Introductory material (continued 4)

Of all the galling miseries that man is heir to, the most intolerable, the most debasing, the most corroding to the heart, the most destructive to the mind, is the consciousness of debt without the means of payment. Oh! what days of humiliation, what nights of nervous wakefulness, or else of dreaming horror, does he abide, on whose oppressed spirit is laid the load of payments he cannot meet, of obligations he cannot cancel. For him, though the sun shines abroad, there is no beauty in his beams. The earth is clothed with verdure, and a thousand odorous flowers are scattered in his path. He heeds them not; their perfume is wasted on him. The moon rides in liquid lustre, and the myriad stars break forth in light, and the whole heaven is clothed with exceeding glory; but there is a darkness in his soul no light can penetrate—a grief at his heart no beauties of nature can assuage. His energies are dead; they fester beneath the pall of despair.

When at last every inch of his property was covered by debt, and the remorseless creditor was about to strip and turn naked on the world, him from whose hand he once had fed, kind death stepped in and released the poor old gentleman from his troubles; and what he himself was too honorable to do, his heirs did without hesitation. They resisted Willis's claim upon the plea of usury. Heywood was their advocate. Fired with indignation at the base ingratitude of the man, he summoned all the powers of his eloquence against him, and so awfully severe was the attack, that Willis, although in general bold and impudent, slunk away from the court amid the hisses and groans of the crowd. The very next day, to his utter amazement, Heywood was waited on by Willis, who placed in his hands business of great value, and paid him down a handsome fee.

"You see, Mr. Heywood, I can forgive and forget, as bad as you think of me, and as much as you have abused me. The fact is, sir, you are what I call a real clever man, and to my notion the best lawyer I've met with—so you're the man for my money; and I suppose if I pay you your fees, you'll do my business as soon as another man's—and I can make it worth your while, I tell you. You said yesterday, I was a vampire bloated with the lifeblood sucked in secret from the veins of my victims. I remember the words, but not in malice. Well sir, when I see fit I can bleed pretty free myself; and if you'll just consider yourself my lawyer in all my cases, I'll pay you fifteen hundred a year, and say done first."

"Mr. Willis," replied Heywood, "I have no hesitation in accepting your offer, and will to the best of my ability serve you, as I would any other individual who called upon me. It is my trade, or profession, to advocate that cause in which I am retained; and although I rejoice when I find I am on the right side, I have in common with my brethren, no scruples in doing battle on the wrong."

And so they parted. It may perhaps be thought unnatural that Willis should have acted in the way he did; but he was a shrewd, worldly wise man, and could make any sacrifice to promote what he deemed his interests. Now he had not forgiven, much less forgot. On the contrary, his hatred of Heywood was deep and concentrated; but he knew him to possess talents that were formidable when opposed to him, and on which he could with safety rely when enlisted in his behalf.

The transactions of business necessarily carried Heywood to his client's house, where one day being detained until the dinner hour, he was introduced to Miss Louisa Willis, an exceedingly beautiful and interesting lady of about eighteen. He was much struck with her, and indeed it was impossible for the coldest disposition to withhold its admiration from charms seldom surpassed, and then in the very fulness of their bloom. With a form over whose round and soft proportions hovered an atmosphere of the most soul subduing voluptuousness, she was the possessor of a countenance, whose features in themselves almost faultless, habitually wore the bewitching expression of confiding love; as if for all she looked upon, there existed in her bosom a living spring of kindness; and the consciousness of her own deep charities, taught her to expect a like return from others. She was the adopted daughter of Willis. Her parents, poor but highly respectable people, died while she was yet an infant, having been carried off within a few hours of each other, by one of those pestilential fevers that sweep whole districts of our country, and leave in their path the silence of death or the sob of mourning anguish, where the sounds of merriment had been wont to break upon the ear. Willis was alone in the world. There was no human being connected with him by the ties of consanguinity: there was not one whom he had propitiated by the exercise of kindness: and although the consciousness that he was hated only served to harden and imbitter his feelings, there were moments when he felt the loneliness of his situation, and longed for something that even he could love.

He took the little orphan to his home, and in her found the object he had sought. Upon her he lavished all his bounty—bestowed upon her the best education the capabilities of the country afforded—and at a proper age, placed her in an eligible seminary in the city of ——, whence indeed, at the time of Heywood's first interview with her, she had just returned.—Perhaps the disposition of Miss Willis—that of great sweetness with very little energy or passion, was particularly calculated to win upon such a man as Heywood. Himself all passion, burning with the consciousness of uncommon powers, urged into action by the ever goading stimulus of a brain that teemed with strong and beautiful thought,—now breaking out into commanding eloquence—now running over with sparkling wit,—it was enjoyment to him to find repose in another. His mind self taxed to its utmost limit, was refreshed, and soothed, and solaced by the calm and even purity which dwelt within that form of intoxicating loveliness. Perhaps with persons constituted like Heywood, the same ardor of passion might be exhibited towards any object, "in whose fresh cheek" they might "meet the power of fancy;" perhaps their glowing temperament would vest with beauty both of mind and person, those who to common eyes had nothing to distinguish them. Be this as it may, it is certain that he loved Miss Willis, deeply, devotedly, ardently—with tender delicacy and with manly passion. Whether his feelings were reciprocated by her, to the extent of which she was capable, it is not for me to say: that secret lies within her own bosom. Heywood thought so. He was constant in his attentions to her, which seemed to be well received, and were certainly encouraged by Willis. The only annoyance Heywood experienced, arose from his feelings towards the latter. Greater familiarity with his character had not, it is true, increased his abhorrence of it; perhaps it had diminished it;—for as the visual eye becomes accustomed to look without winking upon the disgusting and even the terrible, so does the mental, and sad to say, the constant recurrence of deeds of vice, lessens the sense of detestation which they at first inspired. But there was something very galling to his pride, in the idea of connecting himself in so close a manner with Willis as he must necessarily do, if he married his daughter; only his adopted daughter, it is true: but still in no action that could evince a parent's fondness and a parent's care, had he been wanting to her—and he was unquestionably entitled to a full return of that affection that might be looked for from a properly disposed child; and as certainly did he receive it from Miss Willis, whose respectful love for him was without stint or measure. The struggle between pride and passion, seldom eventuates in favor of the former, particularly where our feelings are uninfluenced by the effect our actions may produce upon the minds of others, and have no reference to a degrading change of situation that may be produced on us in society. Heywood might by marrying Miss Willis, excite the sneers of the unsuccessful and the envy of the disappointed; but he would not be the less loved, esteemed and respected by the great bulk of his acquaintance, while by many it would be thought a fortunate circumstance; for in the event of their obligations falling into his hands, they might look for an indulgence it were vain to hope from the ruthless usurer. Heywood, as might be expected, yielded to the suggestions of his heart, and proffered his affections to Miss Willis. She of course referred him to her father; and with much embarrassment and hesitation of manner, Heywood announced to him the fact, and solicited his approbation. He received the information with a smile of peculiar meaning, of gratification—but apparently of malicious gratification, as if he were about to win a triumph he had been long seeking to obtain. He said but little however in reply, nor was that little, discouraging or otherwise. He professed himself honored by the proposal, coming as it did from so distinguished an individual.

"To be sure," he said, "Louisa Willis was not an every day sort of girl, and she might fairly look for as good offers as any lady in the country. She had that, or she would have, which was all the same, that would command them. It commanded every thing else, he reckoned, even talents. She was young enough too, and likely enough, for the matter of that, and he had had other views for her. Hows'ever, there was no hurry—he would see about it; he must have some little time to think before he made up his mind: when he had, he would let Heywood know what it was."

To talk to such a man of the urgency of one's affections, was ridiculous. Heywood felt it so, and therefore made no objection to the delay.

It was about a month after this interview, during which interval there had been no communication between Heywood and Willis, that the latter, accompanied by another individual, a Mr. ——, entered the office of the former. They had called for the purpose of explaining their mutual understanding of the nature of a conveyance which was to pass between them, and to request him to draw it out in proper form. He accordingly made a rough draft of it, read it to the parties, who expressed themselves satisfied, and Mr. —— took his leave, with a promise to return and execute the deed when the fair copy should have been made out. Willis remained behind. After a few minutes silence, (of torturing silence to Heywood, for he expected he should now receive an answer on the subject nearest his heart,) "Mr. Heywood," said the hard featured old man, "let me see that deed." Heywood disappointed, handed it to him. He conned it over attentively, as he sat with one elbow placed upon his knee and his chin resting in the hollow of his hand.

"It is all right?" said Heywood inquiringly.

"Why—ye-es," replied Willis, "but there are one or two little words here I would like to have changed; that is, I would like to have some others put in their place. It's of no great consequence, but somehow they please me better."

"What words are they? Be so good as to point them out."

"Why these," answered Willis, as he shewed them with his finger, and peered into Heywood's face, over his spectacles, with half closed eyes. "Suppose now, instead of them, you was to use such words," and he mentioned those he wished adopted.

