
forest to regain calmness.

That night, when sleep had prest down the eyelids of Eva, and she lay
in sweet unconsciousness of all, save the gay visions of happier years
which floated through her brain, the beloved Caraola hung over her
earliest friend, kissing her cheek and wetting it with her tears. The
lovely sleeper heard not the deep sigh of suppressed sorrow, or the
light foot which was passing forever from the home, where love and
protection had {749} been extended to the children of the savage. The
morning light revealed the truth. A fan of eagles’ feathers was lying
on Eva’s pillow, and a bow and arrow were placed near Eldred’s
couch—the sole traces of their Indian friends. A melancholy void was
left in the little group who had been wont to gather with cheerful
faces round the hearth; and many a sigh and heartfelt prayer were
breathed for the wanderers who came not again. Thus passed away, like
the shadows of evening, the last scions of the Conistoga Indians.


UNIVERSAL SYMPATHY.

A WINTER’S NIGHT THOUGHT.

BY EDWIN SAUNDERS.


    The night is cold, the wind is bleak,
  The nearest road the shepherds seek
  To gain their home, to share the smile
  That shortens, sweetens all their toil—
  The smile of love, that well repays
  The labor of the darkest days.
  The driving snow comes down amain,
  Across the field and down the lane;
  The lucid stream that rolled along,
  With rapid course and ceaseless song,
  And wantoned in the sunny ray,
  Now hushed and still’d its course doth stay:
  The flowers and herbs that graced its side
  In nature’s general death have died.
  Along the hedge and in the grove
  No more are heard, around, above,
  The thousand songs, and chirps, and cries,
  That thro’ the leafy arches rise.
  The birds are gone, the trees are bare,
  And sadly mourns the very air—
  Their echo is no longer there
  Their fitful sheep-bell on the gale,
  Like some lost spirit’s dismal wail,
  Now borne in fearful loudness near,
  And now slow dying on the ear,
  Comes with a witchery o’er the soul,
  And seems like nature’s funeral toll—
  The knell of beauty, life and grace,
  And this her last sepulchral dress.
  Is there a heart so hard, so cold,
  Without emotion can behold
  This general death, this quick decay
  Of all that’s beautiful and gay?
  What, shall the happy woodland chime
  Be hushed, or seek a milder clime?
  What, shall the garden and the grove
  Be stripped of all that moved your love?
  The yielding stream, whose glassy face
  Gave back your form with tenfold grace,
  Be dulled and stiffened, and your eye
  Not know a tear, your heart a sigh?
  It cannot be!—regrets must steal
  O’er human souls, for we do feel.
  Yes, there’s a close-linked sympathy—
  For this we know our fate must be;
  Though lord of nature, man’s a part,
  And every change speaks to his heart;
  But yet he hopes that spring shall come,
  And call her favorites from the tomb—
  That Flora shall descend and stand,
  And cast her garland round the land;
  And beauty, light, and joy, and bliss,
  Bring back creation’s loveliness.
  And so it is, (the thought I love,)
  With the pure spirits from above.
  Man has his winter, and they stoop
  To give desponding mortals hope.
  Sent by their Maker, they sustain
  The drooping soul when worn with pain,
  And point the heart with sorrow riven
  To the pure joys of love and heaven.
  Yet though they know man soon shall rise
  In holy rapture to the skies,
  They feel such grief as spirits may
  At all the trials of the way,
  And long to bear him from the earth
  To waken in that glorious birth.
  Yes, there’s a sympathy between
  The world without and world within,
  And there’s a sympathetic band
  Connects us with that happy land.

_London, January 1836_.




CRIME AND CONSEQUENCE.

  Fons fraudum et maleficiorum.
  ’Tis the fountain of cozenage and villainy.

_Anatomy of Melancholy_.


There resided, many years ago, in a small town in one of the West
India islands, an individual known by the name of Waring, whose
singular habits attracted much attention, and procured for him no
small degree of notoriety. He was apparently between sixty and seventy
years of age, tall and thin, but well formed; and the few locks of
hair that time had spared, were as white as snow, and strangely
contrasted with the bushy jet-black brows beneath which the large eyes
yet shone with the lustre of youth, and told of passions which had
once been stormy, if they were even now at rest. The upper part of his
face indicated intellect and daring, but there was a degree of
feebleness about the lips; and the smile, which sometimes curled them,
spoke of any thing but joy. He lived in almost total seclusion,
avoiding all intercourse which was not absolutely necessary, and
entirely confining himself to his own humble residence. In the front
part of his house he kept a small retail shop, and there he was to be
found from early dawn to dark; and for many years he had pursued this
avocation, without ever attempting to increase his business, or
holding communion with the people about him, save in the way of trade.
Those of whom he purchased his goods were in the habit of calling on
him to offer their wares, for he was a good customer, higgling, it is
true, about the price, and standing out for the last farthing, but
always paying in ready money, and ever exhibiting the most scrupulous
honesty. In his small way his trade was extensive, for curiosity
induced many from the neighboring country to call upon him; and in the
{750} town, the lower classes and the negroes preferred dealing with
one who they were sure would not take advantage of their ignorance to
defraud them—a degree of integrity remarkably rare among the petty
shopkeepers of ——. Of his early history nothing was known. He had come
to the island in a small schooner, from some port in North America,
and, soon after his arrival, took on lease the house in which he
established himself, and which he afterwards purchased. In the rear of
his dwelling was a tolerably large lot, which he had enclosed with a
high paling, so as effectually to prevent his neighbors from watching
his movements, and here he had resided for years, entirely alone. The
delicious fruits and vegetables of that sunny clime and fruitful soil,
which constituted his only food, were brought to his door for sale;
and his habits of untiring industry enabled him easily to dispense
with the attendance of a domestic. As he was not known to make any
deposit or investment of the money he received, a notion generally
obtained, that he was in the habit of burying it somewhere in the lot
of ground which he had fenced in so carefully. Following up this idea,
a plot had been laid by some desperadoes, to discover, if possible,
the place of concealment, and possess themselves of the treasure.
Three of them, one night, scaled the fence, and concealing themselves
behind some empty hogsheads, awaited the coming forth of their
intended victim, who, they conjectured, would visit his hidden
treasure. Their motions, however, did not escape the vigilance of Mr.
Waring. He came forth, it is true, and they rushed upon him, but two
of them received the contents of a blunderbuss, by which they were
instantly killed, and before the third recovered from his surprise, he
was cut down by the blow of a sabre.

The noise of course occasioned an alarm, and a crowd collected to
inquire into the cause. All information was refused, however, until
the civil authorities should be present. They were sent for, and, upon
their arrival, Mr. Waring unbarred his door, and led the way into the
yard.

“I have been saving the courts and the hangman trouble,” said the
gray-haired old man, as he pointed, with a grim smile, to the bodies
that lay drenched in gore; “take the carrion away.”

From that time this singular being remained unmolested, by either the
intrusions of curiosity, or the assaults of villainy. The house that I
occupied was within a few doors of his, and the business in which I
was engaged led to some transactions between us. It so happened, that
in examining my books, I detected an overcharge which had been made
against him by the inadvertence of one of my clerks. I of course
hastened to inform him of the error, and to correct it. It was with
some little difficulty that I persuaded him of the fact, but when it
was made clear to him, he fixed his large eyes upon me with a peculiar
expression, and taking my hand, pressed it with warmth.

“I do not thank you,” said he, “merely for the trouble you have taken,
or for the information you have given, which has enabled me to save,
though a small sum of money, yet an important one to me. These,
however, merit, and they have my gratitude; but I thank you, more
particularly, for exhibiting a trait of honesty that my experience had
scarcely led me to expect among the merchants of this place. You are
from Virginia, I believe?”

I replied in the affirmative, and inquired if I might not greet him as
a countryman.

“I never speak of the place of my birth,” was the gloomy answer.

I have had too many, and too important affairs of my own, to care to
busy myself much about those of other people; but, I must confess, I
entertained a strong desire to learn something of this old man, and of
the events which probably superinduced his eccentricities. My
curiosity was destined to be gratified, though not immediately.

Years rolled on, my affairs had prospered, and I was preparing to
return to my home, there to enjoy the fruits of my toil: the soil
where he was born, is the _only home_ to a true Virginian. One
morning, to my great surprise, I received, by a negro boy, a note from
Mr. Waring, saying that he desired an interview with me, which must be
strictly private, and requesting me, if it suited my convenience, to
call upon him at dusk. No trifling cause would have prevented my
obedience to this summons. Accordingly, at the time appointed, I
repaired to Mr. Waring’s shop. He was busy, waiting on some customers,
and I was about to retire; but he detained me, saying, “I will attend
to you in a moment, Mr. S——.” As soon as they had left him, he pointed
to the back room—“Step in there, quickly, quickly!” he exclaimed, “and
wait quietly my coming.” I instantly obeyed. About a quarter of an
hour elapsed before he joined me, and in the meantime I took a survey
of the apartment. I have seldom seen a more wretched abode. An old
leathern couch, a ricketty table, two chairs, (one I strongly
suspected for the _nonce_,) and an old wooden clothes chest, comprised
the main portion of the furniture. The walls were bare, save where the
spiders had hung their tapestry; bundles of rags and nondescript
remnants of various useless things, were stuffed into every corner,
and the whole wore the appearance of squalid poverty or pinching
avarice. “Strange infatuation!” thought I, “that men should devote
their prime of years, their powers of mind, to the acquisition of that
which is to raise them above poverty, and yet when they have obtained
the means to make life comfortable, voluntarily condemn themselves to
the very privations which they had originally fled from as a curse!
The measures we adopt to escape the evil, bind us by the chains of
habit, to the condition itself which we deprecated.”

As I made this reflection, he who suggested it entered. After a brief
interval, during which he gazed upon me as if to search my very soul,
he said, “Mr. S. you are curious to know who and what I am. Nay, never
blush, man, it is natural enough. You cannot think it otherwise than
strange, that one who is connected by no ties of consanguinity with
his fellow men, who has no apparent motive for hoarding his gains, for
whom ambition has no charms, and who is looked upon by no earthly
being with the eye of affection, should condemn himself to the want of
every comfort, for the acquisition of that, which in a brief space of
time, must be snatched from him by the cold hand of death. You, no
doubt, think it strange too, that one, whose language gives evidence
of education, and I may say of capacity, which would place him at
least on an equality with his {751} fellow men, should confine himself
to the petty and despised occupation, in which for years I have been
engaged. You probably deem me a miser; in one sense of the word I am
one, for God’s sun shines not on a greater wretch; but there breathes
no human being, for whom wealth has fewer charms or smaller power. The
coarsest raiment, the simplest food, and a bare shelter from the
storm, are the limits of my bodily wants, and as for my mind riches
cannot purchase it peace. Still, my aim has been to gather them; for
what purpose you shall be informed. I have requested this interview,
because I had reason to think you an honest man, and none but such
would answer my purpose. I desire your agency and assistance in the
performance of an act of justice, the execution of which has been the
main object of my life. For your mere trouble you will be amply
compensated; for the satisfaction you will afford me it is out of my
power to offer an equivalent. Having thus stated my wishes, I shall
proceed, irksome and degrading to me as is the task, to recount to you
the narrative of my early life. I claim from you simply the promise
that you will not, during my life time, reveal what I am now about to
utter to you.” I gave my promise. “Listen then,” said the old man.

“I, as well as yourself, was born in Virginia; my real name is W——. My
father was descended from the English aristocracy, and was not a
little proud of the circumstance. During the Revolutionary War,
although his feelings were certainly on the side of the British
government, he maintained a neutrality sufficiently strict to enable
him to preserve his estate, which was a very large one. At an early
age I was sent to England, where I received my education, and remained
until I was twenty-three. Soon after my return to America my father
died, (my mother had expired many years before) and I was left in the
uncontrolled possession of one of the largest fortunes in Virginia.
Young, well-born, good-looking and rich, every noble quality was of
course attributed to me, and every where my society was courted. I
lived in an atmosphere of sunny smiles, amid the rich the gay and the
beautiful. Among the latter there was one pre-eminent. It was no dream
of love that robed her with surpassing beauty—it was no perversion of
fancy that invested her with the perfection of womanhood. If ever
there were a heart untainted by a single impurity, it beat within the
bosom of Emily C——, and that heart, with its boundless love, its
thousand charities, its noble confidence, its unbending honor—that
heart, I, _I_, _the miserable_, worthless, degraded object that you
see, won by my seeming virtue, and broke by my glaring villainy!”

He paused, and wiped the drops of agony from his brow; at length he
resumed.

“I did not mean to anticipate my tale, but I was forced onward by the
tide of memory. Such a creature as I have described could not but be
surrounded by admiration, and among the many who aspired to her hand,
was one, whose perseverance was untiring, notwithstanding the frequent
rejections which he had encountered. His name was Roberts. He was a
young man of good family and fair education, with prepossessing
appearance and manners, and was a general favorite with his
acquaintance. His father, it was understood, had ruined himself on the
turf, but the son, although launched on the busy scenes of life
extremely poor, had contrived to accumulate a comfortable sum of
money; how, none exactly knew; some said by speculations in lands,
others by the purchase of bonds, while some hinted that he was
indebted to his science in horse-racing and his skill in cards, for
the greatest portion of his success. For my own part I made no
inquiries about the matter. I met him in good society, his deportment
was gentlemanlike, and moreover, he was a delightful companion. He
sung a good song, told a good story, and had no small share of
original wit. I do not know whether he loved Emily, or whether his
motives were mercenary (for she was wealthy) but as I before observed,
though repeatedly discarded, he nevertheless continued his attentions.
I, alas! was more favorably received, and in the course of time Emily
became my wife.

“Though memory ever reverts to that blissful period of my existence,
conjuring up the past amid the pauses of occupation by day, and
peopling the dark hours of the night, when remorse has banished sleep,
with the shadowy forms of the loved—the lost—there are times when I
lose the consciousness of its reality. I remember, but as a dream,
amid the storm-blackened waves on which I am tossed, the bright skies
that once cheered, and the blessed sun that beamed upon my course. My
fortune enabled me to indulge in an extensive hospitality, and the
pleasures of my abode offered every inducement to society. Among the
most frequent of my guests was Roberts, the former assiduous suitor of
my wife. He seemed to have entirely overcome his disappointment, and
indeed no one congratulated me upon my marriage with more seeming
cordiality than he. Emily did not like him, for she doubted the
soundness of his principles; but she tolerated him, because she saw
that he was entertaining to me, and probably thought my mind and
morals beyond the reach of his influence. Fatal error! and, common as
fatal! There is in the mind a principle somewhat resembling the
phenomenon of heat in matter, which is imparted from one substance to
another, as they come in contact, until uniform temperature is
established,—so, when the vicious and the virtuous are in the habit of
association, the bad qualities of the former are imbibed, not
producing a moral medium, it is true, but creating propensities
equally criminal. I grew in a short time, in consequence of this
intimacy with Roberts, very fond of the turf, and that which was at
first mere delight in the exhibition of the beauty and speed of the
noble animals in their fierce struggle for victory, changed into a
desire of being personally interested in the event. I betted freely,
and though constantly flattered by my associates, and more especially
by Roberts, upon the correctness of my judgment, I very rarely won. My
losses, however, were not larger than my ample income could well
afford. By and bye I became an owner of horses, and as I determined to
procure the best, and did so, I was obliged to pay large sums for
them. From ignorance, mismanagement, and probably knavery, but few
purses fell to my lot. On one occasion, there was what is termed a
sweepstake, in which I had entered a colt of great promise. From
previous trials I was very sure that there were but few who could
match him, and the event justified my confidence. Besides the stake,
which was very considerable, my private wagers amounted to {752} some
thousands. I invited the members of the club to dine with me at the
tavern kept by the proprietor of the course. Shortly after we sat
down, a storm which had been gathering all day, broke forth with great
violence, and continued without abatement until long after night-fall.
As it soon became apparent that the tavern must be our quarters for
the night, a general disposition was evinced to pass the time as
pleasantly as possible, and even to exceed the bounds of sober
merriment. The wine flowed freely; the song, the jest, and the merry
tale gave their zest to the entertainment, and when we rose from the
table we were most of us in a situation to be led into any amusement
that might be suggested, how far soever beyond the bounds of prudence.
Cards were introduced, and various parties formed at various games. I
knew that I possessed no skill, and flushed as I was with wine, I
still retained sufficient sense not to engage in a contest with those
whom I felt assured must, without extraordinary fortune on my side,
transfer my money to their pockets. As I sat looking on at some of the
players, I was accosted by Roberts.

“‘What!’ said he, ‘are you an idler as well as myself?’

“‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but that is not extraordinary, for you know very
well that I am not able to cope with these gentlemen. But how happens
it that you, who are an experienced hand, should refuse to try the
chances?’

“‘Why,’ said Roberts, ‘I make it a rule never to play at any game that
depends on science, unless my head is perfectly cool. Now, I have
swallowed rather too much of the good wine, to be able to rely upon my
judgment. I should not object to try my luck at any thing that
depended on the toss of a die or the turn of a card, because if
fortune smiled upon me I should play the bolder for what I have drunk,
and win the more, and if I lost, why the affair would be the sooner
ended, and I should get to sleep the earlier.’

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘can you find no such game?’

“‘I don’t know,’ replied he, ‘some of the party are talking of faro;
if they open a bank I will bet against it. Would _you_ like to do so?’

“‘No,’ I replied, ‘I shall content myself with being a spectator.’

“‘Pooh!’ said Roberts, ‘you’ve plucked the knowing ones to-day, and
got your pockets full of cash; you can afford to part with some of it,
even if you lose; but what should prevent you from doubling what you
have?’

“‘But, Roberts,’ said I, ‘I do not even know how the game is played.’

“‘It is as simple as two and two make four—here,’ continued he, taking
up a pack of cards, ‘I will show you,’ and he went on to explain the
game.

“‘Is this all the mystery?’ inquired I, when he had got through; ‘I
have heard it said that the odds were in favor of the banker, but I
can’t see how.’

“‘Oh, so they are, generally,’ said Roberts, ‘but merely because it is
the disposition of most men, when they have a run of luck, to stake
with prudence, and when they are losing to exercise a corresponding
degree of rashness.’

“‘And what should make me an exception?’

“‘The fact that I warn you of the error, and more than that,’ said
Roberts, ‘you have the power, I have observed it frequently, of
exciting yourself to boldness when it is required, and of bringing
your passions under curb when it is necessary they should be still. He
who possesses this self-command, although he may meet with occasional
reverses, will ultimately prove successful. But I do not wish to
persuade you against your inclination, and as I see that they are
preparing to commence the game, I will leave you; or suppose you sit
by and see how the fickle dame is disposed to treat me.’

“‘I do not object to that,’ said I, carelessly, and I accompanied him
to another part of the room.

“‘Who are the bankers?’ said Roberts, as we approached the group who
were busy with the preparations.

“‘Who?’ cried one, ‘why, only think, Wallis here takes it all upon
himself, and he is bragging that he will soon empty all our pockets.’

“‘Indeed! I have seen a bolder bird than he cut down. But we’ll play
low, Wallis?’

“‘Oh, of course. Ten checks are my limit, and we’ll put them at ten
dollars each.’

“‘And you call that low?’ said I.

“‘Why, not so very low, to be sure,’ said Roberts, ‘but not quite so
high neither as two thousand upon a three year old, eh! friend?’

“I was silent; the game proceeded for an hour. I looked on, and there
was but little change in the situation of the parties.

“‘Now,’ said Roberts, as the banker commenced a deal, ‘I think I have
you.’

“He placed the limited sum of a hundred dollars in such a situation,
as to be effected by three cards. He won—doubled—won again—again—and
pressed on, until he was winner about four thousand dollars. This was
the work of a few minutes. I was astonished; the dealer looked aghast.

“‘A glass round to my luck,’ cried Roberts. We drank that, and
another, and another, as Roberts continued to win. My whole attention
was taken up with _his_ play; I did not observe that the other betters
were generally losing. Presently, what with the wine I had drunk, and
the excitement necessarily induced by the spectacle before me, I began
to feel desirous to adventure, myself. I _did_ adventure, at first,
with success, while, on the contrary, Roberts’s luck began to desert
him.

“‘Hang it!’ said he, ‘it seems as if every one who comes in contact
with you to-day, were destined to suffer. You hammer us on the course,
and you are now mauling Wallis, at cards; but confound it, man, I wish
you would let somebody win besides yourself.’

“It is unnecessary to protract this scene; suffice it to say, the fate
of all other tyros was mine of course, that after acquiring moderate
gains, I began to lose, that as I lost my money, I lost my prudence,
that although, to outward seeming, I was calm as a stoic, (for my
pride was strong enough to effect that falsity,) within me there raged
a boiling hell of passion, and as stake after stake was swept from me,
I verily do believe I could have stabbed the winner to the heart. When
the game ceased, I had been stripped of all my ready money, and was
largely in debt. It was near morning. I threw myself into a chair and
fell into what was rather stupor than sleep.

{753} “With the early dawn, I shook off my lethargy, and with a head
fevered, and a heart aching from the dissipation of the night, I set
out on my return home, which was but a few miles distant. Although my
absence, on the previous night, had been unpremeditated and
unavoidable, my conscience, as it whispered over the list of my late
transgressions, numbered this as one of them. I knew I should be
greeted with affectionate smiles, and felt how unworthy I was to
receive them, and that was a bitter pang. Is it not a marvel that men
should ever be tempted to the commission of a second moral offence,
when the punishment for the first is so severe? But the head-ache of
the drunkard and the repentance of the gambler are alike forgotten,
when temptation again assails them.

“As I rode along, a prey to remorse, I made many excellent
resolutions. I determined to sell off my racing stock, content myself
with viewing the sport, and never again to bet upon it. Cards I would
never touch; my time should be occupied in the cultivation of my
estates, and for relaxation, I would depend on literature and the
conversation of my domestic circle. Finally, I resolved to communicate
to my wife all that had occurred, and give her the promises I was
making to myself. By the time I reached home, I had contrived, by
these means, to restore, in a great measure, my self-complacency, and
I almost flattered myself that I had gained a moral victory before I
had even encountered the foe.

“Emily met me at the door, with a thousand welcomes. ‘How kind it is
in you,’ she said, ‘to come so early! I knew when the storm came on,
that I could not see you last night, and I hardly hoped you would have
been so early a riser.’ ‘But dearest,’ continued she, ‘you must have
passed an uncomfortable night, your eyes are heavy, and inflamed. Are
you not well?’

“‘Oh yes, very well,’ I replied, ‘but there was a great crowd at the
tavern, and I could not sleep; a good breakfast, however, will soon
restore me.’

“‘Were you successful yesterday, Charles?’

“‘Quite so,’ said I; ‘my colt surpassed my expectations; I shall not
take a trifle for him.’

“‘Why, do you mean to sell him?’

“‘Him, and all the others. I am determined to quit the turf, Emily.’

“‘Indeed!’ exclaimed she, ‘how I rejoice to hear you say so, my dear
Charles, and particularly as you are not induced to the resolution by
loss. I feared that if you were a winner, you would have been more
wedded to the sport. I have never interfered with this passion of
yours, Charles, but it has always been a source of regret to me, to
see you waste your intellect on pursuits, to say the least, so
frivolous, and which lead you into society that I cannot but think
unworthy of,—perhaps, disreputable to you.’

“I eagerly, rather angrily I fear, defended myself from the latter
charge, and asserted, that my associates were, in general, men of
station in society and respectability equal to my own, and that if
there were a few whose characters were less estimable, they were
merely the necessary instruments of our pleasures, and not held in the
light of companions.

“‘I care but little for station, if it be not worthily held,’ replied
Emily. ‘Whilst I would pay to those whom adventitious circumstances
place above the mass of mankind, the formal respect which society
demands, I should hold education and virtue to be the fit companions
of a husband whose cultivation of mind I admired, and whose natural
goodness of heart I dearly loved. Now, Charles, let me ask you, are
not your associates, generally, persons of dissipated habits; nay,
vicious ones? for I cannot look upon gambling as less than a vice. Do
you derive from them any moral benefit? are you sure that they
contribute even to your amusement? I do not, for a moment, believe
that you have learned to look upon play as an amusement.—Oh! God
forbid it should ever come to that! I had a friend once who was
married to a gambler, and Charles, I have seen the deep anguish that
pressed upon her heart, and graved its lines upon her pallid brow,
though her tongue never uttered a complaint. When the wretch who had
trampled upon her affections had basely reduced himself to absolute
want, he, as basely, deserted the family who relied on him for
support, by destroying himself, and they were left, in their utter
feebleness and misery, to the cold charity of the world. Poor Mary!
God had mercy on thee, and gathered thee to himself,’ sighed Emily, as
a tear stole down her cheek. ‘Ah, Charles, you see I have good reason
to hate gaming.’

“‘You cannot detest it more than I do, Emily,’ replied I; ‘never fear
that I shall be caught in its snares.’

“‘But Charles, men acquire habits by degrees, and learn to love that
which they once loathed; and what pleasure is to be derived from
associating with those whose time is spent in play, if you do not join
in their occupation. They cannot converse with you; that would take
off their attention from the game; and they cannot listen to you,
their interest is absorbed in their desire to distress those whom they
call their friends, by winning their money. But, my husband, I did not
mean to read you a lecture,’ continued she smiling. ‘Ah, well do I
know, for your wife’s sake, for our cherub child’s sake, you never
will abandon yourself to the infamy of a gambler’s life.’ And she
threw herself into my arms. I pressed that form of loveliness to my
bosom, and felt the beating of its confiding heart, and, coward that I
was, I betrayed its confidence by withholding the communication I had
decided to make. I felt humbled by her purity, and rebuked by her
love, and I dared not tell her what I had done.

“The day wore on, not without sad reflection on my part, but I felt
self-assured that I would never so err again, and as this confidence
became strong, I persuaded myself that it was unnecessary to distress
my wife by any disclosures. I had only to pay off the debt I had
incurred, and there was an end of the affair. That evening, much to my
surprise, and very contrary to my wishes, Roberts called upon me. I
had no desire to see one who had been an eye-witness of my last
night’s madness, and I felt a dread lest he might allude to it in
Emily’s presence. There was no occasion, however, for any such
apprehension. He talked of various things, and in a most amusing
manner, but never referred to the races, except to observe, in a
slight and careless way, that I had missed no sport by having been
absent that morning. It was not until my wife retired that he touched
upon the subject.

“‘Why, in the name of common sense,’ he asked, ‘did you leave us this
morning so abruptly, W—— or rather, why did you not return?’

“‘Simply,’ replied I, ‘because I was guided by {754} common sense. I
had lost enough, and too much, and in a way that my feelings
disapproved of, and there was no pleasure to be derived from lingering
about the scene of my folly.’

“‘I lost too,’ said Roberts, ‘but I never sit down contented with a
loss. He were but a poor merchant, who would fold his arms, and
abandon all enterprise, because, forsooth, he found one adventure
unsuccessful.’

