country, and as a tribute of respect and gratitude to the early and
adventurous Pioneers of the west, for their valor, perseverance and
long suffering, it is due to their memory that it should be recorded,
and find a place in the history of our country.

The fort was situated on the higher bank or bluff, not far from the
place, where the mansion house of the late Noah Zane, Esq., was
subsequently erected. It covered between one half and three quarters
of an acre of ground, and was enclosed with pickets 8 feet high. The
garrison, at the time of the attack, including all who were able to
bear arms, did not exceed 15 in number, and of these several were
between the ages of 12 and 18. The number of women and children is not
known.

The first intimation the commandant of the fort, (Col. David Shepard)
had of the approach of an enemy, was received the evening before the
attack, from Capt. Ogle, who with Abraham Rodgers, Joseph Biggs,
Robert Lemons and two others, had just arrived from Beech bottom fort,
on the Ohio, about 12 miles from Wheeling. Capt. Ogle, on his approach
to Wheeling, had observed below that place, the appearance of large
volumes of smoke in the atmosphere, which he rightly conjectured was
caused by the burning of Grave creek fort by hostile Indians, and upon
his arrival immediately communicated his suspicions to Col. Shepard,
but it was too late in the evening to reconnoitre. At a very early
hour the next morning, (1st day of September,) the commander of the
fort sent two of his men in a canoe, down the river, to ascertain the
cause of the smoke, and whether any Indians were in the neighborhood.
These two men were massacred by the Indians, (on their return as it
was supposed) at the mouth of Wheeling creek, a few hundred yards
below the fort. In the mean time, an Irish servant and a negro man had
also been sent out to reconnoitre in the immediate vicinity. The
Irishman was decoyed, seized, and killed by the Indians, but the negro
was permitted to escape, who, on his return, gave the first alarm of
the actual approach of the Indians. Capt. Ogle, on the receipt of this
intelligence, accompanied by 15 or 16 of the garrison, leaving but 12
or 13 in the fort, immediately proceeded towards the mouth of the
creek, in pursuit of the savages. The Indians were lying in ambush,
and permitted the captain and his devoted followers to advance almost
to the creek, when a brisk and most deadly fire was opened upon them;
they fought bravely--desperately; but overpowered by the number of the
enemy, were, all except the captain and two others, killed and
scalped.

Upon hearing the firing at the creek, Rodgers, Biggs and Lemons, left
the fort to join their comrades, but the work of death was over, their
comrades slaughtered, and the triumphant enemy with a horrid yell,
were rapidly advancing upon the fort. The three were fired upon and
compelled {357} to return. On their arrival at the gate of the fort,
so near were the savages, that it was not without the most imminent
danger that it was opened for their admission. A general attack was
then immediately made on the fort by the whole body of the Indians,
consisting of about 500 men, commanded by the infamous Simon Girty.
The grand assault was from the east side, under cover of a paled
garden, and a few half faced cabins within 40 or 50 yards of the fort,
of which they took possession, and from whence a brisk fire was kept
up until a late hour at night. During the engagement, the Indians
sustained great injury from the bursting of a maple log, which they
had bored like a cannon, and charged to fire upon the fort.

The little garrison of twelve sustained this protracted siege, from
about 7 o'clock in the morning until 10 or 11 o'clock at night, when
the savages were finally repulsed and obliged to retreat, without
having killed or wounded a single individual in the fort. The loss on
the part of the Indians was variously estimated from twenty to one
hundred, but their dead were principally carried off or concealed, and
a conjecture of the number of the killed, could only be formed from
the great appearance of blood, which was observable for many days
after the battle. The day was fair, and the most of the garrison were
called "sharp shooters," all of whom had a great number of "fair
shots:" it is therefore not improbable that some 30 or 40 of the enemy
were killed, and perhaps many more; for there was a continued firing
during the whole time of the engagement. Every man did his duty, and
all were entitled to an equal meed of praise and thanks from the
commander. But our informant particularly distinguished one person,
who, he said, contributed more to the successful termination of the
issue than any other. This was Mrs. Zane, wife of Ebenezer, and mother
of the late Noah Zane, Esq., who rendered much actual service to the
men, by running bullets, cutting patches, making cartridges, and
hurrying from post to post, cheering and encouraging by her presence,
exhortations and assistance, the sometimes almost exhausted efforts of
the brave defenders of the fort. By her example, zeal and presence of
mind, much assistance was also afforded, by a number of the other
"blessed women" in the fort, (as our informant termed them.) A rapid
fire was continued from the fort, from the commencement of the
assault, until the Indians retired. Their rifles were used until they
become too much heated to handle, when they were obliged to exchange
them for muskets, which were fortunately found in the magazine. This
more than Spartan band of patriots, had no time to take any sustenance
from Sunday, the last day of August, until the 2d September, after the
retreat of the Indians.

When it is considered that the Indians were led to the attack by the
noted Simon Girty, a man who had much experience in the art of savage
warfare, that he mustered more than 500 veteran warriors, and that the
fort was defended by 12, and those chiefly old men and boys; the
successful and glorious defence of the fort, by that little band of
western pioneers; their names will richly merit a place in the page of
history, with the most renowned heroes of the "olden time."

We much regret, that from a want of acquaintance with the localities
of the place, as well as from other circumstances, we have been unable
to do full justice to this subject; but we are not without a hope,
that some more experienced pen will take a hint from these crude
remarks, and redeem from oblivion this memorable event.

The Editor of the New York Evening Star is so well known and so highly
estimated as a political writer, that we believe there is no party
which does not feel the stronger for his friendship--or does not
experience some dread from his opposition. His genius, however, does
not exclusively delight in the _carte and tierce_ of political strife.
He has an infinite fund of strong common sense and racy humor, and
withal an uncommon power of description, which he employs with great
effect in hitting off the manners of the age, and rebuking those
pernicious innovations which are making such sad havoc with our
antient simplicity. In the following article, he depicts with
admirable force the evil consequences which, in our large cities
especially, are likely to flow from an unrestrained indulgence in the
follies and extravagancies of fashion.

FASHIONABLE PARTIES AND LATE HOURS.

BY M. M. NOAH.

We are killing ourselves in this country by inches, and that for a
tall man or an amazonian woman, is a dreadful reflection. In sooth,
our late hours break in terribly on real comfort, sound health, and
that refreshing sleep which "seals up the eyelids" in calm and soft
repose, and ministers to our real enjoyments. We marvel why _fashion_,
instead of being represented in bewitching and attractive colors, is
not drawn with a Medusa's head, fiery eyes and snaky crest--or, under
the silken cowl and wreaths of roses, a skeleton head peeping out as a
warning--a caution in time--a _memento mori_. In this country we eat
and dance ourselves to death with much more rapidity than they do at
the Sandwich Islands.

I met a friend on the _pave_ last week, who said, "Will you come to
our party to-morrow night?" "A party? How? Comfortable dish of tea,
game of whist, glass of whiskey-punch, and a sandwich, eh." "Oh, no--a
real tearer--a regular turnout--been preparing a fortnight. I must
give a couple every year for the sake of the world you know." "The
world, ha! Well, I'll come, and if I don't, you won't miss me in the
squeeze. Tell {358} me, for old acquaintance sake, how much will the
party cost?" "Why, about fifteen hundred dollars." "Fifteen hundred
dollars! Prodigious! How many charming _tertulias_ in Spain,
_converzaziones_ in Italy, and _soirees_ in France, would fifteen
hundred dollars procure?--and all this sum swallowed up in one dancing
frolic!"

I determined to go, and a friend promised to call for me in his
carriage. I was ready at seven, and sat quietly until nine--half past
nine--ten; when, just as I was ringing for my slippers, and preparing,
as Monsieur Morbleu says, for my night-caps, _rat-tat-tat_ goes the
coachman, and in walked my friend--pumps and tight pants on--white
gloves and perfumed handkerchief. "So, sir, a pretty time you have
called for me; why I have been ready since seven o'clock." "Seven
o'clock! why bless you, the company only begin to assemble at ten; and
even now we are rather early." "Early, do you call it? Go out to spend
the evening at half past ten o'clock! Well, well, I suppose we must
not be out of the fashion--so come along."

Our carriage rattled up one of the principal streets, and a glare of
light was showered in all directions from the house. We fell in behind
a range of coaches, and had to wait until our turn, and found, on
alighting, a retinue of yellow servants to usher us in the mansion; to
take our coats, hats, and canes, and prepare us in form for the
_entree_. Every thing was elegant--gayety, fashion, and pleasure
reigned triumphant; beauty, in resplendent beams, shed its halo over
the scene; plenty, from its golden horn, was poured forth in all
directions; music, and the giddy dance, were kept up with unabated
vigor, until the russet morn had nearly flickered the east. I got
home; tossed and tumbled for two or three hours in bed, and then rose
for the duties of the day.

Having occasion to call on an old gentleman about twelve o'clock, I
found him in his parlor, with the breakfast table before him. "What,
not breakfasted yet?" "O yes, long ago--this is for my daughters, who
came from the party about three o'clock, and are not yet up." In a few
minutes the young ladies entered; but oh, how altered!--where were the
bounding step and elastic gait--the brilliant eye, the jocund
smile--the silken attire--the well-dressed hair, and jewelled form of
last night's entertainment? They were pallid and exhausted--their eye,
their hair, their dress, all _en dishabille_--both with a hectic
cough--both looking as wo-begone and spiritless as if they had just
escaped from the siege of Troy.--"Have you slept well, girls?" said
the anxious parent. "Not a wink, father--we tossed and tumbled and
worried for several hours, but not a wink of sleep--oh, my head, my
head--and oh, my bones, my bones." "Probably your restlessness arose
from eating too heartily at supper."--"No such thing, father--why, I
only ate a little chicken salad, a wing of turkey, some jelly, a few
macaronies and mottoes, a dozen pickled oysters, and drank a few
glasses of champaign, that's all--excepting a sponge cake or two, and
a glass of lemonade, during dancing, and a little ginger sweetmeats.
There's Lizzy ate twice as much as I did." "No I didn't, but I was
more select, father; a few slices of cold tongue--a piece of a-la-mode
beef--three pickles--a few olives, some _blanc mange_--two plates of
ice-cream--a little floating island--some truffles and bons bons--and
oranges, plum-cake, and custard during the evening. I'm sure I don't
care much for solids." "And did you dance after supper?" "To be sure
we did; one cotillion, one contra dance, the mazourka and a
gallopade." The murder's out! no wonder at head-aches, and bone-aches,
and heart-aches, and sleepless hours, after so much eating; and then
dancing on so much eating--churning these singular masses of food and
contradictory condiments in a delicate female stomach, with scarcely
sufficient gastric juice to digest the wing of a pheasant.--That's the
way our girls kill themselves prematurely; that's the cause of our
heavy weekly lists of interments; of the many cases of consumption,
uncharitably carried to the credit of our climate. Alas! how many
charming women are hurried to the grave by carelessness; by the
bewitching attractions of fashion; by keeping late hours; by thin
clothing, and by eating too much! The observation made by strangers
is, "how pale and thin your ladies are!" Why will they not have
resolution enough to discard these seducing and destructive
allurements; why not enjoy life soberly, discreetly, prudently?

What can be more agonizing to true affection than to see the girl
nourished with tenderness in infancy; amiable, intelligent, and
accomplished, gradually sinking into the grave ere she reaches the age
of womanhood? The pride and delight of fond parents and numerous
friends, the rose which early bloomed, daily fading in the brilliancy
of its colors, and drooping like the lily of the vale? To see the eye,
once so brilliant, sunken, heavy, and dull; and the lips, once so
ruby, now thin and pallid? To witness the being so beloved, so
cherished, the victim of slow, but unerring disease, not
constitutional, but brought on by neglect, by fashion? To see the
vision recede from the sight, step by step, until evening frowns upon
its setting glory, and the tomb closes upon it forever!

PRIDE, ENVY, AND HATE.

If you want enemies, excel others; if you want friends, let others
excel you. There is a diabolical trio, existing in the _natural_ man,
implacable, inextinguishable, co-operative, and consentaneous, Pride,
Envy, and Hate. Pride, that makes us fancy we deserve all the goods
that others possess; Envy, that some should be admired, while we are
overlooked; and Hate, because all that is bestowed on others,
diminishes the sum that we think due to ourselves.--[_Lacon_.

{359}

We extract the following eloquent and pathetic narrative from the
pages of the "Western Monthly Magazine," published at Cincinnati,
Ohio; and we invite our readers, especially those of the "softer sex,"
to give it a perusal.

THE VILLAGE PASTOR'S WIFE.

What impels me to take up my pen, compose myself to the act of
writing, and begin the record of feelings and events which will
inevitably throw a shadow over the character which too partial and
misjudging affection once beheld shining with reflected lustre? I know
not--but it seems to me, as if a divine voice whispered from the
boughs that wave by my window, occasionally intercepting the sun's
rays that now fall obliquely on my paper, saying, that if I live for
memory, I must not live in vain--and that, perchance, when I, too, lie
beneath the willow that hangs over _his_ grave, unconscious of its
melancholy waving, a deep moral may be found in these pages, short and
simple as they may be. Then be it so. It is humiliating to dwell on
past errors--but I should rather welcome the humiliation, if it can be
any expiation for my blindness, my folly--no! such expressions are too
weak--I should say, my madness, my sin, my hard-hearted guilt.