"But sir," rejoined Heywood, "these words that I have used are technical words, and express in a legal sense what I understand most positively to be the intention of the parties. Were I to substitute for them those that you propose, I should make the granter convey a title it is by no means his wish to do."

"Pray, Mr. Heywood, are you acquainted with Mr. ——, and do you consider yourself employed by him or me?"

"I am but slightly acquainted with Mr. ——, sir, and it matters not to me by which party I am employed. It is my business as an honest man, to execute to the best of my ability, what I consider myself intrusted by both to perform, and that I have done."

"Then let me tell you Mr. Heywood that I know —— well, that he has not had quite as much as either you or I to do with deeds, and that if you make the alteration I want, it's a hundred to one he will never find it out to the end of time—so where can be the harm?"

"You surely jest with me, Mr. Willis," quickly answered Heywood; "you cannot seriously propose to me to do that, which according to my view of the matter, would be neither more nor less than a legal fraud."

"A fraud, sir! do you mean to say I would commit a fraud, sir?" cried Willis, in an angry tone and blustering manner.

"I have not said so, Mr. Willis," calmly replied Heywood; "I only said, that with my knowledge of the law, I should commit one were I to do what you request."

"Well then," urged Willis, "suppose you let me go for Mr. ——, and have the alteration made before his eyes. Will that satisfy your squeamishness?"

"Certainly, if Mr. —— consents to it, and is made fully aware of the situation in which he thus places himself."

"But you aint no ways bound to tell him that."

"Pardon me, sir, I am every way bound to do so."

"Very well, sir, very well, we'll drop the matter then—I don't care much about it; only you aint as much my friend as I thought you was—that's all. But let that pass, it don't signify no great deal. And now Mr. Heywood, for what you would call a more interesting subject." Heywood's heart beat quick. "You told me t'other day you loved my daughter, and would like to marry her. Now, sir, suppose you had a daughter, and you could afford to give her as much as would make the best men in all the land snap at her—and suppose there was one man who despised you in his heart, though he was willing to work for your money, and who had abused and insulted you in the public court, and refused to befriend you, in a small way, when you wanted his friendship, and he of all men in the world was just to pop up and say, Give me your daughter and a fortune,—what would you say to him? Would'nt you tell him, certain, and thankee to boot, sir? Would'nt it please you to the heart to have a son-in-law, who if he could help himself, would'nt speak to you when he met you, nor shake hands with you, if there was any body by to see him do it? Now just answer me that, Mr. Heywood; you're a mighty ready man with your bills and answers—answer me that if you please."

"Mr. Willis," stammered Heywood, "this is not—a fair way to—treat me."

"Aint it? Now I think it is—so there we differ again; any how it's my way, and I can afford to have my ways as well as most folks. Hows'ever, since you don't seem to fancy those questions, I'll try again. Do you really love my daughter, for herself alone mind you, and will you marry her if I tell you, and I am in earnest, that if you do, you never shall, nor she either, touch a farthing of money or an acre of land that belongs to me."

"Most readily, most willingly, and think myself but too happy in maintaining her by my own humble efforts."

"Money is not a thing to be despised, Mr. Heywood, and it would be a heap of it I can tell you, and as you partly know, that you would be giving up; you'd better think again."

"This is not a matter of reflection and calculation with me, sir. It is a feeling deep and durable, and I cannot hesitate to choose between what I esteem my happiness and my misery. With her, portioned or unportioned, I shall be happy—without her, though Croesus' wealth were showered on me, I know I must be miserable."

"Say you so, sir," shouted Willis, with an air of vindictive triumph. "Then be miserable, for I would see her, gladly see her, and I love her too, a rotting corpse in her winding sheet—or worse, a common beggar in the public road, for all the world to spit on if they choose, before you should call her wife. I am glad that you love her too. If you loved her ten thousand times better than you do—if you went mad for love, as they tell me some fools do, I should like it all the better. I wanted you to love her, and I saw you would love her, and I sort of encouraged you to do so, just that when you were fairly fixed, I might have the satisfaction to tell you that you should not have her; and now I think we're quits. You dared to tread upon me—to flout me in the open court-house, before a whole crowd of people, when you could have all the talk to yourself, and my mouth was shut and my hands as good as tied. But my turn has come, and if I have'nt paid you back, and with a stinging interest, my name is not Abraham Willis; and so good morning to you. You need'nt write no notes, nor send no messages to my daughter. She knows my mind, and she is satisfied with it. She wants no man for a husband who has abused her father. Once more, good morning to you." And with another of his demon like smiles, he departed.

Heywood remained as a man stupified, without change of position or movement of a muscle, every feature rigidly fixed as if cut out of marble, his whole appearance more like a breathing statue than a living creature. Yet who shall say what torturing thought was pressing on that brain—what stormy passions struggling in that bosom. Did the uprooting of his heart's affection, the total prostration of his hopes, the utter destruction of his anticipated bliss, smite him to despair; or did his powerful mind confront the evils that beset him, and although deeply wounded, rise in triumph from the conflict? It is only by the effects we can judge, and these to common observation were not remarkable. It is true, he resigned his seat in the legislature, and altogether withdrew himself from social intercourse, and save when necessitated by his professional duties, rarely left the solitude of his rooms. There his time was devoted to study; not confined to the acquisition of legal knowledge, but of literature in general. He collected about him a noble library, and made himself master of its contents; but though he heaped up knowledge such as few possess, and added daily to his mental stores, it was even as a miser gathers pelf, to gloat upon the heap in private, but impart to none its benefits. Still, although he thus secluded himself, when he did appear abroad, there was nothing of gloom about him, or marked reserve in his manner to his fellow men. He might even sometimes have been thought gay. He would jest himself, and laugh at other's jests; but all this was but "outward seeming." There was no joy of the heart—no "flow of soul"—no living sympathy with mankind, teaching him to be glad when they rejoiced, to sorrow when they mourned.

There were none to whom he imparted his feelings, none to whom he communicated his sentiments. On none of the usual topics of conversation among men, whether of politics or literature, were his opinions ever expressed—not even on legal points, unless when sought for professionally. He lived strictly alone, concealing thought and passion within the impenetrable recesses of his unfathomable mind.

Here for the present I will leave him, to give a short account of Drayton's career, connected as it is with the main interest of my narrative.

With the assiduity, industry and application for which he had been distinguished at college, he pursued his professional studies; and although denied the gift of eloquence, or rather I should say, embarrassed by a slow and hesitating manner of speaking, it was obvious enough that his knowledge of the law was sound, and that he perfectly understood its application to the point he might be advocating. If too, he lacked the graces of oratory, and could distil no honied words into the ears of his auditory, he possessed that happy manner, which imposes on society the opinion that there is a fund of wisdom and learning to be drawn on, whenever the exigency of the case might require its use. He had a serious, business like look, and if he walked abroad for exercise, he seemed to have a deeper motive for the action. His progress was nevertheless very slow in the commencement; still he advanced by degrees, and his patience was inexhaustible. Drayton had another advantage too, that to him amply compensated for the want of purely professional business, and even the glitter of fame. A relation had bequeathed him a few thousand dollars, and this enabled him to make occasional advances to a needy client, where the claim was eventually secure, and also to carry on a traffic in bonds, exchanging one for another at a large discount, and thus in a short time doubling his original capital. One or two lucky hits in land speculation returned him large profits; and people beginning to find out his merits, as they perceived these accessions to his worldly wealth, in course of time his practice became respectable and lucrative. Between Heywood and Drayton there continued the same kindness of feeling they had mutually entertained at college, up to some short time before the philippic delivered by the former against Willis. But about that period a coolness grew between them. This arose from no misunderstanding or quarrel, but simply from a dislike Heywood entertained to the very obsequious manner Drayton exhibited towards all men who were superior to him in private wealth or public station; and the former could not refrain from telling him one day, after some display of the sort, that he reminded him of Sir Pertinax McSycophant, in the "Man of the World," who never in all his life could stand straight "in the presence of a great mon." Drayton was conscious that there was truth in the application of the sarcasm, and although he made no reply, he was hurt, and thenceforth avoided one who could and would tell him disagreeable truths. After the rupture between Heywood and Willis, the latter transferred his business to Drayton, who received from Heywood all the papers in his possession, with the necessary information and instructions, which were given to him with perfect freedom, and without the slightest manifestation of chagrin or resentment. This perhaps was not exactly pleasing to him. He would have liked on Heywood's part some small exhibition of a consciousness that he was deprived of a considerable advantage.

"This should be a valuable business I have had the good fortune to fall into, Mr. Heywood," said he; "Mr. Willis's concerns must be very extensive, and require much legal advice, as well as other matters in our way. I fear he will be hardly content with my poor management, after the able assistance he has derived from you."

"You will certainly find the business profitable," replied Heywood; "Mr. Willis pays liberal fees, and it depends upon yourself to make larger gains than I have done. I congratulate you on having obtained it."