“‘It is the business of the merchant,’ said I, ‘to take such chances;
it is not mine to gamble, and yet I should think that merchant
foolish, who should take a hazard where he clearly saw that the
chances were against him.’

“‘And how do you know,’ asked Roberts, ‘that the chances are against
you?’

“‘Because every one lost last night but the banker,’ I replied.

“‘And he had to refund this morning all that he had won,’ said
Roberts, ‘and put a good round sum to the opposite side of the
account.’

“‘Indeed!’ said I, ‘did you play?’

“‘To be sure I did,’ was the reply, ‘and have got all my money back
again, with a tolerably comfortable stake besides. I regretted much
that you were not there. Our error, last night, is obvious enough; the
wine made us imprudent, or we both could have risen from the table
winners.’

“‘Perhaps it is better that we, at least that _I_, did not. I might
have been tempted to continue a course that I feel confident would
lead to disastrous consequences.’

“‘Well,’ said Roberts, ‘I dare say you are right; and right or wrong,
it is certainly not my wish to urge you to play. I merely thought you
might be desirous to recover what you had parted with, and would
therefore venture a trifle more to effect such a result; but let that
be. You will be on the field to-morrow, of course?’

“‘No,’ replied I, firmly.

“‘No!’ exclaimed Roberts, with great surprise. ‘Why, what becomes of
your horse, Velox? There is nothing in the stables to match him, and a
heavy purse to be won.’

“‘I have determined to sell out my racing stock.’ Roberts stared at
me.

“‘Indeed,’ he exclaimed at length. ‘What next? I am prepared now for
any marvel. Possibly you are going to turn Methodist; when may we
expect you to hold forth?’ ‘Pardon me,’ he cried, as he saw that I was
beginning to be displeased with his freedom, ‘but I cannot but wonder
that a man of your strength of mind and liberality of disposition,
should permit himself to be so worked upon by a trifling loss of
money, for trifling it is, compared with your means. What will your
friends say, when they hear that the wealthy Mr. W—— is going to
withdraw himself from their society and the fashionable amusements of
the day, because, in a luckless hour, he touched a card, and lost some
money, which he well could spare?’

“‘Mr. Roberts,’ I hastily replied, ‘I have not said what my motives
were, nor have you a right to impute petty ones to me. It may be, sir,
that you conceive good or ill luck to be the only principle which can
govern a man in such a case: I trust I can be, and am influenced by a
higher feeling; a sense of right and wrong.’

“‘Nay, nay,’ said he, ‘be not angry with me. _I_ question not the
correctness of your course, I only suggest what will be the probable
remarks of others. It is known that you were unsuccessful at faro last
night; you immediately proceed to dispose of your running horses, and
that too with every prospect before you of a fortunate campaign. Rumor
will increase forty fold the amount you have sunk, and it will be at
once supposed you were compelled to sell. For, be assured, that
however pure and correct your conduct may be, mankind will never
believe in the existence of a motive which would exalt, if they can,
by any possibility, pitch upon one that would have a contrary
tendency. However, I am done. I trust you will not ascribe what I have
said to any thing but friendly feelings towards you.’

“Can you believe, Mr. S. that I was fool enough to be worked upon by
this flimsy argument? Yes, sir, I was that fool! I did not abandon my
resolution, it is true, but I postponed its execution, and it amounted
to the same thing in the end. I will not tire you by detailing the
various contrivances which were resorted to to induce me to play. I
could not if I would, recount the various schemes of villainy by which
I was stripped of my personal property, and compelled to mortgage my
real estate. Usury, as well as gaming was now hurrying me on to
destruction. I was fully aware of my situation. The dark clouds that
hung over me were plain to my eye, the roar of the breakers was
distinct to my ear, but in sullen desperation I held on my course,
until the bark, freighted with reputation, fortune, earthly happiness,
and future hopes, was dashed upon the flinty rocks, and the shattered
fragments strewed upon the waves. Long, long before this, Emily had
been conscious of the course I was pursuing; my frequent and prolonged
absences from home, my moodiness when there, my altered looks, my
nights unblessed by sleep, or filled with horror-burthened dreams,
that spoke in deep groans of despair, told the tale in accents not to
be misunderstood. Oh! what efforts did she make to reclaim me—with
what kindness did she try to soothe me—with what eloquence did she
plead and urge me to abandon the vice that was pregnant with
destruction to us all! And how often did I promise—how often did I
_swear_ to reform, until perjury on perjury robbed her of all respect
for, and confidence in me, though they could not totally extinguish
the flame of undying love that burned on the pure altar of her heart.
Her health gave way at last; the bloom of beauty faded from her cheek,
and her form of graceful roundness was attenuated to a shadow. My
little boy, too, as if he sympathised with his drooping mother, wasted
away, and looked the very type of misery. What a heart had I, to
inflict all this! I have sometimes thought that a demon must have
possessed me, and was permitted, for some wise purpose, to work his
will. I know it was a foolish thought, a miserable attempt to shuffle
off, from my wounded conscience, the awful responsibility of my own
uninfluenced crime. But is it not strange? I was tempted by no
gratification of passion, by no smiles of success; there were no
changes of fortune to retard my downward progress, and yet, unvarying
loss could not teach me to despair, and the burning consciousness of
the wretchedness I was heaping upon all who were most dear to me,
could not prevail upon me to refrain. But let me proceed.

“My ruin was at length complete; every thing was swept away. I had
neither food for my family, nor a roof to shelter them. Before this,
Emily had been {755} repeatedly urged by her relations to accept of an
asylum with them, but she had refused to abandon me. She was as
wretched as one could be who was free from all crime, and bowing, with
unmurmuring meekness, to the hand that chastised her. She had nothing
but her own unequalled goodness to sustain her. I had forgotten even
to be kind, and yet she would not abandon me. But the time had now
come when it was necessary that she should look to her friends for the
bare necessaries of life; and the state of her health too required
comforts and assistance not to be procured by poverty. For the
present, therefore, she consented to remove, with our boy, to her
father’s house. I did not accompany her, for I was fully aware that my
society would be tolerated there only for her sake; and sunk as I was
in my self-esteem, and justly degraded in the eyes of others, my pride
could not brook any manifestation of the feelings entertained towards
me. From the physician who attended her, I had daily reports of my
wife’s health, which became more and more precarious. How could it be
otherwise? Had I not destroyed her peace of mind?—had I not violated
the sanctuary of her love?—had I not poisoned the source of her being?
and with her wrung heart, must she not pine away, till merciful Heaven
reclaimed its unequalled creation? My child too——but what claim had I
to a husband’s or a father’s name?

“One evening, as I sat in a room at a tavern, my temporary place of
abode, gloomily reflecting on my situation—recurring, in agony of
soul, to the happiness that I had forever cast from me, and painfully
endeavoring to suggest to myself some plan by which I might retrieve,
in part, my fallen fortunes, there was a knock at the door, and
Roberts entered the room. He had been absent for some time, in one of
the northern states, and he now approached me with seeming joy, and as
if he anticipated from me an equally cordial welcome. His presence,
however, was any thing but pleasing to me. I was largely indebted to
him for money lost and loaned at cards; and when did debtor meet his
creditor with joy at his heart? Besides, I had begun to feel, that but
for my association with this man, I should never have plunged into the
vortex that had overwhelmed me. He was aware of my coldness, and broke
out with—‘Why, W., my dear fellow, what is the matter? Is this the way
you receive an old friend after a six months’ absence? But you seem to
be in the dumps; has any thing unusual occurred to fret you?’

“‘Why do you put such a question?’ replied I; ‘do you not know that I
am a ruined man—that every thing I could call my own has been torn
from me—that I am a wanderer, covered with shame, heaped with obloquy,
steeped in poverty? and do you expect, under such circumstances, to
find my heart bounding with joy, or my face mantled with smiles? To be
plain with you, Roberts, I was thinking of you just as you made your
appearance, and I will tell you what was passing in my mind. Memory
had gone back to the time of our first acquaintance, when I was in
possession of all most valued by man: wealth, that seemed scarcely to
have a limit—a reputation, unbreathed upon by reproach—the affections
of one whose equal I have never met, and the unspeakable blessing of a
pure conscience. All, save one, of these have fled—perhaps that too is
gone; and all this is your work. Yes, sir, yours! But for you, I
should never have been tempted to play; but for you, I should have
abandoned in time the vile pursuit. Yes, sir, it was _you_ who urged
me on, by stimulating me with false hopes that fortune would not
always frown—that one lucky cast would retrieve all, and a thousand
specious tales that won upon my credulous ear; and when, amid
reflections such as these, you presented yourself in person, you can
hardly suppose that you could have been very welcome.’

“‘W——,’ replied Roberts, ‘I have had a long ride to-day, and feel
heartily tired. It was my intention to go to bed as soon as I should
reach this house. But the landlord informed me you were here, and as a
friend I hastened to see you. Some would feel offended at the
reception I have met with, but I can make every allowance for the
feelings that irritate you, and I feel it my duty not to leave you
until I have somewhat calmed your present mood. Whenever _I_ get into
trouble, and feel a disposition to give way to misfortune, the first
thing I do is to sit quietly down, with a comfortable glass and a good
cigar, and philosophize upon the matter; and by your leave, you shall
follow my prescription. Come, come, I will take no denial; we will
talk over your affairs soberly and calmly, and the odds are ten to one
but we strike upon some plan which, if boldly and industriously
pursued, will set all things straight again. You will not drive me
from you, will you? O no, I see that you will not.’

“When the refreshments he had ordered had been produced, Roberts
resumed. ‘Where is your wife, W., and how is she?’ I informed him.
‘And you, I suppose, are a less welcome guest than she at her
father’s? Well, all that will come right too. By the bye, the old
gentleman should not be quite so rigid about this matter of play as he
is. Many a cool hundred has he won of my father; but I have observed,
that your reformed sinner always makes a persecuting saint. Let that
rest, and tell me, candidly, are you entirely destitute?’

“‘Utterly, utterly,’ replied I.

“‘Are your debts all paid?’

“‘You know they are not; I have not paid you.’

“‘Pshaw!’ said Roberts, ‘never mind me. Have you paid others?’

“‘They have paid themselves.’

“‘Good! Have you formed any plan by which you expect to support
yourself and family.’

“‘None,’ replied I. ‘But if I had, what means do I possess to put any
scheme into execution?’

“‘Let us hit upon the scheme, and we shall find the means,’ said
Roberts; ‘my purse, as well as yours, is at present at the lowest ebb.
A rascal that I entrusted with a snug sum, has decamped, and left me
in the lurch; and a fellow whose bond I held, has smashed, and won’t
pay a shilling in the pound. But I started in life with nothing, and
have been so often reduced to the same condition as at first, that, as
you perceive, I take the thing quite coolly. It is true, I am a single
man, and there is no one depending upon me—otherwise, I might feel the
matter more seriously; but I should not sit down, and mope, and scold
my friends, W——: I should be but the more prompt, the more
decided, and the more persevering in my actions. Let me see; you have
as yet proposed nothing to yourself. What say you to turning
merchant?’

{756} “‘I know nothing about business,’ I replied, ‘and besides, I
have neither capital nor credit.’

“‘The law, then? Your talents and education combine to fit you for
that profession.’

“‘And what am I to live on, while I pursue the necessary study?’

“‘That’s true; one thing then is clear—money you must have, and that
at once. That being the case, there is but one way to obtain it.’

“‘And that is—’

“‘By winning it,’ replied Roberts.

“I started from my chair, and walked up and down the room with
violence.

“‘Now I pray you be calm, and listen to me attentively,’ continued the
tempter. ‘You would not, I presume, object to getting back some of
your losses by the same means that you made them?’

“‘And if I should not, how am I to know that I can? Has it not been,
all along, my endeavor to do so, and has not each attempt invariably
plunged me in deeper? Besides, I cannot play without a stake.’

“‘Let me put this question to you, W——,’ said Roberts. ‘Suppose you
knew that a man had defrauded you of a certain sum of money; you had
no proof, however, which could establish his guilt, and enable you to
recover in a court of law. Would you, if he were by accident placed in
your power, hesitate to force from him what he had deprived you
of—nay, would you not deem yourself justified in using artifice to
place him in that situation.’

“I replied that I could not tell; possibly under such circumstances I
might do so.

“‘To be sure you would,’ rejoined Roberts, ‘and all the world would
applaud the deed.’

“‘But whither does your question lead?’ asked I.

“‘Patience, and you shall hear,’ replied he. ‘Do you remember playing
a game of brag in company with C. and F. and myself, on which occasion
you and your humble servant were left minus a few thousands?’

“‘Certainly,’ said I, ‘I remember it but too well.’

“‘Well,’ resumed Roberts, ‘we, poor innocent lambs, were cursing our
ill-luck—luck indeed! ha, ha! there was no _luck_ in the matter; we
were fairly pigeoned—damnably cheated, sir!’

“‘How do you know, Roberts? By Heaven, if I thought so, I would make
an example of them.’

“‘Oh! sir, you could not prove it!’

“‘How do _you_ know the fact, I repeat?’

“‘Because I have seen them playing together since, when I was not
interested in the game, and could watch them coolly and closely, and I
did so; and I am perfectly satisfied in my own mind that there was
collusion between them. Now, for the drift of my question; I say, it
would be perfectly justifiable in us to pay these knaves in their own
coin—to turn the tables upon them, and so get back the cash they
fobbed from us, and that, I take it, would be a pretty little capital
to begin the world with again.’

“‘There is certainly nothing to object to on the score of justice,’
said I, ‘but I question if such a scheme would be deemed honorable
among gentlemen.’

“‘I cannot answer for their abstract opinions,’ said Roberts, ‘nor do
I greatly care for them; but this I know, that among the whole circle
of my acquaintance, which is tolerably extensive, there is not one who
would hesitate about the matter.’

“‘But what means shall we employ? If they be the rascals you have
described, will they not be keen enough to detect us?’

“‘I defy them,’ said Roberts. ‘Leave every thing to me. To-morrow you
shall be instructed; it is necessary now that I should sleep. Do you
so, likewise, and be assured that your situation will soon be changed
for the better. In the meantime you will need money; there are fifty
dollars, half of all I have—take them; you will soon be able to repay
me. Good night! and hark ye, no more despondency, but look the world
boldly in the face, and smile with contempt upon fate, as I do.’

“Perhaps, Mr. S., you are surprised that I should so easily have
assented to this vile proposal. There had been a time, sir, when I
should have treated it as a personal insult; but I was not then a
broken-down gambler. My principles had not been sapped by continual
contact with the unworthy; the degrading and unhallowed desire of gain
had not fastened on my soul, and corroded my sense of honor. One must
have been crushed and miserable as I was, before he can be sure of his
power to resist the tempter.

“Our scheme was soon executed; we regained our losses from ——, and
something more besides, and I was once more out of the reach of
absolute want. I hired a small house, where, very much against the
inclination of her family, I placed Emily. One of her sisters
accompanied her, for her continually declining health rendered the
sympathies of a female friend absolutely necessary. I once more
resolved to abandon play. The suggestion thrown out by Roberts with
regard to the study of the law, although doubtless not seriously
intended by him, had been frequently present to my mind. I now
determined to pursue that avocation, and felt every confidence in my
capacity to succeed. I compared myself with those around me who bore a
reputation in the profession, and felt proudly conscious that in
talent I was their equal. I told my wife of this. Her only answer was
a deep sigh, that seemed to shake her slender frame, and these words:
‘I hope it may be so, Charles; for your sake, I hope it may be so.’ I
felt nettled at the doubt implied, but I replied not. I had deceived
her too often to dare to remonstrate. My studies were commenced, but I
had little calculated on the difficulties of my task. It had been a
long time since I had taken a book into my hand, and I found it almost
impossible to chain down my attention to the subject before me. My
eyes would be fixed on the page, but my mind would wander far, far
away from it. Sentence after sentence was perused and reperused, but
no distinct meaning was conveyed to my understanding. I would sit for
hours in one fixed attitude, lost in total abstraction, and when
recalled to myself by some accidental circumstance, the visions which
had been floating in my mind were as scattered and unintelligible as
the wildest fancies of a foolish dream. It was impossible to study.

“One morning, after repeated and unavailing attempts to overcome this
state of mind, I threw down my book in despair, and went forth into
the open air, to try if exercise would not bring relief. It was a
lovely day in spring, the trees had just shot out their tender leaves,
the birds were pealing forth their joyous notes, a thousand insects
were dancing in the balmy air. It was a {757} day on which a heart at
ease might feel most happy; but to me the blessed sun no longer shone
with brightness, and my bosom was cold to those charms of nature which
had once made it thrill with gladness. I wandered on, knowing and
caring little where I bent my steps, when, at a sudden turn of the
road, I encountered Roberts.

“‘Well met!’ said he. ‘I was on my way to see you. I have good news
for you.’

“‘Indeed,’ replied I, sadly, ‘let me have them, then, for there is no
one to whom they could be more welcome.’

“‘Another chance, W——, to get back some of your cash, and if I mistake
not, a pretty good lump of it too. I am to give a dinner to-day, a bet
I lost—lost _purposely_, my boy, and you must come; we will try
conclusions with the gentlemen again, and with rather better chances
of success than we formerly had. Turn back and get your horse, and as
we ride along I’ll tell you all about it.’

“‘I must decline your invitation,’ replied I.

“‘That you shall not!’ said Roberts.

“‘It is useless for me to go, Roberts, for I will not play. I am
convinced that I cannot win by fair means, and I will not resort to
any other.’

“‘You can do as you please about that, but I must have you with me; it
will be of service to you; it will cheer you up, and show your friends
that you are not the man to give way to misfortune. Believe me, the
world respects every one who shows it a bold front. Indeed you must
not refuse me; I shall feel hurt if you do.’

“I went. Is it necessary to say that night was spent in play, and with
the aid of my _honest_ partner, I did not lose. The ice was now fairly
broke. I could no longer refuse to join Roberts in his schemes of
plunder. I was in his power, and felt that he could blast me by a
single word. But some suspicions began to be entertained; my success
was too uniform for one who had formerly lost so constantly, and it
was therefore concerted between Roberts and myself, that I should
occasionally seem to lose to him, making a subsequent settlement with
him in private.

“There was a young man, son of the Sheriff of the County of ——, who
acted as deputy to his father, a very worthy and respectable man, who
had served with great credit in the continental army, and brought up
and maintained, by his industry, a numerous family. He himself paid no
attention to the affairs of his office, but confided them entirely to
the activity and integrity of his son, who had won general respect and
popularity by the zeal and fidelity with which he discharged his
duties, and the gentleness and mercy he exhibited, when called on to
put in force the harsh decrees of the law. I had but little
acquaintance with either the young man or his father, nor, in all
probability, would the latter have been much pleased to have his son
in habits of intercourse with me. I had attended a session of the
court on some business, and was detained too late to admit of my
reaching home that day. Several others were in the same
situation—among them, Roberts. After supper he took me aside, and
asked me if I recollected Wallis.

“‘No,’ I replied, ‘I remember no such person.’

“‘You have a bad memory, then,’ said he; ‘I never forget those who win
my money,’ and he recalled to my mind the individual who had held the
faro bank at the races.

“‘What of him?’ I inquired. ‘Does he think to take me in again?’

“‘O, no,’ replied Roberts, with a laugh, ‘we have learned rather too
much for that. But I have been talking with him; he will open a bank
to-night, and he agrees that you and I shall be equally interested. It
shall be my business to get him betters; and as there are several here
whose pocket-books are well filled, I think we shall make a handsome
adventure of it. For the sake of appearances, you know, we too must
bet against him, and he will permit us to win largely, for the purpose
of enticing others. Is it not capitally contrived?’

“‘But may not this Wallis betray us hereafter?’

“‘Not the slightest danger of it; he is as close as wax. I know him of
old; and besides, he is under obligations to me that he cannot violate
if he would.’

“‘Roberts,’ said I, ‘do you feel no remorse? Does not conscience
upbraid you with the meanness, the guilt of your course? Have you no
misgivings, when you behold the agony of those you defraud?’

“‘Have _you_ such feelings?’ said Roberts.

“‘I have!’ replied I. ‘They torture me by night and by day. The hell
that burned within me when, like a madman, I scattered my wealth to
the winds, was ease, was happiness, to what I now endure, and if
the hour of detection should ever come,—but that——I could not and I
would not survive!’ I clasped my hands together, and shook with fear
at the very thought.

“Roberts gazed at me some little time in silence, and his countenance
assumed a bitter sneer. At length he broke forth.

“‘Conscience! Remorse! ha! ha! Because I have lived too long to be a
dupe? Most men, in the greenness of youth, are fools, and ripen, with
age and experience, into knaves. There are some, however, who are
early wise, and they, if circumstances permit, become great and
distinguished; and some, who are always silly, and these are reckoned
virtuous, and become the footballs of the others. For my part _I_ was
not made to be kicked. I have found out that I must be the wolf or the
lamb; I prefer to be the beast of power. There is not one of those men
that you see there, who would not, if they could, strip us to the last
farthing. I play their own game, and place them where they would place
me. And for this, forsooth, I must feel remorse! I find the whole
system of society based upon a cheat; every one endeavors to overreach
his neighbor, and the most successful is the most respected. Shall I
not strive among the rest? You have been defrauded of a princely
fortune and reduced to absolute want. I have let you into the secret
of your misfortunes, and taught you how to retaliate your wrongs on
others, and you prate to me of conscience and remorse. Well then, if
conscience be to you this dreadful torment, in the name of common
sense obey its dictates. Be wholly one thing or another. Go to those
with whom you have played of late, and hand them back their money.
Tell them they were cheated; that you see through the evil of your
ways, and come to make restitution; once more throw yourself back on
poverty, and see how highly the world will applaud the act! They say
there is exceeding joy over a repentant {758} sinner in heaven. Do you
try how much there is on earth. But I am losing time. Am I to
understand that you decline sharing with Wallis and myself?’

“‘No,’ I replied, ‘it is my fate; I have gone too far to recede, and I
must endure, as I can, the loss of self-respect.’

“We parted, mixing in with the general crowd. It was not long before
Roberts had collected various persons around him, who seemed to be
listening with great attention to something he was narrating, which,
to judge from their frequent peals of laughter, was highly humorous.
No one knew better than he how to afford entertainment to others. His
manner was admirable; his very laugh was a provocative to mirth.
Without being boisterous, it was the most joyous, careless,
lighthearted burst of gaiety that I ever listened to. Of those who
were most attracted by him, was the young man I have before mentioned,
the son of the old sheriff. He seemed to be in an ecstasy of delight,
and Roberts fooled him ‘to the top of his bent.’ They drank together,
they sang together, and committed various extravagances; Roberts
declaring that he was just in the humor for a frolic, and a frolic he
would have. Presently cards were introduced, I know not at whose
suggestion, and I was told by some one that a faro bank was about to
be opened, and I received the information as if it were new to me. We
soon afterwards adjourned to another room, and the game was commenced.
At first I did not bet, or rather appeared not to do so, but stood
looking on at the others, and marking the vicissitudes of the game. To
my surprise and regret I saw the sheriff’s son at the table, for I had
always heard him spoken of as a moral and prudent youth, and,
moreover, I had not supposed he possessed the means to play. I
observed, however, that although evidently flushed with what he had
been drinking, he staked with caution, and would not, in all
probability, win or lose any thing of consequence, and I thought
nothing more of the matter. About midnight, after going through the
mockery of apparently winning some hundreds, I threw myself upon a
couch and slept. It was daybreak when I awoke, but the lights were
still burning, and the gamesters, undiminished in number, as eager as
ever in their play. Roberts was among them, and I, being desirous of
returning home, took him aside to acquaint him with my intention. He
objected to my doing so, stating that he was excessively fatigued, and
must sleep a few hours himself; that he had forborne to awake me, and
I must now take my turn to watch, for it was better that one of us
should observe how things were going on; that so far, owing to the
most singular run of luck on the part of one individual that he had
ever witnessed, the bank was loser. I inquired how his young companion
had fared. He had lost rather heavily. ‘But surely,’ said I, ‘he
cannot afford to do so.’ He replied very carelessly, ‘that’s his own
affair. I did not urge him to play. The truth is, he received
yesterday a considerable sum of money in payment of an execution, and
very possibly he may be using the funds. I suppose he knows that he
can make it all good. But go you now and sit down, and wake me in a
couple of hours, that will be sufficient repose for me.’

“I was fain to comply with his request. Before the two hours had
elapsed, however, a messenger arrived with the intelligence that my
wife had been taken alarmingly ill. Rousing Roberts, I immediately
departed and pushed forward with all possible speed; but the distance
was considerable and the road execrable, and several hours were
consumed before I reached home. All was quiet. Leaping from my horse I
rushed towards the house; a feeling of faintness came over me, and I
was obliged to pause and lean against the door-post for support.
Rousing my energies I proceeded to my wife’s chamber, and knocked
gently for admittance. A faint voice desired me to enter. I did so,
and was met by Emily’s sister, who was weeping bitterly. Not a word
was spoken—she pointed to the bed and left me. I softly approached and
with a trembling hand I drew aside the curtain.

“Did she sleep? The eyes were closed, the face serene and almost
smiling. I took her hand—it was cold and clammy to the touch. I gently
pressed her bosom. Was it a throb that I felt? No—that heart had
ceased to beat, had ceased to feel. Life with all its bitterness had
fled. The enfranchised spirit had soared to its native home. I gazed
in silence. I did not weep, I did not groan. There was a benumbing,
icy thrall that bound up every faculty; it was pain, it was agony, but
it left no power to express that pain.

“I heard a feeble sob: Whence did it proceed? I had thought I was
alone. I moved in the direction of the sound. Stretched upon the
floor, his face buried in his little hands, lay my boy. I kneeled
beside him; I raised and strained him to my breast. ‘Oh, let me go,’
said he, ‘mother is gone; I want to go to mother. She said she would
ask her God to keep a place for me, and God is good, I know, and he
will do it. Father, lay me down there with mother.’”

Mr. W—— here bent his head and wept like a child. It is fearful to see
an old man weep. Presently he resumed.

“I left the chamber of death, and retired to the room I had used as a
study. What was passing in my mind I am utterly unconscious of. The
past, the present and the future, were mingled in one common chaos. I
was lost in a reverie that seemed protracted beyond the years of man.
Of the mass of confused and unintelligible ideas that were swarming in
my brain, one at length stood out clear and distinct, and gathered
strength as I brooded over it. It was self-destruction. It rose upon
me, a cheering light, shedding gladness over my dark and desperate
fortunes. The intolerable weight which had pressed upon my mind was at
once uplifted, the pent-up agony which had racked my heart passed off,
and visions of peace, of a deep, enduring calm, floated before me,
unmixed with a doubt or dread of the untried future. There was a
loaded pistol lying on the table; in an instant it was in my grasp,
but heaven in its mercy saved me from that crime—a sudden icy pang
transfixed me; utterly enfeebled I sank to the floor, my senses fled,
and I was as one who is numbered with the dead, or who had never
breathed among the living.