It is unnecessary to dwell on my juvenile years. Though dependent on
the bounty of an uncle, who had a large family of his own to support,
every wish which vanity could suggest, was indulged as soon as
expressed. I never knew a kinder, more hospitable, uncalculating
being, than my uncle. If his unsparing generosity had not experienced
a counteracting influence in the vigilant economy of my aunt, he would
long since have been a bankrupt. She was never unkind to me; for I
believe she was conscientious, and she had loved my mother tenderly. I
was the orphan legacy of that mother, and consequently a sacred trust.
I was fed and clothed like my wealthier cousins; educated at the same
schools; ushered into the same fashionable society; where I learned
that awkwardness was considered the only unpardonable offence, and
that almost any thing might be said and done, provided it was said and
done gracefully. From the time of our first introduction into what is
called the world, I gradually lost ground in the affections of my
aunt, for I unfortunately eclipsed my elder cousins in those outer
gifts of nature and those acquired graces of manner, which, however
valueless, when unaccompanied by inward worth, have always exercised a
prevailing, an irresistible influence in society. I never exactly knew
why, but I was the favorite of my uncle, who seemed to love me better
than even his own daughters, and he rejoiced at the admiration I
excited, though often purchased at their expense. Perhaps the secret
was this. They were of a cold temperament; mine was ardent, and
whatever I loved, I loved without reserve, and expressed my affection
with characteristic warmth and enthusiasm. I loved my indulgent uncle
with all the fervor of which such a nature, made vain and selfish by
education, is capable. Often, after returning from an evening party,
my heart throbbing high with the delight of gratified vanity, when he
would draw me towards him and tell me--with most injudicious fondness,
it is true--that I was a thousand times prettier than the flowers I
wore, more sparkling than the jewels, and that I ought to marry a
prince or a nabob, I exulted more in his praise, than in the
flatteries that were still tingling in my ears. Even my aunt's
coolness was a grateful tribute to my self-love--for was it not
occasioned by my transcendency over her less gifted daughters?

But why do I linger on the threshold of events, which, simple in
themselves, stamped my destiny--for time, yea, and for eternity.

It was during a homeward journey, with my uncle, I first met him, who
afterwards became my husband. My whole head becomes sick and my whole
heart faint, as I think what I might have been, and what I am. But I
must forbear. If I am compelled at times to lay aside my pen, overcome
with agony and remorse, let me pause till I can go on, with a steady
hand, and a calmer brain.

Our carriage broke down--it was a common accident--a young gentleman
on horseback, who seemed like ourselves a traveller, came up to our
assistance. He dismounted, proffered every assistance in his power,
and accompanied us to the inn, which fortunately was not far distant,
for my uncle was severely injured, and walked with difficulty, though
supported by the stranger's arm and my own. I cannot define the
feeling, but from the moment I beheld him, my spirit was troubled
within me. I saw, at once, that he was of a different order of beings
from those I had been accustomed to associate with; and there was
something in the heavenly composure of his countenance and gentle
dignity of manner, that rebuked my restless desire for admiration and
love of display. I never heard any earthly sound so sweet as his
voice. Invisible communion with angels could alone give such tones to
the human voice. At first, I felt a strange awe in his presence, and
forgot those artificial graces, for which I had been too much admired.
Without meaning to play the part of a hypocrite, my real disposition
was completely concealed. During the three days we were detained, he
remained with us; and aloof from all temptation to folly, the best
traits of my character were called into exercise. On the morning of
our departure, as my uncle was expressing his gratitude for his
kindness, and his hope of meeting him in town, he answered--and it was
not without emotion--'I fear our paths diverge too much, to allow that
hope. Mine is a lowly one, but I trust I shall find it blest.' I {360}
then, for the first time learned that he was a minister--the humble
pastor of a country village. My heart died within me. That this
graceful and uncommonly interesting young man should be nothing more
than an obscure village preacher--it was too mortifying. All my bright
visions of conquest faded away. 'We can never be any thing to each
other,' thought I. Yet as I again turned towards him, and saw his
usually calm eye fixed on me with an expression of deep anxiety, I
felt a conviction that I might be all the world to him. He was
watching the effect of his communication, and the glow of excited
vanity that suffused my cheek was supposed to have its origin from a
purer source. I was determined to enjoy the full glory of my conquest.
When my uncle warmly urged him to accompany us home, and sojourn with
us a few days, I backed the invitation with all the eloquence my
countenance was capable of expressing. Vain and selfish being that I
was--I might have known that we differed from each other as much as
the rays of the morning star from the artificial glare of the
skyrocket. _He_ drew his light from the fountain of living glory, _I_
from the decaying fires of earth.

The invitation was accepted--and before that short visit was
concluded, so great was the influence he acquired over me, while _I_
was only seeking to gain the ascendancy over _his_ affections, that I
felt willing to give up the luxury and fashion that surrounded me, for
the sweet and quiet hermitage he described, provided the sacrifice
were required. I never once thought of the duties that would devolve
upon me, the solemn responsibilities of my new situation. It is one of
the mysteries of Providence, how such a being as myself could ever
have won a heart like his. He saw the sunbeam playing on the surface,
and thought that all was fair beneath. I did love him; but my love was
a passion, not a principle. I was captivated by the heavenly graces of
his manner, but was incapable of comprehending the source whence those
graces were derived.

My uncle would gladly have seen me established in a style more
congenial to my prevailing taste, but gave his consent, as he said, on
the score of his surpassing merit. My aunt was evidently more than
willing to have me married, while my cousins rallied me, for falling
in love with a country parson.

We were married. I accompanied him to the beautiful village of ----. I
became mistress of the parsonage. Never shall I forget the moment when
I first entered this avenue, shaded by majestic elms; beheld these
low, white walls, festooned with redolent vines; and heard the voice,
which was then the music of my life, welcome me here, as Heaven's best
and loveliest gift. How happy--how blest I might have been! and I
_was_ happy for awhile. His benign glance and approving smile were,
for a short time, an equivalent for the gaze of admiration and strains
of flattery to which I had been accustomed. I even tried, in some
measure, to conform to his habits and tastes, and to cultivate the
good will of the plebians and rustics who constituted a great portion
of his parish. But the mind, unsupported by principle, is incapable of
any steady exertion. Mine gradually wearied of the effort of assuming
virtues, to which it had no legitimate claim. The fervor of feeling
which had given a bluer tint to the sky and a fairer hue to the
flower, insensibly faded. I began to perceive defects in every object,
and to wonder at the blindness which formerly overlooked them. I still
loved my husband; but the longer I lived with him, the more his
character soared above the reach of mine. I could not comprehend, how
one could be endowed with such brilliant talents and winning graces,
and not wish for the admiration of the world. I was vexed with him for
his meekness and humility, and would gladly have mingled, if I could,
the base alloy of earthly ambition with his holy aspirations after
heaven. I was even jealous--I almost tremble while I write it--of the
God he worshipped. I could not bear the thought, that I held a second
place in his affections--though second only to the great and glorious
Creator. Continually called from my side to the chamber of the sick,
the couch of the dying, the dwelling of the poor and ignorant, I in
vain sought to fill up the widening vacuum left, by becoming
interested in the duties of my station. I could not do it. They became
every day more irksome to me. The discontent I was cherishing, became
more and more visible, till the mild and anxious eye of my husband
vainly looked for the joyous smile that used to welcome his return.

It is true, there were many things I was obliged to tolerate, which
must inevitably be distasteful to one, educated with such false
refinement as I have been. But I never reflected they must be as
opposed to my husband's tastes as my own, and that christian principle
alone led him to the endurance of them. Instead of appreciating his
angelic patience and forbearance, I blamed him for not lavishing more
sympathy on me for trials which, though sometimes ludicrous in
themselves, are painful from the strength of association.

The former minister of the village left a maiden sister as a kind of
legacy to his congregation. My husband had been a protegee and pupil
of the good man, who, on his death-bed, bequeathed his people to the
charge of this son of his adoption, and _him_, with equal tenderness
and solemnity, to the care of his venerable sister. She became a
fixture in the parsonage, and to me a perpetual and increasing
torment. The first month of our marriage, she was absent, visiting
some of her seventh cousins in a neighboring town. I do not wish to
{361} exculpate myself from blame; but, if ever there was a thorn in
human flesh, I believe I had found it in this inquisitive,
gratuitously advising woman. I, who had always lived among roses,
without thinking of briars, was doomed to feel this thorn, daily,
hourly, goading me; and was constrained to conceal as much as possible
the irritation she caused, because my husband treated her with as much
respect as if she were an empress. I thought Mr. L---- was wrong in
this. Owing to the deep placidity of his own disposition, he could not
realize what a trial such a companion was to a mercurial, indulged,
self-willed being as myself. Nature has gifted me with an exquisite
ear for music, and a discord always 'wakes the nerve where agony is
born.' Poor aunt Debby had a perfect mania for singing, and she would
sit and sing for hours together, old fashioned ballads and hymns of
surprising length--scarcely pausing to take breath. I have heard aged
people sing the songs of Zion, when there was most touching melody in
their tones; and some of the warmest feelings of devotion I ever
experienced, were awakened by these solemn, trembling notes. But aunt
Debby's voice was full of indescribable ramifications, each a separate
discord--a sharp sour voice, indicative of the natural temper of the
owner. One Sunday morning, after she had been screeching one of Dr.
Watts' hymns, of about a hundred verses, she left me to prepare for
church. When we met, after finishing our separate toilettes, she began
her animadversions on my dress, as being too gay for a minister's
wife. I denied the charge; for though made in the redundance of
fashion, it was of unadorned white. 'But what,' said she, disfiguring
the muslin folds with her awkward fingers, 'what is the use of all
these fandangles of lace? They are nothing but Satan's devices to lead
astray silly women, whose minds are running after finery.' All this I
might have borne with silent contempt, for it came from aunt Debby;
but when she brought the authority of a Mrs. Deacon and a Mrs. Doelan
of the parish to prove that she was not the only one who found fault
with the fashion of my attire, the indignant spirit broke its bounds;
deference for age was forgotten in the excitement of the moment, and
the concentrated irritation of weeks burst forth. I called her an
impertinent, morose old maid, and declared that one or the other of us
should leave the parsonage. In the midst of the paroxysm, my husband
entered--the calm of heaven on his brow. He had just left his closet,
where he had been to seek the divine manna for the pilgrims it was his
task to guide through the wilderness of life. He looked from one to
the other, in grief and amazement. Aunt Debby had seated herself on
his entrance, and began to rock herself backward and forward, and to
sigh and groan--saying it was a hard thing to be called such hard
names at her time of life, &c. I stood, my cheeks glowing with anger,
and my heart violently palpitating with the sudden effort at
self-control. He approached me, took my hand, and said, 'My dear
Mary!' There was affection in his tone, but there was upbraiding,
also; and drawing away my hand, I wept in bitterness of spirit. As
soon as I could summon sufficient steadiness of voice, I told him the
cause of my resentment, and declared, that I would never again enter a
place, where I was exposed to ridicule and censure, and from those,
too, so immeasurably my inferiors in birth and education. 'Dearest
Mary!' exclaimed he, turning pale from agitation, 'you cannot mean
what you say. Let not such trifles as these, mar the peace of this
holy day. I grieve that your feelings should have been wounded; but
what matters it what the world says of our outward apparel, if our
souls are clothed with those robes of holiness, which make us lovely
in our Maker's eyes? Let us go together to the temple of Him, whose
last legacy to man was _peace_.' Though the bell was ringing its last
notes, and though I saw him so painfully disturbed, I still resisted
the appeal, and repeated my rash asseveration. The bell had pealed its
latest summons, and was no longer heard. 'Mary, must I go alone?' His
hand was on the latch--there was a burning flush on his cheek, such as
I had never seen before. My pride would have yielded--my conscience
convicted me of wrong--I would have acknowledged my rashness, had not
aunt Debby, whom I thought born to be my evil spirit, risen with a
long-drawn sigh, and taken his arm, preparatory to accompany him.
'No,' said I, 'you will not be alone. You need not wait for me. In
aunt Debby's company, you cannot regret mine.'

Surely my heart must have been steeled, like Pharaoh's, for some
divine purpose, or I never could have resisted the mute anguish of his
glance, as he closed the door on this cold and unmerited taunt. What
hours of wretchedness I passed in the solitude of my chamber. I
magnified my sufferings into those of martyrdom, and accused Mr. L----
of not preparing me for the trials of my new situation. Yet, even
while I reproached him in my heart, I was conscious of my injustice,
and felt that I did not suffer alone. It was the first time any other
than words of love and kindness had passed between us, and it seemed
to me, that a barrier was beginning to rise, that would separate us
forever. When we again met, I tried to retain the same cold manner and
averted countenance, but he came unaccompanied by my tormenter, and
looked so dejected and pale, my petulance and pride yielded to the
reign of better feelings. I had even the grace to make concessions,
which were received with such gratitude and feeling, I was melted into
goodness, transient, but sincere. Had aunt Debby remained from us, all
{362} might yet have been well; but after having visited awhile among
the parish, she returned; and her presence choked the blossoms of my
good resolutions. I thought she never forgave the offending epithet I
had given her in the moment of passion. It is far from my intention,
in delineating peculiarities like hers, to throw any opprobrium on
that class of females, who from their isolated and often unprotected
situation, are peculiarly susceptible to the shafts of unkindness or
ridicule. I have known those, whose influence seemed as diffusive as
the sunshine and gentle as the dew; at whose approach the ringlets of
childhood would be tossed gaily back, and the wan cheek of the aged
lighted up with joy; who had devoted the glow of their youth, and the
strength of their prime, to acts of filial piety and love, watching
the waning fires of life, as the vestal virgins the flame of the
altar. Round such beings as these, the beatitudes cluster; and yet the
ban of unfeeling levity is passed upon the maiden sisterhood. But I
wander from my path. It is not _her_ history I am writing, so much as
my own; which, however deficient in incident, is not without its moral
power.