"I suppose I shall be so unfortunate as to have you opposed to me occasionally, and if so, I trust you will not be quite so hard on my poor client as you once were," said Drayton with an insinuating smile.

"Circumstances, sir," answered Heywood, "have put it out of my power to speak of Mr. Willis as I think of him. You need entertain no apprehensions for your poor client; he is safe at least from my invective."

Some few months after this conversation, rumor babbled of the particular attentions paid by a certain lawyer, to a very wealthy young lady, and in the course of a year, the babble was confirmed by the marriage of Charles Drayton, Esq. to the all accomplished, &c. Miss Louisa Willis. Drayton was now become a very wealthy and of course a very influential man. He was sent to the legislature, then to the state senate, thence to congress, and finally having been created a judge, he took up his residence near —— on a farm given him by Willis, where he built the handsome brick house, I had observed on my return home. Two or three days after I had fixed myself at ——, I fell in with Drayton, whom I found much altered. He had grown quite fat, and had a very justice-like rotundity of body. His manner was kind enough though somewhat pompous, and he had the air of one who was on especial good terms with himself. I dined with him and was introduced to his family, consisting of his wife and four children; the eldest, a handsome lad of seventeen, the others girls, the youngest about eight years old. Mrs. Drayton, was very pale and apparently in bad health. I endeavored to converse with her, but found her little disposed to talk. Willis was there. He was a tall, lean man, with very sharp features—small grey eyes somewhat inflamed, and almost hid by long bushy, wiry eye-brows, a pinched, sharp pointed nose, thin, pale lips, much drawn in and compressed, and a projecting chin. He endeavored to assume ease in his manners, but his vulgarity was very apparent. There were two other gentlemen of the neighborhood there, and on the whole, my time was not spent so pleasantly then, or afterwards, as to induce me to repeat my visits often, although I occasionally called in as an old acquaintance of the master of the house. Heywood's name was of course, never mentioned there. I once did make some inquiries of Drayton, when only he and I were together. "Ah poor fellow, yes," said he, "he has been absent from —— for some time, went up the country to his brother's, who I hear is lately dead. Heywood turned out badly sir with all his genius,—thrown himself completely away—no prudence—ruined himself to pay his brother's debts, and took to drinking—little better, if any, than a common blackguard." "So much for early friendship," thought I, as I turned away in disgust.

The marriage of Drayton to Miss Willis seemed not to affect Heywood; if he felt, his feelings were perfectly concealed. When he met Drayton, he congratulated him on the event, without the slightest awkwardness or embarrassment, although the former exhibited much of both; to all appearance he had entirely conquered his ill fated passion. His studies, however, became more and more intense, and his seclusion closer than ever. He scarcely eat or slept, and took no exercise. He gave up the practice he had hitherto pursued in the adjoining counties, and confined himself to that of the one he lived in. This mode of life could not fail to injure his health. He grew pale and thin, and experienced great languor: to remedy the latter, instead of resorting to the only proper mode, a change of habits, he applied to artificial stimulants for temporary relief. They naturally increased the evil, by leaving behind them when their momentary excitement had worn off, a greater degree of depression than they had been employed to remove. He was probably aware of this, but he changed not his course. On the contrary he increased the dose, and repeated it the more frequently, until gradually his libations amounted to intoxication, which after a while became daily. This, at first, was confined to the after part of the day, but by and by he was frequently found in an unfit state for business, by those who called upon him in the morning. Still, so great was his reputation as a lawyer, and so powerful were the displays he made when he appeared at the bar, that men continued to employ him, although they were put to the inconvenience and expense of associating other counsel with him, who would attend to the minutiæ and drudgery of their cases. About this time, his brother (whom I did not know,) a careless, extravagant man, with a large family, became entirely insolvent, and the farm on which he lived was exposed to sale. Heywood became the purchaser, for the wife, and nearly exhausted his own means in doing so; for though he had received large sums of money in his profession, and might with a little economy, have been very independent, if not rich, he had not retained much of his hard earned gains, and money had never been to him an object of solicitude. Besides, his library had cost him no contemptible fortune. By degrees, as the vile and fatal habit he had acquired, grew upon him, he became more and more unfit for business, and his clients were reluctantly compelled to abandon him, and transfer their cases to others. Finally, (what he had never done before,) he was compelled to run in debt. He raised money on his books, a paltry sum in proportion to their value; that was soon exhausted, and they were forced off at auction at an enormous sacrifice. Hitherto, his intemperance had been confined to the privacy of his chamber, but now he commenced frequenting taverns, where he was frequently to be found in a state of beastly drunkenness.

When I arrived at —— he was absent, as Drayton stated, at the brother's whom I have mentioned, and did not make his appearance for several months. One evening as I returned from my accustomed walk, I entered the bar-room of the inn where I lodged, for the purpose of making some inquiries of the landlord. A man was sitting at a table, with his back towards me. He was dressed in a rusty black coat, coarse, dirty, white trowsers; shoes and stockings that were covered with the dust of the road, and a worn out straw hat, around which was a piece of ragged, soiled crape. I naturally took him for some common vagabond, and paid no farther attention to him, but commenced my business with the landlord, who was standing at the bar door with a pint decanter of common whiskey in his hand, intended, no doubt, for his genteel looking customer; who, growing somewhat impatient at the delay I occasioned by my conversation, called out in a hoarse voice, "Mr. Tomlins, do you mean to bring me that liquor or no? I tell you I am dying of thirst." "Certainly, sir," said Mr. Tomlins. "Excuse me a moment, sir," addressing me, as he proceeded to the table with the spirits, a pitcher of water and a glass. The man poured into his glass about a gill of spirits and drank it off at one gulph, taking a little water after it,—and then, without stopping, proceeded to take a second dose. I gazed at him with mingled emotions of contempt and pity. The landlord touched me on the arm. "You have frequently inquired of me, sir, about Mr. Heywood; that is him." "Great God!" I exclaimed aloud, "that Heywood?" He turned immediately on hearing his name, and I hastened to him, extending my hand. "You are familiar with my name, sir," he said, "and act as if you had a claim upon my recognition, but I have no recollection of your countenance."

"Have you entirely forgot then, your old friend S——."

"S——," he exclaimed, and he rose and took my hand in both of his, and gazed with earnestness some moments in my face. "Thirty years—yes, thirty years have fled since last this hand was clasped in mine. They are nothing in Time's record, but much to us poor, three-score-and-ten mortals, and they have shown their power on us both. S——, my friend, for you were my friend, and I loved you even with the warmth of a brother's love, I look in vain for the marks by which I once knew you. The fair cheek of youth, the laughing eye, the bold, self-confiding air, have fled. Age is a sad destroyer of good looks, is it not? It has not been over lenient with me; but never mind; our hearts are filled with hot blood yet, though sometimes I think mine is growing cold: it will be cold enough by and by, and yours too, S——; the more's the pity, for there are men, my friend, and you are one, who should never die; they should live to redeem mankind from the charge of utter selfishness; to save this Sodom and Gomorrah of a world from the curse of an outraged and offended Heaven."

"Heywood," said I, interrupting him, "come with me—come to my room; I have much to say to you, and this is no place for it; I cannot talk to you here. Come where we will be private and uninterrupted."

"Not now, not now; I have just got here, after walking all day, for I am compelled to take exercise on foot for the benefit of my health as well as from poverty;" and he smiled bitterly. "I am fatigued and soiled with dust, and unfit for conversation."

"These are paltry excuses between friends—I cannot admit them. What! be thirty years apart, and when we meet have five minutes conversation in a public bar-room. That will never do."

"Well, well, then, allow me a little time to step to my room, and I will join you in an hour at farthest." This I could not refuse, although I parted with him with very great reluctance, as from the avidity with which he swallowed the spirits in my presence, I was apprehensive he might render himself unfit for rational conversation. There was a dreadful change in his appearance. I have described him as a remarkably handsome man, both in face and person. He was no longer so. I found him much emaciated, though his features were bloated; his hair was entirely gray; and in the place of the freshness and manly ruddiness of complexion for which he had been distinguished, his countenance was overcast with a sickly yellow hue; and those eyes, once so clear and expressive, were bloodshotten and dull. Age might, and would, no doubt, have made an alteration for the worse in his looks; but the prime agent in the destruction I witnessed, was habitual intemperance. That insatiate fiend, on whose bloodstained altars reeks the sacrifice of myriad hetacombs, whose worshippers, in the frenzy of their zeal, yield up all that is valuable in life; the world's respect, health, fortune, fame, domestic ties, their present good, their future hope; and whose reward is racking disease, infamy, an early and dishonorable grave.