“When reason was again restored to me, I found myself stretched upon a
bed. I recognized the apartment in which I lay; it had been my wife’s.
I tried to move, but had not the strength to do so. I heard a step in
the room and essayed to speak; my voice was scarce a whisper; the
light in the chamber was dim, but my {759} eyes could not endure it. I
again closed them and sank into sleep.

“When I awoke, a physician and a nurse were standing at the bed side.
I would have spoken, but they bade me be quiet; and I was even as a
child, and submitted. For many weeks had disease preyed upon me, and
existence been suspended by a single thread which would not break.
Slowly I recovered, my strength was restored to me, but never, from
that day to the present moment, has this withered heart known peace.

“I have but little more to say. From my medical attendant I learned
that the young man who had been fleeced at the tavern, stung by
remorse, and unable to make good the money he had lost, had swallowed
a deadly draught. His aged father, stripped of his little all to pay
the debt, broken-hearted by the villainy in which I had participated,
was thrown with his helpless family upon the reluctant bounty of
society. Wallis and Roberts had fled, it was supposed, to the South.
My son had been taken home by his grandfather. I have never seen him
since I pressed him to my bosom in his mother’s death chamber. He was
and is dear to me as the hope of heaven to the martyr’s heart, but his
eye shall never look upon the degraded being who gave him life.

“While listening to the recital of the physician, amid pangs that
gnawed my soul, I formed the resolution of quitting my country, never
again to return, and in some foreign land, in an humble occupation,
with rigid economy and ceaseless industry, to build up another
fortune; not for the luxuries it might purchase, or the comforts it
might afford me in age, but that I might, as far as _money_ could
avail, repair the mischief which I had assisted in perpetrating, and
the injustice I had been guilty of towards my child.

“I watched the sun as he threw his slant rays on the fields and the
forests, familiar to me as the face of a friend, and when he sank
beneath the horizon, commenced the preparations for my departure. I
had some money; retaining as much as was absolutely necessary for my
expenses, and no more, I enclosed the remainder to my physician, with
a request that he would, after remunerating himself, pay the rest to
the poor old sheriff. I also despatched a note to my father-in-law,
stating my intention to leave the country, and imploring him, for the
mother’s sake, to bestow every care and attention on her child, and to
call him by her maiden name. This done, in the dead of the night I set
out on my journey, and took the direction of the sea port of ——.
Thence, under an assumed name, I embarked for this island, and here I
have since remained, steadily pursuing the course I had laid down for
myself. My labors have been crowned with success beyond my hopes, and
I am now the possessor of much greater wealth than I inherited. When I
was in England, a mere youth, an opportunity occurred of rendering an
important service to an acquaintance, at that time very needy, but who
has since become a partner in one of the most extensive banking houses
in London. Instead of burying my money in the ground, as the wiseacres
here have surmised, I have regularly remitted my gains to him, and by
his judicious management of them in the British funds, they have
reached their present amount. Through him too, I have received
intelligence of my son, on whose education no expense has been spared.
He has applied himself to the profession of the law, and is considered
as fast rising to eminence. I could long ago have rendered him
independent of labor, but I deemed it best that he should earn his
bread by the sweat of his brow. That portion of man’s doom is _not_ a
curse.

“And now, Mr. S., it simply remains for me to acquaint you with the
service which I wish you to render me. You will ascertain as soon as
may be after your arrival in Virginia, what descendants there are of
—— the former sheriff of ——, their situation in life and
character; not that I mean to withhold from them what is justly their
due, be they ever so vile; for may they not, if vicious, trace their
very crimes to my unprincipled conduct? but that by being correctly
informed of their pursuits and habits, I may be enabled to judge in
what manner and to what extent, I can best act to their advantage. You
will also seek the acquaintance of my son, and if you can become his
friend. Write to me, and tell me candidly what he is; but until I
sleep in death do not speak to him of me. You will not be condemned to
a long silence, for I feel that my days are numbered. All necessary
documents will be placed in your hands before your departure hence.
You are my executor. Farewell.”




LIFE’S STREAM.

BY LUCY T. JOHNSON.


  Life’s stream sweeps through many a vale
    Of varied hues and smiles and tears—
  And bowers that joy the breezy gale,
    And desert wastes where grief appears.
    It sweeps—aye swiftly to the sea,
      Even as the gush of waters flowing;
    A wave—a rush how merrily!
      And then a chasm darkly showing.

  Its source is in the little nook
    Beside that far-off mountain,
  Where young buds o’er its bosom look,
    And violets kiss the fountain.
    How pure it gurgling starts—and beaming
      Bright in the first spring-morning’s sun,
    Heaven’s own loved miniature seeming—
      O thus is life begun!

  And then it seeks another scene—
    One gemmed with many flowers,
  Where May-dews linger yet between
    And in the leafy bowers:
    And still it thrills most joyously,
      Rippling o’er rock and glen—then sleeping
    Beside the mead or on the lea;
      But O, its dregs are creeping.

  And still it meets another land;
    But all its early flowers have faded,
  Save here and there upon its strand,
    One lingers by the storm abraded.
    And now its lengthened depths are clouded
      With misty volumes floating;
    And in a wild of brambles shrouded,
      O doth it cease its sporting.  {760}

  Yet one more vale it finds—the last
    On life’s meandering shore—
  Its yellow leaf twirls on the blast,
    Its blossoms breathe no more:
    And o’er its sullen, beamless tide,
      Its bubbles all are breaking—
    ’Tis done—it meets the ocean wide,
      Each balmy scene forsaking.

  ’Tis done—the ocean’s boundless waste
    Rolls up its misty gleaming;
  And on that desert shore is cast
    The sea-wave darkly streaming.
    But shall it be thus lost? No never—
      A brighter impulse shall be given,
    E’en from its ocean sleep—to sever
      Its scintillings to Heaven.

_Elfin Moor, Va. 1836_.




AN ADDRESS

Delivered before the Students of William and Mary, at the Opening of
the College, on Monday, October 10th, 1836.

BY THOMAS R. DEW,

President and Professor of Moral and Political Philosophy.[1]

[Footnote 1: Repeated calls from the friends of William and Mary, as
well as our own high estimation of this Address, have induced us to
publish it. It will be understood, of course, that the M.S.
originally, was solicited of Professor Dew for publication, by a
Committee on the part of the Students. We omit the correspondence as
of no general interest.]


_Gentlemen_:—In obedience to the customs of our institution, I proceed
to address you on the present occasion; and I do it, I assure you,
with feelings of no ordinary character. When I reflect upon the
antiquity and reputation of this venerable institution,—upon the
numerous alumni who have been sent forth from its halls, so many of
whom have graced the walks of private life, or risen into the high
places of our government, and shed around them the benign influence of
their talents and statesmanship,—when I reflect upon the long line of
efficient and distinguished men who have preceded me in this office,
and upon the character and virtues of him who was my predecessor, I
cannot but feel a weight of responsibility which excites in me a deep
and painful solicitude. For eight years it was my pleasure to be
associated with him whose place I have been called to fill. His
learning, his piety, his conscientiousness in the discharge of his
duties, however onerous, will long be remembered by all who knew him
well; and the regret manifested in the countenances of the citizens of
our town when he bade them an affectionate farewell, marks
conclusively the deep impression which his virtues and usefulness had
made upon their hearts, and the loss which our society has sustained
by the departure from among us of one, who, with his amiable family,
constituted so interesting a portion of our social circle. Again,
then, let me say, I enter upon the duties of my station with deep and
painful solicitude, sustained alone by the consciousness, that I shall
yield to none who have gone before me in this office, in zeal,
fidelity, and love for our venerated Alma Mater.

I shall not, on the present occasion, endeavor to present to your view
an exposition of the general advantages resulting from education; the
limits which I have prescribed to myself in this address, together
with the necessity of introducing other topics, will, of course,
prevent me from such an effort. Nor is it necessary;—your presence in
this hall—your determination to subscribe to our laws, and to obey the
requisitions of our statutes, prove that you have already comprehended
the inestimable benefits of education, and have come up here to pursue
your collegiate career.

As it is probable there may be students in every department of our
college, and each one may be anxious to know something of our entire
system previous to the selection which he may make of the courses of
study for his attendance, I will, in the first place, give you some
information as to our general plan. Our plan embraces a course of
general study, which may be pursued to great advantage by all having
the time and means, no matter what may be their professions in after
life. Besides this course of general study, it embraces the subject of
law, and aims at accomplishing the student in one of the learned
professions.

Let me then commence with the subject of the classics. In this school
we have a preparatory department, in which the student may acquire
that elementary instruction requisite for the successful study of the
higher classics. As but few of you, however, will, in all probability,
wish to enter this school, I shall confine the remarks which I have to
make on this subject to the higher classical studies. In one
department of this higher school, the attention of the student will be
confined to the following authors: Horace, Cicero de Oratore, Terence,
Juvenal, Livy and Tacitus, in Latin—and to Xenophon’s Anabasis,
Æschylus, Herodotus, Euripides, Sophocles, Thucydides, and Homer in
Greek.

He will be required to read them with facility—to construe them—to
explain their meaning—to master portions of history which may be
referred to, and to acquire a thorough and intimate acquaintance with
the whole philosophy of the Latin and Greek Grammars. In this school
it is expected that the classic student shall complete his knowledge
of the ancient languages. I would therefore recommend it to all who
may have the time and inclination to pursue such studies, or whose
profession in after life may demand deep classical learning.

The knowledge of the ancient languages is far more important to us
than that of any other, save our own. At the time that the barbarians
from the north and east broke up the Roman Empire, and engrafted the
feudal system on its fragments, whence the nations of modern Europe
have arisen, the Latin and Greek languages were the two great
languages of the civilized portion of the ancient world. It is
necessary to study them in order that we may be enabled to understand
their transition into the modern languages; the latter are derivations
from the former. It has been well observed that there is not a single
nation from the north to the south of Europe, from the shores of the
Baltic to the plains of Italy, whose literature is not imbedded in the
very elements of classical learning, and this remark applies
particularly to the literature of England. But again, in order that
you may understand well the classical authors put into your hands, it
is necessary that you should become acquainted with the manners,
customs, {761} institutions and religion of the ancient world. Great
and mighty changes have taken place in the condition of man since the
fall of the vast fabric of the Roman Empire. The whole interior
economy of nations has been changed. The complex system of polytheism,
with its thousand of forms, and ceremonies, and sacred mysteries, has
all been overthrown, and the beautiful and simple religion of the meek
and humble Saviour of the world traced, as with the pencil of light,
upon the sacred page, and revealed even unto _babes_, has been
established in its stead. This great and salutary change alone, has
stamped a new character upon the age in which we live. How vast the
difference between a Priest of Jupiter and a Minister of the Gospel!
How great the difference between the Eleusinian mysteries of the
Polytheist, and the communion service of the Christian! In order then
that you may be enabled to read the classic authors to advantage, and
apply with skill the lessons which you may draw from the page of
ancient history, it is necessary that you should study the laws,
customs, institutions, religion, and polity of Greece and Rome. For
this reason, there has been recently attached to our classical
department, a school of Roman and Grecian Antiquities, and Heathen
Mythology, in which you will be enabled to derive full and complete
information on all these topics.

The degree in the classical department has been placed upon a high
footing. It is necessary that the candidate for this honor should not
only be a proficient in the studies just mentioned, but that he should
obtain a certificate of qualification on the junior, mathematical,
rhetorical, and historical courses. With this additional information,
our classic graduate goes into the world not a _mere Latin and Greek
scholar_, but an elegant classic. This course of study has been
devised principally for the benefit of that large and respectable
class of students who propose to follow the profession of teaching. To
all students of this description, I would recommend the attainment of
this degree—a degree which will at once give its owner a high standing
in our community, and be a most ample certificate of his merits and
qualifications.

Besides the degree in the classical school, there are three others of
a high order given in our institution; these are the degrees of A.B.,
B.L., and A.M. With regard to the first, you will find in our laws a
detail of the courses of study necessary to its attainment. These
courses you will find full and well selected, bearing an advantageous
comparison with similar courses in any other college of our Union.
They embrace the four great departments of mathematics, physics,
morals and politics. These studies I would recommend to all who may
have the time and the means to pursue them, no matter what profession
they may follow in after life. Independently of the pleasure which
each of them imparts to the mind of the zealous student, there is a
utility arising from them far beyond the conception of ordinary
minds—a utility which springs both from the enlargement of the
understanding by the salutary exercise which they afford to it, and
from the light which they respectively cast on each other. One of the
most beautiful and interesting facts in relation to literature, is,
that all its departments are connected and associated with each other;
the study of one perfects the mind in the comprehension of another.
The acquisition of a new idea sometimes revolutionizes the little
republic of the mind, and gives a new cast to all our thoughts. Hence
the division of labor in science is not productive of the same
advantage as in physics, but we should always extend the range of our
studies in proportion to the enlargement of mind and the facilities
for acquiring information, no matter what may be our profession or
occupation hereafter.

If the time or means of the student, however, should constrain him to
limit his course of studies whilst here, then it would be certainly
proper that he should make a selection of those subjects which may
have the closest and most intimate connection with the profession
which he may follow, or the station in life which he may expect to
fill. His own judgment will readily inform him of the selection which
should be made, taking care always, according to the requisition of
our statutes, to enter a sufficient number of classes to afford him
full occupation. Every young man should task himself fully, lest want
of employment, while here, should induce idle habits. For the peculiar
advantages of each course of studies, I must refer you to the
introductory lectures of the Professors, all of which will be open to
your attendance, and will give you much more complete information on
each department than I could possibly impart, even if not confined
within the limits of an opening address.

The degree in law is of a professional character, and consequently we
can generally expect that those alone will aim at its attainment who
propose to follow the profession of the law. This profession, in all
countries, but particularly in our own, is one of elevated standing,
of superior learning, and, I may add, of great moral and political
power. The habits of his profession ensure the lawyer, in every
country, an honorable station among statesmen, and the foremost rank
in deliberative councils. Law, said Dr. Johnson, is the science in
which the greatest powers of the understanding are applied to the
greatest number of facts. The common law of England, with the great
modifications which it has undergone in our own country from the
operations of our government and republican institutions, will form
the principal text to which your attention will be directed in this
department. “This law,” it has well been said, “is not the product of
the wisdom of some one man, or society of men, in any one age; but of
the wisdom, counsel, experience and observation of many ages of wise
and observing men.” It is, emphatically, “the gathered wisdom of a
thousand years.” And you, gentlemen, who propose to accomplish its
study, must devote yourselves to it with unremitting ardor. You must
not study the mere statutes and prescriptions of the law alone, but
you must examine, with the eye of philosophy, the whole foundation on
which the great superstructure is raised. It is necessary that you
should examine the principles of the science of government; that you
should look into the wants of our nature; examine the beautiful
structure of the human mind, with all our feelings, principles,
propensities and instincts. In fine, you must, in the language of one
who has risen to the highest eminence in his profession, “Drink in the
lessons and spirit of philosophy. Not that philosophy described by
Milton, as

  A perpetual feast of nectared sweets
  Where no crude surfeit reigns;

but that philosophy which is conversant with men’s {762} business and
interests, with the policy and welfare of nations; that philosophy
which dwells not in vain imaginations and platonic dreams, but which
stoops to life, and enlarges the boundaries of human happiness; that
philosophy which sits by us in the closet, cheers us by the fireside,
walks with us in the fields and highways, kneels with us at the
altars, and lights up the enduring flame of patriotism.”

Deep and extensive knowledge is, above all things, requisite for the
success of him who aspires to an elevated stand in this honorable
profession. Well, then, have the officers of our institution ordained
that the degree in this department shall not be conferred for a mere
knowledge of laws. The candidate for this honor must have studied,
beside the municipal law, the subject of government and national law,
together with some exposition of our own system of government, all of
which subjects are taught by the Law Professor. He must, moreover,
have obtained the Baccalaureate honor in this, or some other
institution, or if not, must have attended a full course of lectures
in some one of the scientific departments of this institution. With
the collateral information thus obtained, the graduate in law will go
forth, not a mere lawyer, equipped only with the forms and
technicalities of his profession, but with a mind deeply imbued by the
principles of science and the spirit of philosophy. With a mind thus
furnished, every hour of study in his profession becomes efficient,
and moves him forward with ease and rapidity in his career, enabling
him to encounter all the difficulties and obstacles which beset him on
his way.[2] For a full exposition of the courses of study in the law
department, I must refer you to the introductory lecture of the
Professor, which will impart all the information which you may desire
on this subject.

[Footnote 2: One of the great advantages of establishing a Law School
in a college is, that the student, whilst pursuing his professional
studies, is enabled at the same time to give a portion of his
attention to other subjects of a kindred character, and thus
ultimately to enter his profession with the great and inestimable
advantage of a proper elementary education, which must ever give him a
decided superiority to him who is educated in the law alone.]

Before speaking of our Master’s degree, I will say a few words on the
school of civil engineering, lately established by the visitors in
this institution. The United States of North America present at this
moment one of the most sublime spectacles which has ever been offered
to the eye of the philanthropist—the spectacle of a people few in
numbers at first—rapidly increasing and spreading over one of the
fairest quarters of the world; building up institutions, the
admiration of the age in which we live; and rearing up, by the mere
development of internal resources, a fabric of greatness and empire,
unparalleled in the annals of history. The original heterogeneous
interests of the different portions of our Union, are made to
harmonize more and more, from day to day, by the magic influence of
internal improvement. The canal and the rail road, the steam boat and
steam car, constitute in fact the great and characteristic powers of
the age in which we live. Throughout our extensive territory, covering
so many degrees of latitude and longitude, embracing every climate and
yielding every production, nature calls on art to aid her. Although we
have already executed works of improvement within the limits of our
system of republics, which rival in splendor and grandeur the boasted
monuments of Egypt, Rome or China, and far surpass them in usefulness
and profit, yet the work is still in a state of incipiency—a boundless
field is opening to the enterprise of individuals and states. In the
peculiar phraseology of a favorite science, there at this moment
exists a vast demand for internal improvements. From one side to the
other of our immense territory, turnpikes, rail roads and canals are
constructing every where; the engineer is abroad in the land, almost
annihilating by his skill, time and space. Yet his labors are not
commensurate with the demand. There is, at this time, scarcely any
profession in our country which rewards its successful follower more
highly and certainly than that of civil engineering. The visitors of
our institution have therefore very wisely attached a school of this
description to our college, placing it under the direction of an
individual who combines, most happily, profound scientific knowledge
with great practical skill—an individual who for years zealously and
successfully pursued the business of engineering in another country,
until called off by other employments. I would therefore warmly
recommend this school to all who are anxious to follow this
profession, as soon as their attainments will enable them to join it
with advantage.

In the supplemental laws, published since the last session of our
board of visitors, you will find a detail of the studies requisite for
the attainment of the degree of A.M. This is the highest honor in our
institution which can be won by the student during his collegiate
career. It will require generally two years additional study after
obtaining the Bachelor’s degree; few of you, consequently, can be
expected to aim at its attainment. Those however who shall have an
opportunity, will find themselves amply rewarded by the advantages
which may be derived from it. In this course, all the studies which
are pursued in the first portion of your collegiate career, are
extended and amplified. In the first portion of your studies, you
master the great principles of science; in the latter, you enter more
fully into your subjects, and begin the great work of applying your
principles to facts. He who shall have the good fortune to obtain this
degree, will have amassed a fund of knowledge which will enable him to
grace and ornament any of the walks of life into which he may choose
to enter. His mind will have been trained in the most important of all
arts—that of acquiring knowledge and generalizing facts. He will
almost necessarily have attained the great desideratum of literary
men—love of study and the power of discrimination. So that in his case
there will be afterwards no waste of labor and time, no useless
expenditure of frivolous and unprofitable thought. To a mind thus
trained, all nature furnishes lessons of instruction and philosophy,
from her least to her greatest operations—from the falling of an
apple, to the complex movements of worlds innumerable, all is harmony,
concord and wisdom. Such a mind can draw the lesson of philosophy
alike from the prattle of the innocent babe, or the deeply studied
conversation of a Bacon or a Newton.

I have thus, gentlemen, endeavored briefly to present an exposé of the
several departments of study in our college.[3] I have given you the
bill of fare, and we hope {763} that you may make your selections with
judgment, and afterwards prosecute your studies with energy and
perseverance. By the late arrangement of the visitors in regard to the
Master’s degree, our scientific courses are as extensive as at any
other institution in this country, and one of them, the moral and
political, is believed to be more extensive than in any other
institution known to us. And this will lead me to say a few words on
the policy of our board of visitors in establishing so extensive a
course.

[Footnote 3: I have dwelt in this address very little on the subjects
requisite for the degree of A.B. because of their well known character
and importance.]

Many persons are under the impression that moral and political studies
need not be prosecuted at college—that the physical and mathematical
sciences are the most important subjects, and should be studied to
their exclusion. This opinion seems to be based upon the popular
notion that moral and political subjects may be comprehended without
the assistance of a teacher, and may consequently be prosecuted to
most advantage when the student has finished his collegiate career and
entered upon the great theatre of life. This impression is certainly
erroneous and highly pernicious; and in justification of the system
which we have adopted in our own college I must employ a few moments
in attempting to explain its thorough fallacy. In the first place
then, I have no hesitation in affirming that moral and political
studies are the most important of all. These subjects are of universal
application; they concern every member of the human family. We cannot
escape their influence or connection, no matter what may be our
destiny through life. The great _high-ways_, and the little _by-ways_,
of our existence, if I may be allowed the expression, alike pass
through the regions of morals and politics. From the village gossip
who tells the tale of her neighbor’s equivocal conduct, and
significantly hints that it was no better than it ought to be, to him
who watches the movements of empires and penetrates the secret designs
of statesmen, all are concerned in these universally applicable
subjects. It is a matter of very little practical consequence to us
what may be the opinions of our neighbor in mathematics or
physics—whether he believes two sides of a triangle may be less than
the third, or that the earth is the centre of our system, and that the
sun, moon and stars revolve around it. We may laugh at him once or
twice during the year for his ignorance, but his opinions wound none
of our sensibilities and run counter to none of our interests. But the
moment our opinions clash upon the subjects of morals and politics,
that moment the case is altered. The opinions of my neighbor are no
longer indifferent to me. If he has notions of morality under which he
is constantly condemning my course of life, or a system of politics
entirely at war with mine, then does the collision become indeed a
serious one. It was a matter of very little moment to Castile that
King Alphonso should believe the solar system miserably defective in
its arrangements, and that he could suggest some most important
improvements in it. But the case was seriously altered when he
believed that he was responsible to God alone, and not to his
subjects, in the administration of his government, and that his wisdom
was sufficient to make and unmake the laws of his country. The fact
is, morals, politics and religion are the great concerns of human
nature. They spring from relations of universal existence throughout
the human family—relations from whose influence none of us can
possibly escape.

But it is said that even if these subjects be of such universal
application, they may easily be acquired in after life when we have
appeared as actors upon the great stage of the world. Then it is
affirmed we may begin the study of morals and politics to most
advantage, when theory and experiment may go hand in hand—when we may
correct the visions of an overwrought imagination by the plain and
palpable realities that exist around us. This opinion is certainly
erroneous. The period of youth is the proper time to commence these
studies. You have come up here, gentlemen, with minds and feelings not
yet hackneyed in the beaten walks of a business life. You are now
enlisted in no mere party warfare. Your hopes have not yet been damped
by disappointment, nor your energies been deadened by adversity. All
your affections and sympathies are warm and generous. Your hearts and
heads have not been besieged by cold, inveterate selfishness, or
perverted by unreasonable and noxious prejudices. You have as yet set
up no false idols in the temple of the mind. Addicti jurare in verba
nullius magistri. You stand committed to the cause of truth and
justice alone. Under such circumstances you are in the best possible
condition for the reception of pure and virtuous principles. Now is
the time to imbibe the great lessons of morality and to study the
general and elementary doctrines of government and politics. A little
time hence you will have entered upon the bustling, busy theatre of
the world. Your private interests and party prejudices will then rise
up at every step to cloud your minds and pervert your judgments. Your
moral and political researches will no longer be conducted with a
single eye to truth and justice, but the demon of party will too
probably exert an irresistible control over the little republics of
the mind and heart.

There are no sciences which require the same full, free, and generous
exercise of the feelings of the heart, as morals and politics. In the
fixed sciences, it is a matter of very little concern to us what the
character of the fact may be; all we aim at is mere truth. We do not
care whether a triangle should have two, three, four, or five right
angles; all we are in search of, is the mere fact, the real truth.
Whilst we are conducting the inquiry, all the passions and active
feelings of our nature are laid to rest, and the intellect is left
alone and unbiassed to move directly to its results. But when we have
reached the region of morals and politics, then do we find that all
the passions, propensities and principles of our nature are brought
into full play. The whole human being, as he has been made by our
Creator, becomes then the important subject of our researches, and we
can never arrive at just conclusions without a due consideration of
all the forces which are in action. And this is one reason why these
are really the most difficult of all sciences.

Hence, gentlemen, the wisest and greatest statesmen have been
generally found among those who have directed their minds at an early
period of their lives to morals and politics. Such men become deeply
imbued with the great principles of those sciences in their youth.
They are early taught to worship at the shrine of truth, while the
ardent feeling of devoted patriotism banishes {764} from the mind all
narrow considerations of selfishness and shields it against the
intolerable prejudices of party spirit. A mind thus early and
correctly impressed with the great elementary principles of morals and
politics, will ever be well balanced and considerate in its
conclusions, and rarely surprised into hasty and rash decisions. In
looking to the speeches which emanate from our deliberative bodies, I
have often been struck with the exemplification which they afford of
the truth of this remark.

There is nothing in which our speakers are more defective than in
comprehension of view. They seem too often to seize but one single
point of a subject; and although they may move with a giant’s strength
in that direction, yet the mind remains unsatisfied. One of the
principal causes of this defect, is the want of a proper moral and
political education in early life. They have not received elementary
instruction sufficient to give the proper impulse to the mind. They
are capable of taking but one view of a subject, and that is dictated
by local and partial interests, or by too intense a consideration of
but one set of circumstances. Such politicians, however brilliant they
may be in mere detail, are incapable of taking the length, breadth and
depth of a great subject; they lack scope and comprehension of idea,
and cannot dive down to the bottom—where truth is always found. Such
men may be efficient instruments when directed by the genius and the
skill of the great politician, but are totally incapable of taking the
lead in difficult times, because incapable of forming the conception
of great plans and the means by which they are to be executed.[4]

[Footnote 4: Such was Lord Grenville, whose character was so ably
sketched by Burke; and such a man was the famous Neckar of France,
whose heart was good and whose mind was active, but he was
unfortunately deficient in general information and in comprehension of
idea. He had been a banker at Geneva and would have managed a great
nation like a banking house. It is a curious fact and serves to show
the penetration of Dr. A. Smith’s mind, that he always said Neckar
would soon fall, though enjoying at first the greatest and most
enviable popularity; and he made the prediction altogether from the
character of his mind which he had thoroughly studied during a short
period of association with him. Turgot may perhaps be given as an
example of a really wise and great statesman, a man of an excellent
elementary education, and of enlarged and liberal views. He has rarely
had an equal in modern times, and may be considered in this respect as
well contrasting with the two first mentioned. I could easily adduce
similar striking illustrations in our own country, and especially
among living statesmen, but it is unnecessary and might be improper.]