I experienced one source of mortification, which I have not yet
mentioned; it may even seem too insignificant to be noticed, and yet
it was terribly grating to my aristocratic feelings. Some of our good
parishioners were in the habit of lavishing attentions, so repugnant
to me, that I did not hesitate to refuse them; which I afterwards
learned, gave great mortification and displeasure. I would willingly
accept a basket of fragrant strawberries, or any of the elegant
bounties of nature; but, when they offered such plebeian gifts as a
shoulder of pork or mutton, a sack of grain or potatoes, _I_
invariably returned my cold thanks and declined the honor. Is it
strange, that I should become to them an object of aversion, and that
they should draw comparisons, humbling to me, between their idolized
minister and his haughty bride?

My uncle and cousins made me a visit, not long after my rupture with
aunt Debby, which only served to render me more unhappy. My uncle
complained so much of my altered appearance, my faded bloom and
languid spirits, I saw that it gave exquisite pain to Mr. L----, while
my cousins, now in their day of power, amused themselves continually
with the old fashioned walls of the house, the obsolete style of the
furniture, and my humdrum mode of existence. Had I possessed one spark
of heavenly fire, I should have resented all this as an insult to him
whom I had solemnly vowed to love and honor. These old fashioned walls
should have been sacred in my eyes. They were twice hallowed--hallowed
by the recollections of departed excellence and the presence of living
holiness. Every leaf of the magnificent elms that overshadowed them,
should have been held sacred, for the breath of morning and evening
prayer had been daily wafted over them, up to the mercy-seat of
heaven.

I returned with my uncle to the metropolis. It is true, he protested
that he would not, could not leave me behind--and that change of scene
was absolutely necessary to the restoration of my bloom, and Mr. L----
gave his assent with apparent cheerfulness and composure. But I
knew--I felt that his heart bled at my willingness, my wish to be
absent from him, so soon after our marriage. He told me to consult my
own happiness, in the length of my visit, and that he would endeavor
to find a joy in solitude, in thinking of mine. 'Oh!' said one of my
cousins, with a loud laugh, 'you can never feel solitary, when aunt
Debby is'--

Behold me once more 'mid the scenes congenial to my soul--a gay
flower, sporting over the waves of fashion, thoughtless of the caverns
of death beneath. Again the voice of flattery fell meltingly on my
ear; and while listening to the siren, I forgot those mild,
admonishing accents, which were always breathing of heaven--or if I
remembered them at all, they came to my memory like the grave rebuke
of Milton's cherub--severe in their beauty. Yes, I did remember them
when I was alone; and there are hours when the gayest will feel
desolately alone. I thought of him in his neglected home; him, from
whom I was gradually alienating myself for his very perfections, and
accusing conscience avenged his rights. Oh! how miserable, how poor we
are, when unsupported by our own esteem! when we fear to commune with
our own hearts, and doubly tremble to bear them to the all-seeing eye
of our Maker! My husband often wrote me most affectionately. He did
not urge my return, but said, whenever I felt willing to exchange the
pleasures of the metropolis for the seclusion of the hermitage, his
arms and his heart were open to receive me. At length I received a
letter, which touched those chords, that yet vibrated to the tones of
nature and feeling. He seldom spoke of himself--but in this, he
mentioned having been very ill, though then convalescent. 'Your
presence, my Mary,' said he, 'would bring healing on its wings. I
fear, greatly fear, I have doomed you to unhappiness, by rashly
yielding to the influence of your beauty and winning manners, taking
advantage of your simplicity and inexperience, without reflecting how
unfitted you were, from natural disposition and early habits, to be a
fellow-laborer in so humble a portion of our Master's vineyard. Think
not, my beloved wife, I say this in reproach. No! 'tis in sorrow, in
repentance, in humiliation of spirit. I have been too selfish. I have
not shown sufficient sympathy for the trials and vexations to which,
for me, you have been exposed. I have asked to receive too much. I
have given back too little. Return then, my Mary; you were created for
nobler purposes than the beings who surround you. Let us begin {363}
life anew. Let us take each other by the hand as companions for
time--but pilgrims for eternity. Be it mine to guard, guide, and
sustain--yours, to console, to gild and comfort.' In a postscript, he
added:

'I am better now--a journey will restore me. I will soon be with you,
when I trust we will not again be parted.'

My heart was not of rock. It was moved--melted. I should have been
less than human, to have been untouched by a letter like this. All my
romantic love, but so recently chilled, returned; and I thought of his
image as that of an angel's. Ever impulsive, ever actuated by the
passion of the moment, I made the most fervent resolutions of
amendment, and panted for the hour when we should start for, together,
this immortal goal! Alas! how wavering were my purposes--how
ineffective my holy resolutions.

There was a numerous congregation gathered on the Sabbath morn, not in
the simple village church, but the vaulted walls of a city dome. A
stranger ascended the pulpit. Every eye was turned on him and none
wandered. He was pallid, as from recent indisposition; but there was a
flitting glow on his cheek, the herald of coming inspiration. There
was a divine simplicity, a sublime fervor, an abandonment of self, a
lifting up of the soul to heaven, an indescribable and spiritual
charm, pervading his manner, that was acknowledged by the breathless
attention of a crowded audience, composed of the wealth and fashion of
the metropolis. And I was there, the proudest, the happiest of the
throng. That gifted being was my husband. I was indemnified for all
past mortifications, and looked forward to bright years of felicity,
not in the narrow path we had heretofore travelled, but a wider, more
brilliant sphere. My imagination placed him at the head of that
admiring congregation; and I saw the lowly flock he had been lately
feeding, weeping, unpitied, between the porch and the altar.

Before we bade farewell to my uncle, I had abundant reason to believe
my vision would soon be realized. The church was then without a
pastor. No candidate had as yet appeared in whom their opinions or
affections were united. They were enthusiastic in their admiration of
Mr. L----, and protested against the obscurity of his location. With
such hopes gilding the future, I left the metropolis with a
cheerfulness and elasticity of spirits, which my husband hailed as a
surety for long years of domestic felicity. I would gladly linger here
awhile. I fear to go on. You have followed me so far with a kind of
complaisant interest, as a poor, vain, weak young creature, whose
native defects have been enhanced by education, and who has
unfortunately been placed in a sphere she is incapable of adorning.
The atmosphere is too pure, too rarified. Removed at once from the
valley of sin to the mount of holiness, I breathe with difficulty the
celestial air, and pant for more congenial regions. Must I proceed?
Your compassion will turn to detestation: yet I cannot withdraw from
the task I have imposed on myself. It is an expiatory one; and oh, may
it be received as such!

It was scarcely more than a week after our return. All had been peace
and sunshine: so resolved was I to be all that was lovely and amiable,
I even listened with apparent patience to aunt Debby's interminable
hymns, and heard some of her long stories, the seventy-seventh time,
without any manifest symptom of vexation. It was about sunset. We sat
together in the study, my husband and myself, watching the clouds as
they softly rolled towards the sinking sun, to dip their edges in his
golden beams. The boughs of the elms waved across the window, giving
us glimpses of the beautiful vale beyond, bounded by the blue outline
of the distant hills. Whether it was the warm light reflected on his
face, or the glow of the heart suffusing it, I know not, but I never
saw his usually pale features more radiantly lighted up than at that
moment. A letter was brought to him. I leaned over his shoulder while
he opened it. From the first line I understood its import: it was the
realization of my hopes. The offer was there made--more splendid, more
liberal than I had dared to anticipate. I did not speak: but with
cheeks burning and hands trembling with eagerness and joy, I waited
till he had perused it. He still continued silent. Almost indignant at
his calmness, I ejaculated his name in an impatient tone; when he
raised his eyes from the paper and fixed them on me. I read there the
death-blow of my hopes. They emitted no glance of triumph: there was
sorrow, regret, humility, and love--but I looked in vain for more. 'I
am sorry for this,' said he, 'for your sake, my dear Mary. It may
excite wishes, which can never be realized. No! let us be happy in the
lowlier sphere, in which an All-wise Being has marked my course. I
cannot deviate from it.' 'Cannot!' repeated I: 'say, rather, you will
not.' I could not articulate more. The possibility of a refusal on his
part had never occurred to me. I was thunderstruck. He saw my
emotion--and, losing all his composure, rose and crushed the letter in
his hand. 'I could not, if I would, accept this,' he cried; 'and, were
my own wishes to be alone consulted, I would not, were I free to act.
But it is not so. I am bound to this place, by a solemn promise, which
cannot be broken. Here, in this very house it was made, by the dying
bed of the righteous, who bequeathed the people he loved to _my_
charge--_me_, the orphan he had protected and reared. "Never leave
them, my son," said the expiring saint--"never leave the lambs of my
flock to be scattered on the mountains." {364} I pledged my word,
surrounded by the solemnities of death: yea, even while his soul was
taking its upward flight. It is recorded, and cannot be recalled.'

Did I feel the sacredness of the obligation he revealed? Did I
venerate the sanctity of his motives, and admit their authority? No!
Totally unprepared for such a bitter disappointment, when I seemed
touching the summit of all my wishes, I was maddened--reckless. I
upbraided him for having more regard to a dead guardian, who could no
longer be affected by his decision, than for a living wife. I
threatened to leave him to the obscurity in which he was born, and
return to the friends who loved me so much better than himself. Seeing
him turn deadly pale at this, and suddenly put his hand on his heart,
I thought I had discovered the spring to move his resolution, and
determined that I would not let it go. I moved towards the door,
thinking it best to leave him a short time to his own reflections,
assured that love must be victorious over conscience. He made a motion
as if to detain me, as I passed--then again pressed his hand on his
heart. That silent motion--never, never, can I forget it! 'Are you
resolved on this?' asked he, in a low, very hoarse tone of voice.
'Yes, if you persist in your refusal. I leave you to decide.' I went
into the next room. I heard him walk a few moments, as if agitated and
irresolute--then suddenly stop. I then heard a low, suppressed cough,
but to this he was always subject, when excited, and it caused no
emotion. Yet, after remaining alone for some time, I began to be
alarmed at the perfect stillness. A strange feeling of horror came
over me. I remembered the deadly paleness of his countenance, and the
cold dew gathered fast and thick on my brow. I recollected, too, that
he had told me of once having bled at the lungs, and of being
admonished to shun every predisposing cause to such a malady. Strange,
that after such an entire oblivion of every thing but self, these
reflections should have pressed upon me, with such power, at that
moment. I seemed suddenly gifted with second sight, and feared to
move, lest I should see the vision of my conscience embodied. At
length, aunt Debby opened the door, and for the first time, rejoicing
in her sight, _I_ entreated her to go into the library, with an
earnestness that appalled her. She did go--and her first sharp scream
drew me to her side. There, reclined upon the sofa, motionless,
lifeless--his face, white as a snow-drift, lay my husband; his
neck-cloth and vest, saturated with the blood that still flowed from
his lips. Yes, he lay there--lifeless, dead, dead! The wild shriek of
agony and remorse pierced not his unconscious ear. He was dead, and
_I_ was his murderer. The physician who was summoned, pronounced my
doom. From violent agitation of mind, a blood vessel had been broken,
and instant death had ensued. Weeks of frenzy, months of despair,
succeeded--of black despair. Nothing but an almighty arm thrown around
my naked soul, held me back from the brink of suicide. Could I have
believed in annihilation--and I wrestled with the powers of reason to
convince myself that in the grave, at least, I should find rest. I
prayed but for rest--I prayed for oblivion. Night and day the image of
that bleeding corse was before me. Night and day a voice was ringing
in my ears, '_Thou hast murdered him!_' My sufferings were so fearful
to witness, the at first compassionate neighbors deserted my pillow,
justifying themselves by the conviction that I merited all that I
endured.

My uncle and aunt came when they first heard the awful tidings, but
unable to support my raving distress, left me--after providing every
thing for my comfort--with the injunction that as soon as I should be
able to be removed, to be carried to their household. And whose kind,
unwearied hand smoothed my lonely pillow, and held my aching brow?
Who, when wounded reason resumed her empire, applied the balm of
Gilead and the oil of tenderness; led me to the feet of the divine
Physician, prayed with me and for me, wept with me and over me, nor
rested till she saw me clinging to the cross, in lowliness of spirit,
with the seal of the children of God in my forehead, and the joy of
salvation in my soul? It was aunt Debby. The harsh condemner of the
fashions of this world, the stern reprover of vanity and pride, the
uncompromising defender of godliness and truth; she who in my day of
prosperity was the cloud, in the night of sorrow was my light and
consolation. The rough bark was penetrated and the finer wood beneath
gave forth its fragrance. Oh! how often, as I have heard her, seated
by my bedside, explaining in a voice softened by kindness, the
mysteries of holiness, and repeating the promises of mercy, have I
wondered, that I, who had turned a deaf ear to the same truths, when
urged upon me with all an angel's eloquence, should listen with
reverence to accents from which I had heretofore turned in disgust.
Yet, at times, there seemed a dignity in her tones; her harsh features
would light up with an expression of devout ecstacy, and I marvelled
at the transforming power of christianity. Well may I marvel! I would
not now, for the diadem of the east, exchange this sequestered
hermitage for the halls of fashion--these hallowed shades for the
canopies of wealth--or the society of the once despised and hated aunt
Debby, for the companionship of flatterers. I see nothing but thorns
where once roses blushed. The voice of the charmer has lost its power,
though 'it charm never so wisely.' My heart lies buried in the tomb on
which the sunlight now solemnly glimmers--my hopes are fixed on those
regions from whence those rays depart. {365} Had he only lived to
forgive me--to know my penitence and agony--but the last words that
ever fell on his ear from my lips, were those of passion and
rebellion--the last glance I ever cast on him, was proud and
upbraiding.