Before the appointed time, Heywood returned. He had undergone a purification, which somewhat improved his looks, and he bore no evidence of having increased his potations. We had a long, and to us highly interesting conversation; but Heywood was not the man he had been; the mind—that glorious mind had suffered in the wreck. It is true he was occasionally eloquent, grand in his conceptions, pouring out burning thoughts, and exhibiting amazing knowledge; but there was a want of solidity and continuity in his discourse, and there were abrupt starts from deep pathos, when he touched upon his situation, to a wild and reckless jocularity that made me shudder. I had determined in my own mind, difficult and delicate as I felt the task to be, to strive to the utmost to reclaim him. It was a sacred duty devolving on me as a friend; it was a conscientious duty belonging to me as a man; and I felt if I could turn such a being from the path of evil, and lead him once again to the high and honorable station he was by his talents so eminently entitled to, it would be a deed whose reward even here would be inappreciable, and might plead against a thousand errors at the judgment seat of a righteous God. It required great tact, however, to approach the subject, for his sensitiveness was very keen, and I knew if I offended him there, I should lose my hold upon him; therefore I waited until he himself should give me an opportunity of entering on the subject. None occurred that night. Occasionally, as I have said, he would advert to himself and his present miserable situation, but in such a manner as deprived me of courage to speak upon the subject. At one time he observed, when Drayton's name had been mentioned, "It is somewhat strange S——, that man seems to have been born to supplant me. Who would have thought it? The quiet, easy, dull Charles Drayton, to supplant Morriss Heywood! Why, in the exuberance of my youthful vanity, I should have thought my wings beat an atmosphere too refined and rare, to sustain his heavy weight; that my eyes looked unwinking on a light that would have seared his duller optics. And yet he reached me, and he passed me. And while I descended in rapid whirls, until I grovelled in the very dust, he sustained his flight and held aloft his station. Yes, he supplanted me in my profession—supplanted me in public life—supplanted me in love. Ha! ha! ha! It is a strange tale to tell. What would our college mates say to it? What does the world say to it? I know what it says. No matter,

'They can't but say I had the crown; I was not fool.'

And yet I was a fool, a miserable fool; but as it is a great approach to wisdom to know our own weakness, I am in a fair way to become a Solon, and should not be surprised, if ere long, public honors were decreed me. They must hurry them tho', or it will be to my senseless ashes they will bow, and hang their laurel wreaths upon my urn. But it grows late, my friend, and I must leave you. We are neither of us the boys we were, when we could stare the rising sun in the face, as he peeped upon our protracted revels. We will meet again soon." "Soon!" I exclaimed; "yes, tomorrow; I have not exhausted the half of what I have to say to you." "Faith, I have given you but little chance," said Heywood; "I am in truth a sad talker. Good night, or rather morning, for 'methinks I scent the morning air.'" And he left me, not without a promise however, with difficulty obtained from him, that he would join me at dinner on the morrow. He was punctual to his engagement, and I was much pleased to find that he was free from all artificial excitement. After we had dined, and I had discussed my usual allowance of wine, (in which Heywood did not join, alleging that it did not agree with him,) I proposed to him to take a stroll, for I felt as if I could make the effort I had determined upon, with more ease in the open air, than when seated in a small room tete a tete. After we had cleared the skirts of the town, I commenced making my approaches from a wary distance, to the subject I was anxious to enter upon. "To-day was the first of the sitting of the superior court for this term, I believe, Heywood; were you there?"

"No, not I; what should I do there? I have always made it a rule not to thrust myself into a place where I have no business."

"Have you entirely given up the practice of the law?"

"No, but the practice has entirely deserted me."

"How happened that? I have heard your legal attainments spoken of in terms of the highest praise."

"I neglected it, as I have neglected every thing else; health, reputation, my obligations to society, and my duty, if not my reverence to God. This is a painful subject, S——; let us quit it. If I dwell upon it, it will unman me, and I shall then break through a resolution I this day made, and fain would keep."

"Will you tell me what that resolution is?"

"I had rather not;

'Be innocent of the knowledge, Till thou applaud the deed.'"

"Heywood! will you let me act towards you as one friend should act towards another?"

"How? in what way? explain yourself."

"It is in your power to be all you have been—nay, more; for many men rise to eminence, but how few when once they have sunk, have energy and firmness to regain the proud height from which they fell. It may be a work of time to you—it must be one of unbending resolution; but with such a mind and such attainments as your's, it will require nothing more. In the meantime, you shall not be harassed by debts, nor tortured by poverty. I have means, my friend—ample means; wealth beyond my hopes or wishes. It is useless to me, for my habits are frugal, and my expenses do not reach a fourth of my income. I will place in your hands the requisite sum to free you from all incumbrance, and enable you to pursue the plan I propose; and it shall be a debt between us, to be repaid when you are once more in prosperous circumstances. If this place be disagreeable to you, remove to some other; I will accompany you: all places now are the same to me. Do this Heywood, I conjure, I implore you; and you will confer on me a degree of happiness which nothing I have ever yet compassed could equal. What say you?"

"I say as Nero said—'It is too late.' You speak of my mind and my attainments. It must be plain to you as it is to me, that whatever that mind may have been in the flower of my youth and the pride of my manhood, it is now weakened, broken, dropping to decay; and what avails knowledge, learning, the deep research into ancient wisdom, the unwearied study of modern science? When the judgment that should direct their use is fled, they become a pile of worthless lore. No, I am a lost, degraded wretch—a mockery and a byword—

'A fixed figure for the time of scorn To point his slow, unmoving finger at.'

There is nothing left for me but to die and be forgotten."

"Heywood, you do yourself injustice. A steady course of life, as it will remove the cause of your depression, (for your mental malady is nothing more,) so will it the effect, and I feel confident that it requires but exertion to regain all you have lost, and even to surpass your former excellence. Come; be a man. Call your philosophy to your aid—rouse from your lethargy, and start once more upon the race of honor." He placed one hand upon my shoulder, and pointed forward with the other: "Behold," he said, "yon blasted pine; its giant limbs have been snapped in twain, and its lordly trunk clove from the summit to the root by the forked lightning,—while around it in the green hues of health, full of pride, vigor and beauty, are congregated its glorious brethren of the forest. Bid that stricken tree drink in the life sap, shoot out its rough red boughs, clothe them with their feathery foliage, erect its noble crest, and stand once more pre-eminent in loftiness and grace; and what would be its answer, as its shattered body creaks to the passing breeze? 'There is no other spring for me.' And that reply is mine. Therefore torture me no more; for it is torture to me to recur to the past, or dwell upon the present. One favor I will ask of you. When I am dead, and I feel a certainty that time will soon arrive, if you are near and survive me, bury me in some private place, and do not raise even a mound, much less a stone, to mark the spot; but let the grass grow over and conceal it—for even as lonely and obscure as my latter days have been, so would I have my grave. Will you promise me this?"

"I will—I do," I replied, much affected.

The remainder of our walk was passed almost in silence; and when Heywood left me, which he did immediately upon our return to town, he pressed my hand to his heart, and sobbed, "God bless you."

The next day upon my inquiring for him, I found he had left town early that morning, saying that it was uncertain when he should return. This I regretted extremely; for although disappointed in my first attempt, I was not without hopes I might still succeed in bringing him back to the paths of virtue and of honor, from which he had so unfortunately strayed. I determined at all events to remain where I was until I had again seen him, and make another appeal to his friendship and his pride. Days and weeks passed however, and he came not. It was now the latter part of the month of May; the weather was delightful. I got tired of the solitude of my chamber, and walked out to enjoy the balminess of the air and the freshness of nature, as yet unscorched by the ardent beams of the summer sun. I took the road that led to Drayton's, and when I reached his gate, paused, as I had many a time before, to admire a noble oak that formed one of the gate posts. This splendid tree was at its base full five feet through, and its trunk shot up a height of forty feet before it gave out a branch. Thence its boughs spread out to an immense distance, forming a canopy over the road, beyond the opposite side of which they extended, and mingled with those of the trees growing there. It looked like a patriarch of the primeval forest, and seemed destined to stand while all around might decay. I sauntered along a mile or two, until I reached a favorite and secluded spot, well known to me when I was a boy, and which remained unchanged, while all else was changed or changing. There I seated myself on a moss covered rock, under the shade of a thick leaved birch, and while the bright waters rippled at my feet, passed in review before my mind some of the scenes of a busy and adventurous life. About an hour had elapsed in this pleasing melancholy of reverie, when I became conscious that a change had taken place in the weather. The refreshing breeze had died away, and the air become close and sultry, with that heavy suffocating feeling I had observed in high southern latitudes, as the invariable precursor of the coming hurricane. I made what haste I could to reach my home, which was full three miles distant, by the shortest path I could choose. I reached the upper part of Drayton's enclosure, where there was an open field on either side, and paused as well from fatigue, as a desire to ascertain whether I could probably outstrip the approaching storm, or should be compelled much against my inclination to seek for shelter at Drayton's abode.