Of all the states in the Union, I may perhaps affirm without fear of
contradiction, that Virginia has produced the greatest number of able
and profound statesmen and of eloquent and efficient debaters. And to
this fact, no doubt, has been owing principally that preponderating
influence which she has so happily exerted in by-gone times upon the
destiny of our confederacy. One great reason of the superiority of our
orators and statesmen, is the fact that the mind of the Virginia youth
has always been easily directed to the study of politics and morals.
Our whole state hitherto has been one great political nursery, and I
hesitate not to affirm that our old and venerable Alma Mater has had a
powerful agency in the achievement of this result. The law, political
and moral departments of this college have always been upon a high and
respectable footing, and moral and political subjects have here always
received a due consideration. Hence it is that old William and Mary
can boast of so astonishing a number of distinguished statesmen in
proportion to her alumni—statesmen with whom she might boldly
challenge any other institution in this country, or even in the
world—statesmen who, whilst they have woven the chaplet of her glory
and engraven her name on the page of our country’s history, have
illustrated by their eloquence and statesmanship the national
legislature and federal government, and carried their pervasive
influence into the councils of every state in our wide-spread
confederacy. So that we may well say of our Alma Mater in view of
these brilliant results, in the language of one of the Trojan
wanderers,

                       Quis jam locus,
  Quæ regio in terris nostri non plena laboris?

It is surely then a subject for congratulation, rather than censure,
that the governors of our institution, whilst they have enlarged the
course of studies in every department, have been particularly
attentive to morals and politics, and have prescribed such a course on
those subjects as will, I am in hopes, insure advantages never before
enjoyed in this institution. The great mass of high intellect in all
countries, must be employed in morals and politics, and no mind can
have received its greatest enlargement, or be fully prepared for a
faithful discharge of the great duties of life, without their study.
This applies forcibly to our own country, but particularly to the
slave-holding portion of it, and will lead me to make a few remarks on
the inducements which should urge you, gentlemen, as Americans and
Virginians, to make, whilst here, the greatest possible proficiency in
all your studies.

The establishment of our federative system of government, has justly
been considered as the commencement of a new era in the history of
nations. It is emphatically the great experiment of the age in which
we live; to it the eyes of all are directed, and upon its issue must
the cause of liberty and republican institutions throughout the world,
mainly depend. The great and distinguishing characteristic of our
system is, that the sovereignty resides in the people—that they
constitute the source of all political power, and the only check on
the misconduct of rulers. Where such a system prevails, all must
depend on the general intelligence and virtue of the mass. If the
mainspring of our system is the sovereignty of the people, then does
it follow that the people must be enlightened. In the language of the
great author of the Declaration of Independence, “power is always
stealing from the many to the few;” and nothing can prevent the
gradual decay and final loss of our liberties, but unceasing vigilance
on the part of the people. We must ever be upon the watch-tower, ready
to give the alarm, not only when the citadel of our liberties is
openly and violently attacked by the arm of bold and ruthless
usurpation, but when we behold those secret and artful approaches to
despotism, which gradually undermine the fabric of our institutions,
and give no signs of coming mischief, until we are involved in
irremediable ruin.

Every man throughout our wide-spread republic, must take his share of
responsibility in the result of the great experiment which is now
going forward. There is no privileged class here to rule by the right
divine. {765} Far different is our case from the despotisms of the
ancient world, or the monarchies of the modern. Sovereignty resided
formerly at Babylon, at Thebes, at Persepolis. Now we find it at
Paris, Vienna, and London. But in our own more happy country, it
pervades our territory like the very air we breathe, reaching the
farthest, and binding the most distant together. Politics here is the
business of every man, no matter how humble his condition may be. We
have it in commission to instruct the world in the science and the art
of government. We must, if we succeed, exhibit the extraordinary
phenomenon of a well-educated, virtuous, intelligent people, “free
without licentiousness—religious without a religious
establishment—obedient to laws administered by citizen magistrates,
without the show of official lictors or fasces, and without the aid of
mercenary legions or janissaries.” As a nation, a glorious charge has
devolved upon us. Our condition prescribes to each one the salutary
law of Solon, that there shall be no neutrals here. Each one must play
his part in the great political drama; and you, gentlemen, who have
assembled here for the purpose of receiving a liberal education, must
recollect that fortunate circumstances have placed you among the
privileged few. Every motive of honor, of patriotism, and a laudable
ambition, should stimulate to the utmost exertion. Neglect not the
precious opportunity which is afforded you. The _five talents_ are
entrusted to your care; beware lest you bury or throw them away. This
is the most important era of your life—the very seedtime of your
existence; success now may insure you success hereafter.

The age in which you live, and the circumstances by which you are
surrounded, as inhabitants of the south, create a special demand for
your utmost exertions. The times are indeed interesting and momentous.
We seem to have arrived at one of those great periods in the history
of man, when fearful and important changes are threatened in the
destiny of the world. In the prophetic language of the boldest of
philosophers, we may perhaps with truth affirm, that “the crisis of
revolutions is at hand.” Never were the opinions of the world more
unsettled and more clashing than at this moment. Monarchists and
democrats, conservatives and radicals, whigs and tories, agrarians and
aristocrats, slaveholders and non-slaveholders, are all now in the
great field of contention. What will be the result of this awful
conflict, none can say. England’s most eloquent and learned divine
tells us, that there now sits an unnatural scowl on the aspect of the
population—a resolved sturdiness in their attitude and gait; and
whether we look to the profane recklessness of their habits, or to the
deep and settled hatred which rankles in their hearts, we cannot but
read in these moral characteristics the omens of some great and
impending overthrow. The whole continent of Europe is agitated by the
conflicts of opinions and principles; and we are far, very far from
the calm and quiet condition which betokens the undoubted safety of
the republic.

When the times are so interesting and exciting; when clouds are
lowering above the political horizon, portending fearful storms; when
the lapse of time is every day disclosing great and startling events,
can you, gentlemen, fold your arms in inglorious indolence—throw away
the opportunity that is now offered you—fail to prepare for the
important part which should devolve on you, and add yourselves to the
great mass of the unaspiring, illiterate citizens, who have been in
all ages and all countries the blind instruments with which despotism
has achieved its results. I hope—yes, I know, that at this moment a
worthier and a nobler impulse actuates every one of you. And you must
recollect too, that you are generally members of that portion of our
confederacy whose domestic institutions have been called in question
by the meddling spirit of the age. You are slaveholders, or the sons
of slaveholders, and as such your duties and responsibilities are
greatly increased. He who governs and directs the action of others,
needs especially intelligence and virtue. Prepare yourselves, then,
for this important relation, so as to be able to discharge its duties
with humanity and wisdom. Then can we exhibit to the world the most
convincing evidence of the justice of our cause; then may we stand up
with boldness and confidence against the frowns of the world; and if
the demon of fanaticism shall at last array its thousands of deluded
victims against us, threatening to involve us in universal ruin by the
overthrow of our institutions, we may rally under our principles
undivided and undismayed—firm and resolute as the Spartan band at
Thermopylæ; and such a spirit, guided by that intelligence which
should be possessed by slaveholders, will ever insure the triumph of
our cause. I will not dwell longer at present on the high motives
which should urge you to exertion; but let me call your attention to
some of the evils and temptations which will beset you in your
collegiate career, and against which I must now warn you to be on your
guard.

There are many persons opposed to a college education, because it is
supposed to subject the youth to strong temptations, and in the end,
to lead many into dissipation and vice, who might otherwise pass
through life moral and correct citizens. I will not say that
temptation does not exist here—that evil may not arise to some from
their connection with college. But I do affirm unhesitatingly, that
there is no better preparation for the great world into which you are
soon to enter, than a proper discharge of your duties in the little
one with which you are now about to connect yourselves. The individual
who passes through a college life with honor and credit to himself,
resisting the little temptations which beset him, has already been
tried and tested, and his virtue is of a much more stern and genuine
character than that of him who has never gone forth from the paternal
roof, and consequently never been disciplined in the school of his
equals. You may rest assured that every one of you who shall pass
safely through this ordeal, will be a better and a more useful
citizen, because of the very temptations which you may have
triumphantly resisted whilst here.

Let me then call on each of you to guard against all excesses which
may lure you from the path of your duties—remember that one
transgression tempts to another, until the individual becomes hardened
and reckless in his course. Beware of the very beginnings of vice; a
little indulgence at first, believed even to be harmless, may lead to
melancholy ruin in the end. Never forget the great purpose for which
your parents have sent you here, and never permit, for a moment, any
circumstances to divert you from it. Be firm, be determined in your
course; listen not to the Syren voice of {766} pleasure and
dissipation, but acquire at once that manliness and resolution which
will enable you to say NO! when pressed to do wrong; and you may rest
assured that you will meet with your recompense not only in after
life, but here, even whilst you are students. I may claim to have some
experience in this matter. I have been myself a student in this
college, and for some years past have been connected with it, and have
been no inattentive observer of passing events; and it gives me
pleasure to assure you, that the economical, moral, and diligent
students have always been the most popular, and the most highly
esteemed by their companions. Are there any honors to be
conferred?—those are the gentlemen to receive them. Are there any
distinguished duties to perform?—those are the individuals invited to
discharge them. It is their names which are sounded with praise by
their fellow-students, wherever they go in society; and their
reputation survives and is cherished, while those who have spent their
time in idleness and dissipation are forgotten; or if remembered,
remembered to be condemned.

It too often happens that the youth at college imagines that he has
rights and interests to defend adverse to those of his instructers.
This false impression is pregnant with the most mischievous
consequences. It arrays the student against the professor, introduces
disorder and idleness into the institution, and in the end becomes,
perhaps, the cause of the student’s dismission, and consequently of
irreparable injury to himself, and of pain and mortification to his
friends and relatives. Now, gentlemen, I beg you to reflect a moment
on the absurdity of this opinion. Where can there be any hostility of
interest between your instructers and yourselves? Is it not our
interest, as well as yours, that you should be diligent in your
studies, correct and moral in your deportment? Does not the student
who makes the greatest proficiency in his studies, earn the greatest
honor for himself, while he reflects the greatest renown upon the
college? and I can assure you that we feel proud indeed when we behold
those who have received our instruction gracing and adorning the
spheres in which they move. Where, then, is the hostility of interest?
There is none; the belief is vain and idle. The right for which the
student is induced to contend, is often nothing more than the _right_
to do _wrong_, the exercise of which always proves more destructive to
himself than detrimental to us. If the student would only take a
correct view of this subject, there would be nothing more endearing
and harmonious than the relation of professor and pupil. The
complexion of his whole future life may depend upon his acquirements
and conduct whilst here. It is our duty, and it is his interest, that
we should guard and restrain when he would run into excess. It has
been my fortune to meet with several in the world who have spent their
collegiate lives in reckless dissipation and idleness. I have beheld
them while reaping the bitter fruits of their conduct; have heard
their confessions of deep regret, and seen them shed the tear of
heartfelt repentance; and I have not met with one who did not wish
that he could run his race again, that he might avoid the errors of
his youth.

But, independently of the motives of interest which should operate on
you, there are others, of an elevated character, which must ever
stimulate the generous and the virtuous. The friends and relatives,
who dwell around the enchanted spot of your nativity and boyhood, and
seem associated with your very existence, are looking with interest to
your career whilst here, and calling upon you for exertion during this
eventful period of your lives. But, most of all, should the anxious,
the painful solicitude, which is felt for your welfare by those
beloved beings who have guided you along the path of infancy urge you
onwards. Never forget the joy with which you may recompense your kind
indulgent parents by your assiduity and success while here; nor the
sorrow and mortification which you may occasion by your idleness and
misconduct. You have, indeed, the happiness of the authors of your
existence in your hands, and a generous heart will recoil from the
infliction of sorrow. And let me urge you to keep up a frequent and
unreserved correspondence with your families; reveal, frankly, all
that occurs concerning yourselves, and never neglect the mandate of a
father, or spurn the advice of a mother. Perhaps I could not give you
better counsel, than to beg you never to forget the example of
Marmontel. When you are about to perform a questionable act, let each
one pause, and ask himself, “what would my mother say if she knew what
I am about to do?”[5]

[Footnote 5: I know of no one thing more essential to the prosperity
of any college than the co-operation of the parent or guardian with
the discipline of the institution. Such co-operation furnishes a
sanction to the laws which can be derived from no other quarter. Hence
my anxiety that a constant and frequent correspondence, of the most
unreserved character, should be carried on between the students and
their families. A timely letter from a father or a mother, has saved
many a young man from ruin, by making him pause in his career and
reflect on his conduct.]

After having made these general remarks, I must call your attention,
particularly, to several vices which the Faculty will be bound to take
every means within their power effectually to suppress. These are,
_extravagance, drinking and gambling_. The visitors at the last
meeting of the convocation were so much impressed with the belief of
the great injury which the extravagant habits of southern students
have done to the cause of literature, that they passed a regulation
requiring the Faculty to obtain, if possible, from each merchant in
town, a pledge, that he would, in no case, extend credit to the
students unless upon application from the parent or guardian, made
known through the President, or some one of the Faculty. I am most
happy to say, that every merchant in town has given the pledge with a
willingness and promptness which reflect the greatest credit on the
mercantile portion of our city, and mark, conclusively a generous
disregard of all selfish considerations, when arrayed against the
permanent interests of the town and college. In justice to the
merchants, I must state to you, that they have subscribed to this
pledge with no motives of hostility towards any of your number, or
from any dissatisfaction at the conduct of any one of you. Their act
has been the result of the most praiseworthy motives.[6]

[Footnote 6: The resolution of the visitors is as follows:

_Resolved_, That it is highly expedient that the practice of students
buying on credit should be stopped: and therefore, that the President
be directed to endeavor to obtain the consent and a formal pledge from
the merchants and dealers of Williamsburg, not to furnish commodities
in any case to a student, on credit, unless by the written authority
of the parent or guardian, communicated through the Faculty: And it is
made the duty of the President, should his application be rendered
unsuccessful by {767} the refusal to give such pledge, or a violation
of it, if given, to correspond with the guardians or parents of the
young men at college, advising them to give explicit instructions to
their wards or sons not to deal, either in cash or on credit, with any
such merchant or dealer.]

You may suppose, gentlemen, that the conduct of the Visitors and
Faculty in this matter has been unwarrantable, and unnecessarily
strict; but a moment’s reflection will convince you of your error.
This regulation has been made after the maturest consideration of the
subject, and past experience not only justified, but absolutely
demanded such a step. I know of no one thing more loudly and more
universally complained of in all our southern institutions than the
unreasonable and absurd extravagance of many of the students who
attend them. This evil, in some cases, has been enormous, and I have
known many parents to be so much discontented with the conduct of
their sons in this respect, as to cut short their education, and to
become so disgusted with a college life as to resolve never more to
subject a son to the same temptation. Now, the principal cause of this
lavish expenditure of money, has been the facility with which credit
has been obtained. The facility of obtaining credit has ruined even
many a cautious man, by the temptations which have been thrown in his
way, and the consequent inducements which have been offered to him to
run into debt. During the ardent, and too often thoughtless period of
youth, experience has shown that this privilege becomes too dangerous
to be trusted to the individual. He adds expense to expense—proceeds
from one extravagance to another, until he becomes perfectly reckless
in his career. Prices, of course, will be enhanced in proportion to
the risk which the creditor runs. Those who are honest are made to pay
for those who are not. And thus many a student, before he has had a
pausing season for reflection, finds an aggregate of items arrayed
against him, which draws down the displeasure of his parent, or
materially embarrasses his own little property.

The resolution of the Board of Visitors is intended, if possible, to
eradicate this evil. The student’s expenses now must be known to his
parents and guardians, or they must give their express consent to his
obtaining credit. If he shall be still extravagant, the responsibility
must rest with him and his parents; we shall have done our duty. But
we hope, most sincerely, that you will keep in view both your own and
the college interests in this particular. Strict economy on the part
of the student at college is a great virtue. Let each one remember
that the money which he spends here has not been wrung from his brow,
but from that of another. Liberality with that which is mine may be
generous, but with that which is another’s, is often selfish and
culpable. I beg you to reflect upon the consequences of extravagance
while here: it leads the student into idle, dissipated habits, and
defeats the great purposes for which he has entered our institution;
it blights his future prospects, and draws down upon him the
displeasure of his parents. But, above all, gentlemen, let me bid you
remember that which must always move the generous heart of youth. Your
extravagance here extends beyond yourselves; it may reach your
innocent brothers and sisters—your parents may become disgusted, or
their resources may be contracted, and a Bacon or a Newton may be made
to follow the plough, because the thoughtless, prodigal son has gone
before them. And thus may it be affirmed, but too truly, that every
increase of collegiate expense necessarily inflicts an injury on the
great cause of science and education. There may be those whose ample
resources may place them far above the necessity of strict economy. To
them I would say, that it is selfish, or thoughtless at least, to
indulge, before those with whom they must associate, in a style of
expenditure which they cannot imitate without ruin to themselves and
their parents. Liberality, under such circumstances, ceases to be
generous—it becomes a species of selfish ostentation, which reflects
no credit on him who displays it, and does great injury to his
associates. To every one of you, then, let me recommend rigid economy,
and you may be sure of reaping your reward in more steady habits,
increased diligence, and a more perfect preparation for the great
theatre of life on which you expect to enter.

Upon the subject of drinking and gambling, I shall say but a few
words; the melancholy consequences of these vices are known to all—how
the one stupifies and benumbs the faculties of the mind and the body,
while the other reaches the citadel of the heart, and generates a
train of the blackest vices which human nature is heir to. Let me beg
you to beware of these vices, which have plunged so many families into
distress and mourning, and have generated so large a portion of the
misery of the world. Take care how far you indulge, lest your ruin
come before you are aware of it. Our laws are severe against these
vices, and experience has convinced us that we must rigidly execute
them. But I hope the propriety of your course here will furnish us
with no occasion for the enforcement of our laws.

In conclusion upon this subject, I will say to you, that if the
students of William and Mary shall bind themselves, during their
residence at college, not to spend more than a certain amount of
pocket money, which should be moderate—not to taste ardent spirits any
where, nor wine, or any other intoxicating liquor, except in private
families, and not to touch a card, or play for money at any game of
hazard, and shall strictly conform to these resolutions—then you will
indeed have formed a temperance society, of which you may be justly
proud—one that will do the greatest honor to yourselves, establish the
reputation of our college, and set an example to the world whose
benefit may extend throughout our country; and the students of ’36 and
’37 will long be remembered in the College of William and Mary. How
far superior will such a reputation as this be to that short-lived
notoriety purchased by extravagance and dissipation, and terminating
too often in mortification and ruin. The case of the student is a very
peculiar one; if he can pass through his short career at college, with
all due diligence and propriety, he will have achieved for himself a
great result. Full success in his studies during the few brief months
that he remains within our college walls, may accomplish more for his
future standing, and future happiness, than many years of hard toil
and labor in after life, without the advantages which he might have
reaped whilst here. It is for this reason that a society of the kind
which I have just recommended must succeed here, if it can succeed any
where. For you have only to adhere to your temperance vow for a few
months, and the benefit is attained. But whether you shall form such a
society as this or not, {768} let every one of you endeavor, whilst
here, to be economical, temperate and diligent; and such as persevere
in this course, whatever may be said to the contrary, are most
respected and honored by their fellow-students, make the greatest
proficiency in their studies, and turn out at last the most valuable
and distinguished members of society.

There are many other subjects to which I would wish to call your
attention; but the limits which I have prescribed myself in this
address, compel me to be brief. Our laws forbid your entry into
taverns, and likewise all drinking parties and suppers among
yourselves. Experience has shown these things to be ruinous to the
students, and highly pernicious to the interests of the institution.
You are to respect the college premises—not to deface or injure the
college buildings. Each one of you is to be responsible for the injury
done to his room, and to pay for all the injury which he may do to the
buildings—always bearing in recollection that you come here not to
exercise your knives, but your heads.

I would advise you particularly to be punctual in your attendance on
divine service every Sabbath, and to be respectful and attentive
whilst in church. He who disturbs a religious congregation, not only
manifests a censurable disregard of religion, but exhibits an
unfeeling heart, and is guilty of conduct which is not gentlemanly. An
enlightened pulpit is not only the source of religious instruction,
but of morality and civilization; and a truly pious clergyman merits
the respect, the love, and gratitude of the world, for he is one of
the greatest of its benefactors. Be always respectful in your
conversation towards religion, not only from regard to the feelings of
others, but for the sake of your own reputation. Avowed infidelity is
now considered by the enlightened portion of the world as a reflection
both on the head and heart. The Atheist has long since been overthrown
by the light of nature, and the Deist by that of revelation. The
Infidel and the Christian have fought the battle, and the latter has
won the victory. The Humes and Voltaires have been vanquished from the
field, and the Bacons, Lockes, and Newtons have given in their
adhesion. The argument is closed forever, and he who now obtrudes on
the social circle his infidel notions, manifests the arrogance of a
literary coxcomb, or that want of refinement which distinguishes the
polished gentleman. If there be among you any ministers of the gospel,
or professors of religion studying with a view to the ministry, to
them we cheerfully open our lecture-rooms, free of all expense, and
shall consider ourselves as highly recompensed, if the instruction
which we may communicate shall be made instrumental in promoting
virtue and true religion.

A copy of our laws will be placed in the hands of each one of you:
read and respect them. On the part of the Faculty, with which I have
the honor to be connected, I have to state that the discipline of the
college must and will be enforced. The oath of office, the reputation
of the institution, your own welfare and success, all demand vigilance
and promptness on our part. From your instructers you will always
receive kind, affectionate, and parental treatment, and you may well
believe it will ever be painful to us to animadvert on your conduct,
or to inflict the penalties required by our laws. Nothing but a high
sense of duty could lead us to proceed against those for whom the bare
relation which subsists between us must generate feelings of the
kindest character. The professor, who is kind to the student, and
attentive to his interests, while he nerves himself upon all occasions
to a discharge of his duty, is always his greatest benefactor; and the
student will acknowledge it as soon as he has left the college walls.

Be diligent, be perseveringly attentive to your studies, and you have
the antidote against all the evils and temptations to which college
life is incident. And let me advise you, particularly in your evening
rambles and social gatherings, to direct your thoughts and
conversation to subjects of importance, particularly to the subject of
your lectures. Enlightened, intelligent conversation is a source of
great mental improvement; it brings mind into conflict with mind,
sharpens the faculties, gives increased relish for study, and greatly
enlarges the stock of information by an interchange of ideas. It is
for this reason that a few intelligent men in a county will be found
quickly to raise its intellectual level; and a few inquiring,
successful students in a college, will in like manner quickly inspire
the whole number with ardor and devotion to study. Hence the fact
which the statistics of all long established colleges will prove, that
great men are not sent out from their walls one by one, from year to
year, in regular succession, but they come at longer intervals, and
always in little platoons. Thus are we convinced of the interesting
fact, that genius is rarely solitary—it delights in company. The
example and conversation of the successful student arouse and
stimulate his companions, and lead them along with himself to
distinction.[7]

[Footnote 7: Our own college furnishes most conclusive proof of the
truth of these remarks. I will give only two examples, and comment
will be unnecessary. John Randolph, L. W. Tazewell, Robert B. Taylor,
and John Thompson, author of the letters signed “Curtius,” were the
heavy product of one season; while P. P. Barbour, B. W. Leigh, Chapman
Johnson, Henry St. George Tucker, (President of Court of Appeals,)
Robert Stanard, J. C. Cabell, and Lewis Harvie were that of another;
and during the whole time William and Mary College rarely numbered
more than sixty students. I have been informed, on inquiry into this
subject, that the northern colleges, especially Yale and Harvard,
furnish similar instances. It is said, for example, that the class in
which Harrison Gray Otis graduated at Cambridge, yielded a most
extraordinary number of great men in proportion to its size.]

Let me advise you by all means to discard at once that absurd notion,
which has made an illiterate man of many a vain student—that genius
delights not in labor. Very different is the fact; love of study, and
unshaken perseverance in the pursuit of its object, is the true
characteristic of genius every where. The men of genius who have built
up the great systems of philosophy, and laid the foundation of
civilization, have all been laborious students, as well as deep
thinkers; they have been the true working-men of the world. Such men
were Socrates and Plato, Demosthenes and Cicero, of antiquity, and
such have been the Luthers, the Bacons, and Newtons of modern times,
and such all men are compelled to be, who possess a laudable ambition
for distinction and usefulness. In the language of Doctor Johnson we
may assert, that “all the performances of human art, at which we look
with praise and wonder, are the results of perseverance. It is by this
that the quarry becomes a pyramid, and that distant countries are
united by canals. It is therefore of the utmost importance that those
who have any intention of {769} deviating from the beaten track of
life, and of acquiring a reputation superior to names hourly swept
away by time among the refuse of fame, should add to their reason and
their spirit the _power of persisting in their purposes_, acquire the
art of sapping what they cannot batter, and the habit of vanquishing
obstinate resistance by obstinate attacks.”

There is even a great deal of labor requisite on your part to place
yourselves on the intellectual level of the age in which you live. In
the beautiful language of one of the ablest writers of our country, we
can truly say, “it is not with us as it was in former times, when
science belonged to solitary studies, or philosophical ease, or
antiquarian curiosity. It has escaped from the closet, and become an
habitual accompaniment of every department of life. It accosts us
equally in the highways and byways. We meet it in the idle walk, and
in the crowded street; in the very atmosphere we breathe, in the earth
we tread on, in the ocean we traverse, and on the rivers we navigate.
It visits the workshop of the mechanic, the laboratory of the
apothecary, the chambers of the engraver, the vats of the dyer, the
noisy haunts of the spinning-jenny, and the noiseless retreats of the
bleachery. It crosses our paths in the long-winding canal, in the busy
rail-road, in the flying steamboat, and in the gay and gallant
merchant-ship, wafting its products to every clime. It enters our
houses, sits down at our firesides, lights up our conversations and
revels at our banquets. One is almost tempted to say that the whole
world seems in a blaze, and that the professors in science, and the
dealers in the arts surround us by their magical circles, and compel
us to remain captives in the spells of their witchcraft.” And can you
consent to waste your time in inglorious repose and idleness, while
the whole world is blazing with philosophy? No, gentlemen, you cannot.
Arouse all your energies, waken up your faculties, enter on your
career like the combatant at the Olympic Games, resolved to win the
prize, and in advance I tell you, the victory will be yours.