The sketch is finished--memory overpowers me.

C. L. H.

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THOUGHTS ON AFFECTATION.

  _For the benefit of all whom they may concern_.

Affectation, as defined by Johnson, is "an artificial show, an
elaborate appearance, a false pretence,"--"affected, studied with
overmuch care, or with hypocritical appearance." The terms of this
definition are so revolting, that the justice of its ascription to any
individual, however felt, can scarcely be expected to be acknowledged
by such, because it too deeply wounds self-love, its natural parent.
Studiously disguised from ourselves, it is vainly believed to be so
from others. Let us compare the utmost advantages to be derived from
its adoption, with its peril and its loss. Do we really hope to
improve by it, those qualities, moral, intellectual or physical, with
which the bounty of nature has distinctively gifted us? Or do we hope
by "an artificial show, an elaborate appearance, a false pretence," to
obtain credit with others for attributes which do not belong to us?
and with the deceitful appearance of which, (_provided_ it deceive,)
we shall be basely content; thus falsely laboring for the attainment
of a vain shadow, when the same labor honestly bestowed, would give us
the real substance of all we ought to desire, viz: that solid
improvement of the heart and mind, around which ever play, as their
natural consequences, the most captivating of all graces--_simplicity
and truth_. Viewed simply as matter of taste, can any thing short of
its vilest corruption, its lowest degradation, induce a preference for
a clumsy counterfeit, a hand-maiden, who impudently usurping the place
of her mistress, presumes to play high life below stairs, over her
noble mistress, arrayed in her simple majesty? What monstrous
perversion can prompt us to turn the latter out of doors, and hug to
our bosoms so vile an intruder? With what bribes does she corrupt the
loyalty of her fair advocates? With what store of "quips and quirks,
and wreathed smiles?" with what rich caskets of bright gems,
counterfeit or stolen; with what rare graces, unmatched by those even
of her injured and abused mistress, which she boldly pronounces _fade
and obsolete_? Alas! how often do such meretricious lures prove
resistless to the infatuated fair one! Behold her arrayed in all the
paraphernalia of the despicable traitress,--henceforth sole promptress
of the drama in which she proposes to act a conspicuous part, and
which she vainly flatters herself to act with that last degree of art
which conceals it. Not reflecting that the whole history of dramatic
art affords few such adepts, she aspires at her very first debut, to
surpass even a Siddons. Discarding nature, and not sufficiently wedded
to art,--what becomes of her witchery? Her smiles are grimaces--her
laughter discord--her movements ridiculous antics. Her tones speak to
any thing but the heart;--all is foreign to nature,--whose modesty she
outrages and oversteps. She is mocked and  hissed by all the world
with whom she would cordially unite, were the actress other than her
own _dear_ self, whom alone self-love has blinded to herself. Hers is
the delusion of the silly ostrich, which in the concealment of his
head, thinks to elude pursuit. But granting her the utmost success of
long and carefully practised art--and that her airs and graces, her
soft _languishments_, killing glances, heavenly smiles, and soul
thrilling laughter, have all the witchery that such art can give, and
have called forth the applause of the crowd of vulgar admirers,--will
it compensate for the obvious disgust of those who have learned to
detect and to despise their empty and heartless display? Will it
compensate for the lowering of that proud self-esteem, which is the
bright reward of truth, and the best security of virtue? Would she
flourish in the empire of the heart, that bright dominion of her sex?
Would she, by her look, manner and words, inspire respect, confidence
and love? And shall each betray that they have been practised but to
deceive? Shall she hope to speak to the heart in tones which come not
from the heart? Shall she hope to engage interest for the subject of
her conversation, when full not of it but of herself? For what is it
that she would challenge the affections? For a being pure, single
hearted, and identical,--or for one whose very identity is almost lost
amidst the perpetually varying aspects and phases, under which, in her
inflated vanity, she pleases to exhibit herself. How shall our love
continue to pursue, and cling to that, of whose very form and essence
we have no abiding assurance? In the disruption of feeling produced by
such changes, we cannot but feel that we have almost lost the beloved
object, and exclaim in bitterness,--alas! she is no longer what I have
loved.

  "Why _affectation_,--why this mock grimace?
   Go silly thing, and hide that simp'ring face;
   Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait--
   All thy false mimic fooleries I hate:
   For thou art Folly's counterfeit--and she,
   Altho' right foolish, hath the better plea;--
   Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee.

  "Why that soft languish,--why that drawling tone?
   Art sick? art sleepy? Get thee hence; begone--
   I laugh at all thy pretty baby tears,
   Those flutterings, faintings, and unreal fears.

  "Can they deceive us? Can such mum'ries move?
   Touch us with pity, or inspire with love?
   No! affectation--vain is all thy art;
   Those eyes may wander over every part,
   They'll never find their passage to the heart."

Of all the diseases of the mind or the heart, affectation is the
fittest subject of ridicule,--since we are ridiculous not for what we
are, but for what we pretend to be. One of the arguments of the
apologists for this mean and pitiful vice is,--that the ordinary
conventional forms of politeness necessarily involve its commission,
and that all the tutored and refined graces of polished life, are but
its varying forms. Of the former, benevolence should be, if it be not
always, the genuine and captivating source; and if we have it not, the
assumption of a virtue which inculcates a sacrifice to the feelings of
others of our own, may find a sufficient apology, perhaps, for a
semblance to which society has learned to affix its value. With regard
to the latter, _la belle nature_ is loveliest when embellished, not
prostituted, by art, in its most vulgar form, viz: _affectation_.
{366} Neither wealth nor fashion can divest it of its character of
vulgarity. One should, indeed, be too proud to be _vain_, when vanity
leads to affectation,--which in its milder form, is the meanness of
asking credit for what we do not possess--and in its deeper die,
impels us to obtain it by dissimulation, hypocrisy and fraud. In its
approaches, few vices are more insidious. Having its germ in the
indiscriminate love of imitation natural to youth, vanity prompts an
eager exchange of our native attributes, for what we deem attractive
in others--and artifice is speedily resorted to, to give the
acquisition the semblance of an original possession. One cherished
appropriation is added to another, until the product becomes a
complete bundle of fancied charms and perfections, entailing, however,
all that anxiety of concealment, whose only tendency is to betray the
theft. If the original effects of affectation have been correctly
assigned, the mode and importance of prevention will sufficiently
suggest themselves. Let parents beware how they suffer their children
to be exposed to the contagion of this vile leprosy. Let them
carefully remove from them, as from a pestilence, those infected
subjects, whose resemblance they would shudder to see them. The
garment of affectation once put on, like that of the fated Nessus,
grows to the wearer. Should her complacency ever be so far alarmed as
to make her attempt to doff it, may vainly fancy she has succeeded, by
simply pulling it around, and exhibiting it under a different aspect.
Should she be so fortunate as to have the most invaluable, because the
rarest of friends,--one who will neither flatter, nor shrink from the
task of the faithful anatomy of her heart, and the development of the
fatal poison which lurks at its core, and be brought sincerely to
desire its removal,--let her, while she earnestly applies to it her
own rigid examinations, fervently invoke the aid of a mightier
physician, who cleansing her heart, will restore her to a place a
little less than the angels, of whom I am an

ADORER.

Our readers are apprised that the poet Willis has for some time past,
been employed in making the grand tour of Europe--a kind of literary
reconnoissance, not only for his own benefit and gratification, but
also for the purpose, we suppose, of enriching the columns of the New
York Mirror (of which periodical he is one of the Editors,) with the
various results of his observation. With many of his letters, or
"first impressions" as they are called, we acknowledge ourselves to
have been much delighted. His sketches of character and scenery are
generally very impressive, and whilst on the one hand he avoids the
too common fault of American writers,--a wearisome profusion of
words--he does not, on the other, disdain the graces of ornament, or
the beauties of amplification. It appears that he is at last peeping
into the concerns of our venerable ancestor, John Bull. We hope that
he will give a fair and candid account of the old gentleman's virtues,
as well as his faults and peculiarities, "nothing extenuating, nor
setting down aught in malice."--The following letter is very
interesting.

WILLIS'S IMPRESSIONS OF LONDON.

From the top of Shooter's Hill we got our first view of London--an
indistinct, architectural mass, extending all round to the horizon,
and half enveloped in a dim and lurid smoke. "That is St.
Paul's!--there is Westminster Abbey!--there is the Tower of London!"
What directions were these to follow for the first time with the eye!

From Blackheath, (seven or eight miles from the centre of London,) the
beautiful hedges disappeared, and it was one continued mass of
buildings. The houses were amazingly small, a kind of thing that would
do for an object in an imitation perspective park, but the soul of
neatness pervaded them. Trellises were nailed between the little
windows, roses quite overshadowed the low doors, a painted fence
enclosed the hand's breadth of grass-plot, and very, oh, _very_ sweet
faces bent over lapfuls of work beneath the snowy and looped-up
curtains. It was all home-like and amiable. There was an
_affectionateness_ in the mere outside of every one of them.

After crossing Waterloo bridge, it was busy work for the eyes. The
brilliant shops, the dense crowds of people, the absorbed air of every
passenger, the lovely women, the cries, the flying vehicles of every
description, passing with the most dangerous speed--accustomed as I am
to large cities, it quite made me giddy. We got into a "jarvey" at the
coach-office, and in half an hour I was in comfortable quarters, with
windows looking down St. James'-street, and the most interesting leaf
of my life to turn over. "Great emotions interfere little with the
mechanical operations of life," however, and I dressed and dined,
though it was my first hour in London.

I was sitting in the little parlor alone, over a fried sole and a
mutton cutlet, when the waiter came in, and pleading the crowded state
of the hotel, asked my permission to spread the other side of the
table for a clergyman. I have a kindly preference for the cloth, and
made not the slightest objection. Enter a fat man, with top-boots and
a hunting whip, rosy as Bacchus, and excessively out of breath with
mounting one flight of stairs. Beefsteak and potatoes, a pot of porter
and a bottle of sherry followed close on his heels. With a single
apology for the intrusion, the reverend gentleman fell to, and we ate
and drank for a while in true English silence.

"From Oxford, sir, I presume," he said at last, pushing back his
plate, with an air of satisfaction.

"No, I had never the pleasure of seeing Oxford."

"R-e-ally! may I take a glass of wine with you, sir?"

We got on swimmingly. He would not believe I had never been in England
till the day before, but his cordiality was no colder for that. We
exchanged port and sherry, and a most amicable understanding found its
way down with the wine. Our table was near the window, and a great
crowd began to collect at the corner of St. James'-street. It was the
king's birth-day, and the people were thronging to see the nobility
come in state from the royal _levee_. The show was less splendid than
the same thing in Rome or Vienna, but it excited far more of my
admiration. Gaudiness and tinsel were exchanged for plain richness and
perfect fitness in the carriages and harness, while the horses were
incomparably finer. My friend pointed out to me the different liveries
as they turned the corner into Piccadilly, the duke of Wellington's
among others. I looked hard to see his grace; but the two pale and
beautiful faces on the {367} back seat, carried nothing like the
military nose on the handles of the umbrellas.

The annual procession of mail coaches followed, and it was hardly less
brilliant. The drivers and guard in their bright red and gold
uniforms, the admirable horses driven so beautifully, the neat
harness, the exactness with which the room of each horse was
calculated, and the small space in which he worked, and the
compactness and contrivance of the coaches, formed altogether one of
the most interesting spectacles I have ever seen. My friend, the
clergyman, with whom I had walked out to see them pass, criticised the
different teams _con amore_, but in language which I did not always
understand. I asked him once for an explanation; but he looked rather
grave, and said something about "gammon," evidently quite sure that my
ignorance of London was a mere quiz.

We walked down Piccadilly, and turned into, beyond all comparison, the
most handsome street I ever saw. The Toledo of Naples, the Corso of
Rome, the Kohlmarket of Vienna, the Rue de la Paix and Boulevards of
Paris, have each impressed me strongly with their magnificence, but
they are really nothing to Regent-street. I had merely time to get a
glance at it before dark; but for breadth and convenience, for the
elegance and variety of the buildings, though all of the same scale
and material, and for the brilliancy and expensiveness of the shops,
it seemed to me quite absurd to compare it with any thing between New
York and Constantinople--Broadway and the Hippodrome included.

It is the custom for the king's tradesmen to illuminate their shops on
his majesty's birth-night, and the principal streets on our return
were in a blaze of light. The crowd was immense. None but the lower
order seemed abroad, and I cannot describe to you the effect on my
feelings on hearing my own language spoken by every man, woman and
child about me. It seemed a completely foreign country in every other
respect, different from what I had imagined, different from my own and
all that I had seen, and coming to it last, it seemed to me the
farthest off and strangest country of all--and yet the little sweep,
who went laughing through the crowd, spoke a language that I had heard
attempted in vain by thousands of educated people, and that I had
grown to consider next to unattainable by others, and almost useless
to myself. Still, it did not make me feel at home. Every thing else
about me was too new. It was like some mysterious change in my own
ears--a sudden power of comprehension, such as a man might feel who
was cured suddenly of deafness. You can scarcely enter into my
feelings till you have had the changes of French, Italian, German,
Greek, Turkish, Illyrian, and the mixtures and dialects of each, rung
upon your hearing almost exclusively, as I have for years. I wandered
about as if I were exercising some supernatural faculty in a dream.