As I looked up, I perceived that the heavens were embossed with dark clouds that hung heavily in the atmosphere, scarcely moving their stations, or varying their forms, so completely stilled was the breeze—not a leaf trembled on the slenderest twig. Presently, on the extreme verge of the horizon to my right, a small, jagged cloud arose, that rested as it were a moment on the summits of the trees, and then darted high up the sky and emitted a brilliant flash of lightning, accompanied by a quick, sharp crash of thunder—as if this had been a signal summons, from all quarters of the heavens, seemingly by voluntary impulse, the hitherto inert vapors rushed with eagle speed to the spot, like mailed warriors to the battle field; concentrating, and condensing their huge forms into one, vast, deep, substantial looking body of impervious gloom, heaving to and fro with a mighty sound, like unto the rush of liberated waters that have broken down their rocky barrier. As I gazed in horror on this awful sight, there gradually descended from the centre, mass on mass of clouds, as if enormous folds of blackest velvet had been lowered down, narrowing in their descent until they almost formed a point: and then amid the lightning's incessant flashes, and the music of its own appalling roar, that drowned the loudest thunder; and the groans of the forest, as its mightiest trees were uprooted, or twisted from their stems, as a child would break a straw; the tornado marched on its appointed path of desolation. No words, at least none I can command, avail to describe its horrid majesty, its incalculable power. It was as if the very demon of destruction had clothed himself in robes of hellish grandeur, and came in the pride of his unimaginable strength, to strew with ruins the world's fair orb, and revel amidst his fiendish sport. I have in the course of my journey through life, encountered many a peril, and looked on many a sight that might strike the coward with despair, and blanch the cheek of the bravest. The appalling cry of fire has broken upon my ear, when my bark was rolling in the midst of the wide spread ocean, and the apparent choice was to leap into the wave, or perish by the flames. I have been with a crew, when the match was held by a resolute hand that would in an instant have hurled us in the air, rather than become the prey of the remorseless pirate. The storm upon the sea, the hurricane on land, and the terrors of battle upon both, I have beheld; but never did there weigh upon my heart such a feeling of unmixed dread, such a consciousness of utter helplessness, as now—still, I was not entirely deprived of my presence of mind—I was aware that the force of the tornado, although it might be extended to many miles, would probably be confined within narrow boundaries; and if I could ascertain its course, I might place myself beyond its influence. At this moment, however, it was difficult to conjecture to what point its fury would be directed: for as I have said, it was a perfect calm; the winds seemed to be enclosed within the lurid bosom of that horrible prodigy. Its approach was certainly in a line towards myself, but how soon it might swerve from that route, I could not tell; so that I dare not trust to flight. While I stood thus hesitating how to act, a horseman passed me at full speed. My attention had been so fully absorbed, and so deafening was the voice of the cloud, that I had not heard his approach, and barely caught a sufficient glimpse of the face to recognise it as that of Willis, and that it was overspread with an ashy paleness. He had not passed me a hundred yards, when as if by magic a strong wind burst from the north west, encountered the tornado, and turning it from the direction it had hitherto pursued, drove it obliquely in front of Drayton's house at about a quarter of a mile from it, and immediately towards the gate and the oak, I have spoken of. It now moved with immense velocity from me, and feeling that all personal danger was past, I could observe its appearance and effects with greater accuracy. The interior of the lower part was illuminated by flames, I may call them, of lightning; for so incessant and continuous were the flashes, that they appeared as one; and I could distinguish in the centre, large limbs of trees, and trees themselves suspended, tossed, and whirled about like feathers. Its wake was defined by the upturned ground, as if many ploughshares linked together had passed over it. Whatever lay in its track was instantaneously destroyed. It drove full upon the giant oak, and the forest Titan on whom many a storm had harmlessly broken, whose noble head was scarcely bowed in recognition of the furious gale, was wrenched, and severed from its trunk, and dashed upon the ground; that trembled as it received the enormous weight, as if an earthquake shook it. The destroyer passed on, and I stood watching it, until its noise was lost upon my ear, and its form had faded from my sight. Slowly then I bent my steps forward, mentally returning thanks to a gracious providence, for my escape from so imminent and appalling a danger. Suddenly, the recollection of Willis rose upon me, and a strong presentiment that he must have been overtaken by the cloud pressed upon my mind, and filled it with horror. The presentiment was destined to be realized. I quickened my steps, and as I approached the gate, I found the road so much impeded by the broken boughs and scattered fences hurled about in every direction, that I was compelled to make a considerable circuit in Drayton's field, to enable me to overcome the various obstacles that obstructed my passage. As I saw no trace of Willis, I began to hope he might have escaped, although it seemed scarcely possible; at all events, I thought it would be but proper for me to step to the house, a distance of some five hundred yards, and see if he had arrived in safety. I had, it is true, no respect for him, and perhaps his death could scarcely be deemed a calamity; but he was one of the great family of man, and what right had I to sit in judgment on my fellow creatures?

I found Drayton at home, standing at the front door, surveying the ravages committed on his estate. He greeted me, and commenced a harangue on the terrible phenomenon he had witnessed, which I cut short by inquiring if Mr. Willis was within—"within! No he had not seen him for several days." As briefly as I could, I then informed him of Willis' passing me on the road, of the obvious danger he had incurred, and requested he would accompany me with some of the servants, with axes and other implements, that might be necessary in prosecuting our search. He hastened to comply with the request, and we soon set forward with some dozen assistants. We commenced our disagreeable undertaking, at the gate on the lower side of the prostrate oak, which lay obliquely across the road, endeavoring every now and then, to peep through the confused mass of tangled and shattered boughs that lay in heaps about us. Presently, one of the negroes uttered an exclamation, and pointing with both hands, cried out that he saw a man under the tree. We immediately gathered around him, and looking in the direction indicated, could perceive not only the object he had discovered, but also the prostrate body of a horse. There was now little doubt that Willis had here met his wretched fate.

The sun, which had come forth, was about an hour high, but we had great difficulties to overcome before we could reach the spot, where the body lay. One of the men was despatched to the house for further assistance, and we soon had all the efficient laborers of the estate at work; while the boys and women, whom curiosity brought there, were employed in holding torches, for the evening shades had fallen, before we got half through with our labor. At length, we succeeded in freeing Willis's body from the superincumbent load that pressed upon it. Life was totally extinct; his death had doubtless been instantaneous, for his bones were broken in many places, and the scull driven in, until its sides almost met. We hastily constructed a hand-barrow on which we laid the mangled remains, and were about to move off, when one of the boys came running to us from the wood on the opposite side to the gate, and with terror in his looks, informed us there was another man lying dead there. We hastened to the spot, which there was little difficulty in reaching, for the individual lay just on the skirt of the prostrate trees, and had probably been struck down by an upper bough as it fell. His face was towards the ground, and his hands outstretched. The back of the head had received a severe wound. We gently turned the body over. My heart sunk within me and a faintness came over my senses, as the light of the blazing torches revealed to my view the pallid face of Heywood. I soon recovered, however, and stood and gazed upon the features of the corpse, those features that I had so often seen lit up with intelligence, now rigid in death. Those eyes, whose piercing beams once reached the very hearts of men, and gazed upon their secret motives, had lost their "speculation," and those lips whose surpassing eloquence once filled his hearers with deep delight, ruling them with a master spell; now rousing apathy into action, now stilling passion in its wildest mood; were hushed in eternal silence. Before us was the motionless form of clay, the immortal spirit had ascended to its God. Both the bodies were removed to the house. The remainder of that night, I sat by the corpse of Heywood. The next day, I procured a plain coffin, and taking with me a couple of assistants, proceeded to the place where I had reposed after my walk on the preceding afternoon. At the foot of the birch tree we dug his grave, and heaped the earth upon the coffin to the level of the plain, and over it we spread the verdant turf: and there, in his "narrow and obscure bed," sleeps the misguided son of genius; while a splendid mausoleum marks the spot where the bones of Willis lie, and a marble slab records his thousand virtues.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

The study of poetry has been to me its own exceeding great reward: it has soothed my afflictions; it has refined and multiplied my enjoyments; it has given me (or at least strengthened in me) the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me—Coleridge.

STANZAS.

It is the Fall! the season now, Of rustling airs—of fading flowers; And Nature with a saddened brow, Sits brooding o'er her leafless bowers. Yet Autumn's reign was aye to me A season of felicity! I'm standing in a dark recess Of a vast, dim, primeval wood, And on me is the consciousness That springs from such a solitude. No sounds are nigh save those I love— No scene my heart's content to move. A streamlet, gushing from above Goes dancing past me wild and free, As the fond boy is said to rove, Commission'd by Love's Deity. But he in cities gaily flaunts, While this seeks only nature's haunts. And as it tracks the forest's maze, Through greensward alleys wand'ring wide, Affects not Folly's treach'rous ways, Nor looks to Fashion for its guide. How lulling to my sense its song,— As thus it sweeps its course along! The winds are also stirring now, In murm'ring tones, yon stately pine, Whose giant branches tend to throw A deeper shadow o'er this shrine— This nobler shrine than priest or king Is wont to use for worshipping. But lo! 'tis sunset—and the dew Is settling fast on herb and tree; Darkness will soon be shrouding too Each object in obscurity. My steps again I therefore turn, To mix with man, and inly mourn!

* * *

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET.