You are here placed amid scenes which may well excite a noble and a
laudable ambition, and make the bosom of the patriot throb. You tread
on classic soil—a soil connected with associations which carry the
imagination back to bygone days, and fix it on the noble achievements
of philanthropists, heroes, statesmen, and sages. There is every thing
here to excite generous aspirations. On the one side of you is the
almost hallowed island where our hardy forefathers made the first
lodgment of civilization on our portion of the western world, in face
of the wilderness and the savage foe. On another side, not far
removed, is the spot where the father of his country wound up the
drama of the revolution, by that great and signal victory which gave
us peace, and ensured us so important a station among the nations of
the earth. You will assemble daily in these classic halls, which have
witnessed the collegiate labors of some of the greatest and noblest
men who have ever lived in the tide of time; men who have raised up
their country’s glory, and gone down to their graves covered with the
laurels which their genius and their virtues won. Fronting this
building, at the other end of our street, and in full view, stand the
interesting remains of the Old Capitol of Virginia, which every true
Virginian must gaze on with mingled emotions of pride and pleasure—a
building in which the chivalry and talent of our state were assembled
during the dark days of the revolution, when Wythe, Pendleton, and
Jefferson displayed their wisdom in council, and Lee, Mason and the
matchless Henry poured forth those strains of sublime eloquence which
animated and cheered the drooping spirit of the land, and warmed the
heart and braced up the nerve of the patriot. Looking on such scenes
as these—contemplating the great minds that have been nursed in our
institution, and the intellectual Titans who have won their trophies
on this interesting theatre, can you fail to be inspired with a noble
ambition?—an ambition to imitate those mighty men who have gone before
you, and whom the genius of the place in silent eloquence summons to
your recollection. The author of the Decline and Fall of the Roman
Empire tells us, that he first caught the inspiration which gave rise
to his great work, while gazing from the modern capitol of Rome on the
ruins that lie scattered over the vallies and the seven hills. May we
not hope then that many of you will catch a similar inspiration amid
the interesting objects which surround you while breathing, in this
old and hospitable city, a political atmosphere that still retains all
the ardor and patriotism of former days? Again then, gentlemen, I call
on you for perseverance and unremitting exertion; and in view of all
the circumstances which surround and stimulate you while here, may I
not say to you, in conclusion, that your friends, your parents, your
instructers, expect every one to do his duty.




THE BRIDEGROOM’S DREAM.

BY MISS C. E. GOOCH,
_Of Washington City_.


  Come gaze upon the moon, my love,
    Upturn thy bonny brow,
  And I’ll tell thee a dream I had
    Beneath her light just now.

  I did not mean to slumber, love,
    But gazed into the skies,
  Till gentle sleep came softly down,
    And clos’d my weary eyes.

  I dream’d that I was lying there,
    As I before had lain,
  Upgazing on the lady moon,
    And winking stars again.

  Methought, a snowy-feathery cloud
    That hover’d round the moon,
  Came sailing down toward the earth,
    And chang’d its semblance soon.

  It was a pinnace—beautiful,
    Of silver made and pearl,
  And there was seated at the helm
    A most entrancing girl.

  About her lurk’d some witching spell
    The sternest heart could bow,  {770}
  Nay—look not sad, my own dear girl,
    That ladye fair—was thou!

  “Come dearest,” softly didst thou cry,
    And seated by thy side,
  We sprang up in the buoyant boat
    Cleaving the airy tide.

  Far swifter than the lightning’s flash—
    Far swifter than the wind,
  Yea—swifter than the viewless thought
    We left the world behind!

  And smilingly thy dark blue eyes
    Were ever fixed on mine,
  I felt a thrilling through my veins,
    An ecstacy divine!

  Upward and upward, onward still,
    Until we reach’d the bound
  Of that encircling atmosphere
    That girdles earth around.

  A sudden pause—a giddy whirl,
    Lo! we had pass’d the bound,
  And quickly as a beam of light,
    Sank down on _lunar_ ground!

  We two have stray’d through many vales,
    Thou well might’st lovely call,
  But that fair valley of the moon
    Was loveliest of them all!

  Soft rippling o’er a silver lake
    The wind sang through the trees,
  And every thing was gather’d round,
    Each dainty sense to please.

  Young odorous flowers, of rainbow dye,
    Sprang up beneath our feet;
  And fruit, that seem’d to tempt our taste,
    Was more than earthly sweet.

  I thought in that lone valley,
    Were none but thou and I,
  And we were destined there to live,
    To _live_—and _love_—and _die_.

  A destiny so calmly blest,
    So free from earthly pain,
  Say, can you wonder that I griev’d
    To wake on earth again?

  Yes! thou art _mine_, my beautiful,
    And we are happy now;
  But sorrow will come to the heart,
    And sadness to the brow.

  Sickness will come, with pallid hand,
    And poverty may press;
  Yes, earth with all its earthly cares,
    Will mar our happiness.

  Yet do not sigh, my own lov’d bride,
    I shall be with thee still;
  And will we not, by sharing, half
    Annihilate each ill?




ESSAYS OF GILCHRIST.[1]

[Footnote 1: See last Messenger.]


II.

  Permitte Divis cœtera   *       *
  *       *       *       *       *
  Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quœrere.—_Horat._

All the miseries and infelicities to which human nature is subject,
are of three classes. Those to which we are immediately exposed from
the imperfect state of our existence—those which are the concomitants
of vice, folly and obstinacy, and those which by restlessness,
impatience and apprehensions, we have portioned out to ourselves.

The first, as they are inseparable from our nature, will always yield
to the remedies of reason and philosophy; and instead of fruitless
complaints and unavailing wishes for an amendment of that condition in
which the divinity has thought fit to place us, we shall be enabled to
support it with fortitude and thankfulness that it is not more
intolerable.

The second, as they are the immediate effects of our deviations from
the paths of virtue, in direct opposition to sense and reflection,
will cease when they become intolerable either from pain, remorse or
disappointment; since we cannot suppose that a rational being will
persist in the commission of actions repugnant to justice, goodness
and truth, when he finds the happiness, pleasure or profit which he
had in view, so far from being accomplished, that those very means
which to him appeared the fairest and most likely to insure success,
have been the chief instruments of disappointment.

The first two general causes of human infelicity, we see then, may be
obviated by the dictates of philosophy and the application of rational
remedies, but we shall find the third much more obstinate.

This impatience, this restlessness, this not dissatisfaction with our
present condition, but frivolous apprehensions of the future, this
disposition which changes that which nature has made so excellent,
overturns the beautiful fabric of human happiness, mingles the
bitterest ingredients with the cup of felicity, or dashes it from the
lips of those for whom it has been prepared, this I say, is of such an
unaccountable and inexplicable nature as would lead one to suppose no
remedy could be found to remove. Who but a fool or hypochondriac could
we suppose, when basking in the genial beams of a summer sun, and
fanned by the cooling zephyrs, or sailing on a smooth sea under a
serene sky, would torment himself with the apprehensions of storms and
tempests? Who, but a madman would destroy the pleasures of a
delightful landscape by reflecting, that in the course of a few months
the fields will be stripped of their verdure, the groves of their
shade, and the rivulet arrested in its course by the nipping breath of
winter winds?

Did this infelicity arise from a consciousness of our own
unworthiness, in possessing enjoyments superior to what we deserve,
and the fear of being stripped of them in consequence thereof, it
would carry some shadow of reason along with it—but this is not the
case, since few can bring themselves to think that their portion of
happiness is equal, if not superior to their merit; or was it the
result of a comparison of our own situation with those around us, we
should have some hopes of a cure; {771} since, if we take a true and
impartial survey of our own condition, and those of our fellow
creatures, we shall certainly have more cause for thankfulness than
murmuring. Do we see one possessed of immense wealth?—perhaps heaven
has denied him a soul capable of enjoyment. Look we down and behold
his counterpart, oppressed with poverty and want—to him, perhaps,
heaven has been bountiful in its gifts of resignation and contentment.
The rich are not happy in proportion to their possessions, neither are
the poor wretched in proportion to their wants. Through every
inequality of life, the same conclusions may justly be drawn. Have we
from a state of affluence been reduced to want, or from a state of
power to that of dependency?—are we deprived of our liberty and cut
off from society to drag out a part of our existence in dreary
confinement?—have we been robbed of those whom we had treasured up in
our hearts as the better half of ourselves, and left to tread the
rugged paths of life disconsolate and forlorn?—the means of happiness
are still in our power—that substantial happiness which arises from
the steady and uniform practice of virtue, the testimony of an honest
conscience and thoughts of self-approbation.

A disposition to murmur, is to accuse the Deity of injustice; a
disposition to despondency is an imputation of disregard to that Being
who has so liberally provided for the wants of all his creatures. To
anticipate miseries which, perhaps, may never come to pass, is to
wrest the keys of futurity from the hands of the Almighty, to plunder
his decrees of what cannot possibly belong to us till he shall think
proper to bestow them, and to fly in the face of him who has declared
that he will withhold no good thing from the virtuous and deserving
part of his creatures.

Would we then wish to dry up this source of infelicity and be happy in
the enjoyment of our present lot, without which we can never, with
tranquillity, look forward to the future, let us consider that in the
state in which we are placed by the hand of Providence, though our
wishes may be many, our real wants are but few—that happiness or
misery do not depend on the trifling contingencies of sublunary
affairs—that the ways of Providence are impervious to mortal eyes, so
that we can neither foresee nor prevent whatever portion of good or
evil may be in store for us—and that a rational use of whatever means
of happiness we may have received, is not only to prolong them, but to
heighten the enjoyment and prepare us for what may further be added to
our happiness, or what pain may in future be inflicted. To act in this
manner is to deserve the rank in which we are placed, whether as men
or philosophers—by which all unjust murmurings will be effectually
removed, and the cause of our greatest share of infelicity will be
done away.

_Literary Society, December 2, 1779_.


III.

Sunt quibus datur sapientia, sed modus sapere carent. Verba cum
frondes sunt, ubi superabundant fructus raro invenimus.

_Cicero in Appiam_.

The faculty of interchanging our thoughts with one another, or what we
express by the word _conversation_, has always been represented by
moral writers as one of the noblest privileges of reason, and which
more particularly sets mankind above the brute part of the creation.

Though nothing gains so much upon the affections as this _extempore
eloquence_, which we have constantly occasion for, and are obliged to
practice every day, we very rarely meet with any who excel in it.

The conversation of most people is disagreeable—not so much for want
of wit and learning, as of good breeding and discretion.

If we resolve to please, we must never speak to gratify any particular
vanity or passion of our own; but always with a design either to
divert or inform the company. He who aims only at one of these, is
always easy in his discourse. He is never out of humor at being
interrupted, because he considers that those who hear him are the best
judges whether what he was saying could either divert or inform them.

A modest person seldom fails to gain the good will of those he
converses with, because no one envys a man who does not appear to be
pleased with himself.

But should we be disposed to talk of ourselves, what can we say? It
would be as imprudent to discover our faults, as ridiculous to
enumerate our supposed virtues. Our private and domestic affairs are
no less improper to be introduced in conversation. What does it
concern the company how many horses we keep?—how many courses we dine
of?—or whether our servant is a fool or a knave?

One may equally affront the company he is in, either by engrossing all
the talk, or preserving a contemptuous silence.

Notwithstanding all the advantages of youth, few young people please
in conversation; the reason is that want of experience makes them
positive, and what they say is rather with a design to please
themselves than any one else.

It is certain that age will make many things pass well enough, which
would have been laughed at in the mouth of one much younger.

Nothing, however, is more insupportable to men of sense, than an
empty, formal use of a proverb, or a decision in all controversies,
with a short unmeaning sentence. This piece of stupidity is the more
insufferable, as it puts on the air of wisdom.

A prudent man will avoid talking much of any particular science for
which he is remarkably famous. There is not a handsomer thing than
what was said of the famous Mr. Cowley—“That none but his intimate
friends ever discovered by his discourse that he was a poet.” Besides
the decency of this rule, it is certainly founded on good policy. He
who talks of any thing for which he is already famous, has little to
get, but a great deal to lose. It might be added, that he who is
sometimes silent on a subject where every one is satisfied he could
speak, will often be thought no less knowing in other matters, where
perhaps he is wholly ignorant.

When occasion for commendation is found, it will not be amiss to add
the reasons for it, as it is this which distinguishes the approbation
of a man of sense from the flattery of sycophants and admiration of
fools.

Though good humor, sense and discretion can seldom fail to make a man
agreeable, it may be no ill policy sometimes to prepare ourselves for
particular {772} conversation, by looking a little into what is become
a reigning subject.

Though the asking questions may plead for itself the specious names of
modesty and a desire of information, it affords little pleasure to the
rest of the company who are not troubled with the same doubts; besides
which, he who asks a question, would do well to consider that he lies
wholly at the mercy of another before he receives an answer.

Nothing is more silly, more rude or absurd, than the pleasure some
people take in what they call speaking their minds. A person of this
manner of thinking will say a rude thing merely for the pleasure of
saying it, when an opposite behavior, full as innocent, might have
preserved his friend, or made his fortune.

It is not possible for a man to form to himself as exquisite pleasure
in complying with the humor and sentiments of others, as with bringing
others over to his own; since it is the certain sign of superior
genius which can assume and become whatever dress it pleases.

We may add, moreover, that there is something which can never be
learnt but in the company of the polite. The virtues of men are
catching, as well as their vices; and our own observations added to
these, will soon discover what it is that commands attention in one
man, and makes us tired and displeased with the discourse of another.

_Literary Society, July 16, 1779_.


IV.

Facta Majorum, veluti in Speculum ostendit Historia—Judex œquus
bonorum et malorum.

It is not without reason, that history has always been considered as
the light of ages, the depository of events, the faithful evidence of
truth, the source of prudence and good counsel, and the rule of
conduct and manners—confined without it to the bounds of the age and
country wherein we live, and shut up within the narrow circle of such
branches of knowledge as are peculiar to us, and the limits of our own
private reflections, we continue in a kind of infancy which leaves us
strangers to the rest of the world, and profoundly ignorant of all
that has preceded, or even now surrounds us. What is the small number
of years which make up the longest life, or what the extent of country
which we are able to possess or travel over, but an imperceptible
point in comparison of the vast regions of the universe, and the long
series of ages which have succeeded one another since the creation of
the world? And yet all we are capable of knowing must be limited to
this point, unless we call in the study of history to our aid, which
opens to us every age and every country, keeps up a correspondence
between us and the great men of antiquity, sets all their actions, all
their achievements, virtues and faults, before our eyes, and by the
prudent reflections it either presents or gives us an opportunity of
making, soon teaches us to be wise in a manner far superior to the
lessons of the greatest masters.

History may properly be called the common school of mankind, equally
open and useful both to great and small; those necessary and important
services can be obtained only by its assistance, as having the power
of speaking freely, and the right of passing an absolute judgment on
actions of every denomination. Though the abilities of the great may
be extolled, their wit and valor admired, and their exploits and
conquest boasted, yet if all these have no foundation in truth and
justice, history will tacitly pass sentence upon them, under borrowed
names. The greatest part of the most famous conquerors, we shall find
treated as public calamities, the enemies of mankind, and the robbers
of nations; who, hurried on by a restless and blind ambition, carry
desolation from country to country, and like an inundation or a fire,
ravage all they meet in their way. We shall see a Caligula, a Nero and
a Domitian, who, praised to excess during their lives, become the
horror and execration of mankind after their deaths; whereas a Titus,
a Trajan and a Marcus Aurelius, are still looked upon as the delights
of the world. It is history which fixes the seal of immortality on
actions truly great, and sets a mark of infancy on vices, which no
after-age can ever obliterate. It is by history that mistaken merit
and oppressed virtue appeal to the uncorrupted tribunal of posterity,
which renders them that justice, which their own age has sometimes
refused them, and, without respect of persons, and the fear of a power
which subsists no more, condemns the unjust abuse of authority with
inexorable rigor.

There is no age or condition, which may not derive the same advantages
from History; and what has been said of princes and conquerors,
comprehends also in some measure, persons in power, ministers of
state, generals of armies, officers, magistrates, and in a word all
those who have authority over others, for such persons have sometimes
more haughtiness, pride and petulance, in a very limited station, and
carry their despotic disposition and arbitrary power to the greatest
lengths.

Thus history we see, when it is well taught, becomes a school of
morality for all mankind; it condemns vice, throws off the mask from
false virtues, lays open popular errors and prejudices, dispels the
delusive charms of riches, and all the vain pomp which dazzles the
imagination, and shows by a thousand examples that are more availing
than all reasonings whatever, that nothing is great and commendable
but honor and probity. From the esteem and admiration which the most
corrupt cannot refuse to the great and good actions which history lays
before them, it confirms the great and important truth, that virtue is
man’s real good, and alone can render him truly great and valuable.
This virtue we are taught by history to revere, and to discern its
beauty and brightness through the veils of poverty, adversity and
obscurity, and sometimes even of disgrace and infamy; and on the other
hand, it inspires us with contempt and horror of vice, though clothed
in purple and surrounded with splendor.

_Literary Society, February 11th, 1780_.




THE EXILE’S
ADIEU TO HIS NATIVE LAND.

[Written several years ago.]


  The hour is come, and I must part,
    My native land, with thee;
  The scenes, the ties that hold my heart,
    Are thine, fair Land of Liberty!  {773}
  But _these_, and all beside I leave,
  To venture on the ocean wave;
  Compell’d, alas! compell’d to be
  An exile from my _home_ and _thee_!

  The hill, the lawn, the blushing vine,
    That deck my place of birth,
  My much lov’d native land, are thine,
    And sacred is thy earth;
  For thou contain’st a father’s grave,
  Who died, thy soil and rights to save—
  Yet, I am thus compell’d to be
  An exile from them all and thee.

  Beside, the ties by nature given,
    To bind us to our kind—
  All, _but_ the fadeless _hope_ of heaven,
    I leave with thee behind:
  Then while the vessel lingers here,
  Accept, my native land, _a tear_;
  Alas! I am compell’d to be
  An exile from my home and thee.

  Away! away! how swiftly we
    Are swept across the brine;
  _Yon_ far blue spot is all I see,
    But oh! that spot is thine.
  A weeping exile bids adieu
  To friends he never more shall view;
  Alas! he is compell’d to be
  A wanderer, fair land, from thee!

  But _hope_, and recollections bright,
    With him will always be,
  And like the brilliant star of night,
    Dispel his misery.
  For thinking on thy sons, I’ll deem
  Myself among them; though a dream,
  ’Twill consolation sometimes give,
  To know for _thee_ they _only_ live.

  Pure as thy native air and sky,
    Thy daughters, slaves can never nurse;
  Too noble, they had rather die,
    Than give or bear the fatal curse.
  Around thy banner, at the call,
  Oh, may thy offspring stand or fall;
  And though to friendless climes I flee,
  My warmest prayers shall be for thee.

  The sun that sets will rise again,
    But I can never see
  His rays upon my native plain,
    Nor _friends_ to welcome me.
  Adieu, forever! who can tell
  The sorrow of this last farewell?
  But fate ordains, and I _must_ be
  An exile from my home and _thee_.




WALLADMOR.


Sir W. Scott’s reputation prompted some German publishers to make a
bold attempt at imposition. A work was announced under the title of
Walladmor, and professing to be a free translation from the English of
Sir Walter. It was a miserable failure.




TRAGEDIES OF SILVIO PELLICO.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.


The misfortunes and sufferings of this individual, as related in the
memoirs of his “Imprisonments,” published not long since, have excited
in Europe and in this country an interest in his fate. There are few
of our readers, we think, who do not remember the captive at
Spielberg, and have not been moved by the simple and touching account
of his calamities, and the truly philanthropic and christian spirit
exhibited under them. Many of the tragedies we propose to notice were
composed in prison, and repeated to his fellow-captives, to beguile
the dreary hours of confinement, when perhaps the sufferer looked
forward to death alone as the means of his liberation. These dramas
have, therefore, an interest apart from their intrinsic merit, and
would invite attention, even were they destitute of greater claims.
But the name of Silvio Pellico, before his unfortunate arrest, was
known throughout Italy as one of the best of her living dramatists;
and his subsequent pieces have detracted in no way from his literary
fame. This is great praise in itself, when we consider the high
reputation acquired by his first effort, “_Francesca da Rimini_.”

It is well known that Manzoni attempted to carve out a new path for
the drama in Italy. Avowedly renouncing the system of Alfieri and his
followers—a system which had been prevalent since the birth of
dramatic literature in his country—he aimed at becoming the founder of
a new school, that should be more akin to the English and German. From
his boldness in violating the unities of time and place, and numbering
himself among the romantic writers, we are induced to believe that the
reformation he advocates is to be total, and that his new principles
are to be recommended by advantages peculiar to themselves. But this
is not the case in the tragedies of Manzoni. His rich fancy, and
command of poetic language, have indeed embellished them as poems; but
as dramas, they have gained absolutely nothing. His heroes wear the
same stiff and formal aspect with all the rest; we know them, if not
by the “Athenian garment they have on,” by their cold, stately, and
monotonous deportment. The interest is almost wholly political; the
plots are unskilfully conducted, and the dialogue occasionally
wearisome. The death-scene of Ermengarda in _Adelchi_, and the
interview between the count and his wife and daughter, in
_Carmagnuola_, are indeed touching and tragic; but they are merely
episodes in the pieces, and the merit of a single scene is
insufficient to redeem a whole play. The same faults, growing out of
the selection of a political subject, are to be found with Pindemonte;
while Monti and Niccolini are to be regarded as followers of Alfieri,
since their compositions are upon the same plan. Pellico, without
ostentation, has aimed at penetrating to the true source of tragic
emotion. He has excluded all local coloring from his productions,
neglecting also those striking embellishments of description and
imagery, of which all the above-mentioned writers have availed
themselves; yet his dramas are universal favorites in Italy. The cause
of this popularity, the secret of his influence, lies in the
exhibition of the passions. To accomplish this point, and succeed by
the representation of feeling alone, he has sacrificed {774} what he
considered the minor advantages of poetical ornament; but while he has
thereby proved his power to unlock the sympathies, he has compelled
himself to forego the complete success he might have commanded by a
more impartial attention to the devices of his art. He has avoided, in
most of his plays, the turgid declamation too common among the poets
of his country; we say in most of them, for we think his _Euphemio of
Messina_, in sound and fury, will challenge a comparison with any of
the productions of his predecessors, without displaying the pathos of
which the subject was capable. It is ever difficult to sympathize with
distresses growing out of artificial opinions dependant upon a state
of society entirely different from our own; we cannot, therefore,
enter into the embarrassment of Ludovica, when she fancies herself
bound by a sacred vow, to save her country by the sacrifice of her
lover. Had the dependance of her father’s fate upon Euphemio’s
destruction been brought more fully and immediately into view, when
her resolution was formed, her conduct would have been more consistent
with her character, and with female nature; and those who read with
coldness the resolves, the conflicts, the despair of the bewildered
enthusiast, would have been moved with emotion at the sufferings and
the heroism of a daughter. It is truth to nature, and its exquisite
simplicity, which give such power to the _Francesca_; no where does
the author o’erstep the modesty of nature in the expression of
emotion. This tragedy, by which its author is best known, is founded
on a passage in Dante, where the shade of the unhappy lady relates the
story of her love. Francesca, the daughter of Guido, lord of Ravenna,
was given by her father in marriage to Lanciotto of Rimini; being
fondly attached at the time to his brother Paolo, who had
unfortunately slain her brother, and consequently ventured not to
become a suitor for her hand. Their sufferings are occasioned by a
mutual misunderstanding. Paolo, supposing himself the object of her
hatred, only after a long absence returns to his brother’s court; and
Francesca, endeavoring to hide her now criminal love under a semblance
of aversion, craves permission to retire from Rimini with her father.
Accident discovers to the pair their concealed feelings towards each
other; Lanciotto’s jealousy is awakened, and he arrests his brother,
commanding his wife to prepare for her departure from the city. But
Paolo, apprehensive for her safety, breaks from his guards, and seeks
her presence for a last interview; and when Lanciotto, maddened by
rage, rushes upon his brother with his drawn sword, bidding him defend
his life, Francesca throws herself between them, and receives her
husband’s steel in her own breast. She expires, and Paolo, casting
away his sword, resigns himself also to death.

There is much that is beautiful and touching in this play; both in the
perfect guilelessness and loving nature of Francesca, and the noble
devotedness of Paolo; but our limits will permit us to offer only a
translation of one scene in the third act. This scene has been much
praised and celebrated, and is certainly one of the most effective in
the drama.


_Paolo_.           Francesca!

_Francesca_. Heavens! who is’t I see?
  Signor—what would you?

_Paolo_.     But to speak with you.

_Francesca_. To speak with me! I am alone—alone
  Thou leav’st me—father! Father—where art thou?
  Help—help thy daughter! Give me power to fly!

_Paolo_.     Whither?

_Francesca_. Signor—pursue me not; respect
  My will. Unto the altar I retreat;
  The wretched have most need of heaven.

_Paolo_.                       And I
  With thee unto the household altar’s foot
  Will also go. Who than myself more wretched?
  There mingled shall our sighs ascend. O, lady!
  Thou wilt implore my death—the death of him
  Whom thou abhorrest; I will pray that heaven
  May hear thy prayers, and all thy hate forgive,
  And shower down joys on thee, and long preserve
  Thy youth and loveliness, and give thee all
  Thy heart desires; all—all—thy husband’s love
  And children blessed!

_Francesca_.     Paolo! (hold, my heart!)
  Weep not. I do not wish your death.

_Paolo_.             Yet—yet—
  You hate me!

_Francesca_. And what reck you, if I ought
  To hate you? I disturb you not. To-morrow
  I shall be here no more. Be to your brother
  A kind and true companion: for my loss
  Console him; me he surely will lament.
  Ah me! of all in Rimini, he only
  Will weep when it is known to him. Now listen;
  Tell him not yet—but know, I never more
  Return to Rimini; sorrow will kill me.
  When he shall hear, my husband, these sad tidings,
  Console him; and you too, perhaps—for him
  May shed a tear.

_Paolo_.       Francesca—and you ask
  What reck I, if you hate me! and me doth
  Your hate disturb not—nor your fatal words?
  Oh! lovely as an angel, by the Deity
  Created in the most impassioned moment
  Of heavenly love—dear, dear to every heart—
  A happy wife—and dar’st thou speak of death?
  To me such words belong, who for vain honors
  Was banished from my native country far,
  And lost—alas! a father then I lost.
  I hoped again to embrace him. He would never
  Have made me wretched, had he known my heart,
  But given me her—her whom I now have lost
  Forever.