A friend in Italy had kindly given me a letter to lady Blessington,
and with a strong curiosity to see this celebrated lady, I called on
her the second day after my arrival in London. It was "deep i' the
afternoon," but I had not yet learned the full meaning of "town
hours."--"Her ladyship had not come down to breakfast." I gave the
letter and my address to the powdered footman, and had scarce reached
home when a note arrived inviting me to call the same evening at ten.

In a long library lined alternately with splendidly-bound books and
mirrors, and with a deep window of the breadth of the room, opening
upon Hyde Park, I found lady Blessington alone. The picture to my eye,
as the door opened, was a very lovely one. A woman of remarkable
beauty half buried in a fauteuil of yellow satin, reading by a
magnificent lamp, suspended from the centre of the arched ceiling;
sofas, couches, ottomans and busts arranged in rather a crowded
sumptuousness through the room; enamel tables, covered with expensive
and elegant trifles in every corner, and a delicate white hand
relieved on the back of a book, to which the eye was attracted by the
blaze of its diamond rings. As the servant mentioned my name, she rose
and gave me her hand very cordially, and a gentleman entering
immediately after, she presented me to her son-in-law, Count D'Orsay,
the well-known Pelham of London, and certainly the most splendid
specimen of a man and a well-dressed one that I had ever seen. Tea was
brought in immediately, and conversation went swimmingly on.

Her ladyship's inquiries were principally about America, of which,
from long absence, I knew very little.--She was extremely curious to
know the degrees of reputation the present popular authors of England
enjoy among us, particularly Bulwer, Galt, and D'Israeli, (the author
of Vivian Grey.) "If you will come to-morrow night," she said, "you
will see Bulwer. I am delighted that he is popular in America. He is
envied and abused by all the literary men of London, for nothing, I
believe, except that he gets five hundred pounds for his books and
they fifty, and knowing this, he chooses to assume a pride, (some
people call it puppyism,) which is only the armor of a sensitive mind,
afraid of a wound. He is to his friends the most frank and gay
creature in the world, and open to boyishness with those who he thinks
understand and value him. He has a brother, Henry, who is as clever as
himself in a different vein, and is just now publishing a book on the
present state of France. Bulwer's wife, you know, is one of the most
beautiful women in London, and his house is the resort of both fashion
and talent. He is just now hard at work on a new book, the subject of
which is the last days of Pompeii. The hero is a Roman dandy, who
wastes himself in luxury, till this great catastrophe rouses him and
developes a character of the noblest capabilities.--Is Galt much
liked?"

I answered to the best of my knowledge that he was not. His life of
Byron was a stab at the dead body of the noble poet, which, for one, I
never could forgive, and his books were clever, but vulgar. He was
evidently not a gentleman in his mind. This was the opinion I had
formed in America, and I had never heard another.

"I am sorry for it," said Lady B., "for he is the dearest and best old
man in the world. I know him well.--He is just on the verge of the
grave, but comes to see me now and then, and if you had known how
shockingly Byron treated him, you would only wonder at his sparing his
memory so much."

"_Nil mortuis nisi bonum_," I thought, would have been a better
course. If he had reason to dislike him, he had better not have
written since he was dead.

"Perhaps--perhaps. But Galt has been all his life miserably poor, and
lived by his books. That must be his apology. Do you know the
D'Israeli in America?"

I assured her ladyship that the "Curiosities of {368} Literature," by
the father, and "Vivian Grey and Contarini Fleming," by the son, were
universally known.

"I am pleased at that, too, for I like them both. D'Israeli the elder
came here with his son the other night.--It would have delighted you
to see the old man's pride in him. He is very fond of him, and as he
was going away, he patted him on the head, and said to me 'take care
of him, lady Blessington, for my sake. He is a clever lad, but he
wants ballast. I am glad he has the honor to know you, for you will
check him sometimes when I am away!' D'Israeli, the elder, lives in
the country about twenty miles from town, and seldom comes up to
London. He is a very plain old man in his manners, as plain as his son
is the reverse. D'Israeli, the younger, is quite his own character of
Vivian Grey, crowded with talent, but very _soigne_ of his curls, and
a bit of a coxcomb. There is no reserve about him, however, and he is
the only _joyous_ dandy I ever saw."

I asked if the account I had seen in some American paper of a literary
celebration at Canandaigua, and the engraving of her ladyship's name
with some others upon a rock, was not a quiz.

"Oh, by no means. I was equally flattered and amused by the whole
affair. I have a great idea of taking a trip to America to see it.
Then the letter, commencing 'Most charming countess--for charming you
must be since you have written the conversations of Lord Byron'--oh,
it was quite delightful. I have shown it to every body. By the way, I
receive a great many letters from America, from people I never heard
of, written in the most extraordinary style of compliment, apparently
in perfectly good faith. I hardly know what to make of them."

I accounted for it by the perfect seclusion in which great numbers of
cultivated people live in our country, who, having neither intrigue,
nor fashion, nor twenty other things to occupy their minds as in
England, depend entirely upon books, and consider an author who has
given them pleasure as a friend. America, I said, has probably more
literary enthusiasts than any country in the world; and there are
thousands of romantic minds in the interior of New England, who know
perfectly every writer this side the water, and hold them all in
affectionate veneration, scarcely conceivable by a sophisticated
European. If it were not for such readers, literature would be the
most thankless of vocations. I, for one, would never write another
line.

"And do you think these are the people who write to me? If I could
think so, I should be exceedingly happy. People in England are refined
down to such heartlessness--criticism, private and public, is so
interested and so cold, that it is really delightful to know there is
a more generous tribunal. Indeed I think all our authors now are
beginning to write for America. We think already a great deal of your
praise or censure."

I asked if her ladyship had known many Americans.

"Not in London, but a great many abroad. I was with Lord Blessington
in his yacht at Naples, when the American fleet was lying there, eight
or ten years ago, and we were constantly on board your ships. I knew
Commodore Creighton and Captain Deacon extremely well, and liked them
particularly. They were with us, either on board the yacht or the
frigate every evening, and I remember very well the bands playing
always 'God save the King,' as we went up the side. Count D'Orsay
here, who spoke very little English at that time, had a great passion
for Yankee Doodle, and it was always played at his request."

The count, who still speaks the language with a very slight accent,
but with a choice of words that shows him to be a man of uncommon tact
and elegance of mind, inquired after several of the officers, whom I
have not the pleasure of knowing. He seemed to remember his visits to
the frigate with great pleasure. The conversation, after running upon
a variety of topics, which I could not with propriety put into a
letter for the public eye, turned very naturally upon Byron. I had
frequently seen the Countess Guiccioli on the continent, and I asked
lady Blessington if she knew her.

"No. We were at Pisa when they were living together, but though Lord
Blessington had the greatest curiosity to see her, Byron would never
permit it. 'She has a red head of her own,' said he, 'and don't like
to show it.' Byron treated the poor creature dreadfully ill. She
feared more than she loved him."

She had told me the same thing herself in Italy.

It would be impossible, of course, to make a full and fair record of a
conversation of some hours. I have only noted one or two topics which
I thought most likely to interest an American reader. During all this
long visit, however, my eyes were very busy in finishing for memory a
portrait of the celebrated and beautiful woman before me.

The portrait of lady Blessington in the Book of Beauties is not unlike
her, but it is still an unfavorable likeness. A picture by Sir Thomas
Lawrence hung opposite me, taken, perhaps, at the age of eighteen,
which is more like her, and as captivating a representation of a just
matured woman, full of loveliness and love, the kind of creature with
whose divine sweetness the gazer's heart aches, as ever was drawn in
the painter's most inspired hour. The original is now (she confessed
it very frankly) forty. She looks something on the sunny side of
thirty. Her person is full, but preserves all the fineness of an
admirable shape; her foot is not crowded in a satin slipper, for which
a Cinderella might long be looked for in vain, and her complexion, (an
unusually fair skin, with very dark hair and eyebrows,) is of even a
girlish delicacy and freshness. Her dress of blue satin, (if I am
describing her like a milliner, it is because I have here and there a
reader of the mirror in my eye who will be amused by it,) was cut low
and folded across her bosom, in a way to show to advantage the round
and sculpture-like curve and whiteness of a pair of exquisite
shoulders, while her hair dressed close to her head, and parted simply
on her forehead with a rich _ferronier_ of turquoise, enveloped in
clear outline a head with which it would be difficult to find a
fault.--Her features are regular, and her mouth, the most expressive
of them, has a ripe fulness and freedom of play, peculiar to the Irish
physiognomy, and expressive of the most unsuspicious good humour. Add
to all this a voice merry and sad by turns, but always musical, and
manners of the most unpretending elegance, yet even more remarkable
for their winning kindness, and you have the prominent traits of one
of the most lovely and fascinating women I have ever seen. Remembering
her talents and her rank, and the unenvying admiration she receives
from the world of fashion and genius, it {369} would be difficult to
reconcile her lot to the "doctrine of compensation."

There is one remark I may as well make here, with regard to the
personal descriptions and anecdotes with which my letters from England
will of course be filled. It is quite a different thing from
publishing such letters in London. America is much farther off from
England than England from America. You in New York read the
periodicals of this country, and know every thing that is done or
written here, as if you lived within the sound of Bow-bell. The
English, however, just know of our existence, and if they get a
general idea twice a year of our progress in politics, they are
comparatively well informed. Our periodical literature is never even
heard of. Of course, there can be no offence to the individuals
themselves in any thing which a visiter could write, calculated to
convey an idea of the person or manners of distinguished people to the
American public. I mention it lest, at first thought, I might seem to
have abused the hospitality or frankness of those on whom letters of
introduction have given me claims for civility.

N. P. W.

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MISS C----, ON HER COQUETRY.

  "Go to," and quit thy idle ways
    Thou winning little creature;
  A mind of nobler import plays,
    Around thy every feature.

  Why waste those powers, by heav'n design'd
    To win true hearts and wear them?
  To wreck the peace of half mankind,
    Who let thy arts ensnare them?

  In thy pursuit 'tis all the same,
    The simple, wise, or learned,
  Alike are fuel for thy flame--
    Are on thy altar burned.

  Nay, say not "no!"--within that hall,
    Hallowed by deeds of ages,
  I've seen thy _look_ around thee call
    Virginia's proudest sages.

  I've seen thee, 'midst the festive scene,
    With fools and fops in waiting,
  Essay to conquer things too mean,
    For pity, love, or hating.

  Go, quit it all--'tis weak--'tis vain--
    'Tis wicked--nay, 'tis _cruel_;
  Thy native truth alone can gain
    For thee, the brightest jewel.

B.

_Richmond, Feb. 1835_.

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WRITTEN FOR MISS M---- T----'S ALBUM.

    Mary, thou wert a lovely child!
  A sweeter cherub never smiled!
  Tho' since we have not often met,
  Those days I well remember yet;
  When, in thy sportiveness and glee,
  Thou wert a favorite with me;
  And told me, in thy frolic mood,
  The story of Red-riding-hood--
  In words I ne'er could understand--
  They seemed sweet sounds from fairy land.

    Time's changes numberless had passed
  O'er thee when I beheld thee last,
  Yet still I thought that I could trace
  The same expression in thy face;
  Only that then it was refined
  By the bright impress of the mind--
  For years had failed to steal away
  The artlessness of childhood's day.
  In nature's richest tints arrayed,
  Thy cheek the bloom of health displayed;
  And in its varying flush, I read
  All that thy lips had left unsaid.

    Mary, I thought thee lovely then--
  Oh! may'st thou long thy charms retain,
  And ne'er thine eyes their witness bear
  To any but compassion's tear!
  May life's fast flowing stream, for thee
  Roll smoothly bright, and buoyantly--
  Bearing thee calmly on thy way,
  To realms of ever-shining day;
  To regions of eternal peace,
  Where joys live on and sorrows cease.

E. A. S.

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written on the Pillar erecting by Mrs. Barlow, to the memory of her
husband, Minister of the United States at Paris.

    Where o'er the Polish desarts trackless way,
  Relentless Winter rules with savage sway,
  Where the shrill polar storms, as wild they blow,
  Seem to repeat some plaint of mortal woe;
  Far o'er the cheerless space, the traveller's eye
  Shall this recording pillar long descry,
  And give the sod a tear where Barlow lies,
  He who was simply great and nobly wise;
  Here led by Patriot zeal, he met his doom,
  And found amid the frozen wastes a tomb--
  Far from his native soil the Poet fell,
  Far from that Western World he sung so well.
  Nor she, so long beloved, nor she was nigh,
  To catch the dying look--the parting sigh!
  She, who, the hopeless anguish to beguile,
  In fond memorial rears the funeral pile;
  Whose widowed bosom, on Columbia's shore,
  Shall mourn the moments that return no more--
  While bending o'er the broad Atlantic wave,
  Sad fancy hovers on the distant grave.

H. M. WILLIAMS.

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND ME.

    Memory! within thy deepest cell
  A recollection glows;
  A burning thought--whose magic spell
  Can charm away my woes:
  It gushes o'er my troubled soul
  In lava streams of joy,
  Its talismanic power can roll
  The darkness from my sky; {370}
  It thrills my heart with ecstacy,
  That ever present thought!
  And, oh! it were too sweet to die
  With mind so richly fraught:
  And who is she for whom my heart,
  My feelings, harmonize?
  And who is she that has the art
  To chain my sympathies?