There is a splendour in these southern skies, Ofttimes at sunset, which I've nowhere seen, Wide as my range about the world hath been, Save on Italian shores; and there the dyes Have less of magic in them!—Who that tries, (Artist or Bard,) to paint such glowing hues As, in the west, mine eye this moment views, But must confess how passing far it lies Beyond his utmost skill?—High o'er my head A blue intense fades into purplish gray; And this anon to richer tints gives way, Of yellow—orange—then of deepening red, Until at length, in his all gorgeous bed, Proudly sinks down the monarch of our day.

* * *

ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.

POEMS BY A COLLEGIAN, Charlottesville, Va. Published by C. P. McKennie. Printed by D. Deans & Co. 1833.

A neat and unpretending volume of poems, with the above title, was issued last year from the Charlottesville press. As a Virginia production altogether, and the first fruits of poetical genius, emanating from the University of Virginia, the collection deserves honorable mention in the pages of the Southern Literary Messenger.

Criticism might be disarmed of some of its wonted severity, when it is known that all the poems contained in this volume, were written by the author between the ages of sixteen and nineteen. This fact, however, only increases our favorable opinion of his talents, and induces us to estimate still higher his natural powers of mind.

We propose, instead of an analysis of the volume before us, and a regular review of its contents, to extract specimens of the POETRY, which struck us as displaying that fire of genius so necessary to constitute a true POET. Our readers we are sure will agree with us in the favorable opinion we have expressed, after they have perused these specimens.

One of the best and most spirited of the poems, is the Address to Constantinople on its anticipated fall, written on receiving intelligence that the Russian army was on its march to that capital in 1829. We give the two first stanzas.

"Thy plumes are ruffled now, proud bird! O'er land and ocean, forest, solitude, The echo of thy last, sad shriek is heard!— The glance of majesty Is quailing now from thy fierce eye, And the deep wailing of thy scattered brood Is dying to a murmur. Sadly dark Is thy soiled plumage, and thy gilded crest Has fallen—so often fall the loftiest and the best. Hark! To the tread of the devouring foe!— But ere thou art laid low, Shall not one last avenging blow Be struck? Rouse thee, proud bird! Thy voice of triumph 'mid the nations, yet May swell from mosque and minaret— May with the bravest and the first be heard! Stamboul! proud city of the East! Sister of Rome!—old mistress of a world— Wilt thou from thy high state be hurled? Shall not thy sinewy arm be strung With its accustomed power?—at least Gird on thy mail, and let thy dirge, If thou must die, upon the battle's verge, Amid the shock of arms, be sung!"

The energy of the language and the appropriateness of the figures, appear to us worthy of high praise.

We have several beautiful descriptions of calm and quiet scenery. What follows, contrasts admirably with the lines we have just quoted.

"I look upon the stars sometimes—I love To watch their twinkling in the azure ground Of Heaven's o'er-arching canopy, where move Ten thousand worlds—which, starting with a bound— Plough with fiery track, the unseen waves Of fathomless immensity; to see, Age after age, that sky hung o'er the graves Of buried nations, as a tapestry— A funeral canopy when dyed with gloom; That sky, which, robed in majesty, looked bright Upon Columbus, when he sought the tomb Of all his hopes, or strove to snatch from night, And claim the birthright of a world. 'Tis when I view the stars, bright handmaids of the moon— Who walks among them as a virgin queen— That, with those stars to riot, seem a boon From Heaven; I love to see that moon's pure beams— Like lightning shot upon the watery waste, Which like a mine of living diamonds gleams— Each sparkling but an instant—as in haste To hide its liquid lustre in the wave— A jeweled bathing place—a starlit home— Fit—ay, beautifully fit to lave The light of worlds in upper air which roam."

There is much of that highly romantic and poetical imagery in this, which must please every reader of taste. A stanza of similar style is in the lines to page 32.

"And when the stars were breathing out Their holy light to earth, And diamonding the glad blue sky For the young moon's queenly birth, I've gazed upon some lovely one, And thought that it might be A glorious home in the afterworld, In which to live with thee."

And this at page 82.

"The air is like a tideless sea Of pure and silvery light, And the waters glance transparently, Illumed by the queen of night. The crested waves as they dash on high, And dissolve in pearly beads, Appear as a carpet spread gaudily, Where the giant sea-god treads."

There is much, too, in the following lines, which comes over the senses "like the sweet south."

"Evening is stealing with her nectared breath, Slowly and calmly down to kiss each flower That pouteth in rich beauty from beneath Its emerald colored guardians—the bright leaves— ('Tis strange what solace brings that magic hour To every heart that hopes, or loves, or grieves— It is the fitting time for fervent prayer, Which rises holily on kindred air— For then the air is holy—'tis the time For love—the only time to gaze and die Beneath the lustre of a diamond eye; Yet strange to tell, it is the hour for crime!) In golden majesty the glorious sun, With light too pure for eye to gaze upon, Is sinking slowly in the gorgeous west— A monarch going proudly to his rest.— He's gone, and mellow twilight creeps along As gently as the cadence of a song,— Twilight, to whom each poet in his day, Hath breathed melodious and impassioned lay, While o'er his soul thy witchery was stealing, As sweetly as the whispered tones of feeling. Evening—'tis then the o'er fraught heart doth pour Its wealth of pious incense at the shrine Of deity—the spirit then may soar Into those regions where the angels twine Wreaths for the glorious of our earthly race;— 'Tis then that we can see, and feel, and trace His glory in the realms of starry space!"

We were pleased with the lines to ——, commencing thus:

"Memory! Memory!—'tis like the talisman We read of in the page of Eastern story, That magi used the inmost soul to scan Of friends or foes; or oft mayhap to call From his bright crystal, gold, or diamond hall, Some brother in his supernatural glory— The talisman of feeling, that doth bring Back on the heart the deeds of other days, With all their dark or glorious coloring— The wizard of the soul, whose wand can raise The disembodied spirits of the dead Palpable as it were to touch;—impress The face of such as long ago have fled Into their state of holy blessedness, Upon the mind."

The poem, with which the volume opens, "To My Country," contains many brilliant passages;—and throughout the work, the reader will linger at almost every page to dwell upon something which must please his fancy. Indeed the extracts that we intended to have made have so multiplied upon our hands, that we have not now space to give place to them all. We trust, however, that what we have given will suffice not only to show that our own opinions are correct, but to bring the public, and especially the Virginia public, better acquainted with the author and his work. In a future number we may adorn the columns of the Messenger with further extracts from the POEMS BY A COLLEGIAN.

In the preface, the author states that his motive for preserving his poems in their present form, was his desire "to leave among those who have taken an interest in his welfare, and with whom he has been in habits of daily intercourse, a slight memorial of himself, ere more important duties urge their claims to consideration." We know that his Alma Mater will always be proud of such a son, and that his friends, with him, under her instruction will long cherish the "memorial." A favorable opinion of it will, however, not be confined to them alone. A discerning public will see and appreciate its excellence.

MY NATIVE LAND, AND OTHER POEMS. By Frederick Speece. Philadelphia: Printed for Augustine Leftwich, Lynchburg, Virginia. 1832.

Having been obligingly furnished with a copy of these poems, we take pleasure in introducing them to the notice of the public. We are somewhat surprised to learn that although published two years since in Lynchburg, they have attracted no notice in that quarter, either of applause or censure. It is perhaps, more agreeable to an author, that his works should come under the lash of satire, than that they should pass altogether without observation. The chilling neglect of the public however, furnishes no stronger proof of a writer's demerit, than do the too frequent carpings of illiberal criticism. Some of the greatest poets have been doomed whilst living, to indigence and obscurity, and owe all their honors to posthumous fame; and it is asserted of Homer especially, that seven cities claimed the honor of his birth, not one of which perhaps would have furnished a morsel to save him from starving.

We design not to raise extravagant expectations respecting Mr. Speece's poems—nor can we hazard the conjecture that the praise of future times will compensate him for contemporary injustice. We do not hesitate however, to recommend his work as incomparably superior to much of that glittering trash which passes under the name of poetry. There is a vein of good sense,—of just and honest feeling—of tender melancholy—and sometimes of rich imagination—which runs through his volume, and which cannot fail to delight such readers as have any soul for poetical composition. His versification for the most part, is sweet and melodious—though occasionally there is a little inattention to syllabick quantity, which produces rather an unpleasant effect upon the ear. There are other faults too—but they are inconsiderable when compared with the many redeeming beauties which shine through the volume. The poem of "My Native Land," in its general tone and harmony of verse, brings to recollection Goldsmith's Deserted Village—and the "Sketches," which are also descriptive of the pleasures of juvenile life and the picturesque scenery of his native hills—contain many fine passages. In the "Juvenalis Redivivus"—the author has pointed the arrows of satire against men and manners with no little severity—so much so, that he has found it necessary in his preface to acknowledge that time had softened much of the harsh coloring which he had thrown into his pictures. Many of his minor pieces abound in beautiful thoughts, expressed in smooth and flowing numbers—and upon the whole we think if Mr. Speece had been sufficiently encouraged in early life to persevere in the delightful but unprofitable task of poetical authorship—he might have reached a highly respectable rank. The following passage from "My Native Land," will probably remind the reader of Cowper's touching address to his mother's picture.