_Francesca_. What mean you? Of your beloved
  You speak—and are you without her so wretched?
  So mighty then is love within your breast!
  Love should not reign sole sovereign in the hearts
  Of valiant cavaliers. Dear is to them
  The sword, and glory; such are noble passions.
  Follow them, thou, and let not love debase thee.

_Paolo_. What do I hear? hast thou compassion on me?
  And wouldst thou hate me less, if with the sword
  I should acquire a loftier fame? One word
  From thee suffices. Name the spot—the years;
  I will depart to earth’s remotest shores;
  The harder and more perilous I find
  The enterprise, the sweeter will it be,
  Since thou, Francesca, dost impose the task.
  The love of fame and daring have indeed
  Made strong my arm; far stronger shall it be
  In thy adored name. Nor ever stained
  Shall be mine honors with a fierce ambition.
  No crown I covet, or will seek, save one
  Of laurel, twined by thee: enough for me
  Thy sole applause—a word—a smile—a look—

_Francesca_.     Eternal God!

_Paolo_.     I love thee! O, Francesca—
  I love thee! and most desperate is my love!

_Francesca_. What words are these? I rave! What hast thou said?

_Paolo_.     I love thee!

_Francesca_. Dar’st thou—hold! To hear—thou lov’st me!  {775}
  So sudden is thy passion! Know’st thou not
  I am thy brother’s wife? Can’st thou so soon
  Forget thy lost beloved one? Ah me
  Wretched! Let go my hand—thy kisses here
  Are frenzy!

_Paolo_. This, this is no sudden passion!
  I lost my love—and thou art she! Of thee
  I spoke; for thee I wept: thee loved: thee ever
  I love—and to my latest hour will love!
  Ay, if for this, my madness, doomed to suffer
  Eternal chastisement beyond the grave,
  Eternally still more and more I'll love thee!

_Francesca_.     Can this be true?

_Paolo_.         The day that to Ravenna
  I went, ambassador from my father’s court,
  I saw thee cross the vestibule, attended
  By a band of mourning females,—pause beside
  A recent sepulchre; in pious act
  Prostrate thyself, and thy joined hands to heaven
  Lift up, with silent interrupted tears.
  “Who is it?” I inquired of one. “The daughter
  Of Guido,” he replied. “And whose the tomb?”
  “Her mother’s tomb.” Oh, in my inmost heart
  How felt I pity for that mourning daughter!
  How throbbed my breast, confused! Thou wast veiled,
  Francesca, and thy eyes saw not that day;
  Yet from that day I loved thee.

_Francesca_. Thou—oh cease!
  Didst love me!

_Paolo_. For a time I hid my passion;
  Yet seemed it one day thou hadst read my heart.
  Forth from thy chamber to the secret garden
  Thy steps were turned. And nigh the silver lake,
  Prone ’mong the flowers, with sighs I watched thy chamber,
  And at thy coming, trembling rose. Intent
  Upon a book, thine eyes beheld me not;
  But on the book let fall a tear. I came
  In deep emotion nigh. Confused my words,
  Confused were also thine. That book, Francesca,
  Thou gav’st to me; we read—we read together
  “Of Lancillotto,[1] how by love compelled;”
  Alone we were, and free from all suspicion.
  Our eyes then met; my face was crimsoned—thou
  Didst tremble—and in haste wast gone.

_Francesca_.         That day—
  The book remained with thee.

_Paolo_.             It rests upon
  My heart; it made me in my exile happy.
  Here ’tis; behold the page we read together.
  Behold! and mark the drop which fell that day
  From thy dear eyes.

_Francesca_.         Away—I do conjure thee;
  Hence! no remembrance should I yet preserve,
  Save of a brother slain.

_Paolo_.         Oh, then that blood
  I had not shed! O, fatal—fatal wars!
  That slaughter bowed my soul to misery;
  I dar’d not ask thy hand; I went to Asia,
  To battle there. I hoped yet to return,
  To find thy wrath appeased—to obtain thy hand.
  Ah! to obtain thy hand, I do confess
  I nourished hope.

_Francesca_.         Ah me! I pray thee—hence!
  My sorrow and my honor now respect!
  Oh for the strength by which I may resist!

_Paolo_. Thou clasp’st my hand! Joy! tell me, wherefore clasp
  My hand!

_Francesca_.     Paolo!

_Paolo_.     Dost thou hate me not?
  Dost thou not hate me?

_Francesca_. ’Tis right I should hate thee.

_Paolo_.     Can’st thou?

_Francesca_.     I cannot!

_Paolo_.         O, repeat that word!
  Lady—thou hat’st me not!

_Francesca_.     Too much I said.
  Cruel! is’t not enough? Go—leave me!

_Paolo_.                     Nay—
  I leave thee not till thou hast told me all.

_Francesca_. Have I not said—I love thee! Ah! the words
  Escaped my impious lips! I love thee—die
  For love of thee! I would die innocent;
  Have pity!

_Paolo_. Love me?—thou? My terrible
  Anguish thou seest. I am a desperate man;
  But the deep joy which thrills me in the midst
  Of my despair, is such great happiness
  I cannot utter it. Is it then true
  Thou lov’st me—and I lost thee?

_Francesca_.             Thou thyself,
  Paolo, did’st forsake me; I could ne’er
  Think myself loved of thee. Go! be this hour
  The last——

_Paolo_.     It is impossible. I cannot
  Leave thee. Let me behold at least thy face
  Each day.

_Francesca_. And thus betray us both; enkindle
  Injurious thoughts in Lanciotto’s breast!
  And stain my name!—Paolo, if thou lov’st me,
  Away!

_Paolo_.         Alas! irreparable fate!
  To stain thy name! No—thou’rt another’s wife;
  Paolo must die! Tear from thy breast remembrance
  Of me—and live in peace. I have disturbed
  Thy peace; forgive me. No—no—do not weep;
  Love me no more. Alas! what do I ask?
  Love me! yes—weep o’er my untimely fate.

_Act III, Scene 2._

[Footnote 1: It is conjectured that Arnaut Daniel, a Troubadour, was
the author of the romance of Lancillotto.]


This play has been long before the public; we will now examine some of
Pellico’s later pieces, which have never been translated into English,
and but recently printed in Italy.

The three best of his new tragedies, _Gismonda da Mendrisio_,
_Leoniero da Dertona_, and the _Herodiad_, have been published
together in one volume. The scene of the first is laid at the period
of the destruction of Milan by the forces of Frederick I, assisted by
many of the Lombards, to whom that city had become odious. Aribert,
son to the Count of Mendrisio, had been betrothed to Gismonda of Lodi,
but afterwards becoming enamored of Gabriella, a lady of Milan,
espoused her, and devoted himself to the cause of her countrymen.
Having aided to destroy Lodi, he engages in the defence of Milan
against the Emperor and his father’s house; while his younger brother,
who has married Gismonda, leads an army against the city. The piece
opens with the exultation of the victors over the conquest of Milan;
but the rejoicing of the Count is embittered by the tidings that his
eldest son has perished. Gismonda, whose desire of vengeance is
satisfied at the account of his death, with difficulty suppresses her
tears, and avows in a soliloquy her unextinguished love for the man
who had deserted her, and wasted her country. Aribert, however, had
escaped the slaughter of Milan, and appears in the second act with his
child and Gabriella in man’s attire, before his father’s gate, to
implore forgiveness and protection for his family. His wife meets
Gismonda, and emboldened by the expression of sadness in her
countenance, addresses her, without revealing her real sex, and begs
her mediation, but in vain. The Count unexpectedly comes forward and
listens to her; encouraged by his parental tenderness, Aribert {776}
throws himself at his feet, and is pardoned and restored to his former
privileges. He prays Gismonda to forget what is past, and be a sister
to him, to which she replied with concealed bitterness.

    “Forgetful of the past? To me no harm
  Or outrage hast thou done, nor in thy power
  Is it to harm me. I could still be happy
  Whatever madness and whatever guilt
  Drove thee to fight beneath Milan’s proud standards,
  And to espouse a daughter of Milan.
  I hold me, Aribert, not wronged by thee,
  But rather bless the day that broke a bond
  Imposed in folly, and bestowed my hand
  Upon a loyal cavalier. In thee
  I hate my house’s foe, Cæsar’s and God’s.”

Her subsequent maledictions and menaces betray to Aribert the true
cause of her emotion, and teach him to anticipate the vengeance of a
jealous and deserted woman. Herman, his younger brother, in fear of
losing his inheritance, refuses a reconciliation with the fugitive,
even at his father’s command, loading him with reproaches which at
length become mutual. They are interrupted in one of their disputes by
the sound of a trumpet, and discover from the window a band of
Suabians who had been invited thither by Herman, and come under the
direction of the Margrave of Auburg, to demand, in the Emperor’s name,
the rebel son of the Count. The old man refuses compliance with this
requisition, taking on himself the consequences of disobedience; and
Herman afterwards reveals to his wife the league he had formed with
the imperial troops for the destruction of his brother. The ensuing
scenes show the unfortunate lady under the dominion of conflicting
passions; now fired with rage, now agitated by fear, now melting with
tenderness. Gabriella, leading her child, supplicates her aid against
the dangers that threaten her husband, but is repulsed with hatred and
anguish. The wretched Gismonda, however, afterwards discovers to the
Count in the presence of his eldest son, the treachery that surrounds
them, herself assuming the blame; informs them that the keys of a
subterranean passage leading from a wood to the castle were consigned
by her to the enemy. Their vehement reproaches cannot increase her
mental agony. Soon afterwards, the alarm is given, and the news
brought that the subterranean passage is already invaded. The fifth
act introduces us into the midst of the battle, which takes place
within the palace. The Count, disarmed and wounded, is vainly
endeavoring to hold back Herman from the scene of conflict. Gabriella
with her son rushes in, followed by the Margrave, who snatches the
child from her arms. Gismonda rescues and restores the infant to his
mother, but repels her thanks as insults. The shouts of victory at
length are heard from the adherents of the Count; Aribert is saved by
Gabriella from the lance of an enemy, and enters triumphant, finding
his brother wounded and sustained by the Count. Herman acquits his
brother of evil design against him, and confesses himself the traitor
who had admitted the hostile troops, vindicating Gismonda from any
share of the blame. He dies, and his unhappy wife retires into a
convent.

The scene of _Leoniero da Dertona_ is in the twelfth century. The
inhabitants of Dertona, a city which had joined the celebrated Lombard
league against the Emperor Frederick, are divided into two factions;
one, headed by Arrigo, tribune of the people, taking part with the
allies; the other adhering to the cause of the Imperialists. The first
party hold a fortress upon the rock, in those times a post of great
strength and importance. The consul Enzo, leader of the Imperialists,
had given his sister Eloisa in marriage to Arrigo, to induce him to
desert his cause; that failing, had treacherously possessed himself of
the person of the tribune, threatening to kill him if the fortress
were not surrendered. At this crisis, Leoniero, father of Enzo,
returns from the East, where he had gone as a soldier in his youth,
and suffered long imprisonment. A feud has long existed between his
family and that of Auberto, the father of Arrigo; but Leoniero, being
informed of the conduct of his son, censures highly his breach of
faith towards his brother-in-law, and his treason to his country. Yet
he cannot so far forget his private resentment as to declare himself
the friend of Auberto, though such a course would have at once subdued
the strength of the opposing faction, so dear is Leoniero to his
countrymen. He remains neutral for a time, and Enzo meanwhile works
upon the fears of Eloisa, who endeavors to prevail on her imprisoned
husband to write a letter commanding the surrender of the fortress.
Neither entreaties nor threats can move the stern virtue of the
tribune, and his father is confirmed in his resolution to maintain his
trust by the arrival of a messenger from Milan, who discovers the
treacherous alliance of Enzo with the Imperial troops, and promises
succor from the Milanese in a few days. Enzo then attempts to possess
himself by force of the person of his father, who, finally dismissing
his long cherished enmity, takes refuge in the castle with his ancient
foe, and is received with open arms. His son sends hostages to induce
him to return; and Leoniero, hoping that his paternal counsels may
reclaim the traitor, goes, at the advice of Auberto and others, though
distrusting his professions of penitence. Arrived at his son’s palace,
he finds himself unexpectedly a prisoner, forbidden to see or speak
with any but his guards. The fifth act opens with an imposing scene.
Upon the walls of the castle are discovered Auberto and his faithful
soldiers, the friends of liberty. The plain beyond is filled with
Suabian troops, mingled with the Dertonese. In the foreground stands
the consul with other magistrates, and the Count of Spielberg, who in
the Emperor’s name declares Enzo governor of Dertona, and imposes on
all its citizens obedience to him. Enzo kneels to do homage to the
vicegerent of his master for his newly acquired domain, and receives a
sword from the Count. The senators and his troops swear fealty to him,
and he then addresses Auberto in behalf of Arrigo, who stands bound on
one side, offering life to the son on condition of the father’s
obedience. We will translate the remainder of the act.


_Enzo_ (_to Auberto_.) A last and brief delay
  I now accord to thee; but ere the bell
  Sounds its first stroke to tell the coming hour,
  Pronounce his life or death, (_to executioner_) At the first stroke,
  Mark me, his head must fall!

_Auberto_.     Enzo, a duty
  Inviolable as the icy grave,
  Binds me this fortress to maintain, until
  The standard of Milan shall join our troops.
  For that which is not granted to my will,
  Oh! punish not the innocent! These prayers
  Are poured, ah, not in coward fear! And wherefore  {777}
  To deeds of useless cruelty descend?
  What may avail his slaughter? In all breasts
  An hundred fold will wrath be wrought against thee.
  Thou rendest Eloisa’s heart—bethink thee,
  She is thy sister! From thy noble father,
  From Leoniero, at his hour of death,
  Thus stained with fratricide, thou wilt in vain
  Implore his blessing for thyself, thy children.

_Arrigo_. Cease, father, cease! Thy sorrow may infect
  The heroes round thee; they have need of strength.

_Auberto_. Alas, I am a father! Since my duty
  I do not violate, these tears are lawful.
  If thou inexorable dost demand
  A victim, give, O give back to his children
  Arrigo—take _my_ head!

_Arrigo_.         No—never!

_Auberto_.          Enzo!

_Enzo_. Immutable my sentence: wo if thou
  Thus hear’st the next hour sound! He falls—his fall
  The signal for the assault.—Ha! in such haste
  Uggero!

_Uggero_. My lord, your father hath besought me
  With words of agony that would have moved
  Yourself!—Within the tower, near to Arrigo
  He was, with Eloisa, when thy order
  Summoned the guilty hither. Fear unspeakable
  Seized Leoniero; to the battlements
  He mounted; thence beheld the axe that menaced
  The generous youth. His daughter’s shrieks subdued
  The old man’s heart: He wept, and trembling cried
  “Hence, hence, unto my son—crave his permission
  That I speak to Auberto; I alone
  Somewhat can proffer, shall secure the safety
  Of all.”

_Enzo_. What would he say? Can he prevail
  On the besieged to yield? What fear I?—He
  Vanquished by terror; dare I thus believe?
  Let him approach—and be a guard about him;
  Tremble, if to the people he escape,
  (_to the Count_) Is it not noble victory, to my power
  E’en he should bend his pride? But whence the tumult
  In yonder castle?
      (_soldiers on the walls drag forward Enzo’s hostages_)

_Soldiers_. Death—death!

_Hostages_.     To thy presence,
  Enzo, by hostile fury we are dragged.

_Auberto_. Since vain my prayer has been for a son’s life,
  Enzo, behold thy friends!

_Soldiers_.     Life, liberty
  Give to the Tribune, or your hostages
  We slay!

_One of the Hostages_. Have pity! say what crime toward thee
  Have we committed, that to such a fate
  We are betrayed! Ubaldo, Berengario
  Had written to thee—yes!

_Enzo_.     Who are my friends,
  Who traitors, I discern not. This, Corrado,
  Is this thy faith? Thus hath thy kinsman opened
  The gates?—Hear me, Auberto—hope yet lives.
  Cæsar’s decree, which gives me the dominion
  Of this Dertona, consecrates my power
  In Leoniero’s eyes. Hither he comes.
  Him ye shall hear, and if with him the oath
  Of stern resistance binds you, be that oath
  By him absolved.

_Auberto_.     Unworthy calumny!
  Leoniero—Ha! he comes. Can it be so?
  His face, so wan indeed, and mien deject
  Bespeak him changed.

_Ghielmo_.     Auberto, no! High thoughts
  He sure revolves!


SCENE IV.
_To them enter Leoniero and Eloisa_.

_Auberto_.     O ancient hero! Where
  Where is thy courage? Why do I behold thee
  Thus moved? Hast thou forgot our late embrace,
  The embrace of noble love?

_Eloisa_.     Beloved husband,
  Our father promised safety.

_Arrigo_.         Leoniero!
  Is this the virtue, armed in which, but now
  Thou talked’st to me of death, and didst inspire me
  With thoughts sublime? Behold me, still the same
  In these last moments. Be, old man, like me!
  By one unworthy act, oh! cancel not
  The blameless deeds of a long life!

_Leoniero_.         Enzo!
  Dost thou not homage to such minds? My son,
  Pity thy sire! I long once more to bless thee.
  A sorrowful hate is that which toward a son
  A father bears in such an hour! This weight
  I can endure no longer. I would love thee,
  But cannot love thee, if thou wilt not turn
  From wickedness like this.

_Enzo_.     Sire, to Auberto
  Address thy speech.

_Leoniero_.     Pity thyself: my soul
  Prophetic in the future reads for thee
  A fearful fate; nor is that future distant.
  Now deprecate the wrath of Heaven. Its mandate
  Is, “let Arrigo live!”—For this thy God
  Shall pardon many crimes; thou in the arms
  Of friends and of thy children, in old age
  Consoled shalt die; nor shall the daily sun
  Look on thy bones exhumed by the revenge
  Of a wronged people. History shall say
  How knelt a father at thy feet, and prayed
  For power once more to bless thee!

_Enzo_.         Cease. Auberto,
  Open those gates to me, or the first sound
  Of the approaching hour——    (_bell sounds_)

_Voices_.         Ha!

_Enzo_.     Sounds his knell!

_Leoniero_. Enzo! Have pity! ’Tis in vain! Oh Heaven,
  This fearful strait! Lo! ’twixt opposing duties
  The chief I am constrained to choose. The just
  I cannot save without it. Hear, Auberto,
  Arrigo, hear, and all ye who refuse
  To the new lord obedience!

_Auberto and others_.     Obedience
  Unto the laws, the church, our honor!

_Leoniero_.         Listen,
  Brave warriors! With unmerited disdain
  Ye saw Leoniero’s grief. He now, impelled
  By patriot love—by love for you—since need
  There is of noble sacrifice—conjures you
  To be like him—in courage!   (_stabs his son_.)

_Auberto_. Ah—that blow——

_Enzo_. I die!

_Eloisa_. Oh! Father—brother!

_Count_. Treason—Ho!
  The murderer—cut him down!

_Leoniero_. Dertona’s saved!
  Come hence—ye heroes—come! The people all
  Will arm them at your cry!

_Followers of Enzo_. We’re Dertonese!
  Defend, defend Leoniero!

_Arrigo_.     Struck to earth
  Behold the leader of our foes! Already
  His squadrons fly!

_Soldiers_ (_from the castle_.) Victory!

_Auberto_. (_rushing forward_) My son—thou here!
  I clasp thee once again! Where is the hero,
  Thy Saviour? Leoniero—where art thou!

_Eloisa_. O, friends! behold my father!

_Auberto and Arrigo_. Ah—unhappy!

_Leoniero_. Fled is the foe—my country saved—and I—
  I have done all I could! This blood—the blood
  Of a monster—but that monster was my son!
  I slew him—and I weep—and cannot hate him!

_Auberto_. O virtue!

_Leoniero_. If thou once didst hate, Auberto,
  Pardon—for heaven hath punished. Eloisa—
  Arrigo—I do bless ye in my death,  {778}
  You and your children. But if one of them
  Should e’er become a traitor—Lo—Arrigo,
  This steel——

_Eloisa_.     He dies!

_Arrigo_. O noble, lofty spirit!
  With dread and reverence o’erpowered, thou leav’st us!
  There is none on the earth can equal thee!


Though the incidents of this piece are chiefly of a political nature,
interest is excited for the feelings of Eloisa and the father. But the
sacrifice he makes in immolating his son, if it does not revolt us, is
hardly fit for exhibition when the scene is laid in an age so nearly
resembling our own in the influence of religion and public sentiment.
The slaughter of a son by a Roman parent for the good of his country
may compel our admiration; but such outrages upon nature are more fit
to be marvelled at in history than used for the purposes of tragedy.
The same objection does not apply to the catastrophe of _Esther
d’Engaddi_, another of Pellico’s dramas, though it is even more
harrowing to the feelings; her despair is perfectly natural, when
hopeless of vindicating herself by other means, she drinks of the
poisoned cup proposed as a test of her innocence.

The _Herodiad_ contains much finer poetry and more pathos than the
preceding tragedies; much has been made of an apparently unpromising
subject. The character of Herodias is one of those mixtures of good
and ill, the one principle perpetually struggling with and
overpowering the other, which are so well adapted to the purposes of
the drama; with a powerful mind, disposed to virtue by the influence
of early habits, she is under the dominion of a haughty and ambitious
temper, excited by her absorbing passion for Herod, who possesses not
half her strength of intellect. Zephora, the rightful spouse of the
king, had been driven from the court to make room for her rival, who
had also abandoned her own husband. Herodias, influenced by the
remonstrances of John the Baptist, and the persuasions of the virtuous
Anna, her friend and confidant, who had become a convert to
christianity, is at one time induced to leave the court of Herod; and
the queen Zephora, who comes to render herself a hostage for the
security of Herod against her native tribes, is received by the king.
Herodias, however, who had been insulted by the populace on quitting
the palace, soon returns to dispute her place with Zephora, and at
length, wrought to madness by jealousy and rage, stabs the unhappy
queen, ordering one of the guards to conceal the body. She is now
quite abandoned to the dominion of her passions, which hurry her to
destruction. The conflict of emotions in her breast is evident
throughout the play, yet it is skilfully managed. In the festival
scene, where her daughter dances before the king, and pleases him so
that he engages to grant whatever she shall ask, even to the half of
his kingdom—the wretched queen is tortured by contending passions,
which are inexplicable to the mind of Herod. She now craves music; now
drives the singers from her presence with maniac execrations. With the
Prophet her madness for a time is quelled; she submits to reproof from
his lips, and condescends to vindicate herself. The following reply to
his remonstrance against her desertion of her lawful husband, is
characteristic.


_Herodias_. Patience ’mid insults had I not? Who then
  Shall dare to say to me—“Thou should’st have urged
  Thy virtue further!” Is there one can measure
  His virtue for another, and declare
  It might have been extended—where it ceased?
  Is frail man infinite? The weary pilgrim,
  If—crossed innumerous steeps—at length to earth
  Prostrate he fall—brand ye his name with sloth?
  When his breath fails, say ye—“Yet other rocks
  Before thee hang!” With patience did I suffer!
  Endured the horrid chain—how long endured!
  And when at last within my bosom rose
  In all its sovereign and terrific power,
  HATE—and a desperate burning thirst impelled me
  To avenge my wrongs—with steel—if I gave not
  The blow, but rather chose to fly—was mine
  No virtue?—I alone know that it was!
  I—conscious of the ills endured—and conscious
  Of the bold heart God gave me!

_John_. On bold hearts
  Hard trials God imposes—and on thee
  It was imposed——

_Herodias_. To die in shame!

_John_.     Far better
  Than live in guilt.

_Herodias_. Audacious! bold!

_John_.     What right
  Hast thou, O woman, from the innocent wife
  To steal her spouse? Thou lov’st him; is this right
  Enough? The robber loves his prey—doth God
  Absolve the robber? To the traitor dear
  His perfidy—and slaughter to the murderer;
  Are slaughter then, and treachery no crime?
  A strong heart is within thee. Thou hast sinned.
  Exert the strength then which the weak possess not:
  Regain the upright path whence thou hast fallen.


After the murder of Zephora, tortured by the upbraiding of a guilty
conscience, the queen sends again for the Prophet, to implore peace at
his hands, though she is unwilling quite to renounce her sins; he on
his part, thunders forth no maledictions upon her head; even his
rebuke breathes the mild spirit of the religion of love. When she
confesses the deed to which her fury has impelled her, he
involuntarily utters an exclamation of abhorrence.


_John_.         Monster!

_Herodias_.     ’Tis not for thee
  To show to me the monster that I am:
  Better than thou, I know it. I but ask
  Is there a bound, which passed, excludes the wretch
  From God’s forgiveness? Must I, desperate,
  Curse heaven, and to the murders caused by me,
  Add thine, and others—or, my rival dead.
  If I now pause from blood, now reverence thee
  And all the just—henceforth with never ceasing
  And blameless deeds wipe out the horrors past—
  Turn all a burning spirit’s energies
  To work the glory of my king—my people—
  My God,—will this God, to compassion moved,
  Moved by his servant’s prayers—thy prayers—a veil
  Cast o’er my sin, and bless the last endeavors
  Of one who would be pious, but in vain
  Struggled against opposing evil nature?

_John_. There is indeed a bound, which past, excludes
  From God’s forgiveness. But Zephora’s slaughter
  It is not—nor whate’er we can imagine
  Of murder yet more horrible. The limit
  That shuts eternally God’s pardon out,
  Is—to renounce repentance.

_Herodias_.                 And I
  Renounce it not. Console me; oh extinguish
  In me this fierce remorse—this hate of all
  The universe—myself!

_John_.                     Amend.

_Herodias_.             That word.

_John_.                     Amend.

_Herodias_.         I will.  {779}

_John_. Remove thee from the palace;
  The King.

_Herodias_. Such separation but Zephora
  Could ask. And now, whate’er my crime has been
  In slaying her—Zephora is no more.
  None can now say to me, “Herod is mine!”
  Is the Omnipotent a wrathful being
  Who claims vain sacrifices, abject baseness,
  And barbarous abandonment of all
  The heart holds dear?

_John_. Thou hypocrite! the peace
  Of holiness thou would’st attain and joy thee
  Still in the fruits of sin.

_Herodias_.             I——

_John_.             Peace I offer—
  But hence hypocrisy—a heart’s deceit
  That hopes to hide itself from God, and form
  An impious league ’twixt penitence and guilt,
  A league impossible! The wicked, whom
  His deeds of evil prosper still is wicked
  If such prosperity he doth not spurn;
  In his returning nobleness abhorring
  The good which God gave not. I say to thee,
  That throned at Herod’s side, even as before,
  Thou still would’st feed on pride, and evil passions,
  On hatred and revenge. God’s high decree
  Is not capricious; this is man’s own nature:
  Necessity immutable. Amendment
  There is not for the guilty, if he yet
  Reject not of his infamy the fruit!