    Thine is the brightness of the eye,
  Which tide nor time can dim;
  Thy voice is softer than the sigh
  Of love, or angel's hymn;
  The rose is thine--but not the hue
  That fadeth with the morn--
  _Thy_ color's deeper when the dew
  Away from flower is gone--
  When all beside is bleak and drear
  Thy genial blushes rise,
  Like flow'rets of the northern year,
  That bloom amid the ice;
  But more than all, thy beauty brings
  In her imperial train;
  And more than all, thy magic flings
  To dim the dizzened brain.
  Yes! more than these--than rosy cheek--
  Is thy pure lofty mind;
  Thy nature calm, and soft and meek,
  With warmth of heart conjoined.
  These are the charms that deck _thee_ most,
  With radiance deep and pure,--
  These are the flow'rs that thou may'st boast,
  When beauty's hour is o'er:
  Thy world may fade--its glory past,--
  But in the sky afar,
  Thy mind will shine undimmed at last,
  A high and holy star!
  Go to the East--it is thy home--
  In nature like to thee;
  And while o'er beds of flowers you roam,
  No breeze, no bird so free--
  And while you breathe the Attar-Gul
  Of fragrant memory,
  Your heart with thrilling joy so full,
  It throbs like summer sea;
  Oh! then should thought of times gone by,
  With dew-drop dim thine ee,
  May, mid the breeze that dances nigh,
  A sigh be heard for me.

----.

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM.

  There is a form before me now,
  A spirit with a peerless brow,
  And locks of gold that lightly lie,
  Like clouds on the air of a sunset sky,
  And a glittering eye, whose beauty blends
    With more than mortal tenderness,
  As bright a ray as Heaven sends
    To light those orbs, where the pure and blest
    Are taking their eternal rest.
  Sweet Spirit! thou hast stolen afar
  From thy home in yonder crystal Star,
    That I might look on thee, and bless
    Thy kindness and thy loveliness.

    How oft against these prison bars
      I have leaned my head, and gazed for hours
    Upon the wonder-telling stars;
      Thinking, if in their sinless bowers
    The memory of this planet dim
    E'er mingles with thy blissful dream.
    And when low winds were stealing by,
    I have sometimes closed my weary eye;
  And fancied the sigh that was silently stealing
  Through my damp hair, was thine own breathing:
    Then would I lay me down upon
    This carpetless cold flinty stone,
    And pray--how long! how fervently!
    To look on thee once more and die.

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MOONLIGHT.

  The half-orbed Moon hangs out her silvery lamp,
    A liquid lustre pouring o'er the scene;
  While silk-winged zephyrs bathed in dewy damp
    Scarce move the pensile leaves, or break the calm serene.

  Radiant she rests upon the brow of night,
    The lucid diadem that crowns the sky;
  So softly beautiful, so mildly bright,
    She sways the ravished heart, and feeds the insatiate eye.

  In jocund _boyhood_ erst her magic face
    Impressed no feeling but a gentle joy;
  For moonlit memory knew not then to trace
    The saddened scenes of youth that later hopes alloy.

  When dawning _manhood_, fired by fancy's ray,
    Enrobed all nature in her rainbow hues,
  Then fond affection loved at eve to stray
    And, gazing on the Moon, with thrilling heart to muse.

  But when _advancing years_ have broke the ties
    Formed at the altar of the Moonlit Heaven,
  The thoughts of buried joys in sadness rise,
    And tear-drops glisten in the silent light of even.

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO HOPE.

  O! ever skilled to wear the form we love!
    To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart,
  Come gentle Hope! with one soft smile remove
    The wasting sadness of an aching heart.

  Thy voice benign, enchantress let me hear;
    Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom;
  That Fancy's radiance. Friendship's precious tear
    Shall brighten or shall soothe misfortune's gloom.

  But come not glowing with the dazzling ray,
    Which once, with dear illusions charmed my eye!
  O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way,
    The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die.
  Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
  That asks not Happiness, but longs for rest.

{371}

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO THE BIBLE.

      Go, Holy Book!
  Tell those whom many woes assail
      On thee to look;
  They'll find how weak it is to wail
  Though every earthly comfort fail.

      The Orphan's tear
  Go wipe away, and bid his heart
      To be of cheer;
  Heal thou his bosom's sorest smart,
  And gild with Hope misfortune's dart.

      Say thou to those,
  Shut out from every good on earth,
      Lost to repose,
  Baptized in sorrow at their birth,
  That worldly joy's of little worth.

      The poor soul tell,
  The poor, lone, wretched, friendless man,
      Though his heart swell,
  The ways of God, he must not scan--
  But trust the Universal plan.

      Tell poor disease,
  Bravely to bear the piercing pain;
      Eternal ease,
  Waits those who do not poorly plain,
  And worldly loss is heavenly gain.

      Tell those who sigh
  Over some friend's untimely doom,
      That all must die;
  He whom they saw laid in the tomb,
  In God's own paradise may bloom.

      Go, say to those
  Doom'd still to groan and till the soil,
      That soon repose
  Shall wipe away their drops of toil,
  And stay for aye their weary moil.

      Tell those who pine
  In the damp dungeon's dreary gloom,
      There yet will shine
  Through their poor melancholy dome,
  A light to guide their footsteps home.

      Tell the Pilgrim,
  When storms are blackening round his head,
      'Tis good for him;
  What though his thorn torn feet have bled,
  The heart's blood of his God was shed.

      The Mariner,
  Who bides the tempest's fiercest blaze,
      Bid not to fear;
  Though thunders hurtle in the air,
  The Launcher of the thunder's there.

      Tell those who fear
  Their sins can never be forgiven,
      To be of cheer--
  If they have call'd on God and striven,
  There's mercy for them still in Heaven.

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ON SEEING THE JUNCTION OF THE SUSQUEHANNA AND LACKAWANNA RIVERS.

  Rush on, broad stream, in thy power and pride,
  To claim the hand of thy promis'd bride,--
  She doth haste from the realm of the darken'd mine,
  To mingle her murmur'd vows with thine;
  Ye have met, ye have met,--and the shores prolong
  The liquid tone of your nuptial song.

  Methinks ye wed as the white man's son
  And the child of the Indian king have done;
  I saw thy bride as she strove in vain
  To cleanse her brow from the carbon stain,--
  But the dowry she brings, is so rich and true,
  That thy love must not shrink from the tawny hue.

  Her birth was rude in the mountain cell,
  And her infant freaks there are none to tell;
  The path of her beauty was wild and free,
  And in dell and forest she hid from thee,--
  But the time of her fond caprice is o'er,
  And she seeks to part from thy breast no more.

  Pass on, in the joy of your blended tide,
  Thro' the land where the blessed Miquon[1] died;
  No red man's blood with its guilty stain,
  Hath cried unto God, from that green domain;
  With the seeds of peace they have seen the soil
  Bring a harvest of wealth for their hour of toil.

  On,--on,--thro' the vale where the brave ones sleep,
  Where the waving foliage is rich and deep;
  I have look'd from the mountain and roam'd thro' the glen,
  To the beautiful homes of the western men,
  Yet naught in that realm of enchantment could see,
  So fair as the Vale of Wyoming to me.

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Conn._

[Footnote 1: The Indian name for William Penn.]

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HOPES AND SORROWS.

            The fitful beam
            Of the rippled fountain,
            The purple gleam
            Of the eve-lit mountain,
            The vanishing glance
            Of the meteors motion,
            The lights that dance
            On the darkened ocean,
  Are the faithful types of the _hopes_ that won us,
  While the dew of our youth still sparkled upon us.

            The arid sands
            Of the sun-dried river,
            The rock that stands
            Where lightnings quiver,
            The pitiless rush
            Of the earthquake's ruin,
            The startling hush
            Of the sea-storm brewing,
  Are as truly types of the _sorrows_ that found us,
  When the hopes that we nursed had all fled from around us.

{372}

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE WANDERER.

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD, M.D.

  Along the devious paths of life,
    A wild and wayward wand'rer, I,
  Have steered my bark mid passion's strife,
    And where destruction's pitfalls lie.

  When on a dark and rock-bound shore,
    My bark was wildly tempest tost,
  And o'er the breakers' sullen roar,
    Arose the fearful cry--_all's lost!_

  I shrunk not from the raging blast,
    But with a bold and reckless hand
  I steered her on, till she had past
    The stormy sea and rocky strand.

  A fierce enthusiast, I have dared
    To risk my all, upon one cast,--
  Have seen the danger,--nor have feared,
    What others looked upon aghast.

  Disease has laid her iron hand,
    With no weak grasp, my frame upon,
  But all her power could not withstand
    The spirit which has borne me on.

  A demon some have called me--yet,
    Admit that with my spirit blends,
  A feeling strangely to forget
    All thought of self, in aid of friends.

  A madman some have deemed me--and,
    In sooth, dark shadows often run
  Across my mind, as o'er the land,
    When darkest clouds obscure the sun.

  I often wish to die--and flee
    Far, far away from earth, that I
  May search the dim unknown, and see
    What wonders in its bosom lie.

  'Tis not because life has no charm,--
    I love the gay and laughing stream;
  I love the glowing sunshine warm;
    I love Old Luna's silvery beam.

  I love to gaze on maiden's eye,
    Though it has often been my bane;
  I love on courser swift to fly,
    Like arrow o'er the flowery plain.

  Yet still, my wayward soul will oft,
    Cherish the wish to pass that bound,
  Which spans this life, and seek aloft
    For bliss which here is never found.

  But now my lyre begins to fail
    I'll cease my lone and wand'ring song.
  Fearful lest with my idle wail,
    I linger o'er the chords too long.

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TRUE RICHES AND GLORY.

  For fortune's prize let others pant,
  And count the "yellow slave,"
  No joys can gathered jewels grant,
  No sickening sorrows save--
    But bustling and jostling
    To swell the treasured heap,
    It cloys us, annoys us,
    And leaves the _heart_ to weep.

  Let others climb the dizzy height
  Where glory shines afar,
  Alas! renown is but the light
  That decks the falling star.
    Still driving and striving
    To reach the radiant prize,
    We grasp it and clasp it,
    And in our touch it dies.

  But, oh! let mine the treasure be
  That social joys impart,
  And mine the glory, sympathy
  Beams on the feeling heart--
    Still soothing and smoothing
    The grief of friends distrest,
    And lending and spending,
    That others may be blest.

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DEATH OF THE MOTHERLESS.

"As the little one turned for the last time, his tenderly beaming eyes
on all around, they seemed to say 'Father!--she calls,--I
go,--farewell,--farewell.'"

  "Who calleth thee, my darling boy?
    What voice is in thine ear?"
  He answer'd not, but murmur'd on
    In words that none might hear;
  And still prolong'd the whispering tone,
    As if in fond reply
  To some dear object of delight
    That fix'd his dying eye.

  And then, with that confiding smile
    First by his Mother taught,
  When freely on her breast he laid
    His troubled infant thought,
  And meekly as a placid flower
    O'er which the dew-drops weep,
  He bow'd him on his painful bed,
    And slept the unbroken sleep.

  But if in yon immortal clime
    Where flows no parting tear,
  That root of earthly love may grow
    Which struck so deeply here,
  With what a tide of boundless bliss,
    A thrill of rapture wild,
  An angel mother in the skies,
    Must greet her cherub child.

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Conn._

{373}

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER EIGHTH.

Hotel des Invalides--Chamber of Deputies--Pont Louis 16th--Bridges of
Paris--The Pont Neuf.

PARIS, ----.

_My dear Jane:_

"Let them gild the dome of the Hotel des Invalides," said Napoleon to
an officer, who informed him that unless the war in Italy was
discontinued, there would certainly be a revolution in Paris. The
mandate was issued, the dome covered with the shining leaf, and the
minds of the people immediately turned from the operations of war, to
those of the artisans employed on the cupola of the military asylum.
Napoleon foresaw this, for well he knew the character of his subjects.
A mere trifle, having _novelty_ to recommend it, attracts their
notice, engages their attention, and forms the theme of their
conversation for a long while--at least, until another new bubble
arises. This we must own is a happy disposition, and better calculated
to render a nation contented and joyous, than the sober, phlegmatic
temperament of our Islanders.

Thus, my dear Jane, have I managed to describe to you in a very few
words--the dome of the Invalids and the character of the Parisians.
Knowing you hate prolixity, I rejoice at my success, and for the same
reason, proceed without delay, to give you an account of the Hospital
in question. It is a stately edifice, and was erected by Louis 14th,
for the reception of brave and disabled old soldiers. In approaching
it, you traverse a vast esplanade embellished with a fountain and
bordered by a grove of lofty trees, with seats beneath them, to tempt
the lounger and rest the weary; some of them were occupied by veterans
whom I readily imagined to be telling "how fields were won." We spent
three hours in their noble asylum, examining its spacious halls and
dormitories, its cleanly and well arranged kitchen, its library and
magnificent church, and its cabinet of architecture, which consists of
two large rooms, containing models of all the fortified towns in the
kingdom. These are most ingeniously and beautifully executed, and give
you a perfect idea of the places they represent. The council chamber
adjoins the library, and this and two other apartments are decorated
with the portraits of the deceased marshals of France; while the
originals are living, their likenesses are deposited in the "Salle des
Marécheaux," at the Palace of the Tuilleries. In the church we saw the
mausoleum of Turenne and that of the famous engineer Vauban.[1] The
interior of the dome and the ceilings of six chapels surrounding it
are richly painted, and the tesselated pavement, interspersed with
fleurs de lis and other symbols, is exceedingly beautiful. Three
hundred flags, the spoils of different nations, were once suspended
from the dome; but when the allies entered Paris the _invalid_
warriors tore them down to prevent their being retaken.