"My mother! Melancholy was the morn That found me orphaned, and almost forlorn. My friend! My guide! Oh, could not mercy save Her for her child, or lay me in her grave! Why cheer my drooping and unsheltered head, When to the skies her gentle spirit fled? Why bid me live, since riper years must pay Their long arrears to that lamented day? I had a mother, tender, kind and true, Her virtues many and her failings few; With warm solicitude and watchful eye, She taught me what to follow, what to fly; And warned me disappointment and distress In life must be my portion, more or less; That fierce disease would often banish health; Pride point the insolence of power and wealth; Folly and vice allure; pretended friends Abuse my confidence for private ends; And fears and sorrows, hovering round my head, Pursue me to my last and narrow bed. Yet would she say, in Virtue's path was found A balm to heal the bosom's deepest wound: Winged my young thoughts to better worlds above, There to repose my confidence and love. Her fond affection never would deceive, But these were things I could not then believe. Yet though her warnings vanished from my mind, Her precepts left a faithful trace behind;— In memory's careful records still remain, And long experience proves they were not vain."

The same poem concludes in the following lines—being a farewell tribute to the place of his nativity.

"Adieu! Perhaps forever! Should it be,— 'Land of my Fathers! I will think of thee,' Long as its motions last, and vital heat, Within my heart, thy lovely name shall beat.— Tho' rude thy piny hills, a thankless soil, Whence scanty products meet the tiller's toil, Tho' thy wild scenery, and thy fickle clime, Exhibit little beauteous or sublime;— And timid Superstition's witching tales, And Gothic ignorance linger in thy vales; The charms that could my infant love engage, Have fixed the feelings of maturer age. So strongly linked to joys and sorrows past— I loved thee first—loved long—will love thee last. Whether, where Beauty taught me first to feel, And mutual passion fixed the sacred seal On treasures, Heaven reserved for me alone, A friend, a bosom dearer than my own, On Staunton's banks my wandering feet shall rest, Or in some Eden of the rosy West, In Alabama's ever verdant clime, Or where the wild Missouri rolls sublime; Or, 'mid the Bedford hills, whose limpid streams, Pay scanty tribute to the mighty James.— Land of my birth! and where my fathers sleep, Oft shall remembrance turn to thee and weep, And though my steps be doomed to wander far, Affection tremble to her Polar Star, Till the last throb shall lay this bosom low, Where Memory and Affection cease to glow."

We select a passage at random from the satiric poem, as a fair specimen of the author's style and manner.

"There was a time, our good old fathers say, (Perhaps it was so in their better day,) When coats and gowns were patch'd without disgrace, And men wore hats that cover'd all the face; When ragged virtue was not kick'd aside, Nor worth and equipage identified, Nor taste and genius by possession squared, Nor merit sold, like riband, by the yard. Temperance and charity were then esteem'd, And men and women were just what they seem'd. Labor and health with vigor strung their arms, Themselves less cultivated than their farms. No smart young master, impudent and vain, Play'd with his cue, or silver-headed cane, Forsook his grammar ere he learn'd the rules, To pilfer pins, or rifle reticules; Nor beardless hero boasted laurels won, From maids deceived, or jilted, or undone. The rosy girls, content with native bloom, Sought not the flowing robe and waving plume; Nor wish'd to gain the empire of a heart, Where half the victory was achieved by art. No wanton fashion taught with lace to deck, The shorten'd waist, and lengthen down the neck. No everlasting clack of slanderous tongues, Raised sad solicitude for female lungs; Nor had the sex divided all their cares, To sorting silks and mangling characters."

If Mr. Speece were at this time a younger man than we presume him to be, we should take the liberty of pointing out some of his defects—but various allusions in some of his minor pieces, authorise the inference that his affections are now almost alienated from the once charming society of the muses. Domestic sorrow seems to have had no inconsiderable share in producing this result. His "Apology to A. L. Esq."—is full of the poet's as well as the father's anguish at the sudden death of a favorite son sixteen years old. We give the whole to the reader.

"The generous friend may justly claim The offspring of my musing, But to excite the Muse's flame No more obeys my choosing. Life's warmest hopes, its light and pride, Fail'd with my darling when he died. My harp, that once in rapture rung, Full-toned to joy and gladness, Lies all unheeded and unstrung Beneath the cloud of sadness; Vain were the task, the effort vain, To wake its thrilling notes again. Once skill'd to wreath poetic flowers Around the brow of Beauty, My hand has now forgot its powers, Nor heeds that gentle duty; Fled is their bloom; the task were vain, To wreath those wither'd flowers again. The heart that feels the mortal stroke, The bosom anguish-riven, Sinks hopeless as the blasted oak From the fierce bolt of Heaven: The oak no genial season feels; The wounded bosom never heals. Youth may regain its honors reft, And bloom again in gladness; Age, when bereaved, has little left But ever-during sadness; And gathering years and grief dissever Hope from the heart that bleeds forever."

A VISIT TO TEXAS: Being the journal of a traveller through those parts most interesting to American settlers. With descriptions of scenery, habits, &c. &c. New York: Goodrich & Wiley. 1834.

The proximity of Texas to the United States,—the facilities of intercourse between the two countries—and the migratory habits of our citizens,—are sufficient to invest with more than ordinary interest every thing which relates to that part of Spanish America. The volume before us, is an unpretending and agreeable narrative, and is calculated we think to do good, by pointing out the mischiefs and inconveniences of emigration to the Mexican republic, and especially by calling the public attention to the many ingenious frauds which are practised by land companies and speculators. The author was a purchaser of twenty thousand acres from the Galveston Bay and Texas Land Company through their agents at New York, and full of golden dreams about this new Eldorado of the south west, he embarked in person at New Orleans, in order to take possession of his splendid principality. His disappointment and vexation may be easily imagined at finding himself on his arrival totally deceived on the subject of his title! It was not worth the parchment on which it was written, and after all his fruitless expense, anxiety and hardship, he did not enjoy even the melancholy satisfaction on his return to New York of obtaining from the trustees their sympathy, much less remuneration. Our traveller might indeed have acquired "a quarter of a league of unappropriated land, on condition of professing the Roman Catholic religion, becoming a citizen of the Republic of Mexico, and residing on the soil for six years, receiving his title from the government;"—but he was too conscientious and honorable to submit to such requirements. The truth is, that whilst there is much in the climate and soil of Texas to allure the settler, there are also numerous objections which ought to discourage the rash experiment of emigration. Our own country, particularly in its new states and territories—holds out sufficient inducements to such as find it either convenient or necessary to change their abodes; and there are no superior advantages in a residence on the Brassos or Colorado to compensate for the sacrifices of friends and connexions,—free government and the rights of conscience. It seems to us therefore to be little short of fatuity, especially in the present unsettled state of the miscalled Republic of Mexico, for a citizen of the United States to abandon for a settlement in that quarter his native land, unless indeed, he be a violator of its laws and a refugee from punishment.

In truth, it appears that this desperate class of men constitute no inconsiderable portion of the population of Texas;—and our author relates that on one occasion he sat at the same table with no less than four murderers who had fled from justice. True, there is a large portion of the country extremely beautiful and fertile, and the labors of the planter and herdsman are richly rewarded;—but these advantages are greatly counterbalanced by the insecurity of the government and laws—the intolerance of religious bigotry—and the absence of most of the elements which constitute a virtuous and happy community. Minor evils and inconveniences are also felt. The spacious plains and luxuriant prairies—though they furnish abundance of food for horses and cattle, are scantily supplied with wood, and altogether destitute of stone;—and the usual incidents of southern latitudes,—bilious fever,—poisonous reptiles and insects, and alligators of enormous size, serve to fill up the revolting picture.

We have no fears therefore, notwithstanding the enchanting coloring which even the temperate feelings and chastened imagination of our author have thrown around a Texas landscape—that there are many persons of sober minds, when they shall have balanced the good with the evil, will be much enamoured with the thought of a permanent "visit" to that region. The book, therefore, may be recommended as a tolerably certain antidote to any lurking desire for a ramble across the Sabine,—and if perchance the spirit of migration shall have become too obstinate for cure,—it may still have the effect of confining the wanderer's steps within the limits of our own republic.