_Herodias_. No reformation is there—none—for me!
  Now know I all. Expect the axe!—He goes
  Tranquil to death—and I who slay him—tremble!


Herodias then instructs her daughter to claim as her promised boon
from the King, the head of John. Herod grants it reluctantly, but
would stipulate for the safety of Zephora; and is horror struck at the
story of her death. Then comes the punishment. The daughter of
Herodias is struck dead in her mother’s arms, who reproaches the King
as the cause of her crimes and misfortunes.


_Herod_. Remove her from the cruel sight.

_Herodias_.             Back! thine
  Is yet more horrible than death. Accursed
  The infamous love which bound us once! Thou, thou
  Hast on my head heaped up the fearful wrath
  Of the Most High; hast torn from me my child,
  My innocent child, whose only guilt it was
  That I have been her mother. Who impelled me
  Into such crimes? Who led me to contemn
  The Eternal? Who inspired the secret hope
  That earth and heaven contained no God? Ah me
  Deluded! it was he!

_Herod_.             Ah——

_Herodias_.             Wretch! was’t not
  Thy part to curb my madness—guard the lives
  Of John and of Zephora?—to repentance
  Invite, compel me?—and to sooner rend
  A thousand times my heart, than immolate
  All innocence—all justice!

_Herod_.         I——

_Herodias_.                 The Book
  Of Life I see displayed! Lo! with the blood
  Of John and of Zephora God blots out
  Eternally my name—and yet another—
  The name of Herod!

_Herod_.         This is terror—frenzy!
  Alas! with her own desperate hands she tears
  Her streaming hair! Help! help!

_Herodias_.         Herod! our names
  The finger of the Lord hath blotted out!


Thus ends this tragedy; which in energy and character is not inferior
to the best of our author’s compositions. The chief personage bears
some resemblance to the Saul of Alfieri, and has, like him, the
ingredients of a character adapted to the romantic school. The last
dramatic production from the pen of Silvio Pellico which has reached
this country is _Thomas More_, of which we have left ourselves but
brief space to speak. It is almost, if not altogether, a failure. The
representation of the historical personages of the Court of Henry
VIII. in a piece in which not the slightest local or national coloring
is preserved, has a singularly feeble effect on minds familiar with
the graphic power of the English dramatists. With this association the
scenes are unusually bald and desolate; the characters, which might
have been Italians or Greeks for ought appearing to the contrary, save
in their names, (and those have a Tuscan twist,) walk through the
chill desert of their parts with more than classic monotony. Not that
we believe Pellico could have succeeded, even had he attempted the
task, in exhibiting a faithful picture of the manners of that court
and those times, or in painting English character; we simply regard it
as unfortunate that he should ever have thought of writing a drama on
a subject in our history. Alfieri’s _Maria Stuarda_ ought to have been
a warning to deter him from such an effort. The chief business of the
piece in question is to exhibit the integrity and virtue of More, the
fallen Chancellor, and victim of tyranny, through trials and
persecutions. These, of course, avail nothing to turn him from the
path of duty; and the reader, foreseeing from the beginning the
certain catastrophe, is conducted by slow steps through the play, as
through a long avenue of cypresses terminating with a scaffold. An
effort is indeed made, in the last Act, to divert attention by
exciting hopes of a deliverance, but it is feebly effected. The
historical answer of More to his enemies is preserved; “As St. Paul,
who took part in the murder of Stephen, is with the martyr in heaven,
so may you, my judges, and I, be saved alike in the mercy of the
Lord.”

Pellico does not want energy, but he lacks that concentration of
sentiment and passion which is one of the greatest merits in dramatic
poetry. His style is too diffuse; his eloquence, though graceful,
often devoid of boldness and vehemence. No striking imagery is to be
found in his pages, though such is the genuine and universal language
of emotion. He never labors to produce effect by a single sentence.
Yet he excels his contemporaries and most of his predecessors in the
delineation of feeling, and in the interest imparted to his dramas;
especially in the expression of tender emotions. All with him is
unaffected and simple; and his faults are rather deficiencies than
offences against nature and taste. Had he studied to give a local
interest to his pieces, and appreciated the advantages of a knowledge
of the scene and times, his success might have been unbounded. Man may
be man when stripped of costume, but he is not man as we know him and
as he moves in the world; nor is any thing gained by removing from our
view those external circumstances which so universally influence his
character and actions.




Sir John Hill, who passed for the translator of Swammerdam’s work on
insects, understood not a word of Dutch. He was to receive 50 guineas
for the translation, and bargained with another translator for 25—this
other being in a like predicament paid a third person 12 pounds for
the job.


{780}


MONODY

On the Death of Mrs. Susan G. Blanchard, wife of Lieut. A. G.
Blanchard, of the United States Army, and only Sister of the Author.


  Sister! they’ve laid thee in the silent earth!
            Thy spirit’s free!
  And many suns have set upon thy grave—
            Unknown to me!
  I was not there—to catch thy parting breath!
            When thou didst die—
  Yet Sister! I shall weep, till grief will dim
            Thy Brother’s eye!
  Mem’ry shall haunt thee! wheresoe’er I go—
            Breaking my heart!
  And thy pure sainted image shall be mine
            Till life depart!
  I would my weary spirit were with thine
            Triumphant borne—
  For Susan! I shall cling to life, no more—
            Now thou art gone!
  Perchance that angel spirit hovers nigh
            This lonely spot!
  And on the wintry air whispers—that I
            Am not forgot!
  Weeping, I grasp at this ephem’ral dream,
            Though vain it be!
  And dedicate my breaking heart, oh Grief!
            Through life, to thee!




A CONTRAST,

BY PAULINA.


It was a calm autumnal evening. The late bright green that had clothed
the forests, had given place to a rich and almost endless variety of
colors. In other lands the fairy pencillings of fancy may have
pictured beauties like these, but in our own American woods there is a
charm art and genius may strive in vain to imitate or describe. And
who is it that can gaze on such a scene without a soft, delicious
melancholy? It has a voice to the contemplative mind impressive yet
sweet. The rustling of the fallen leaves—the murmur of the breeze
through the thinly clad boughs—the gay and almost magic hues of the
richly variegated foliage—more lovely as it approaches more nearly to
its fall—all conspire to still the troubled passions of the mind—to
elevate the spirit above the transitory things of time, and remind us
of the solemn truth, that all the beauties and pleasures of this world
are fleeting as the summer flower—transient as the splendor of an
autumn wood. Ten years had passed since last I stood beneath the lofty
oaks that cast their shade over the silent sepulchres of the dead.
Tired of the greetings of friends and gaze of strangers. I sought the
spot where rested the ashes of those that once had been among the
friends of my youth.

I strolled from tomb to tomb, and sought on the pages of memory the
history of many I had once known and loved, but often did I inquire of
my companion, to gather more fully the recollection which time had
partially obscured. At length a simple, yet elegant tomb attracted my
attention. Near it stood one of an imposing appearance, in which art
and munificence seemed to have exerted their skill, to make it tower
above the rest. On the first was this simple, but affecting
inscription—

       SACRED
  To the memory of
  MATILDA WILLIAMS.

  On living tablets of the heart,
    Her virtues are engraved;
  Then seek not on the works of art,
    The record of her praise.

It bore no dates, but was evidently recently erected. The name I did
not recognize, but the tender, unpretending inscription, sensibly
touched my heart, and I felt a strong desire to know the history of
her whose virtues needed no external record. My friend read my
feelings, and immediately drew my attention to the next tomb-stone. It
bore a long list of lineage, beauty, amiability, &c. &c. and as I read
the long and beautiful detail, I almost questioned the justice of
Omnipotence in thus snatching, in early life, from mortal gaze, so
pure, so beautiful a pattern of every female grace and excellence.
“Only twenty-four,” I exclaimed, “and yet so highly exalted, so much
beloved.” My friend smiled archly and remarked, “Have you seen so much
of the world and not yet learned that real merit rarely has loud
trumpeters?” Her manner surprised me, and I inquired the meaning. It
is too late now, said she, to enter into the narrative about which you
feel so much interested; to-morrow I will relate the history of both
these women, whose tombs are not more strikingly different than were
their lives and characters. United in life by a strange destiny, or
rather by strange circumstances, it is fit that their last dwellings
should be near each other, and that their monuments, like their
characters, should stand forth in striking contrast.

       *       *       *       *       *

Matilda Clayton was the only daughter of the poor widow who removed to
this village a short time before you left here, and who for years has
taught the village school.

Perhaps you remember the interest her coming gave to all the lovers of
mystery in our circle. She was dressed in black. Her child was about
twelve or fourteen; beautiful as a fairy, and seemingly a visitor from
some etherial sphere—so delicate, so gentle was her every glance and
movement. They brought with them an elegant harp and guitar, and two
richly painted portraits. Of their characters or former home, nothing
could be gathered. She rented that house which you see among those
lofty oaks, and furnished it in a style of neat simplicity and taste.
Soon after she came, she issued proposals for a school, but few at
first seemed disposed to patronize her; and though curiosity was
strongly manifested to know who and what she was, all that could be
gathered was the assertion that she was the widow of an officer, whose
untimely death had left her friendless, and induced her, to seek among
strangers, a home and support. Months passed by, and her correct
deportment—the pure elegance of her manners, and her various
accomplishments, gained her the good-will and confidence of some of
the leading characters in the village, by whose influence a
considerable number of scholars was soon procured. Among her friends
and patrons was Mr. Wilton; and his daughter Clara, then {781} about
the age of Matilda, was the first committed to her care.

Soon did the widow and her daughter engage the affections of the
scholars, and a great intimacy took place between Matilda and Clara.
The Wiltons were wealthy, and their influence great; yet,
notwithstanding their efforts to induce Mrs. Clayton to mingle with
society, she and Matilda remained secluded from all the gaieties and
pleasures of the village. Often did their acquaintances stroll to the
cottage to listen to their sweet voices as they sung to their
instruments; and never shall I forget the tender tears I shed as I
stood one moonlight evening near the lattice, and heard the widow play
and sing these touching lines:

  How hard it is with calmness to survey,
  The scenes which memory bringeth to my view;
  I fain would drive its spectre forms away,
  And think ideal, what I know is true.
  She brings back scenes of bliss beyond compare,
  Recalls the joys which are forever fled—
  I bathe their memory with my bitter tears,
  And leave this spot to weep around the dead.
  I gaze on thee, my own, my darling child—
  I see “thy father’s softened image there;”
  And oh! my tears arise to check thy smile,
  And bid thee share thy widow’d mother’s care.
  I’ve asked not pity, for too cold’s this world
  To share the sorrows of the suffering poor;
  From wealth’s high summit, when the wretch is hurled,
  Alone they’re left their misery to deplore:
  But conscious virtue will our solace be—
  Perhaps we yet some feeling hearts may find;
  While sweet’s the task to teach and succor thee,
  My own Matilda, my dear orphan child;
  And to our God our evening hymn we’ll raise,
  For He did hear, when in our wo we cried;
  The widow’s spouse—the orphan’s friend we’ll praise,
  And dry our tears in hopes of bliss on high.

Even now I almost fancy I can hear her sweet tremulous voice, as it
rose on the silent evening breeze, and still I seem to gaze on that
lovely, though pallid face, as with tearful uplifted eye she sang
those last lines of tender heart-touching piety and faith. But I have
wandered from my narrative. Years rolled by, and still the widow’s
school increased, and with it love and respect for her and her
daughter. Clara Wilton had been the constant companion of the latter
for near three years, and her proficiency in both solid and ornamental
branches of education should have satisfied even her ambitious
parents. But the fashionable error that a young lady’s education could
never be completed at home, had found its way here, and Clara, with
others, was removed from Mrs. Clayton’s maternal care, to mix with
strangers, careless of their principles, and uninterested in their
happiness.

You, who have known the course pursued in fashionable boarding
schools—you who have seen the disappointed hopes—the perverted
minds—the corrupted hearts which have been the result of injudicious
plans of education, will not wonder when I tell you that the artless,
affectionate Clara returned home, after two years _polish_, an
altered, a sadly altered being. Matilda was now assisting her mother
in the duties of the school-room. That budding beauty which in
childhood charmed, was mellowed, refined, by the graces and dignity of
the woman. That quiet spirit, whose benign influence had been felt by
so many in the morning of life, now shed its purifying influence in a
more extended circle. Matilda was admired—beloved. Many sought her
society—she treated all with that amiable politeness which springs
from a pure heart: but few could gain her confidence or tempt her from
that deep retirement she had learned to love.

Clara still loved Matilda. Though fashion, folly, show and pleasure
had filled her mind, still she often left the bustle of gay life, to
spend an hour in that quiet, lovely spot, where she had spent her
happiest days. Often did she strive to enlist Matilda under the
banners of her leading pleasures, but she strove in vain. When crossed
or afflicted at any real or imaginary loss, she told her the troubles
that annoyed her; and often did Matilda point out the transitory
nature of her favorite joys, and point her unsatisfied heart to the
only fountain of perfect bliss.

Clara had many admirers, and frequently had the cottage been visited
in her evening rambles by her and her friends, to listen to the
elegant performance of its inmates, while Clara often joined the
concert with her own clear and highly cultivated voice.

Among the number who had thus become known to Matilda, was James
Williams, long an ardent admirer and evident favorite of Miss
Wilton’s.

Long had he solicited her hand, but she would not decide his fate.
Almost constantly with her, he had imagined her necessary to his
happiness, and so long had been kept in a feverish excitement of love,
and hope, and doubt, that he scarcely cared to have his case
permanently fixed. Believing himself beloved, he rather enjoyed than
disliked her frequent changes of deportment towards him, and had not
yet learned that there was a deep and holy feeling meant by love, that
he had never yet enjoyed.

But he saw Matilda. Again and again he repaired to the cottage, and
ere he knew that he was in danger, he found himself completely
enslaved by the artless, lovely manners, and rich and highly
cultivated mind of her who never thought of conquest. But he was
shackled, and how to break his bonds he knew not. Only one means
presented itself, and that was to urge Clara to a decided and
immediate step relative to him. She, unsuspecting his motive, and
believing his happiness in her power, rejected him, vainly expecting
to hear renewed declarations of affection, and to witness a sorrow and
despair which she would, ere long, turn into hope and gladness.

But, like the captive bird, who after weeks of imprisonment finds the
door of his cage unbarred, he exulted in his newly gained liberty, and
with delightful speed burst asunder every tie that bound him to his
captor, and sought again those joys which he had feared were lost to
him forever. Clara loved him, if the heart of a gay unthinking girl
could love. Little had she dreamed that in the lowly Matilda she could
find a rival, and that too, in the only heart whose worship she had
ever really valued. But in his speaking countenance she read that her
rejection gave no pain, nor was she long in discovering the cause of
his alienated affections. Clara was now awoke from more sleeps than
one—she had awoke from confidence in love, to prove that she had been
bewildered with an _ignis fatuus_; her feelings of resentment, envy
and revenge, which had slumbered so long, were now aroused and glowed
with the intensity of a long smothered flame.

{782} When she first left her native village, she was a stranger to
the vices so prevalent among the young in modern times. But easy is
the task to imbibe wrong sentiments—to learn that revenge is
noble—that the end justifies the means, and that she who can best
dissemble, most secretly effect her purposes, is most praiseworthy and
admired.

Her feelings naturally ardent, needed but an exciting cause to call
into active exercise some of the most uncontrollable, and unamiable
passions. Clara might have made, with proper government when young, an
excellent woman. But no early discipline had prepared her for
usefulness and happiness. An only daughter, the heiress of a large
estate and honorable name, and possessed of many personal graces—she
had known no restraints—met with no crosses to her inclinations, and
had been taught, by precept and example, that admiration, conquest,
dress and fashion, were the objects at which she should tend—the
summit of her ambition. Mrs. Clayton had endeavored to instil good
principles in all her pupils’ minds; but what can the lessons of the
school-room effect, when the family circle extinguishes all the good
feelings produced during a few hours instruction? Self-love was
Clara’s idol—self-love, alas! is too often the destroyer of its
worshipper.

Williams soon became an open admirer of Miss Clayton. Gifted with
talents, fortune, and a person of uncommon elegance, his mind well
stored with literature, and his heart, though uninfluenced by solid
piety, yet feelingly alive to many noble and brilliant virtues, he was
formed to love with all the deep fervor of a virtuous soul, and formed
to be beloved by one who could appreciate his character. No sooner did
Williams declare himself the friend and equal of Miss Clayton, than
the line of demarkation which had been drawn by the proud and rich
gave way, and it soon became quite as fashionable to admire the gentle
Matilda, as it had been to pay homage to her wealthier cotemporaries.

Nor did Williams alone desert Miss Wilton’s ranks. Among her former
suitors was a young man of dissipated character, but polished manners,
who would, no doubt, have been a successful competitor for her hand,
had not Williams appeared upon the stage. Between these two, no good
feelings existed; and no sooner did Dudley discover his attachment to
Matilda, than he determined to oppose him. For some months no event
occurred worth recital. Rumor declared Williams the future husband of
Matilda; while Dudley, tired of his new flame, again returned to
flatter the beautiful Clara.

It was evident that she was not happy, and also that the desertion of
Williams was a source of real mortification; yet still her fondness
for her rival continued, and she even seemed more devoted than ever to
the society of her friend. Matilda loved her, and fondly imagined that
she was likewise beloved. But the time for her marriage drew near.
Clara possessed her confidence, and apparently enjoyed the approaching
good fortune of her friend. At this juncture, business called Williams
unexpectedly from the state. With a beating heart he bid adieu to his
betrothed, promising to write every post, and extorting from her a
like favor. One letter only was received from him, and that was cold
and brief. Added to this, she was told that his departure was a
finesse to avoid the fulfilment of his engagement—that he had spoken
disrespectfully of her, and that she need not expect any farther
tidings from him. But Matilda believed it not. She wrote. In a short
time her letter was returned unopened. Still she could not believe him
false. A month rolled by—a month of anguish, of suspense—but nothing
farther was heard from him.

During this time Williams had received letters from his friends
advising him to return no more—that Matilda had deceived him—that her
conduct was improper in the extreme—that the story of her mother’s
widowhood was an artful tale, invented to conceal the ignominious
birth of her daughter, and that they were proved to be exiles from
home, forced off by the resentment of their family. He, too, received
a letter from Matilda, requesting to be exonerated from her vows,
alleging a former attachment as the cause, which she declared herself
unable to overcome. Nor did it end here. Dudley and Clara had so
managed that the minds of the public should be prepared for the event
of Williams’ desertion; and the unhappy girl soon found that not only
had her lover fled, but with him her character, and of course her
peace. At Williams’ request their school had been dismissed, and thus
were they left, with sullied fame, and without the means of future
support. In vain did they endeavor to investigate the matter. No one
stepped forward to assist them, save some who lacked the ability to
succor those whom they believed innocent. Two years passed by, and
found their situation deplorable indeed. A deep melancholy had seized
the widow’s mind; their efforts to re-assume their former office
failed, and they were poor, friendless and afflicted. Matilda bore it
with becoming dignity—all that industry and prudence could effect was
done—but the rose was fled from her cheek, and the smile of peace was
gone. Only by the bed side of the poor and dying, or afflicted, and
within the walls of the house of God, did she venture to stray. But
the influence of virtue will sooner or later be felt. Public sentiment
cannot long remain stationary, and a reaction seemed gradually taking
place in the Claytons’ favor. Again they requested to be patronised,
and a few persons resolved again to try them. The fever of excitement
was passed, and the minds of the community, as they grew more calm,
began to look more closely into the nature of the case; and many now
wondered that they had been so credulous as to believe what was so
slightly proven. But it is needless to descend to particulars—suffice
it to say, that they were again placed in a situation of comparative
comfort; and many who had secretly shown some kindness to the
sufferers, now boldly espoused their cause, and openly declared their
belief in their innocence. Clara was still unmarried, and her deep
hatred to Matilda now began to assume a more tangible form. No
opportunity escaped her and Dudley, to asperse her character; and so
marked was their enmity, that it attracted general attention.

Twelve months passed by, and their school increased, and with it their
favor with the greater portion of their acquaintances. Dudley and
Clara were to be married, and a great excitement existed in
expectation of the gaieties of the scene. Never had such preparations
been known, and consequently the approaching marriage was the theme of
every tongue. The evening before the wedding, a large party of the
young men of the village {783} and its vicinity, had assembled to
celebrate some anniversary in which they were interested. After the
business of the meeting was over, they agreed to drink to the
happiness of Dudley and his Clara. One sally of mirth gave way to
another, until Dudley and several others felt much exhilarated by
their large potations. Dudley at length mentioned Williams—tauntingly
alluded to his former attachment to Clara—attributed his rejection by
her to his own influence—and wound up by asserting that it was not the
only favor for which his friend had to thank him. Encouraged by the
mirth his witticisms excited, he proceeded to state, in a strain of
deep ridicule, that had not his superior discernment discovered the
true character of Miss Clayton, and given the alarm, she would have
now been the wife of Williams; and that, for the favor he had done him
in getting him out of that dilemma, he should seek out the exile, and
claim, by way of reward, a handsome legacy for his first. Among the
number present was one who long had loved the innocent girl whose name
was thus unceremoniously handled; a suspicion that Dudley was the
cause of her ruin, darted through his mind, and he resolved to take
him by guile. He accordingly asked if friendship for Williams had
prompted him to the task of breaking off his chains. “No, indeed: I
had a double motive. She, a proud wretch, had rejected me; and he, a
villain, once had rivalled me; for a reason, good or bad, they loved
each other, and I made them feel what they will not forget.” “And you
can prove all that was said?” continued the other. Dudley was now
alarmed, for there was something in young Maxwell’s look that showed
he had said more than he intended to be understood. “Prove it!” said
he, “assuredly I did it; and if necessary, can prove a great deal more
than you have ever heard.”

The party dispersed at a late hour, but Maxwell arose next morning
unrefreshed. He fancied he had found the clew to the labyrinth, and
resolved, unsuspected and secretly, to discover, if possible, the
mystery which he now saw had been so long thrown over that
transaction. Maxwell, too, was Williams' friend. He alone knew his
present residence, and he resolved, if possible, to investigate the
matter, and restore, if innocent, happiness and fame to her whom he
now believed unjustly deprived of both.

       *       *       *       *       *

The halls of Wilton Lodge were glittering with a thousand lights—the
merry peals of the violin resounded through the mansion—the gay
dancers were seen in every direction—while feasting and profusion
marked the splendid scene. Maxwell leant beside a lofty column,
decorated with flowers and variegated lamps, and looked on the festive
scene with a saddened heart.

Clara was arrayed in almost regal splendor. The jewels glistened in
her hair—the pearls gave their pure forms to decorate her snowy neck
and arms; every thing combined to make her happy and gay, and yet he
thought that she was sad.

Wearied with the dance, she seated herself near the spot where Maxwell
stood. He approached, and laughingly inquired why she looked so
serious, where all was so gay and bright. She denied that such was the
case, when he jestingly remarked, that he should think she was sighing
for her old flame, young Williams, unless she looked more like a happy
bride. A deep blush overspread her cheek, and with deep feeling she
replied, that Matilda Clayton might grieve for him, for they suited
better than any two she had ever known. He asked her why? Because,
said she, her heart is false as a traitor’s, and his, like hers,
inconstant and base. “You astonish me,” said Maxwell. “I know them
both,” she replied, “and Mr. Dudley knows them too.” Maxwell said no
more, and Clara rejoined the dance.

       *       *       *       *       *

One month had scarcely elapsed since the marriage of Dudley, when the
village was again excited by the appearance of Williams. No sooner had
he arrived than a thousand vague reports and ideas were afloat, and
the general sentence was, that his business was to see Matilda. He
refreshed himself at the hotel, and taking Maxwell’s arm, strolled
towards the cottage. The sun had set, and the moon was shining with an
unusual brightness, and gave to the flowers and shrubberies around the
cottage a more than natural beauty. They approached softly, for they
recognized Matilda’s voice, and listening, heard these words:

  Yes, false to me has been this world;
  Its malice tore thy heart from me:
  The shaft which at my peace was hurled,
  Was deeply felt, I know, by thee.
  Still conscious virtue is my stay,
  Though yet a dart does rankle here—
  He thinks me base and false as they
  Who tore my bosom with despair.
  I’ll blame him not; the poisonous breath
  Of malice forced him thus to stray;
  And fain I’d clasp the tyrant Death,
  To wash that guiltless stain away.

Williams’ agitation became so great that his friend with difficulty
prevented his betraying his nearness to the house; but caution was
necessary, as it had been planned that Maxwell should go in alone, and
by degrees apprise Matilda of W.’s arrival, and his object. He
accordingly knocked at the door. Mrs. Clayton asked who was there. His
name was given, and he immediately entered.

Seating himself near Matilda, he asked what event on earth could give
her most pleasure? She blushed deeply, and replied, “to see all the
world convinced that I am not deserving of the scorn which has been
heaped upon me; true, a reaction has already taken place, but where
there is mystery there is doubt, and doubt is the fruitful source of
distrust. But why did I answer thus; excuse me, for as you entered I
was brooding over the past—the bitter past.” “And did you ever suspect
the enemies who at that dark period caused your sorrow?” “No,” she
replied, “I would not be so unjust as to censure merely from
suspicion; but let us drop so painful a theme—I was wrong to allude to
it.” But Maxwell was resolved that it should not thus be dropped.
“Miss Clayton,” said he, “did you never think that Dudley and his wife
were deeply concerned in that nefarious business? Answer me, for I do
believe that they were the entire cause.” He then proceeded to relate
what he had heard from the lips of both, and concluded by saying, “I
have written to Williams, stating my suspicions, and when he comes, I
doubt not a full explanation and investigation will be the result.”
“Williams!” repeated Matilda; “and do you know where he is? But I must
thank you for the interest you have ever taken in my fate. Words are
weak to paint the {784} feelings of a grateful heart. Oh! that you may
be rewarded, even should your noble endeavors fail.” “But you have not
told me,” he continued, “whether or not you think my charges against
those persons just.” “I have feared it,” said she, “but I resolved to
condemn no one until I _knew_ that they deserved it. Those who have
writhed under the tortures of unmerited charges, will be the last to
give like pangs.” “Farewell, Miss Clayton,” said he, “when next we
meet, may it be to tell you that the sun of happiness has dawned again
in your horizon, and that your wrongs are revenged.” “Talk not of
revenge,” she replied; “I would not have it taken. ‘Judgment is mine;
I will repay, saith the Lord,’ and to _him_ will I leave it.” She
could say no more—tears streamed down her cheek. The widow pressed his
hand, and exclaimed, “The Lord will bless, will reward thee!” Maxwell
left the room, and rejoined the impatient Williams.