[Footnote 1: He was deformed, and being once asked by the king what
his enemies thought of his back,--"Sire, (he replied) they have never
seen it."]

From the Hotel des Invalides we rode to the Chamber of Deputies,
adjoining the palace of Bourbon, and situated on the southern bank of
the Seine, which separates it from the "Place Louis Quinze." It is a
handsome building, adorned with statues and corinthian columns, and
has a pleasant garden attached to it; the deputies hold their
assemblies in a semicircular hall, lighted from the top and
appropriately arranged. Monsieur de N---- was so kind and polite as to
send us tickets, and we have been twice to hear the debates; they were
very animated, though whenever a member wished to speak, he was
obliged to curb the _spirit that moved him_, until he could cross the
floor and mount a rostrum, which delay I should think is most
unfavorable to extemporary eloquence. Returning, we passed over the
Pont Louis Seize, and examined the twelve colossal figures of white
marble, that have recently been placed on it; they are masterly pieces
of sculpture, but too gigantic for the size of the bridge and their
approximation to you. There are no less than seventeen bridges athwart
the Seine, but not one of them can be compared to those of Waterloo,
Blackfriar's, or Westminster at London, as regards strength or
magnitude. The Pont Neuf is the largest; it is more than sixty feet
wide, and lined on each side with stalls of every description; the
passengers are continually beset by the importunities of the
shoe-black, the dog-shaver, the ballad singer, the bird seller, the
fruiterer, the pedler, the vender of second-hand books, and various
other petty dealers. Good night, dear sister. My paper and candle warn
me to conclude, which I fear you will not regret.

LEONTINE.

LETTER NINTH.

Arrival of friends--Voyage from London to Calais--Route from Calais to
Paris--Levee at the Minister's of the Marine--Expiatory Chapel.

PARIS, ----.

_My dear Jane:_

We were agreeably surprised the day before yesterday, while at dinner,
by the arrival of the Danvilles, the American family with whom we were
so charmed at Bath last summer. Leonora is as likely as ever, and
delighted at the idea of spending the fall and winter here; she
expects too, to be joined by her cousin Marcello, of whom we have
heard her speak with such affection and admiration. She has been so
good as to let me read her journal, and I have obtained her permission
to transcribe a part of it for your perusal. It concerns the journey
from Calais to Paris, and as I have given you a sketch of that from
Havre here, this will enable you to compare the two routes. I dare say
you will like, also, to read her observations about the Thames and our
steam boats. She writes thus:

"Soon after leaving London, the Thames quite astonished me. I had no
idea it was so considerable a river. For many miles it is broad and
winding, and each shore presents fine scenery. We had a good view of
several noted towns, and remarked the superb hospital at Greenwich and
the royal dock yard at Woolwich, where ships of war are made. At
Gravesend we passed two vessels transporting convicts to Botany Bay,
and I regretted to observe that the women were more numerous than the
men.

"The motion of the English steam boats is still more disagreeable than
that of ours, but their machinery is less noisy. Coal being used for
fuel instead of wood, the passengers soon look dingy in face and
dress: therefore {374} one should not travel in them handsomely clad,
as clothes are quickly ruined by the smoke and dust. There is no
particular hour for breakfast; each person calls for it when it suits
his pleasure, and has a table to himself. Dinner is served at five
o'clock.

"We reached Calais about eight P.M. At the custom house the officers
were not strict in their examination of our baggage; this surprised
us, for we had understood that they were always very rigid in
performing this troublesome duty. Perhaps our being Americans was the
cause of their moderation in disturbing our trunks and boxes,--for the
French like _us_ almost as much as they detest the _English_. On
landing, we were highly diverted at the scene on the Quay. The instant
we left the boat we were beset with men and boys on every side,
recommending different hotels,--and frequently cards of address were
absolutely forced into our hands. When one overheard another advising
any of us to go to a particular house, he would cry out, 'never do you
mind that fellow, ma'am, (or sir) he tells a lie; he always tells
lies!' Or, 'no such thing, sir; that house is full, sir; you can't get
in, and he _knows_ it!' Or, 'that hotel is not a good one,
sir,--indeed it is not; try mine, sir; mine's a palace to it!' and
fifty other such droll speeches, at which (tormented as we were) we
could not help laughing. Sometimes they would even seize us by the arm
and entreat us to accompany them to their hotel, if only to see how
comfortable it was. These _besiegers_ (we have since been told)
receive a trifle from every innkeeper to whom they carry a guest, and
it is their anxiety to obtain this fee, that renders them so annoying
to travellers.

"Ere leaving Calais we had sufficient leisure to walk about the town
and visit the church, the town hall on the 'place d'armes,' and the
column on the pier commemorating the landing of Louis 18th, on the
24th of April, 1814. It is a plain stone pillar, surmounted by a ball
and a fleur de lis. In front of it is a representation in bronze of
the print of the king's foot (or rather his shoe) upon the spot he
first stepped on from the vessel. We found the country between Calais
and Paris uninteresting, and generally barren. Once or twice we had a
fine view of the sea. The French villages appeared horribly dirty
after the exquisite neatness of those in England. The highways
presented a bustling and entertaining scene; for men and women, boys
and girls, gaily dressed, continually passed us, carrying baskets of
fruit, riding on donkeys, or driving along pigs, sheep, cows, or
geese. The venders of fruit would frequently jump up behind our
carriage, and thrust in at the window, peaches, pears and grapes,
beseeching us to buy them, and assuring us we had never tasted better
in all our lives. Whenever we stopped at an inn, or ascended a hill,
we were surrounded by dozens of paupers, begging for a sous. Sometimes
they looked so miserable, it was impossible to refuse; at others, we
were fain to bestow it in order to get rid of them. Little urchins
would also solicit a penny, and scamper after us a considerable
distance, often springing up behind and sticking their heads into the
coach. Upon the whole I am contented with our journey hither, for if
it was not picturesque it was highly amusing.

"The principal towns we have passed through, are Boulogne, Abbeville,
and Beauvais. The first is said to have been founded by Julius Caesar;
and Le Sage, the author of Gil Blas, died there in 1747; the house in
which he expired, is yet shewn as a curiosity. Within a mile of
Boulogne is a corinthian column, which Bonaparte began to erect as a
memento of his victories over the English; he left it unfinished, and
Louis 18th had it completed for his own honor and glory."

Thus far, dear sister, I have copied from Leonora's diary; now for
something of my own. Last night we were at Mr. de Neuville's grand
levee; he has one every week, and being exceedingly popular, his rooms
are generally crowded. We saw there, many distinguished characters;
among them, Monsieur de Chateaubriand, whose travels have afforded us
so much entertainment and instruction, and General Saldanha, the brave
Portuguese. He has a commanding figure and face, and wears a pair of
tremendous mustachios, which are so frightful and so fashionable!
To-day we devoted a portion of our time to the Expiatory Chapel, a
beautiful building, constructed in honor of Louis 16th and Marie
Antoinette; it covers the spot where their remains were first
interred; for since the restoration of the Bourbons, these have been
conveyed to the royal vault at St. Denis. The entrance and interior of
the chapel are very handsome; the light is admitted from the cupola,
beneath which are fifteen niches, destined to hold statues of the
chief victims of the revolution. There is a neat altar, and the will
of Louis and that of his sister, (the Princess Elizabeth) are engraved
in golden letters, on two white marble tablets. A subterranean
apartment contains another altar, and in front of this a black marble
slab bearing an inscription, still designates the original grave of
the royal and unfortunate pair. In the court of the chapel many of
their faithful Swiss guards are interred. The testament of Louis,
wherein he expresses good will towards his enemies and forgiveness of
his unloyal and cruel subjects, is very touching. A peasant girl was
reading it when we entered, and her cheeks were bedewed with tears.

I regret to inform you that Mamma has had a return of her consumptive
cough, and is compelled to drink asses' milk. She is plentifully
supplied with it every morning, by an old man who drives a flock of
female asses about the streets, and milks them before the door of each
customer. The tingling of a little bell, which he carries, gives
notice of his arrival whenever be stops. Farewell: kind greetings to
those around you,--and above all, to yourself. From

LEONTINE.

LETTER TENTH.

The Luxembourg--The Observatory--Notre Dame--The Pantheon--Madame
Malibran--M'lle Sontag.

PARIS, ----.

_Dearest Jane:_

On inquiring the day of the month, I am quite surprised to find that
my pen has been idle nearly a week. I will now try to make up for lost
time, by describing to you some of the places we have visited in the
interim, and the Luxembourg being first on the list, will commence
with that. It is one of the most magnificent palaces in Paris. The
exterior is highly embellished; and to use the words of an English
tourist, "the architecture throughout is distinguished by its bold and
masculine character, and by the regularity and beauty of its
proportions." This palace was built by order of {375} Mary de Medici,
the widow of Henry 4th; it afterwards became the property of some of
the French nobility, but was finally restored to the crown. During the
revolution, it was used as a prison; the senate afterwards occupied
it; at present it contains the Chamber of Peers,--and its galleries
are filled with the chêf d'oeuvres of modern artists, whose
productions are not admitted into the Louvre until their death. Of
course the collection of paintings here is much smaller than at the
Louvre, but the pictures are all on the most interesting subjects and
are seen to greater advantage, the light being let in from above
instead of from the sides of the rooms, as is the case at the Louvre.
There are some choice pieces of sculpture; one of them (by Charles
Dupaty) represents the Nymph Biblis, changing to a fountain. It is
both a singular and ingenious production. The Chamber of Peers, like
that of the Deputies, is semicircular in shape; it is hung with blue
velvet; and the marble effigies of several orators, legislators and
warriors of old, grace its walls. From the ceiling, which is painted,
hangs a splendid chandelier. I will only mention one or two more of
the apartments--the Salle du Trone,[2] as being particularly rich, and
the billiard room, which is tapestried with white velvet, with various
views of Rome beautifully delineated on it in water colors. On the
ground floor is the chapel--this is very plain; near it is the
gorgeous chamber of Marie de Medicis,--the ceiling, walls, and
shutters of which are covered with gilding and arabesque paintings.
The principal staircase of the palace is remarkably grand and
magnificent; there are forty-eight steps, each twenty feet in length,
and formed of a single stone; on the right and left of it, are statues
and trophies. The garden of the Luxembourg is shady and pleasant, and
has the usual embellishments of gods and goddesses amid fountains and
flowers; as you are fond of the marvellous, I will tell you a
tradition I have just read respecting it.

[Footnote 2: Hall of the Throne.]

There once stood a castle on the site of this garden, which remaining
a long while uninhabited, was said to be haunted by frightful demons
and apparitions; the whole neighborhood was nightly disturbed by them;
no person would venture out after sunset, and finally the inhabitants
were compelled, for the sake of rest, to seek other dwellings. In this
state of things, the monks of a Carthusian monastery at Gentilly, (who
were doubtless at the bottom of the mystery) promised to drive away
the malicious spirits by exorcism, if St. Louis would grant them the
castle and its appurtenances. Their request was complied with, and
they so faithfully performed their part that peace was soon restored
and the chateau converted into a convent, which existed about six
hundred years.

From the Luxembourg we proceeded through a long sunny avenue, to the
observatory. On the left of the road, Arnaud our valet de place,
pointed out the spot upon which Marshal Ney was shot. "Regardez,
Mesdames! ce fut la (pointing with his finger) l'endroit ou le brave
Maréchal Ney fut massacré--Jétais présent et il me semble que je le
vois tout sanglant dans le moment," said he, shuddering. We paused to
look at the once bloody spot, now verdant with grass and so sadly
interesting. The observatory may be considered a wonderful building,
for neither iron nor wood have been used in its construction; it is
entirely of stone, each piece being ingeniously fitted to another.
Four astronomers pursue their avocations here, and have the advantage
of a good library and apparatus; there are, likewise, an anemometer
for indicating the course of the wind, and a pluviometer for measuring
the quantity of rain that falls at Paris. A geometrical staircase
leads to the entrance of some spacious caverns where experiments in
congelation are made, and these caverns communicate with subterranean
galleries that were originally quarries, and extend a considerable
distance under the city, containing beautiful stalactites, formed by
water oozing through the rocks. We did not see them, for they cannot
be entered without a special guide, and a written permission from
certain persons appointed by government to superintend and inspect
them. But my stars! I have exhausted nearly all my paper, and have yet
a dozen places to describe! Well, well, you must be contented with an
account of two of the most important; and by the time I have finished
with them, I shall have to _squeeze_ in my name, no doubt. And now let
me decide which of the various objects we have examined, I ought to
regard as chief. Why, the mother church of France "Notre Dame," and
the Pantheon, to be sure! The first is the most ancient religious
structure in the city, and is pronounced to be one of the handsomest
in the kingdom. Being built in the Gothic ages, its architecture is
according to the fashion of those times, very singular and bold.--The
interior of the building corresponds with the outside in curious
carving and designs; the choir and the stalls surrounding it are
covered with grotesque sculpture. There are no less than thirty
chapels, and all of them contain pictures, but they are generally very
indifferent. There are several fine ones around the choir--among them
the "Visitation," by Jean Jouvenet; this painting was executed
entirely with his left hand, after he lost the use of his right by a
paralytic stroke. Behind the altar, is a good piece of sculpture by
Coustou; the subject is the "descent from the cross." In the vestry
room, we were shewn some extraordinary relics,--such as part of the
crown of thorns that was worn by our Saviour, and a bit of his cross!!
We also saw the regalia of Charlemagne, and the splendid robes given
to the priests of this cathedral by Buonaparte at the period of his
coronation, upon which occasion they were used; they are embroidered
in the richest manner with gold and silver, and amazingly heavy.
Numerous sacred festivals are celebrated at Notre Dame in the course
of the year; and in August there is to be a procession in fulfilment
of a vow made by Louis XIII. This is done on the 15th of that month
annually, and the royal family always join in it. We shall go to see
it of course; and how I wish you, aunt Margaret and Albert were to be
of our party!