There are many things in our author's narrative both curious and amusing—and not among the least so, is the account he gives of that intractable animal, the mustang, or wild horse of the country. With one of that strange species he was necessarily obliged to cultivate an intimate acquaintance, having no other means of transportation between different parts of the country. The manner in which they are reduced to subjection, and the untameable perverseness of their nature, are thus related:

The first thing to be attended to, was the purchase of a horse; and this was easily effected. The small horses of the country, called mustangs, introduced by the Spaniards, and now numerous in the more northern prairies, run wild in droves over these parts of Texas, and are easily taken and rendered serviceable by the inhabitants. When caught, it would be a problem to a stranger to confine them, where there is neither tree nor rock to be found: but the Mexicans put on a halter, knot it at the end, dig a hole about ten inches deep, put in the knot, and press the earth down upon it. The pull being sideways is at a disadvantage, and the horse is unable to draw it out. They are driven to market, purchased for three or four dollars, branded, hobbled, turned out again, and entirely abandoned to themselves until they are needed. Whenever a vessel arrives, some of the inhabitants send into the woods and cane brakes for such a number as they suppose may be wanted by the passengers; and this I found had already been done in anticipation of the wants of those who came in the sloop Majesty. In the log stable belonging to Mr. Austin, at whose house I lodged, I saw a number of them, with all the wild look which might be expected from their habits of life. They are small, generally about 13 hands high, well formed, rather for strength, and of different colors. I saw others in several other stables; and at length made choice of a white one; and having paid for him a doubloon and four dollars, (a handsome advance on his original cost,) stuffed a pair of saddle bags with a few articles of food as well as clothes, and was soon ready for my journey.

As the brands on horses afford the only evidence of their identity, and the property of their owners, the rules observed in respect to them are very strict.

These horses are very useful in the country, and may perhaps become at some future time a valuable article of export, as they are innumerable, and cost only the trouble of catching. This is done with a strong noosed cord, made of twisted strips of raw hide, and called a lazo, which is the Spanish word for a band or bond. It has been often described, as well as the manner of throwing it, as it is in common use for catching animals, and sometimes for choking men, in different parts of America inhabited by the descendants of the Spanish and Portuguese. A man on horseback, with a rope of this kind coiled in his left hand, and one end of it fastened to the horse, whirls the noosed end in the air over his head as he approaches the animal he intends to seize: and, on finding an opportunity, throws it over its head or horns, and checks his horse. The noose is instantly drawn tight, and the poor creature is thrown violently down, without the power of moving, and generally deprived of breath. They are sometimes badly injured, and even killed, by bring dashed to the ground; but generally escape with a severe practical lesson on the nature of this rude instrument of civilization, which they afterwards hold in great respect all their lives, yielding immediately whenever they feel it again upon their necks.

The mustangs often carry to their graves evidence of the violent means adopted by the Mexicans in breaking them to the bridle. Many of them are foundered, or otherwise diseased. A horse which has been lazoed is blindfolded, mounted by a rider armed with the heavy and barbarous spurs of the country, after having their terrible lever bits put into his mouth, a moderate pull upon which might break his jaw, and if he runs is pricked to his speed, till he falls down with exhaustion. He is then turned in the opposite direction, and cruelly spurred again. If he is found able to run back to the point from which he started, he is thought to have bottom enough to make a valuable horse: otherwise he is turned off as good for little or nothing. The process is a brutal one; and the agony inflicted by the bits is extreme: as blood flows freely from the mouth which is often greatly swollen; and the animal yields to mere force.

In the morning we mounted our horses and proceeded to the river, where the ferry boat, a large scow, was lying near the shore. I dismounted, and taking the bridle in my hand, attempted to lead my horse in after me. Most fortunately I was looking at him, and was better prepared than I was sensible of being, to make one of those sudden instinctive motions, which sometimes prove essential to our safety. Had I been turning the other way, or a little less active, I should probably have lost my life, or at least have been seriously injured: for instead of following me into the boat, as an honest horse should, and as I had expected him to do, he fixed his eyes upon me with a malicious expression, and sprung at me like lightning, clearing the ground entirely, and making a leap of about eight feet. I jumped aside, and barely in time to avoid his feet, with which it seemed to me he designed to beat me down. I do not know that I ever had experienced such feelings as this occurrence excited in me. It betrayed a degree of spite mingled with craft which I had never seen in an animal of his species; and laid the axe at the root of all that confidence and attachment which a traveller loves to exercise towards his horse. I have been thus particular in mentioning this little occurrence, because the wit of the country appears to be largely invested in the horses; and this was the beginning of my white mustang.

Some other particulars of our traveller's own rebellious steed may also be extracted. He was not indeed "a Tartar of the Ukraine breed"—but he was as wild, mischievous and wicked an animal as ever pranked.

It was our intention to proceed to Bingham's that day: for one of my companions, who had travelled the road a short time before, had calculated that his house would afford us a very comfortable lodging after a good day's ride. We rose therefore to proceed on our journey. But I had a chapter or two more to read on the character of mustangs before I was destined to leave the place. I had never been informed of one particular propensity which they have, that is, to draw back and pull violently when approached in front, and therefore walked up to my white horse rather hastily to untie and mount him. He sprang back and pulled for a moment so hard upon the sapling to which I had fastened him, that it came up by the roots; and after a few leaps and kicks, which freed him from my saddle bags, and broke the bridle, he made off towards the middle of the prairie at full speed, with his head and tail both raised, and in a state of exultation which formed quite a contrast to my own feelings.

My companions threw off their valises, mounted immediately, and gave chase to the pestilent runaway, which, after a short gallop, had halted, and with the most provoking coolness began to eat grass from the prairie. As they approached him, however, he flew off again as fast as his legs would carry him; and thus he led them to a great distance, on a chase apparently hopeless. I watched them till I was tired, coursing over the prairie here and there, now on this side, now on that, at such a distance that they looked no bigger than cats, and anon further diminished to mere mice. My white mustang led them up and down, round and crosswise, as if he delighted in worrying them, occasionally stopping, as coolly as before, to crop the grass, and then off in a new direction, like a wild creature as he was. This chase lasted without intermission for four hours, at the end of which they succeeded in driving the little white animal towards the house. Mr. Bailey, seeing him approaching, despatched a messenger to a neighboring farm for assistance; and a man soon came hurrying down on horseback, provided with a lazo: a rope with a noose at the end as before described. He joined in the pursuit with the spirit and skill of one practised in such employment, and soon got within about eight or ten feet of my horse, when, with a dexterous fling, he suddenly threw the noose over his head. Having the beast now completely in his power, he was prepared to choke him into submission; and the noose was on the point of closing its grasp round his neck. But here the intelligence and experience of the mustang stepped in with customary promptitude: for as soon as he felt the rope round his neck, he stopped stone still, and yielded as submissively as a lamb. Like an accomplished rogue at last fairly in the gripe of justice, he seemed in haste to submit, plead guilty and repent, in order to secure as much leniency as possible; and in a few moments I was again on the back of this little flying brute, jogging on as quietly as if he had never rebelled in his life. There was a great deal of farce in all this: but we had been put to too much inconvenience by the perverse trick to enjoy the joke: for our loss of time, we foresaw, would put it out of our power to perform all our intended day's journey.

It was nearly dark when we reached Hall's: a habitation of which I had heard, but at which we had not originally intended to stop, as it was only thirteen miles from Bailey's. I here found that horses in Texas are always turned out loose to feed, even if a traveller stops but for the night, which would have ensured another chase, with perhaps even more unfavorable results than that I had witnessed, but for an expedient which was recommended to us. This was to "hobble them" after the fashion of the country: which consists in tying together their fore legs with a short cord, and not one fore and one hind leg together, as we do at the north. This operation instantly changes the movements of a horse, as he is obliged to make every step a fair leap: and it excited the greatest merriment in me, when I saw the horses of my companions practising a gait so different from common, under a mode of constraint which I had never witnessed before. Fully satisfied that such confinement would be sufficient even for my white mustang, I began to tie his legs together, which to my surprise he submitted to with the utmost cheerfulness, without raising his head, for he had already began to graze on the fine grass. Although so recently accustomed to run at large in the Brazos forests, he had evidently been familiar with the hobble: for as if he perfectly concurred in my opinion as to the propriety of his being bound, whenever he wanted to move he carefully raised both fore feet together, so as not to interfere with my task, and made a gentle spring to a knot of fresh feed. Surely, thought I, I have got a steed sagacious enough to figure in one of Æsop's Fables.

Our traveller had not proceeded far on his journey, before his vexatious mustang refused to eat, and gave signs of great weariness and exhaustion. Unable however to supply himself with another, he resolved after an interval of rest to pursue his way.

We took our departure accordingly; and I had much difficulty in getting my horse out of the town. In a short time, however, he began to cheer up, and gradually quickened his pace until his strength and spirits were quite restored, and he travelled remarkably well. However strange it may seem, there was every appearance that the whole affair had been a mere trick of the wily brute; and my opinion was confirmed by several inhabitants to whom I afterwards recounted the story. They told me that the sagacity and duplicity of the mustang is well known among them, and that he is capable of almost any thing, which ingenuity or malice can invent. So ungrateful a return for all my kindness and care, under such vexatious circumstances, and aggravated by such persevering imposture, added to my previous dislike of the animal which had been guilty of it.

One would be almost tempted to think that these provoking yet sagacious quadrupeds were regular descendants from the race celebrated by Swift, and which that eccentric satirist endowed with superior intelligence to men.