       *       *       *       *       *

The excitement which reigned during the time that Williams and Maxwell
were investigating the mystery of Matilda’s injuries cannot be
described. Suffice it to say, that a complete exposure of a deep and
villainous plot was the result. Dudley, exasperated at his conduct and
that of his wife being detected, challenged Williams to a duel; but he
refused, and wrote him a letter declaring his contempt of him and his
wife, and his determined purpose neither to meet him or any other man
for a purpose so ungentlemanly, and at direct variance with the laws
of God and man. A suit against them was expected, but Matilda
positively refused her consent to such a measure, declaring that money
was no atonement for sorrow, and that, her innocence attested, she
neither sought nor wished to punish her enemies, as she well knew they
would suffer far more than they had forced her to endure. Need I add,
that she soon became the wife of the only man she ever loved. A short
time before their marriage the brother of Mrs. Clayton sought her out.
Her father had died. On his death-bed he forgave her for marrying
against his will, and left her a large estate. But happiness is brief
at best. It was soon too evident that Matilda was not long for earth.
Excitement and sorrow had undermined her health, and her husband saw
but too plainly that the seeds of death were already sown.

But to return to Dudley. Disgraced and despised by the virtuous and
good, he plunged into excesses of every kind. He and his wife were
miserable; for, mutually sunk in each other’s estimation, their
conduct manifested to all who knew them, the object for which they
sacrificed their honor: truth and peace defeated, all was too much for
even them to bear. Mr. Wilton did not long survive the shock his
feelings had received. He died in less than twelve months after
Williams’ return.

Clara’s health failed; penitence perhaps was little felt—but shame and
wounded pride, and a cold neglectful husband, added to the pangs of a
reproving conscience, carried her to the grave. She left one child,
but that too has lately been laid by her side. Dudley is a bankrupt
and a wanderer. Where he is I am unable to inform you. Rumor says that
he has fallen a victim to the fury of a mob. And who reared that
splendid monument to Clara’s memory? Her husband, neglectful, cruel to
her while living, had it erected, as if in mockery—for it serves but
to remind all who see it how little she deserved its inscription. But
Matilda, my heart bleeds to think on her. She was the mother of one
lovely child; but her health was gone. Her husband spared no pains to
arrest the progress of disease; but it was in vain that he took her
from north to south, from place to place: after two years absence from
this village, she returned but to die. But how different was her end
from that of her once beloved friend. The sympathy of all, the love of
all, the blessings of the poor, accompanied her to her last home.
Never shall I forget the joyful peace that illumined her dying
face—nor the anguish of her mother, the agony of her husband, when,
for the last time, she clasped her infant in her arms, poured out her
heart in prayer, forgave her enemies, blessed her friends, and
clasping her husband’s hand to her heart, breathed her last. You saw
her tomb, and do you wonder that it says no external record is
necessary for her praise. Two months ago, and I saw her laid in her
last bed.

And what became of Maxwell? Williams had an only sister; she is an
inestimable woman, and she is his wife. He has met a rich reward for
his generous conduct towards Matilda and her husband. He lives in that
beautiful spot where the Wiltons once resided. Williams has taken his
child and its grandmother, and gone to reside among her friends. His
heart is deeply wounded, but the piety of his wife has induced him to
look above for comfort. Long might I dwell on the moral of this
narrative, but it needs no comment with you.

The two tombs are called the “Contrast,” and justly do they deserve
the appellation. Strangely blended in their destinies while living, it
seems fit that they should thus repose near each other, if but to
remind those who pass by, that _virtue_ and _vice_ alike meet their
reward.




_Editorial_.




CRITICAL NOTICES.


MEDICAL REVIEW.

_The British and Foreign Medical Review, or Quarterly Journal of
Practical Medicine and Surgery. Edited by John Forbes, M.D., F. R. S.,
and John Conolly, M.D. (American Edition.) Nos. I, II and III: For
January, April, July, 1836._

If any augury of success is to be drawn from desert, this work may
fairly be regarded as likely soon to assume a vanward place amongst
its competitors for favor with the medical world. Whether we view the
quantity or the quality of its matter—the number, variety, richness,
or power of its articles—the comprehensiveness of its plan or the
judiciousness of its arrangement—it equally strikes us as possessing
the very first degree of merit.

Each number consists of four grand divisions: I. Analytical and
Critical Reviews; II. Bibliographical Notices; III. Selections from
Foreign Journals; IV. Medical Intelligence. So wide is the scope of
each one of these divisions, and so copious its _filling up_, that a
steady reader of the Review can hardly fail to know {785} every
material step that medical science takes—every important
discovery—every valuable publication, and almost every instructive
case. Not the least commendable trait in the work, is the notice it
takes of _foreign_ medicine; the attention it bestows upon the state
of the profession and upon medical men, medical works, and medical
institutions—not only in England—not only in Great Britain—not only in
Europe—but in America, and even in Asia. It practically recognizes a
great commonwealth of knowledge, pervading the whole earth; each
province alike concerned, and alike entitled to be lighted and cheered
by the sun of science; a widespread fraternity of intellect and
benevolence, of which membership is limited to no climate or
hemisphere. Thus we see notices of the state of medicine in Spain,
Russia and Denmark; and of the medical journals now published in Great
Britain, France, Italy, Denmark, Germany, the Colonies, and America.
_En passant_, we state the number of these: in Germany 11; in Italy 5;
in Denmark 4; in the United States 8; in Rio Janeiro 1; in Kingston
(Jamaica) 1; in Calcutta 1; in France (including hebdomadal and
tri-weekly papers,) 17. In Great Britain it seems there are but _six_.

We cannot too much admire the sound sense and enlarged philanthropy
breathed in the following passage of the British Medical Review,
occurring just after it has bespoken a regular exchange with its
foreign contemporaries.


“It is our anxious desire and earnest hope to make it a freer medium
of communication and a closer bond of union, between the members of
the medical profession in all civilized countries, than has hitherto
existed. It is delightful to all who cultivate the arts of peace, to
live in times when the nations of the earth may freely communicate
with each other, without restraint or difficulty: and it is doubly
delightful to those who, like the members of our profession, are
striving only for what is good, to find themselves associated in their
labors with the virtuous and the wise of every land, differing indeed
in the external and unessential characters of language, customs, and
civil polity, but identified in the common desire to improve the
physical, moral, and intellectual condition of man, and consequently,
to augment the happiness, and exalt the dignity of the human race.”
_No. I, p. 230_.


It pleases our pride as Americans, to observe the large space which
our country evidently occupies in the opinion of the enlightened men
who edit this Review. The physicians of the United States and their
works, in its pages, fill twice the room, we believe, of those in any
other foreign country, not excepting France or Germany; and there are
repeated and unequivocal proofs, that the inconsiderable figure which
this, like other departments of American science and literature, has
hitherto made in British eyes, is now to be entirely changed. Mark the
conciliatory and fraternal tone of what follows:


“The energetic character of the American people, whom we feel proud to
regard as derived from a common ancestry with ourselves, and their
astonishing progress during the last half century in the arts and
sciences, are no less conspicuous in the actual state of medicine
there, than in the other branches of human knowledge and social
amelioration. Were we, however, not resolved to make the state of
medical science among our North American brethren better known and
more justly appreciated in England, we should almost be ashamed to
confess how little we ourselves know of it, and how little is really
known of it by the great majority of our best informed physicians and
surgeons. While the medicine of France is familiar to most men of any
education among us, and that of Germany and Italy is known to many,
the condition of our science throughout the vast territories and in
the immense cities of the United States, although recorded in our own
language, and cultivated in the same spirit as by ourselves, is
scarcely known to us at all. A striking proof of this is, that in some
recent histories of medicine published in this country, by men of the
very first talents and acquirements, scarcely any notice is taken of
America, or of the improvements or discoveries for which we are
indebted to American physicians and surgeons. An equally striking
evidence is the extremely limited importation into this country of
American books, and the non-circulation of American Journals among us.
On the contrary, the extreme eagerness with which English books are
received in America, is no less strikingly illustrated by the well
known fact that all good works on British medicine are not only
imported into, but are immediately republished in America, and
circulated in vast numbers.” “Dr. Combe’s admirable work on Hygiene,
has not only been reprinted in America, but circulated to the amount
of 10,000.”

“The zeal with which medicine is cultivated in America, is equally
manifested by the number and variety of the medical journals published
there; and we are bound in fairness to add, that the original
communications and criticisms contained in such of them as we have met
with, sufficiently prove that it is not a zeal without knowledge.”
_Id. p. 228_.


The foregoing extracts are worth making and worth reading, for two
especial reasons: first, because in speaking so kindly of us, they
tend to awaken a mutual throb of kindness in our own bosoms, and so to
strengthen and multiply the ties of international affection; and
second, because by showing us how insignificant we are in the
civilized world, they severely and justly rebuke our national vanity,
pampered so long by our Fourth of July orators and newspaper
paragraphists, into the belief that we are “the greatest and most
enlightened people on earth.”

Among the American physicians whose names are brought with praise
before the British public in the Review before us, are Drs. Dunglison,
Geddings, and Smith, of Baltimore, and Jackson (senior and junior,) of
Boston. Though Dr. Dunglison is an Englishman born, we claim his
professional merits chiefly for America, who has fostered, developed
and matured, by appreciating and rewarding them. We sympathize in the
gratification he must feel, at the emphatic and pre-eminent tribute
rendered him in the preface, where he is classed _with_, yet _above_,
the distinguished physicians of Berlin, Hamburg, Geneva, Madrid, and
St. Petersburg, to whom obligations are acknowledged for valuable
assistance.

In No. 2, is a very favorable review of Dr. Dunglison’s late work on
the Elements of Hygiene. Like his prior and large work on Human
Physiology, (of which, as well as of his Medical Dictionary, America
is the birth place,) this valuable treatise is rather _technical_ than
_popular_; being designed more for medical than for general readers.

In the same article, is a detailed notice of the before mentioned
essay of Dr. Combe, on Hygiene—or, to give its proper title, “The
Principles of Physiology applied to the Preservation of Health, and to
the Improvement of Physical and Mental Education.” This is the work of
which the Reviewer says 10,000 copies have been circulated in the
United States; but as it has been stereotyped by the Harpers, and made
a number of their “Family Library,” besides publication in other
forms, we question if 20,000 copies be not nearer the truth. The whole
range of physical authorship, we have long believed, does not present
an equal to this modest little book of Dr. Combe’s, for curious,
interesting, and valuable truth: not to physicians alone, or to {786}
scholars, or to gentlemen, or to school-mistresses, but to every class
of mankind, from the President of a College to the laborer in “his
clouted shoon.” The topics it particularly treats of, are the
structure and functions of the _skin_—of the _muscular system_—the
_lungs_—the _bones_—and the _nervous system_, with the _mental
faculties_, supposed to be connected with it. Annexed to each of these
subjects are rules, “by the observance of which, each of them may be
kept in health, and may conduce to the general health of the body.”
“And thus the reader is led to wholesome customs, by being taught the
_reason_ of their being wholesome.”

It is now admitted by all intelligent persons, except those captious
and querulous praisers of time past, who abound in every age, that
medicine is far advanced in a great and most salutary reformation, the
progress of which is still _onward_. In nothing is this reform more
conspicuous—nay, in nothing does it more _consist_—than in the
profession’s now aiming to preserve health by timely precautions,
instead of being satisfied to restore it when lost. In fact it is not
now _medicine_ so much as _hygiene_; it is the art of preserving
rather than the art of healing; _prevention_ rather than _cure_. And
as much superior as prevention proverbially is to cure—so much better
is the present plan of guarding the health by a judicious diet,
seasonable clothing, dwellings properly warmed and aired, and a strict
attention to cleanliness—than the old one, of letting luxury and
debauchery have their course, and then trusting to expel their
crudities and counteract their poison by physic. If the expelling
agent—the antidote—had been always infallible (and alas, how many
grave-yards prove the contrary!)—the _wear_ and _tear_ of
constitution, produced by the action of the disease, and even of the
remedy, was a clear _balance_ against the old system.

Dr. Combe’s work is emphatically an emanation of the reformed school
of medicine; and though in that school the names of Broussais, Louis
and Jackson may be more united by fame, we deem “Combe on Mental
Health”[1] to have borne away from them all the palm of _usefulness_.

[Footnote 1: This is the title usually affixed to the back of Dr. C.’s
book.]

In the three numbers of the Review, are many articles which we would
fain mention, but _all_ would exceed our space, and we do not like the
task of further selection. Some idea of the merits of the work (and
incidentally of Dr. C.’s) was all we aimed to convey.

It is republished (quarterly) in New York, by W. Jackson, and in
Baltimore by William Neal, who are authorized to receive
subscriptions. The price is $5 _per annum_.


MR. LEE’S ADDRESS.

_Address delivered before the Baltimore Lyceum, Athenæum Society,
William Wirt Society, Washington Lyceum, Philo-nomian Society and
Franklin Association, Literary and Scientific Societies of Baltimore,
on the 4th of July, 1836. By Z. Collins Lee, Esq._

Having reason to be well aware of Mr. Lee’s oratorical powers, we were
not altogether at liberty to imagine his Address, merely from the deep
attention with which, we are told, its _delivery_ was received, the
impassioned and scholar-like performance we now find it upon perusal.
Few similar things indeed have afforded us any similar pleasure. We
have no intention, however, of speaking more fully, at this late day,
of an Address whose effect must have depended so largely upon
anniversary recollections. We allude to it _now_ with the sole purpose
of recording, in brief, our opinion of its merits, and of quoting one
of its passages without comment.


Is it now, as it was formerly, the necessary tendency of all alarming
and apparently fatal convulsions of society and governments, to
realize often permanent good out of temporary evil? The political
revolutions which distinguished the close of the 18th century were
accompanied with various secondary movements more benign and pacific
in their character, and more lasting in their results, though not
contemplated by the then apostles of anarchy. The changes to which I
refer were perhaps among their legitimate results, and when they have
been studied through a period longer than the perturbations which
produced them, they will doubtless be ranked among the compensatory
adjustments, in which Providence strikes a balance between present and
overwhelming evils and future and permanent good; for in the political
as well as in the natural world the desolating torrent, which sweeps
away its bulwarks, often loses its power in the depths of its own
excavations, whilst it forms a new barrier out of the very elements it
displaced. Thus, in every country which has passed like ours through a
great and sudden revolution, or been the scene of public excitement
and party spirit, there will be a principle of adjustment and order
springing out of the most dangerous and disorganizing commotions. That
our land has been lately the witness of most daring outrages upon
public peace and private rights—that the torch of the incendiary, and
the more fearful and disgraceful out-breakings of lawless violence and
ferocious passion, have trampled law and order before our eyes in the
dust, and that life and property have been swept away by the sirocco
breath of popular tumult, are melancholy facts attested in many parts
of our country—and to one unacquainted with the genius of our
institutions and the habits of our people, these were indeed most
startling evidences of the inefficiency of the one and the unfitness
of the other for self-government. But, my fellow-citizens, at the
bottom of the American character and closely interwoven with its
general sentiment, is a recuperative and renovating principle of right
and order, which, sooner or later compensates for the devastation and
ruin of one day, by years of order and submission to the laws, and
binds as victims upon their own _Moloch_ altars the mad passions and
daring spirits which perpetrated it. Let not, therefore, our
confidence and hopes be diminished or torn from the true, essential
and _conservative_ principles of our institutions, but rather let
these evils stimulate us to greater zeal and more devoted labor, in
spreading far and wide, by means of knowledge and religion, the true
and only remedies—and though the storm may howl and the clouds gather
over portions of the country, oh! let us still cling with unfaltering
confidence to our _union_, to our _religion_, to our _liberties_. In
this age kindred minds will unite their sympathies either for good or
evil; wealth seeks its preservation by uniting itself to wealth—power
strives to extend itself by an alliance with power—in such cases
wealth and rank have frequently exercised a predominant influence, and
brute force has still oftener enjoyed its short lived triumph; but
intellectual power guided by high religious and moral motives, has
never failed to establish its just rights and proper sway. The
education therefore of the people, the diffusion of knowledge, and the
encouragement of literature and science are the only safeguard for a
government and social system like ours, exposed as they are to the
double hostility of popular menace and the arrogant inroads of
exclusive and aristocratic orders; but the most efficacious of all
these elements of stability is that of intellectual power, whether it
is exhibited in the statesman’s forethought and sagacity—in the
philosopher’s powers of combination and judgment—or in the lighter and
more elegant accomplishments of the scholar and the poet—the shaft of
the stately column is not weakened by the acanthus that curls at its
summit, nor is reason less enlightened when embellished by the
imagination.

The foundation, therefore, of a literature peculiarly free and
national, and the encouragement of all the arts of life, should be our
first aim; and here, gentlemen of the societies, which have so
honorably been dedicated to these noble objects, permit {787} me to
animate, if I can, your laudable zeal, and invoke to you the praise
and support of proud city—of the whole country. In your hands are
deposited sacred and beneficial trusts—on your efforts as citizens and
scholars depend much of the future prosperity and glory of Maryland.
It is not enough therefore that you are the nominal and passive
members of these scientific and literary associations, or the admirers
of all that is beautiful in the culture of letters and the promotion
of science. You may walk indeed through the gorgeous temple of
knowledge and explore its holiest recesses or arcana, or bow before
its altars with homage and adoration, but you must _unfold_ its
portals and _lift high_ its gates that the people may enter, and
become as enlightened as they are free. Above all, in aiding by your
exertions in this great work, you should endeavor to found a
literature whoso seat is the bosom of God—whose end the elevation of
man. Let then the Bible be its chief pillar or corner stone, from
whose pure pages and sublime truths, the waters of life may gush
forth, and mingling with the full stream of rational and social
prosperity, form

  “——as deep and as brilliant a tide
   As ever bore freedom aloft on its wave.”


THE PICKWICK CLUB.

_The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club: Containing a Faithful
Record of the Perambulations, Perils, Travels, Adventures, and
Sporting Transactions of the Corresponding Members. Edited by “Boz.”
Philadelphia: Republished by Carey, Lea and Blanchard._

In our June “Messenger,” we spoke at some length of the “Watkins
Tottle and other Papers,” by “Boz.” We then expressed a high opinion
of the comic power, and of the rich imaginative conception of Mr.
Dickens—an opinion which “The Pickwick Club” has fully sustained. The
author possesses nearly every desirable quality in a writer of
fiction, and has withal a thousand negative virtues. In his
delineation of Cockney life he is rivalled only by the author of
“Peter Snook,” while in efforts of a far loftier and more difficult
nature, he has greatly surpassed the best of the brief tragic pieces
of Bulwer, or of Warren. Just now, however, we can only express our
opinion that his general powers as a prose writer are equalled by few.
The work is to be continued, and hereafter we may give at some length
the considerations which have led us to this belief. From the volume
before us we quote the concluding portion of a vigorous sketch,
entitled “A Madman’s MS.” The writer is supposed to be an hereditary
madman, and to have labored under the disease for many years, but to
have been conscious of his condition, and thus, by a strong effort of
the will, to have preserved his secret from the eye of even his most
intimate friends.


I don’t remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was
beautiful. I _know_ she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, when
I start up from my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standing
still and motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted
figure, with long black hair, which, streaming down her back, stirs
with no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and never
wink or close. Hush! the blood chills at my heart as I write it
down—that form is _hers_; the face is very pale, and the eyes are
glassy bright: but I know them well. That figure never moves; it never
frowns and mouths as others do, that fill this place sometimes; but it
is much more dreadful to me, even than the spirits that tempted me
many years ago—it comes fresh from the grave; and is so very
death-like.

For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler: for nearly a year I saw
the tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I
found it out at last though. They could not keep it from me long. She
had never liked me; I had never thought she did: she despised my
wealth, and hated the splendor in which she lived;—I had not expected
that. She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings
came over me, and thoughts forced upon me by some secret power,
whirled round and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated
the boy she still wept for. I pitied—yes, I pitied—the wretched life
to which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that
she could not live long, but the thought that before her death she
might give birth to some ill-fated being, destined to hand down
madness to its offspring, determined me. I resolved to kill her.

For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of
fire. A fine sight the grand house in flames, and the madman’s wife
smouldering away to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, too,
and of some sane man swinging in the wind, for a deed he never did,
and all through a madman’s cunning! I thought often of this, but I
gave it up at last. Oh! the pleasure of strapping the razor day after
day, feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash one stroke of
its thin bright point would make!

At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before,
whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor
into my hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed, and
leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I
withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom. She had
been weeping, for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her
cheek. Her face was calm and placid; and even as I looked upon it, a
tranquil smile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on
her shoulder. She started—it was only a passing dream. I leaned
forward again. She screamed, and woke.

One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or
sound. But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine.
I know not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me; and I quailed
beneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily
on me. I trembled; the razor was in my hand, but I could not move. She
made towards the door. As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew her
eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and
clutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sunk upon
the ground.

Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house was
alarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the
razor in its usual drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly for
assistance.

They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft
of animation for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned, her
senses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously.

Doctors were called in—great men who rolled up to my door in easy
carriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were at her
bedside for weeks. They had a great meeting, and consulted together in
low and solemn voices in another room. One, the cleverest, and most
celebrated among them, took me aside and bidding me prepare for the
worst, told me—me, the madman!—that my wife was mad. He stood close
beside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his hand
laid upon my arm. With one effort I could have hurled him into the
street beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it; but my
secret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me
I must place her under some restraint: I must provide a keeper for
her. _I!_ I went into the open fields where none could hear me, and
laughed till the air resounded with my shouts!

She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave,
and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse of
her whose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of
iron. {788} All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed
behind the white handkerchief which I held up to my face as we rode
home, till the tears came into my eyes.

But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless and
disturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I
could not hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and made
me when I was alone, at home, jump up and beat my hands together, and
dance round and round, and roar aloud. When I went out, and saw the
busy crowds hurrying about the streets: or to the theatre, and heard
the sound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I felt such glee,
that I could have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces limb from
limb, and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and struck my
feet upon the floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it
down; and no one knew that I was a madman yet.

I remember—though it is one of the last things I _can_ remember: for
now I mix realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, and
being always hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from some
strange confusion in which they get involved—I remember how I let it
out at last. Ha! ha! I think I see their frightened looks now, and
feel the ease with which I flung them from me, and dashed my clenched
fists into their white faces, and then flew like the wind, and left
them screaming and shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comes
upon me when I think of it. There—see how this iron bar bends beneath
my furious wrench. I could snap it like a twig, only there are long
galleries here with many doors—I don’t think I could find my way along
them: and even if I could, I know there are iron gates below which
they keep locked and barred. They know what a clever madman I have
been and they are proud to have me here to show.

Let me see;—yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I reached
home, and found the proudest of the three proud brothers, waiting to
see me—urgent business he said: I recollect it well. I hated that man
with all a madman’s hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed
to tear him. They told me he was there. I ran swiftly up stairs. He
had a word to say to me. I dismissed the servants. It was late, and we
were alone together—_for the first time_.

I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he little
thought—and I gloried in the knowledge—that the light of madness
gleamed from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He
spoke at last. My recent dissipation, and strange remarks, made so
soon after his sister’s death, were an insult to her memory. Coupling
together many circumstances which had at first escaped his
observation, he thought I had not treated her well. He wished to know
whether he was right in inferring that I meant to cast a reproach upon
her memory, and a disrespect upon her family. It was due to the
uniform he wore, to demand this explanation.

This man had a commission in the army—a commission, purchased with my
money, and his sister’s misery. This was the man who had been foremost
in the plot to ensnare me, and grasp my wealth. This was the man who
had been the main instrument in forcing his sister to wed me; well
knowing that her heart was given to that puling boy. Due! Due to _his_
uniform! The livery of his degradation! I turned my eyes upon him—I
could not help it—but I spoke not a word.

I saw the sudden change that came upon him, beneath my gaze. He was a
bold man, but the color faded from his face, and he drew back his
chair. I dragged mine nearer to him; and as I laughed—I was very merry
then—I saw him shudder. I felt the madness rising within me. He was
afraid of me.

‘You were very fond of your sister when she was alive’—I said—‘Very.’

He looked uneasily round him, and I saw his hand grasp the back of his
chair: but he said nothing.

‘You villain,’ cried I, ‘I found you out; I discovered your hellish
plots against me; I know her heart was fixed on some one else before
you compelled her to marry me. I know it—I know it.’

He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished it aloft, and bid me
stand back—for I took care to be getting closer to him all the time I
spoke.

I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions eddying
through my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taunting me to
tear his heart out.

‘Damn you,’ said I, starting up, and rushing upon him; ‘I killed her.
I am a madman. Down with you. Blood, blood, I will have it.’

I turned aside with one blow, the chair he hurled at me in his terror,
and closed with him; and with a heavy crash, we rolled upon the floor
together.

It was a fine struggle that, for he was a tall strong man, fighting
for his life; and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy him. I
knew no strength could equal mine, and I was right. Right again,
though a madman! His struggles grew fainter. I knelt upon his chest,
and clasped his brawny throat firmly with both hands. His face grew
purple; his eyes were starting from his head, and with protruded
tongue he seemed to mock me. I squeezed the tighter.

The door was suddenly burst open with a loud noise, and a crowd of
people rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to secure the
madman.

My secret was out; and my only struggle now, was for liberty and
freedom. I gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw myself among
my assailants, and cleared my way with my strong arm as if I bore a
hatchet in my hand, and hewed them down before me. I gained the door,
dropped over the banisters, and in an instant was in the street.

Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard the
noise of feet behind, and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter and
fainter in the distance, and at length died away altogether: but on I
bounded, through marsh and rivulet, over fence and wall, with a wild
shout, which was taken up by the strange beings that flocked around me
on every side, and swelled the sound, till it pierced the air. I was
borne upon the arms of demons who swept along upon the wind, and bore
down bank and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with a
rustle and a speed that made my head swim, until at last they threw me
from them with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon the earth.
When I awoke I found myself here—here in this gay cell where the
sun-light seldom comes, and the moon steals in, in rays which only
serve to show the dark shadows about me, and that silent figure in its
old corner. When I lie awake, I can sometimes hear strange shrieks and
cries from distant parts of this large place. What they are, I know
not; but they neither come from that pale form, nor does it regard
them. For from the first shades of dust till the earliest light of
morning, it still stands motionless in the same place, listening to
the music of my iron chain, and watching my gambols on my straw bed.

       *       *       *       *       *

A press of business connected with some necessary arrangements for
Volume the Third, has prevented us from paying, in this Messenger, the
usual attention to our Critical Department. We have many books now
lying by us which we propose to notice fully in our next. With this
number we close Volume the Second.

       *       *       *       *       *

ERRATUM—The _Essay on Friendship_, in the present number, and to which
a foot-note of some length is appended, should have been embraced
under the general head of the Essays of Gilchrist, also in this
number. The mistake occurred by our supposing the _Essay on
Friendship_ to have appeared in the last Messenger.






*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER, VOL. II., NO. 12, NOVEMBER, 1836 ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.