The Pantheon, or Church of Saint Geneviève, is a magnificent
structure, and its dome is the most striking object that presents
itself as you approach Paris. The interior of it is beautifully
painted, the artist having chosen for his subject the apotheosis of
Louis XVI and his family. When the work was finished, the king went to
see it, and after looking at it attentively for a quarter of an hour,
he turned to the painter Gros who {376} was anxiously awaiting his
opinion, and said to him, "Eh bien Monsieur le _Baron_ votre ouvrage
est trés bien fait!" thus recompensing his talents, by bestowing on
him a title of nobility. Saint Geneviève, the patron Saint of Paris,
is buried in the Pantheon, and her tomb is always surrounded by
lighted tapers, the votive offerings of those who come to demand her
intercession for pardon or blessing. In the vaults beneath the church,
many distinguished men are interred. Indeed, it was to receive the
ashes of such that the Pantheon was designed; and Louis XV, who was
the liberal encourager of science and art, was the founder of it.

Contrary to my expectations, I find I've yet space enough to inform
you that we have been twice to the Italian Opera, to hear Madame
Malibran and Mademoiselle Sontag. The former seems really adored here.
At her benefit, many gentlemen voluntarily paid one hundred francs for
a ticket, instead of twenty, the actual price. She sings enchantingly
and acts with great spirit; so does her rival Mademoiselle Sontag. In
fact, I know not to which of these nightingales I prefer listening.
Adieu.

LEONTINE.

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

  "My life's employment and my leisure's charm,
   My soul's first choice, my fancy's early flame;
   My chance of fortune and my hopes of fame."

_Shee_.

There is no subject on which mankind more unhesitatingly decide, than
upon the productions of the pencil, and none perhaps upon which the
people of our own country especially, are so little qualified to form
a correct judgment. Few works of any excellence ever reach us, and
these are for the most part confined to the large cities, where those
who visit them are more attracted by the _subject_ than the
_execution_ of the painting. A striking illustration of this, may be
found in the crowds which rushed a short time since, to see the
immodest and demoralizing exhibition of our _first parents in a state
of nudity_--an offence for which Ham was accursed to be a servant of
servants to his brethren; and yet our modest maidens, attended by
their equally modest beaux, hastened in company to view this
production of Parisian profligacy. At the same time, the splendid
painting of "Christ rejected" by the eminent West, scarcely attracted
notice; and the beautiful "Star of Bethlehem" by Cole, twinkled in an
empty hall. Still no one doubts his own intuitive knowledge of the
arts!--He does not, indeed, profess to understand the _modus
operandi_, by which they are perfected,--but yet he knows exactly what
_delights_ him, and with equally becoming modesty, knows how to
_censure_ what he does not like,--although to the real _connoisseur_,
the work condemned may perchance be one of superlative beauty and
value. There are some who fall into raptures at Cimmerian darkness and
obscurity in a picture; they have heard that the works of the old
masters are very dark,--_ergo_, all black pictures must be very good.
Some have heard that Reubens and Rembrandt, painted with a bold free
pencil,--and every daub is therefore free and bold; and there are
others the very antipodes of these, who would have the canvass ivory
smooth, and always test the excellence of a picture with their
finger's ends. Such are the arbiters of taste, to whom the artist must
look for patronage and favor; to whose critical acumen he must
sacrifice the highest professional attainments, and all the poetry of
imagery, for the prosing portraiture of vulgar nature as the
uninstructed eye perceives it. Against such critics, Sir Joshua
Reynolds warned his young academecians. "Study not," said he, "to
please the many, but the few of cultivated taste." Alas! how few in
any age, have given that attention to the subject which is essential
to the formation of a correct judgment. They say,--do we not see and
understand what nature is, and can we not tell when the artist has
truly represented her?--We answer no. The eye unaccustomed to
_contemplate_ nature, cannot perceive the ever changing beauty of her
scenery,--her lights and shades more various than the Dolphins hues;
nor can it discern that play of the thoughts and passions in the
"human face divine," which eludes common observation, and is beheld
only by him who has studied profoundly, that wonderful title page to
the volume of mind. Nature, it is true, like a lovely and virtuous
maiden, is seen and admired by all; but the blush which reveals her
sweetest charm, is only perceived and felt by the devoted lover. That
Lover is the artist. To him the revolving year, brings but a change of
_beauty_. It is the element in which he breathes,--the aliment on
which he lives; his eye detects each flitting shadow--and the whole
world of real or imaginary things, is to his mind full of moving
pictures, which he can, in a moment, transfix and perpetuate on his
canvass. On him the graces attend, and wreathe the flowers of every
season into garlands of beauty; the jocund spring strews buds and
blossoms in his way, which he transplants to other climes, to live in
unfading bloom, and flourish on the same wall with the fruits of
summer, or mingle with the sober and varied hues of autumn. Even
winter, with frosty locks and snowy visage, is compelled to linger in
social companionship with the burning heats of tropical regions. Old
Time, in his onward march, strews cities and temples in the path of
the artist, but his pencil like the wand of the enchanter, bids their
sculptured fragments remain forever, and they obey him. When Aurora
comes forth in the chariot of day, and Cynthia lights her pale lamp at
Diana's altar,--he snatches promethean fire from heaven, and like
Joshua, commands the unwearied sun to stand still, and the glowing
canvass receives it. He not only transfers

  "Italian skies to English walls,"

but by the magic of his pencil, the very faces and persons of the fair
and the brave of ages gone by, come down to our day in the bloom of
youth, and with the daring eye, as they lived and moved when
Shakspeare wrote, or lovely Juliet died.

Where do not the trophies of this incomparable art arrest our
attention?--from the ruins of Pompeii to imperial Rome, or from the
Vatican, where Raphael's immortal pencil traced the transfiguration,
to Hampton Court, the gallery of the cartoons, and of that fair but
frail society, of which England's voluptuous monarch was the sun and
centre.[1] But these are neither black, nor daubed, nor smooth!--and
yet they are excellent in art, and have been so esteemed for three
hundred years. {377} To these the painter may appeal as imbodying all
that is noble in his profession, or like Sir Joshua, who felt and
understood, what others only imagined, he may patiently submit to the
ignorance of vanity--and the vanity of ignorance.

  When they talk of their Raphael, Corregio and Stuff,
  He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.

G. C.

[Footnote 1: The cartoons of Raphael and the court of Charles II by
Sir Peter Lely, form a part of the collection at Hampton court.]

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE FROM FLORIAN.

The following tale was translated from the French of M. Florian, by
the present hand, about 7 or 8 years ago, for a Richmond newspaper.
That translation its author has not seen since 1827; and lately
meeting with the original again, it seemed new enough, as well as
sufficiently pretty and interesting, to be worth presenting afresh to
the public through the Southern Literary Messenger. It is seldom that
so much varied incident has been compressed into so short a compass:
yet the rapidity of the narrative has not hindered the writer from
indulging a humor both playful and caustic, upon the foibles which he
banters, and the vices and crimes which he holds up to detestation.
And the moral, disclosed in unravelling the mystery of the allegorical
personage from whom the story takes its name, is full at once of
beauty and truth.

M.

BATHMENDI.

A PERSIAN STORY.

The THOUSAND-AND-ONE NIGHTS have always appeared to me charming tales;
but I should like them better, if they had oftener a moral scope.
Scheherezade, I am aware, is too handsome to be at the trouble of
being rational: I know, that with so pretty a face, she has no need of
common sense; and that the sultan would have been less enamored, if
she had been less silly. These great truths I devoutly believe: and I
merely repeat, that for my own part, I would rather read stories which
_make me reflect_, while they amuse me. Extravagance is a fine thing,
no doubt; but a picture must have shade: and I would fain have reason
appear now and then, to make folly go off the better. So an uncle of
mine once thought. He had often sailed in the Levant; and had amused
himself while there, by composing PERSIAN TALES. They are far below
the _Thousand-and-one Nights_ in imagination, but exceed them
infinitely in number; for my uncle in his life-time made four thousand
seven hundred and ninety-eight--all of which are now lost except the
following one, preserved by me.

Under the reign of a Persian king, whose name my uncle does not tell,
a merchant of Balsora was ruined by commercial disasters; and,
collecting the shattered remains of his fortune, retired to the
province of Kusistan. He there bought a dwelling, and a farm which he
cultivated badly, because he was perpetually regretting his days of
opulence and ease. Chagrin shortened his life; he perceived his end to
be near; and, calling his four sons around him, he said--"My children,
I have nothing to bequeath you but this house, and a secret which I
was bound to conceal till now. In the time of my wealth, I had for my
friend the genius Alzim; who promised to befriend you when I should be
no more, and to divide a treasure amongst you. He dwells some miles
hence, in the great forest of Kom. Go--find him: claim the treasure:
but take heed not to believe." ... Death here suppressed the
merchant's voice.

His four sons, after interring and mourning him, repaired to the
forest of Kom. They inquired for the mansion of the genius Alzim: it
was readily shewn them. He was known to the whole country: he received
kindly all who visited him; he heard their complaints, consoled them,
and lent them money if they needed it. But these benefits were upon
the sole condition of _implicitly obeying his directions_. This was
his whim. No one could enter his palace without an oath to comply with
this condition.

The oath did not deter the merchant's three eldest sons: the fourth,
whose name was Tai, thought it a very ridiculous ceremony. Yet, being
obliged to enter in order to receive the treasure, he swore, like his
brothers: but reflecting on the dangerous consequences of so rash a
vow, and remembering that his father, who frequently came to this
palace, had passed his life in follies, he resolved, without
committing perjury, to place himself out of danger; and, whilst they
were leading him to the genius, stopped his ears with perfumed wax.
Thus fortified, he prostrated himself before Alzim's throne. The
genius made the sons of his ancient friend arise; embraced them, shed
tears to his memory, and had a large chest brought, full of dariques.
"Here," said he, "is the treasure I design for you. I am going to
divide it among you; and I will then tell each the way he must take to
be perfectly happy."

Tai heard not what the genius said; but watching him attentively, he
saw in his eyes and visage traits of cunning and malignity which gave
him much food for thought. Still, he received his portion of the
treasure gratefully. Alzim, having thus enriched them, assumed an
affectionate tone, and said; "My dear children, your good or bad
fortune depends upon your meeting sooner or later a certain being
named BATHMENDI, of whom all the world speaks, but whom few, very few,
know. Wretched mortals grope after him in vain: But I, for the love I
bear you, will whisper to each of you where he may be found." At these
words, Alzim takes Bekir, the eldest brother, aside, and says--"My
son, you were born with courage, and great military talents. The king
of Persia has just sent an army against the Turks. Join that army: in
the Persian camp you will find Bathmendi." Bekir thanks the genius,
and already burns to march.

Alzim beckoned Mesrou, the second son, to approach. "You," said he,
"have shrewdness, address, and a great propensity to falsehood. Take
the road to Ispahan; 'tis at court that you must seek Bathmendi."

To the third brother, whose name was Sadder, he said, "You are gifted
with a lively and fruitful imagination: You see objects not as they
are, but as you would have them be; you often possess genius, and not
always common sense: be a poet. Take the route to Agra: among the wits
and fair ladies of that city, you may find Bathmendi."

Tai, in his turn, advanced; and, thanks to the pallets of wax, heard
not one word that Alzim said. It has since been ascertained, that he
counselled Tai to become a Dervise.

{378} After thanking the beneficent genius, the four brothers returned
home. The three eldest dreamed of nothing but Bathmendi. Tai unstopped
his ears, and heard them arrange their departure, and determine to
sell their little dwelling to the first bidder, in order to divide the
price. Tai offered to become the purchaser: he caused the house and
farm to be valued, paid his brothers their respective portions, and
embracing them tenderly, with a thousand good wishes, remained alone
in the paternal mansion.

He then employed himself in executing a scheme, which he had long
meditated. He was enamored of young Amine, the daughter of a
neighboring farmer. She was handsome and discreet: she managed her
father's household, comforted his declining years, and prayed Heaven
for two things--that her father might long live, and that she might be
the wife of Tai. Her prayers were heard. Tai asked, and obtained her.
Her father went to live with his son-in-law, and taught him the art of
enriching the ground, so as to be enriched by it in return. Tai had
some gold still remaining of Alzim's gift: he employed it in extending
his farm, and in buying a flock. The farm doubled its value; the
fleeces of the sheep were sold; plenty reigned in Tai's house; and, as
he was industrious and his wife frugal, each year augmented their
income. Children, that ruin wealthy idlers, in the cities, enrich
laborers. At the end of seven years, Tai, the father of six lovely
children, the husband of a sweet and virtuous wife, son-in-law to an
aged, yet a hale and amiable man, master of several slaves, and of two
flocks,--was the happiest and the most independent farmer of Kusistan.

Meantime his three brothers were in chase of Bathmendi. Bekir arrived
at the Persian camp; presented himself to the grand vizier, and begged
to be employed in the most hazardous services. His mien, and his
gallant bearing, pleased the vizier, who admitted him into a squadron
of cavalry. In a few days, a bloody battle took place. Bekir achieved
prodigies; saved his general's life, and captured the general of the
enemy. The camp rung with the praises of Bekir: all the soldiers